The taste of blood fills your mouth as soon as the stranger’s fist connects with your jaw.
It’s not an unfamiliar taste – anyone who has known you for longer than two weeks can probably figure out you spent a good portion of your childhood getting knocked down (though not a lot of them would guess it was a blind old man you were getting into fights with on a semi-regular basis; you’re fine with letting them believe you were the target of grade school bullying instead, because it takes less explanation), but it certainly is the first time you feel yourself getting hard before the other guy even has time to draw his arm back from the swing.
You spit out the blood that has gathered in your mouth and hear the other man’s breath hitch ever so slightly. To anyone else, the sound would be imperceptible, but you hear it – and the slight quickening of his heartbeat – loud and clear. You feel your lips quirk up at the corners, and you hear him let out a huff of irritation.
“Something fuckin funny to you?” he asks, and you let out a chuckle, hoping its smug undertones will be enough to make him swing out at you again.
Your hope does not fail you, and his fist comes fast at your face, this time making direct contact with your mouth. Another rush of blood fills your mouth, and you grin at him, barely hiding your satisfaction when you hear his low whimper at the sight.
“You know, there is something about this I do find a little funny,” you say, and his confusion stops him from making another move towards you. “Not to discount whatever deep relationship you envision yourself having with whatever girl in there that you’re trying to impress by brawling with a blind guy out behind a college bar, but I’m getting the sense you’re enjoying this a little more than the average, overly-aggressive frat boy would.”
You hear his teeth grind together, feel the air around him shift as he moves in to knee you in the stomach, but you let the blow come anyway, gasping for air as he knocks the wind out of you. You take a few shaky steps back, trying to regain balance, keeping him within arm’s length the entire time.
You’re not a bad fighter. Even slightly tipsy, you could easily dodge the messy, unpracticed punches this guy is throwing your way. But tonight, there’s something in you telling you to hesitate just a second too long, to stay put and take the blow you know is coming. And when you feel the delicious pain blossoming in your abdomen, you know you made the right call.
“Fuck you,” he spits, and you smirk as he launches himself towards you. You sidestep him quickly, catching his arm mid-swing and twisting it behind his back. With a step forward, you have his back pushed against the back wall of the bar.
“Hit me again and we’ll see where this goes from there,” you say, close enough to him that you feel the heat of your breath on his face. He groans indignantly, turning his head away from yours, but when he shifts his legs so there is room for your leg to move in between his thighs, you feel that he is just as achingly hard as you are. “That’s what I thought,” you say in his ear, and you thrust up against his thigh. He whimpers needily, and you smirk again.
The fingers of his free hand come up to press against your throat, loosely enough to let air through but firmly enough to send your heartrate skyrocketing and make your knees weaken with arousal, and he’s in control again. You tilt your head back slightly as you take a shaky breath, further baring your throat to this complete stranger, and now it’s his turn to chuckle smugly.
“Yeah? You like that?” he asks, and you hum with restrained pleasure in response. “That’s what this is all about, huh? You stir up shit hoping someone’ll take you up on the fight you’re begging them for, so you can get off in a back alley while a stranger beats the shit out of you?”
You don’t answer. The whine that escapes your throat is answer enough.
You lick your lips, and he inhales sharply, and you have both reached a boiling point where the need to get off is more immediate, more burning than any desire either of you may have had to assert dominance over the other.
You let go of the arm you have pinned behind his back, and his hand lets go of your throat so he can push down forcefully on your shoulders. You take the signal and drop down to your knees in front of him. Hurriedly, you pop the button on his jeans and pull the zipper down, and he winds his fingers through your hair. You mouth at him through the fabric of his boxers, licking along the outline of his erection against the fabric. You reach up and free him from his boxers, licking down his underside and lapping at the head before wrapping your lips around him. You can’t take in his whole length at once, but you lick at whatever you can and pump your hand along his base.
Impatiently, he pulls at your hair to pick up the pace. You whine around his dick, pleasure coursing through you at the painful force pulling you forward. He guides your head up and down, increasing the pace until you feel like you’re almost choking, and then pulls you off so you can catch your breath. A second later, you feel yourself being pulled back towards his length, its tip leaking against your cheek as you reach out with an unsteady hand to guide it back into your mouth. He slaps your hand away, using his own to press it to your closed mouth, making sure you taste him as you lick your lips before taking him into your mouth again.
You swirl your tongue around his head, tasting salt on your tongue as your cheeks hollow around his flesh. He bucks into your mouth, and you moan against his length before he pulls you off again.
With another yank of your hair, the stranger pulls you up to eye level before leaning in to bite against your throat. You hiss in pained pleasure, reaching down to palm yourself through your pants as he licks at the sensitive skin he’s just marked. He moves his mouth to your shoulder, biting down hard, this time breaking flesh and drawing blood to the surface.
He continues this pattern, bruising, breaking, painting your skin with his teeth and tongue, and you continue your desperate thrusts into your own hand. With the hand he doesn’t have tangled in your hair, he reaches between you to unzip your jeans and pull your length out, taking both of you in his hand and pumping quickly. His movements are erratic, and you know he’s close to the edge, but you’re so close now too, and when he brings his mouth up to bite down hard on your bottom lip, you’re spilling onto his closed fist. He doesn’t stop pumping until he follows you into release a minute later, and you’re oversensitive and overstimulated but good god are you satisfied.
He reaches the hand you both just came into up to your mouth, the unspoken message of one last act of dominance obvious. You don’t even mind as you eagerly take his sticky thumb into your mouth, lapping up the cum from his hand like he owns you. For this moment, you don’t care – for this moment, he practically does.
When he pulls his hand away from your mouth, you both tuck yourselves back into your pants in silence. You let your smartass remark about the girl he undoubtedly failed to impress inside die on your lips, and let him go without another word. You doubt you’ll ever cross paths with him again, and good lay or not, you don’t feel too upset about that.
You do feel something, though. That quiet, self-destructive rage always boiling under your skin has finally made its way out, and you feel like you’re burning, satisfied in a way you’ve only felt in some of your most unholy dreams. You’re now keenly aware of a need you’d never addressed before, a desire that you’ve tried to stifle and push down your whole life spilling out into the open with a stranger behind a bar.
Your desire is threatening to consume you if you don’t give in again, and there is no way in hell you’re going to keep it pushed down anymore.