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This doesn't mean anything, Brian says harshly against your lips.
"This doesn't mean anything," Brian says harshly against your lips.

You glare and shove him further into the wall, delighting in his gasp of pain as his back smacks against the wet tiles.

"Fucker," he curses, pushing hard against your chest in an effort to shove you away. You grip his arms tightly, not giving him an inch. He thrashes violently against you until you shove a knee between his legs and grind your thigh against his cock. His head slams back against the wall and the moan he lets out tingles low in your belly, shoots straight to your cock.

"Like that, do you?" You mock. Now he's pushing desperately into you, the leaking head of his cock jutting against your leg, burning your skin.

"As good as anything else," he spits, eyes flashing.

You will never be able to understand the violent rage that rushes through you when he taunts you like this. You remember the last time you saw him with someone, getting his cock sucked in a seedy alley behind a club three towns over, and the corners of your vision blur a little red.

You slam him into the wall again so hard the smack of the impact reverberates through the room, loud even over the sound of the rushing showers.

He grunts in pain and in response you lower your head into the crook of his neck and bite, almost hard enough to break through skin. He groans and tries to fight you off, arms bucking against your hands and head leaning away from you, but you refuse to relent, refuse to release from his punishment.

He deserves this. Deserves this for continuously taunting you, for having the gall to do this with other men.

For as little inclination as you have to be with him past the occasional hard fuck, you're equally disinclined to let others have him.

He's yours, and that's his punishment for making you want him so much.

"Get the fuck off me," he shouts at you, and you reluctantly let go, eyeing the harsh mark of your teeth against his skin in satisfaction.

You love leaving marks on him. Have since the first time, when he demanded you didn't. You'd left a dark hickey on his neck in rebellion, then, and got hard every time you caught sight of him in the hallway wearing scarves and long sleeves in an attempt to hide his shame.

You press your thumb into the imprint and he shudders.

That's your boy. Always gets off on a bit of pain.

As much as you'd like to take your time to mark every inch of his skin you don't have the luxury. Club is going to start soon, and at any moment someone is going to come in. The thought of being caught pinning the star of the football team arouses you like little else, but you fight against the temptation, forcing yourself to remember that it will only do more harm than good.

Small town schools like this aren't quite so forgiving, and the two of you have a semester until graduation yet.

You focus on the matter at hand, determined not to let those thoughts—

(thoughts of him leaving, thoughts of you losing access to him)

—wander off.

They're dangerous.

Without warning you shove him down, and he collapses onto the floor with a heavy thud. He curses and flails and glowers up at you, and the look of murder in his eyes makes heat run down your spine. With a wide grin you tug away the damp towel wrapped loosely around his hips, revealing his erect cock to the air. His slit is still dripping pre-cum, and when you take him in your hands he's hot and slick against your skin.

You stroke him and watch as he struggles not to react, and oh, that won't do.

You grip him harder until he hisses, and pump his cock so fast your hand blurs. It doesn't take long for him to spread his legs and start moaning. It never does. Watching him arch against the floor, hands fisted at his sides and chest heaving as he fights for breath will probably be one of your favorite sights until you die. The pinched look on his face, his failure to hide how good you make him feel and shame that he never could, makes your own cock ache against your stomach.

You want so badly to draw this out, to press your fingers against the twitching hole beneath his sack, to suck him down your throat, to bury yourself balls deep inside him, and it fucking burns that you can't. There's no time.

With a frustrated groan you remove your hand, determinedly ignoring his protesting whine, and settle yourself against him until your hips are aligned. The first roll of your hips, the first touch of your cocks, makes your eyes roll to the back of your head.

He groans and desperately juts against you, arms coming up and grappling at your back. You feel his blunt fingernails rake across your skin, and the burn feels so good you have to bite back a moan.

You drop your head as your bodies move slickly together and press an open mouthed kiss against his neck. He tastes like sweat and soap and skin and it's fucking intoxicating. You suck on that pale expanse of skin, leaving angry bruises that you occasionally soothe with the flat of your tongue. Brian whimpers when skim your teeth up his throat, licking wet lines up his skin and leaving teeth prints at his jaw. You take the lobe of his ear between your lips and suck, and he convulses against you, clutching you so hard it hurts to breathe.

It doesn't take long for him to come, body going rigid and then jerking in your arms. His cock pulses and leaks against yours, shooting line after line of cum between your stomachs and chests.

You're not surprised when Brian lowers his arms and wraps one hand around the two of you; the little shit has always loved having the last word. The moment his calloused hand grips your dick you're done. You stiffen against him and come, the intensity of your orgasm shocking you dumb. Brian continues to stroke your cock, prolonging the pleasure until it borders on pain. When your dick becomes too sensitive and his hand becomes too much you push him away from you and lean back, trembling and limp.

You hate that it never feels this good with anyone else.

Brian slouches back until he's propped up against the wall, legs splayed open and cock, still twitching, softening on the floor in between his legs. His eyes are closed and his chest is still heaving and his hair is a disheveled mess. You crawl towards him and kiss him, and he languorously reciprocates, tongue sloppy in your mouth and dribbling spit.

You break off when you hear distant voices approaching and shakily get to your feet, grabbing your discarded towel from the floor on your way up. You walk over to nearest running shower and step under it, letting the warm water wash away the cum and sweat.

You hear Brian pick himself up off the floor and start to walk away, but don't bother to open your eyes.

Don't dare to.

His footsteps cease a few feet away and his voice is hoarse and strained when he says, "This didn't mean anything."

Of course it didn't.

He shuffles for a bit, as if waiting for an answer, and leaves with a huff when he realizes that he's not likely to get one. His footfalls grow silent the further he moves away, until the only sound left is your own ragged breathing and heavy heartbeat and the burst of rain against your skin.

You clench your hands into fists against your side and drop your head onto the wall.

No, of course it didn't.

fin. 

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