jackk

If you’d asked Holland March where he saw himself in the early hours of the morning after wandering into the bar in search of a few drinks to wind down, he’d probably answer that he expected get drunk and wake up face down on his living room floor. His usual.

He wouldn’t have guessed he’d find himself in the situation he was currently in, that’s for sure.

There’s a man- and he’s not even sure of his name- mouthing at a spot on his throat no one had been near in years.

“Easy.” He grips the back of your head, prying you softly away from where you’d been making good progress of sucking bruises into his skin. “I got a fucking kid, man- she knows where my fuckin’ gun is and she will shoot me-“ He doesn’t finish the thought, because you’re making light work of loosening his tie and prying the first few buttons of his shirt open.

“Here okay?” You don’t even wait for a response before latching onto a spot on his peck, and hands are flying to snatch and your hips barely a second later.

“Yeah I uh- I think I can work with that.” He tries to sound confident, but the little hiccup that follows does little for his case, especially when he finds himself groaning into the top of your head. “You a fuckin vampire or something?” He swats at your head, pushing you off once more.

“Not my fault you taste good.” You quip, taking a step back to lean against the stall wall. Having encounters like this weren’t exactly your style, and whilst you liked the look of the man in front of you, any romance of the situation was somewhat dampened by the fact he was practically backed up against a toilet. “I bet the rest of you tastes-“

“Nuh-Uh, not with those fuckin teeth! Look at me, I’ve already got fuckin’ bruises.” His voice was a little high pitched, and whilst he was clearly trying to sound tough and stern, the small laugh behind his words said otherwise.

“You’re no fun.” You prod one of the hickeys blossoming rather nicely on his tan skin, and once more he slaps you away, startled.

“No fun? I just let you fuckin’ maul me!” He gestures at his open shirt, and every fibre of your being forces you to resist going for him again. “Jesus christ- look at the state of me!” His words are an exaggerated hiss, but his lips tug into a smirk as he stares down at his own chest. “C’mere then, show me your teeth.” It’s your turn to be startled, and you cocked your head to the side in confusion, narrowing your eyes at him. You smile, but it’s clearly not what he’s looking for, because hands are on your cheeks now, and a thumb is bullying its way past your lips.

Holland doesn’t do this. Holland March does not go into the men’s toilet, let a man chew half way through his chest and then he definitely doesn’t stick his fingers into said-man’s mouth.

And yet…there he was, pushing his thumb to hook around your bottom teeth, just enough to urge you back towards him. “Mhm..” He hums to himself, staring at you with an intensity you hadn’t expected from the man that mere minutes ago had been staring into the bathroom mirror, hazy eyed and splashing water into his face. He’s inspecting, and with one hand holding your mouth open, the other drags his index across your teeth. “Yeah, just as I expected, vampire.” He muses, tongue darting out to lick across his own lips, a sudden hunger behind his eyes, and all you can do is stare back, slack jawed in his hold.

“You want some fun?” It’s almost taunting, the way his eyes flick up and down your form, and any semblance of confidence and control you’d entered the stall with died a fiery death in the pit of your stomach. “Why don’t you..turn around?” He says it more like an excited question, rather than a command, but when he releases your mouth, a string of spit connecting you both, you feel a little too dizzy to question whether he even knows what he’s doing, so you spin on your heel.

“You ever been with a-a man?” Your words skip in your throat when those same hands that had just been probing at your mouth return to your hips once more.

“No-“ You feel them tug at your shirt, pulling it out of your slacks, fingers dancing at the soft skin of your waist. “But- I’ve watched enough fuckin’ porn in my life. Seen a few films made, too.” They smooth over your stomach, itching towards your belt as a chest presses to your back. “How hard could it be?” He laughs stupidly into the crook of your neck, one of his hands trailing up under your shirt, up towards your chest.

“Very hard, apparently.” You can barely choke out the ridiculous joke as he ruts once against your ass, and it prompts another round of laughs from the blonde man practically pouring himself over your shoulder, pushing you closer to the stall door. If anyone were to come in, it’d hardly be subtle, two pairs of feet caged against the door, rattling it in its frame as you writhed against each other.

“You know-I once saw this-*hic*- guy, and I swear to god, no word of a lie, his dick was like- fuckin’ 10 inches!” You had half a mind to shove your own hand in his mouth just to shut him up, because between jerking his hips forward, he was rambling like a lunatic, mumbling barely incoherent lines that were either straight from a porn film he’d seen, or anecdotes about one. “How bigs your dick then?” He was practically panting into the side of your neck, and before you could even open your mouth to formulate a response, he was grabbing at it through the front of your trousers.

“Fuck!” You’d be ashamed if you were any more sober or if the man behind you wasn’t who he seemed to be, because the high pitched squeal practically echoed off the walls.

“You know-“ You didn’t really want to, actually. “I once saw this thing in a porno-“ He paused, still palming at you, before groping at your hips to spin you back around, so excited and urgent it made your head spin.

“Is there anything you haven’t seen in a porno?” He rolled his eyes at your question, looking a little feverish as he stared down at the state you’d both been reduced to, shirts agape and tents shamelessly growing in your trousers. You prayed to anyone that might be listening for no one to walk through the door.

“My wife used to say I make my work in “rumpy pumpy.”” He does little quotations with one hand as he says it, the other rubbing harsh circles into your hip with his thumb. “God knows what that means- but I’m an educated man!” My wife. It sticks a little bitterly in your tongue, but you can hardly dwell on it when he roughly grabs at your dick through your slacks again, all questions of whether he still had a fuckin’ wife, bleeding out into a shameless whine. “So sue me- I know my way around some cock.” He says it all too casual, a little slurred and sleazy, but you seriously cannot bring yourself to care, especially with the way he’s staring at you with that hunger again. -Anyway, this whole situation was sleazy, and you’d be lying if you said you hated it.

“I bet you, I can make you cum in your pants.” You can’t even react to what an insane statement that is from a man who seemed too shy about hickeys just a short time ago, because he’s already dragging you to be flush to him. “It’s called frotting.” He explains, as if you, a gay man, wouldn’t know what the hell that was, but you just bite you lip and nod, almost eager to hear whatever lesson he was about to give you. You’d take any lesson from him, any day. “Usually we’d both be dicks to the wind, but what’s a little dry humping between friends, hey?” The way he says it is supposed to be jokey, but it comes out downright filthy, and you almost fall into him with the sudden urge to fuse your bodies flush together.

“I don’t even- I don’t even know your name-“ You pant out, ragged between thrusts into his crotch, feeling obscene with the way the fabric rubbed against you.

“March.” He grabs a fistful of your ass, dragging you closer, and allowing him to control your rutting. “March, march, he’s our man, if he can’t do it, no one can.” He hums, presumably to himself, head tucked once more in the crook of your neck, and he takes initiative to copy your earlier action, mouthing sloppily at the expanse of skin.

“March-“ You groan out, giddy with the way he’s jutting his hips forward to meet yours, shuffling to cage you against the stall wall, one hand to the surface, the other still grappling with the flesh of your ass. He hums at your call of his name, clearly very proud of himself as you feel him grin into your throat, humming across your pulse point.

“Mhm, that’s it baby.” He nips your earlobe, before dissolving into a fit of giggles, yet his pace never falters. March may be ridiculous and goofy, but right now he has a job to do.

You grasp almost fruitlessly at his shoulders, fisting hands into the fabric of his shirt, pulling it taught away from his neck, exposing where you’d bitten earlier. He looked a mess- filthy, sweat dribbling down his forehead, beginning to stick his hair across the damp skin, lip caught between his teeth as his eyes rolled back in his head. You’d wager good money that you were in a similar state, you could almost taste your own sweat running onto your lips.

You wanted to kiss him, that much you decided in the moment, you wanted to feel the scratch of his godawful moustache and beard. “March-March kiss me, please.” Wrecked, was the only way you could describe how you sounded, barely able to choke out the words. The feeling of both your cocks rubbing together, even through your trousers, was becoming almost too much to bear, and you’d be damned if you made it through this ordeal without tasting the inside of his mouth before you came.

“Fuck me.” He laughed, leaning forward just a fraction. “Desperate.” He mused, before you were taking matters into your own hands, snatching at the hair at the nape of his neck to push his face forward. “God-“ The groan ripped through his throat, ratting into your open mouth as his tongue probed at your teeth, and all you could do was moan in agreement. God. Thank god you walked into that bathroom.

The walls of the stall were rattling violently in their frame, and your back would surely ache by the morning from the force of it slamming against it, but you seriously couldn’t care. Non of that mattered, all you could focus on was the feel of him. He was all over you, groping like a madman, trying to feel every inch of your skin, inside your mouth and out.

“C’mon, you can do it.” He urged, the hand on your ass sliding to your hip, moving just enough that he could trace the outline of your dick with his thumb, pausing his thrusts for a moment. “C’mon!” It’s almost an impatient whine, and you wonder if he wants to cum, or wants you to come more. But you aren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and if some hot middle aged man wants to get you off this desperately, who are you to deny it?

“Fuck, March.” He’s prodding a little clumsily at your tip through your trousers, pressing his thumb into your fly, and it’s almost painful, until he pulls it away and rubs up against you again. It’s less thrusting now, he’s just straight up grinding, rutting your hips together in a way you’re not entirely certain won’t give you friction burn.

“Yeah? C’mon, fuckin cum, baby.” In that moment he does sound straight out of a porno himself, and you curse any moment you’d doubted him about his knowledge, because the way he’s grinding relentlessly into you is about to push you over the edge and-

His mouth latches firmly into the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, and all you can do is squeal and whine and buck your hips up as he sucks, mouthing messily across your skin. “Cum for me.” It’s such a stupid, cliche line, but it’s enough to push you over the edge, and your toes curl in your boots as your eyes roll back, and he has to grab at you to keep you upright as your legs wobble. “Fuck!” He laughs, but it’s cut short with a ragged moan himself as he jerks his hips a few more times before falling against you.

“Shit-“ You mumble, the words feeling sticky in your mouth- or maybe it’s just the combination of spit mixing in your tongue. You vaguely think he groans something of an agreement, but his mouth is still pressed to your throat, and with the way he’s all but draped over you, everything is muffled.

“I won, you gotta buy me a drink now.” He’s all too cocky when he finally pulls away, hair a mess, plastered down the sides of his temples before he runs a hand through it.

“What?” There’s a dull thunk, as his back hits the opposite wall of the stall, and despite the fact you’re only about a metre apart, the distance allows you a look over him. He’s totally wrecked- not that you’re in any space to judge, and a laugh bubbles from your throat at the sight of the obvious wet patch at the front of his light coloured trousers, and you thank god you’d chosen to wear your darker slacks today.

“I said I bet you I could make you cum in your pants, and I did.” He seems rather unfazed by the rather debauched look he’s now sporting, collar damp with sweat, because he’s grinning like a cat who’d got the cream, nodding downwards to where you awkwardly readjusted yourself. You’d regret it in an hour or two when you had to go home and get changed. “So pay up.” Despite barely knowing the man in front of you, his smirk and the sheer confidence in his words doesn’t surprise you one bit, and you roll your head on your shoulders with a shrug.

“Fine. On one condition?” He tilts his head, amusement clear in his eyes, swinging an arm behind his head as if he was merely relaxing back on a fucking beach, nodding for you to continue. “I get your number, and you let me try for my bet on whether all of you tastes good.”

Before he even thinks it through, he shoves a hand into his back pocket and presses a business card into your palm. “I think we can come to some sort of agreement.” Then, as if nothing had happened, he retrieved his jacket he’d draped over the door, and stumbled out of the stall like the drunken idiot he was.

You’d barely made it through the door at your home before you scrambled for the phone, dialling the number with shaking hands.

“Holland March-“