It's a color.

He hauls me up off the floor with a sharp yank that makes my shoulder crackle with pain and protest, then brings his hand down on my cheek again. I see stars.

"Just—"

Another slap across the other cheek, and I almost lose my balance—

"Fucking—"

The next one makes me bite the inside of my cheek, blood filling my mouth. It settles under my tongue, between my teeth—

"Once—"

The impact of his hand makes me spit blood across the wall, a bright red splatter over the aging landlord white and shitty sponged-on texture. It drips and slides into the unsealed crack between the wall and the warped, dusty trim. It's going to be a bitch to get that out, and I wonder if he'll stick around to make sure I scrub it properly. On my hands and knees with his boot on my back, hopefully. Dare to dream.

I giggle at the thought, and he twists my arm again. "You little fucking psychopath," he growls.

He's not having fun, you see. Unfortunately for him, he's not a sadist, and he's not doing this for sexual gratification. Or, he wouldn't be, except for my sexual gratification. He's just a piece of shit that beats his boyfriend when he gets angry. But in fairness, I am intentionally ruining his life so that he beats the shit out of me, because getting off without the bruises just isn't as good. I've pushed away his friends, alienated most of his family, ruined a couple career opportunities — this most recent endeavor was one of those, sabotaging a tentative connection that would've landed him a high enough salary to pack up and fuck off out of the shithole apartment he shares with me. Can't have him getting away, not without doing some lasting damage first.

If I ever explained this to anyone we know, they'd probably still take my side over his, but I'm definitely the active antagonist here. I know I'm the bad guy. It makes my dick hard.

My stupid, oozing grin earns me a fist to the gut, and he lets me crumple to the floor again, wrist still throbbing where his fingers had been. Curled on my side and gasping, almost retching, his boot makes an expedient and emphatic salutation to my stomach as well. I do retch, then, but nothing comes up and all that escapes me is another wet, drooling bubble of blood. Getting it out of the carpet won't be nearly as annoying as the dozen-odd "mystery stains" we'd had when we moved in. Frankly, if I wasn't trying to screw him out of the security deposit, management would owe me money for improving the goddamn place. Really, though, if he ever gets out without killing me first, I'll probably just set the place on fire.

He's not hard enough to kill me, I don't think. It's a shame, honestly, because it would free him up much faster than trying to eke his way out from under me the way he is now. Plus I would probably cum really hard before the lights go out for good, and that's kind of the dream, isn't it? What better way to go than riding that high?

He hasn't even sent me to the hospital yet, the fucking tease. Hasn't ruptured any organs, hasn't broken any bones more important than a phalange. If he would just crack my ribs with another kick, that would keep me occupied for weeks! I think about that when I roll onto my back, taking one rattling breath and choking on my own bloody spit. Come on, one good, firm kick to the ribs, baby. He's got it in him, I know it.

My hand curls around my crotch, squeezing at my cock. I'm so hard that it's starting to hurt, too, and it makes me throb and twitch like you wouldn't fucking believe. I rub myself through my sweats and he snarls before that steel-toed masterpiece finds its way to my ribs, just like I wanted.

Not hard enough to cave anything in, unfortunately. There's definitely a concerning flexing, popping, kind of creaky sensation, and my ribs and lungs both wail with pain for the contact. Don't think he really broke anything, though. I stick my hand down my pants and stroke my cock, hoping it'll prompt him to bring his boot down on my sternum.

He knows I get off on this. It doesn't stop him, so it can't bother him that badly. Shit, maybe the dark spot he's leaving on his pants is a sign he really is a sadist and he's just been holding out on me. He unbuckles his belt and I feel like that's confirmation enough, until he twists it around his fist and brings the strap down across my face.

I let out a very unflattering noise, an odd moaning yelp that would be plausibly sexual if the neighbors had any concerns about the way he treats me. They don't, because they're the kind of crackheads that don't give a shit about anyone else, but if they ever did feel chivalrous. Y'know.

The next strike splits my cheek and makes me see stars again, a shimmeringly painful thing that has me stroking faster, almost feverish with it.

He can't help it when he sees someone else jerking off. He's hard and furious at me and it's my favorite place for him to be. He grabs me by the hair to pull me into a sitting position, my hand still working dutifully between my legs as my scalp whines almost sweetly in comparison to my other hurts, and I feel blood run down the side of my neck.

He'd understand better if he knew how good my blood tastes. Coppery, hot, just the right amount of clinging meatiness... He's missing out, he really is, but he hasn't put his mouth on me in months — per the whole "you disgust me on a visceral level" thing — so he's not going to find out anytime soon. His loss.

He lets me slump against the wall, dizzy, as he unbuttons his pants and shoves them down around his thighs. Underwear, too, those worn-out briefs he insists don't need replaced yet because cis men get away with wearing raggedy bullshit all the time. Telling him they should also be mortified doesn't seem to be a detriment, but hey, some of us get our gender affirmation from being just like a cis dude, and some of us get it from getting our ribs bruised. It's pretty low on the list of things I want to take away from him, at this stage.

His cock is twitching and I can see him literally dripping as he moves to grab my hair again, then thinks better of it. Stupid bastard never had any issues with atrophy or dryness, the lucky son of a bitch, but at least I get to make fun of his overzealous wetness.

Before he puts me to work, he does something that guarantees I won't bite his stupid, fat little cock right off — he loops the belt around my neck, strap tensioned in his fist, and pulls it tight. I'm already half delirious and my hips rock into my hand as blood flow to my brain takes another drastic dip. It's not the racking, full-body agony I hoped for, but shit, I can't complain.

His hand twists in my hair again and forces my face to tilt up, mouth hanging open. Blood and drool slide down my face as he stuffs his cock in my mouth and ruts, my tongue helpfully splayed out for optimal sensation and a nominal amount of suction. If I get too good of a seal, it makes him nervous that I'll do something inadvisable.

How could I possibly do that to him, though, when this is the best shit I could ask for? My blood tastes good, but it tastes better when his cock is in my mouth. The way we blend together, the slight acidity against the richness of my blood, the way he twitches against my tongue—

Fuck, no wonder I can't just let him leave. How am I supposed to let him get away when he chokes me out while fucking my mouth?

My skull bumps against the wall as he starts to thrust in earnest, twisting my hair around his fingers, and things go fuzzy around the edges of my vision. Or maybe they were already fuzzy? Who cares, he's so fucking hot. My free hand scrabbles uselessly at the belt around my neck, my survival instincts somehow not quite dead yet, but the other is still stroking away at my aching dick.

He must notice the scrabbling, and to my dismay he releases the belt strap. It sags, but he doesn't remove it from my neck, just slips under it to grip my neck with that big, ropy hand, his thumb on my rabbit-sprint pulse.

He's grunting, now, trying his best to get his cock to join my tonsils in the back of my throat while he's coming, and I am seconds away, really, I'm so fucking close, I just need him to— ugh, fuck, please just—

I overstimulate him, latching onto him like a shitty, hateful remora. He squeezes my throat and hisses angrily, trying to pry me off before it becomes a kind of painful he's always hated. When I persist, he twists and brings his knee in, slamming it into my solar plexus and bouncing my body against the wall again.

I'm three different kinds of oxygen deprived when I come, bucking into my own hand and drooling on myself.

He stares at me, crumpled on the floor beneath him, and when I can see straight I see an incredibly familiar shame in his eyes. He's disgusted with both of us, and I give him a lazy grin. I can feel the blood on my cheek as I do.