Fight Club

Chapter 1: Surprise is Speed

I don't know if she was waiting for me to come home or snuck in the patio while I was going through my mail in the kitchen, but she was in the house, somewhere. I had just gotten home from work, the chef coat still crumpled on the floor next to my boots inside the back door and at the top of the basement stairs. The heat of the line that night was still rising off my shoulders while I glanced over a handful of catalogs that piled up daily on the big butcher's block. It's as close as I'll ever get to a kitchen table in my own home. Most of my uniform was either discarded as soon as I hit the door or left in my truck from the drive home, leaving me only a pair of black drawstring cargo pants and a grey wife beater. The stink of burning oil and hot garlic were light that night. The weather finally got warmer and the fat guy in the salad station took the brunt of tonight's action. Otherwise I probably would have missed the smell. A trace of cigarette smoke.

Nobody ever smoked in my house. It was a rule. When I had parties, the detached garage was big enough to fit two dozen people, always had plenty of ashtrays, and was even heated for those cold bitch winters. This was so faint it was impossible not to think of it on someone's clothes or in a girl's hair after waiting for a while and smoking two just to steel your nerves for what you were about to do.

I almost smiled when I heard the latch on the closet door let loose. She was trying to be a little ninja and she was about as graceful as a funniest home video of someone almost doing a back-flip. I was wrong. She exploded out of the tiny closet less than two steps away and hit me full in the back with all 110 pounds. There was plenty of time to reflect on my miscalculation as my head was driven deep into the hanging rack of heavy sauté pans over the butcher block. There was no purchase as my hands slid out on the stacked catalogs glossy paper. By the time I stopped falling forward her milk white hand snaked forward and hooked one of the straps on my tank top and pulled it tight across my throat in the opposite direction, choking me with my own clothes and giving her a secure handle when the other small forearm locked behind my head.

There was nothing to do for it. She had gotten the drop on me. I went still, not wasting energy fighting what was already done and conserving what little air was allowed my while considering my options. To my right was the doorway I came through, unsure footing on my clothes and boots lying at the top of the basement stairs. Would it still be considered a victory if we were both found heaped together at the foot of those stairs with broken necks? On my left was the big stainless refrigerator then two steps to the small island wet bar that separated the kitchen from the blackness of the living room. Three steps behind was the granite topped L of the countertops and the deep sink I'd emptied of a solitary cereal bowl and a big green incredible hulk coffee cup that morning.

She pulled herself up by clamping her thighs on my lower back. It was impossible to tell if the heat between her legs was real or just me losing consciousness. I was still taller than her by almost a head so she had to use her improvised garrote to pull her mouth close to my ear. She whispered soft but challenging, the way you'd expect more from someone trying to seduce you than someone choking you. "Surprise is speed." The strap twisted deeper, "Speed is power." Her breath was hot on the side of my face. In the stubble on the side of my head I could feel a lump growing when the words passed over. "Thinking is slow, slow is weak." She lurched forward and bit my ear hard. The thin cartilage crunched between her teeth just before the warm line trickled on my cheek. Losing was one thing, but this was getting a little to close to assassination.

I stood up, fast, wedging my feet between the legs of the 400 pound block and clenching every muscle between my spine and sternum in both directions so hard that if I lost at least I wouldn't suffer through whatever pain tearing those muscles would feel like tomorrow. She missed any of the pans the first time through. My head drove a wedge that saved her. This time I could hear the thick melon sound something made then it struck my cast iron skillet. Her grip on both my throat and ear lessened but those strong thighs still held tight. I let the momentum carry us across the kitchen as the rack finally gave way. The crash of Teflon, stainless, and brass pans all striking each other sounded like Armageddon in kitchen wares. We collided with the sink. It's a thick two compartment set into an inch of granite and deep enough to drench my elbow when I unplug the drain at the bottom. Her head snapped back hard enough I was afraid she'd shatter the window above the sink but she caught her spine on the faucet instead. She twisted away from it like it was on fire as I stepped away, pulling her legs out with me.

Cooks love big sinks. We're spoiled with them at work and we put them in our homes when we can. I'm no different. I could now say with certainty that I could fit a woman's head and shoulders in this one. Spinning within the confines of the hard cords of muscle in those milky white thighs, I brought myself closer, arching her back and stealing any leverage she had to move. Her arms flailed to grab any purchase, trying to ease the pressure on her slim neck canted to one side in the sink she'd swear was still too small. "Fucker," she seethed. She wasn't having fun anymore and it was my fault.

I slapped the faucet on cold and full bore. Bright red hair started pooling at the bottom of the sink. It looked like Chinese fireworks against the stainless steel basin. The fine lines of her soft, round cheeks were flushed with rage and exertion and there was more than a little crazy flecked in the eyes the same color as the sky over the lake before the rain screams towards shore in the fall. Her name was Roxanne, or Roxie. She lived down the street from me, went to the college a bike ride away, and asked me to show her how to throw a punch at the heavy bag that hangs in my garage. She was nineteen or twenty and had just started to shed the baby fat that got her teased in high school. I knew her dad was one of the old time Irish that ran the local fire department and I always saw her mom's long dark hair and sharp lined features in the "ethnic" food aisle at the market. She favored them both in the best possible ways, the sharp features from her mother and the kind of kinky coloring from her father that kids spend a hundred a month at Hot Topic trying to copy.

She was wearing a black sports bra that did more to hide the swells of white than the low cut tops and push up bras I saw more often. The small concave of her belly was exposed, smooth but not quite as flat as she'd wanted it. As hard as she took to working it, it would be soon enough. Slung low was a small pair of boxing shorts that she was very proud of. Bought off e bay, direct from Thailand, a pair of bright gold Muy Thai trunks with flaming crimson lettering in a language she would never learn. No drawstring but cinched tight by the wide elastic band a hands width below her belly button. The wide, short legs made it look almost like a flared mini skirt on her proportions. She was more leg than torso, more hip than ass, naturally trim waist, then more tit than shoulder. She wasn't thin or frail, just so perfectly proportioned that all of the things that made a girl a woman stood out more than it would have on any other woman with the same measurements.

The water was up to her ears when she started kicking. Grabbing a taut calf in each hand I lifted until all her weight was supported on her shoulders. Upside down, her ass was by my face when the billowing shorts fell towards the floor and left me with a glimpse of tender pinkish skin too far in to be thigh but not enough for slit. Even more it should have had at least the signs of the wispy red hairs I always imagined covered her soft mound, but there was just another wave of the heat I could have imagined at my back, only now it was right before my face and accompanied by a musk that every teenage boy scores touchdowns or survives foreign wars for.

I dropped her calves and locked my arms around her hips, pinning her to my chest and locking her in the sink until I was ready to let her up. Wedging my chin into the hem of her shorts was harder than I assumed it would be, not counting on Roxie's frenetic kicking as I tried to brush past her thigh and plant my face on her sex. It's funny what concerns will flash through your mind when you do something odd you've never tried before. Less than a minute before I was being choked by an unknown but assumed assailant and then I was trying to force my tongue into the guaranteed wetness of that assailant's bright vinyl shorts I couldn't help but spend a half second wondering about how bad the stubble burn was going to stand out against a thigh's pale skin that hadn't seen the sun in months or if my neighbor would look through his kitchen window into mine and call the cops.

When her thigh pulled too wide I dove in, pushing my face deep into the leg. I shot my tongue out, making one desperate lunge with my whole body. Lightning arced through her the second I made contact. I couldn't tell if I was high or low on her pussy but it was dead center. Soaking wet and almost flavorless it was so clean, her lips gushed like citrus almost too ripe to eat. Efforts redoubled, I lifted with my arms and sank my mouth onto the cleft between her lean thighs. My lips sucked to keep contact as I explored, trying to coax her little clit from hiding. Her feet stopped scrambling the air and just hovered, stretched towards the ceiling. The shorts were too tight but just accessible enough to be frustrating. When I finally loosened my grip to try and pull them up and off those delicious stems, her foot slammed down heel first into the back of my skull. My skull rattled from the inside and my jaws racked together, nipping a bit of the quivering pink flesh.

She yelped as I stumbled right, then gasped and choked as the rising tide in the sink flooded her nose before she upended again onto the unforgiving tile. I turned my back on her, holding myself up on the bar's mahogany runner, as she made it to all fours. Coughing and coursing, her breath came back slowly while dark spots continued to flitter across my eyes. I said something about wasting water as I gingerly fingered the gashed lump just above the ear that still seeped drops of blood down the lobe onto my shoulder. It took a second to see the thing dangling inches in front of my face. A cord or rope, when the black hole fireworks stopped, lashed over one of the living room ceiling's exposed beams. On the other side of the bar is a large purple couch. The salesman called it eggplant or some thing but it was just the only couch long enough and soft enough I've ever been able to nap on. Resting on the cushion, at the end of the rope, was a loop wider than my shoulders and held firm by the kind of slip knot I assume they teach girl scouts before they can get thrown out for 'immoral acts'. Roxie's feet made little splish splosh noises when she stood up. She said something that took a second to register. I had half turned around when it made sense, "Hulk smash". The thick porcelain mug careened off my temple two heartbeats before the kitchen went black in front of my eyes.

My hearing cleared before my vision did. The kitchen was silent except for a creak of an old clothesline pulled taut over a ceiling beam and a quiet, insistent, half whimpered mewling. My hands went to my throat, trying to get between the rope and airway. The whimper stopped. "Settle," she said. "Let's not do anything...silly...with your life in my hands." Roxie was on all fours, faced away from me, rounded ass cheeks arced straight at the ceiling. The boxers were pushed down around her knees showing off a beautiful teenage cunt so wet the sides of her thighs halfway down to her knees glistened under the single 75 watt bulb over the sink. It was impossible to see from directly behind but I got the impression that the bra was displaced too. With her face pressed down I could imagine the tight nubs of her nipples rock hard against the cold quarry tile. Her left hand plunged deep into her sopping hole with three fingers at a time, spreading her wetness all the way past a puckered little ass that looked like pink lips ready for fish kisses. Her right had a firm grip on the other end of my tether, next to her face as she whimpered again before biting down on her thumbnail to keep from anything louder.

I had to go up on my toes to lessen the pressure but Roxie just kept pounding away at that hot little mound. When we worked out in the garage I caught the occasional glimpse of camel toe through her shorts but here it was on display. The meaty outer lips pushed back far enough when she drew her hand out that the bright pink of her insides looked like a little bracelet around her fingers. The noises got louder. Sloshing of cunt juice and whispered grunts just before she shuddered and went very still, just her back arcing up and down with deep breaths. I wanted deep breaths.

She rolled over gingerly, still to tender or sensitive from a thing as close to fisting as I'd ever seen in person. Her bra was up and the mounds of her breasts were dusted with pink freckles that turned red when she got excited. Almost as red as the nickel sized areola and perfect cylinder shaped nipples as thick as the tip of my finger. There was sheen of sweat that made her pale skin shine like marble and a hurt little pout when she finally got around to fingering the spot at the back of her head. "This is your fault you know." She frowned, mild disappointment flicking across her face. "A girl just wants a little dick and you make her jump through hoops." She began crawling towards me. On all fours the cone of her tits dangled into perfect points, the immaculate shape you conjure when you imagine the perfect breasts. She kept my tether taught by pulling the slack out, biting the line between her teeth, and reaching for another arms length. "Watch it' you said," pull, bite, reach, "earn it' you told me".

All those afternoons in the garage had finally caught up with me. After the first few weeks of hard work, she became a little more playful when we worked out. Flirting conversations afterwards and tighter clothes during were as far as it got. Then she'd come right out and asked. "Why don't you fuck me?" I didn't want to tell her I was afraid of the chances my house would burn down would skyrocket the second her father found out, or because I didn't want to duck the ultra right wing IRA offshoot known as the Riordan boys. Her brothers had a reputation as bloody bar brawlers that she knew all about. She'd complain that it was so hard for her to find 'a little action' because her brothers scared away all the interesting ones. I remember the day I told her that I had a rule about fucking and fighting. I couldn't do either with a woman that couldn't beat me. She didn't get it so I told her to go watch "Red Sonja". She didn't say anything. She just left quietly and I thought that was the end of it. A week later she asked me to show her how to fight, not just punch. I never made the connection.

She used the clothesline to pull herself up to her knees, staring into my face the whole time. So close she brushed her face up my thighs and into my groin. I knew she'd found the reason I had to quit wrestling and judo when I was growing up. If you choke me, I beat your ass, and then get a raging hard-on. She'd skipped step two and rubbed her lips across step three through my pants. Her hair was still clinging to the side of her face occasionally dripping beads of water onto her shoulders that ran between the awesome swells of her tits. She smiled and dropped her eyes when her left hand came up to trace the shape of my cock. "Good," she was appraising almost absentmindedly like it was something else she bought online, appreciating but not seeing until it was in her hand, "Not too long, but thick". She tried to wrap her hand around it but couldn't through the cotton, "Really thick."

Small boned wrists and slender hands bunched my boxer briefs and pants in one handful and yanked. When my dick sprang free, the tip hit her cheek just below her gray blue eyes. It surprised her. Her head flinched back and she made a little 'o' with her mouth. It made her mad, like even my dick wouldn't submit to her. She looked up at me with the crazy girl in a sink look then slammed her mouth down on my pole so hard the head slammed the back of her throat. Grunting, she kept up the assault; spit coating the pink and brown skin almost as much as her pussy would have. I knew that the one word that I would always associate with Roxie would be wet. Spittle ran from the corners or her mouth and down her chin before forming a single strand that fell on her chest. Her technique was pretty much the same in everything so far, hit first with the hardest thing and hope it would be enough. She never considered that her jaw and throat would tire before I shot down her throat.

At first she clenched my calves in her hands, pulling her mouth down with her shoulders. After a few seconds she moved her head so my dick went past her mouth into her throat and her nose touched my pubes. A minute later she wrapped her little fist as far around the base of my cock as it would go and focused her sucking on the tip and three inches that stuck out. The sensation was a little more intense but her strength was waning and we both could feel it. I smiled when she looked up at me. It had turned into a test of wills, and there weren't any surprise attacks or Hulk mugs in a fight like that. She went back to the two handed deep throat but her heart wasn't in it. Just as she came forward I thrust up and hit the top of her throat and uvula with the only weapon I had. She gagged, hard, and fell back trying not to throw up.

When her hands loosened enough I launched myself along the island, deeper into the house but away from the living room. When she tried to regain control I pulled her head first into the island by my throat. She slumped for a second then looked at her hand. There was a red welt rising on her palm that matched the ring around my collar. I took a second to pull the noose over my head before moving back into the living room, taking the clothesline down as I went. Roxie propped her back against the island and cradled her hand between those pert tits. No matter how this played out I would never forget the standard set for breasts that day.

I leaned over the couch and wrapped my fist tight into wet strands of fire until my knuckles were pressed against her scalp. I lifted and twisted until she came over the couch on her belly squealing and trying to hold onto my fist with hers. "You won," I was gloating, "time to pay up." My feet were under the couch for a little extra leverage because I was holding all of her weight either by her hair, her jaw in my other hand, or the tops of her knees still stuck on the island. She was trying to fight out of my grip and not fall on her face when she found the edge of the sofa with her injured hand. It gave her hair a respite but the second she opened her mouth to say something I speared into her mouth again. There was no mercy or soft touches, just the length of me sliding in and out of the depths of her face. Tears were running down her cheeks when I let go of her chin and slapped the white orb of her upturned ass cheek so hard that my handprint stood out in vibrant pink relief before I had a chance to hit the other side. She squealed around my girth, vibrating my cock head deep in her throat. I didn't have any witty remark about turnabout being fair play or turning the other cheek. I was a little past conversation. The third time my hand came down I left it planted with my fingertips splayed across her pussy lips. Her spine bowed with the effort of trying to spike herself on my hand without coming off my dick. I took my time playing across her opening, wetting my fingers in her then running them from her clit to her ass.