Chapter 3 #2
He cuts himself off, breathing harder now.
"You watched videos about that?" My voice sounds strange. Distant.
"I fell down a rabbit hole." He's looking anywhere but at me.
"For like... three months. Just watching these women talk about their favorite dark romance books.
About mafia bosses, and stalkers, and—and monsters.
Literal monsters sometimes. And they'd get this look in their eyes when they talked about it. This... this need."
My pussy clenches.
Just once.
But I feel it.
Marty finally looks at me. "So I'm asking. What's your type, Scarletta?"
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out.
My brain is scrambling. Trying to construct something. Anything.
What's my type?
The question should be simple. It's not.
Marty watches me for another few seconds, then sighs heavily and leans back in the booth.
"Never mind. Forget I asked." He picks up his fork, stabbing at his salad with more force than necessary. "You're not my type anyway."
My stomach drops. "What?"
"I mean—" He shrugs, not looking at me. "You're too independent. Too... strong. I can tell just from talking to you for like twenty minutes. You've got your shit together. Your own career. Your own apartment. You don't need anyone."
The words hit wrong. Like he's describing someone else entirely.
"I like—" He stops. Clears his throat. "I prefer more demure women. Quieter. Softer. Women who actually want to be taken care of instead of..." He gestures vaguely at me.
I should feel insulted.
I don't.
Because heat is pooling between my legs. Slow and insistent.
Demure. Softer. Women who want to be taken care of.
"I'm only asking because I don't want to waste your time.
" Marty's still not looking at me, just pushing lettuce around his plate.
"Or mine, honestly. I know that sounds shitty but I'm just—I'm desperate to find someone I can actually connect with.
Someone who wants what I want. And you clearly don't."
My face is burning now. My thighs press together under the table.
I try to speak. "I—I might—"
"It's a stupid question anyway." He cuts me off, waving his hand dismissively. "Forget it."
But I can't forget it.
Because my pussy is throbbing. Actually throbbing for the first time in six months.
"No." My voice comes out strangled. "Tell me."
Marty looks up. "What?"
"Tell me exactly what you were thinking." I lean forward, my hands flat on the table. "What you want. Maybe I—maybe I might be up for it."
His eyes narrow slightly. Studying me.
Then he sets down his fork very deliberately.
He leans in.
His voice drops so low I have to strain to hear it over the ambient noise of the restaurant.
"I want to fuck a woman's throat until she can't breathe."
My breath catches.
Marty's gaze locks onto mine. Doesn't waver.
"Not gently. Not carefully. I want to grab her hair—really grab it, hard enough to hurt—and hold her head exactly where I want it while I use her mouth like it's just another hole for me to fill."
Oh god.
"I want her on her knees. Hands behind her back because I don't want her touching me, I don't want her having any control at all. I want her completely helpless while I push my cock so deep down her throat that she gags, and chokes, and her eyes water."
My clit is pulsing.
"I want to feel her throat convulse around me when she can't take it anymore. I want to hear those desperate little sounds she makes when she's trying to breathe but can't because I'm too far down. I want to watch mascara run down her face while she struggles."
I'm wet.
Actually wet.
Marty doesn't stop.
"And when she thinks I'm going to pull out and let her breathe, I want to push in even deeper instead.
I want to hold her there—hold her head against my pelvis with my cock buried completely—until she's panicking.
Until her hands are clawing at my thighs.
Until she's genuinely terrified I'm not going to let her up. "
His eyes are burning into mine.
"Then I want to pull out just long enough for her to gasp one breath before I shove back in and do it all over again. Harder. Rougher. Until her throat is raw and her jaw aches and she's sobbing around my cock."
Holy fuck.
"I want to come down her throat while she's still choking on it.
I want to hold her there until she swallows every drop even though she's gagging and desperate for air.
And then when I finally pull out, I want to watch her collapse on the floor gasping and crying while I tell her what a good girl she was for taking it. "
Marty leans back slowly.
His expression hasn't changed. Still that calm, focused intensity.
"That's what I was thinking."
I'm staring at him.
My mouth is open. My face is burning. My pussy is soaked.
He could write scenes.
Like... he could actually write the kind of scenes I write.
Wrote.
Past tense.
But sitting here listening to him describe throat-fucking in explicit, filthy detail while maintaining perfect eye contact—
Maybe this could work.
Maybe Marty isn't some spineless beta after all.
I'm staring at Marty and my brain is shorting out.
He's attractive. Like, actually attractive now that he's not doing the wholesome yoga instructor routine. Now that I know what's underneath the golden retriever exterior.
His hands. God, his hands are big. Long fingers. Strong wrists. The kind of hands that could—
I imagine them fisted in my hair. The way he'd hold my head still. Not gentle. Not asking permission.
My thighs press together harder.
What does his cock look like?
The thought crashes through me unbidden. Vivid. Desperate.
He's tall. Six-two, maybe six-three. And guys that tall are usually proportional, right? Thick. Long. The kind of cock that would stretch my jaw. The kind I'd struggle to fit.
I imagine kneeling in front of him. His hands gripping my hair while he feeds his dick between my lips inch by inch. How tight my throat would feel when he pushed deeper. How I'd gag, and choke, and he wouldn't stop. Wouldn't pull back. Wouldn't ask if I'm okay.
He'd just keep going.
My pussy clenches so hard I have to bite back a sound.
I open my mouth.
"I—"
"I can't do this."
Marty's voice cracks. He's shaking his head, hands coming up to run through his hair.
"This is too weird. I can't—" He laughs, but it's wrong. Strangled. "I can't believe I agreed to this."
I go completely still.
Something in my chest stops moving.
"Marty—"
"No, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." He's not looking at me anymore. His eyes are darting around the restaurant like he's searching for an exit. "I shouldn't have—fuck, this was such a bad idea."
My hands are flat on the table. I don't move them.
"What was a bad idea?"
He winces. Actually winces like I slapped him.
"This. The whole—" He gestures between us. "The date. The conversation. All of it."
The floor drops out from under me.
"Someone put you up to this."
It's not a question. I already know.
Marty's face crumples. "I didn't want to—I mean, I needed the money.
My studio, the pottery thing, it's not making any profit, and my parents are threatening to pull funding, and I'm gonna lose everything.
The lease, the equipment, all of it. And this guy, he just—he offered me so much money to take you out and say those things and I thought, fuck, how hard could it be?
Just have dinner with some girl and talk dirty for an hour. "
My throat is closing. "What guy."
"I don't know his name." Marty's rambling now, words spilling out in a panicked rush. "He wouldn't tell me. He just calls himself—"
He stops.
Swallows.
"The Masked Man."
Everything inside me shrivels.
Dies.
Turns to ash.
The Masked Man.
Caleb.
Of course it's Caleb.
Of course he's still watching. Still manipulating. Still pulling strings like I'm his fucking puppet.
I can't breathe.
Marty is still talking. "He gave me a script. Like, literally word-for-word what to say. The BookTok thing, the throat-fucking thing, all of it. He said you'd respond to it. That you'd get turned on if I said it right. And I—god, I'm such an asshole. I actually practiced in the mirror."
My vision is blurring at the edges.
"He told me to come on strong. Said he knew exactly what would make you wet. Those were his literal words. My god, what the fuck is wrong with me? But I was like, how hard could it be? Ya know?"
Stop talking.
Please stop talking.
"But then, I was sitting here watching you react—watching your face when I said those things—" Marty's voice breaks again. "You actually believed it. You thought I meant it. And that's so fucked up. That's so—"
He stands abruptly.
I don't look up.
Marty pulls out his wallet. Bills hit the table. I count them in my peripheral vision. Five hundred-dollar bills.
"That's his money," Marty says. "The Masked Man's. You can keep the change or whatever. I don't—I can't—"
He's backing away. "I'm sorry. I know that doesn't mean anything but I'm really, really sorry."
And then he's gone.
Walking away.
Leaving me sitting here alone.
The restaurant noise floods back in. Conversations. Silverware clinking. Someone laughing at a nearby table.
I'm still frozen.
Still not breathing right.
Five hundred dollars is sitting in front of me.
The Masked Man's money.
Caleb's money.
He scripted Marty.
He gave him lines about throat-fucking, and control, and demure women who need to be taken care of.
He knew exactly what would make me wet after six months of no contact.
He knew exactly how to break me down.
And I fell for it.
I actually fell for it.
My hands are shaking.
I look down at them spread flat on the table and I don't recognize them as mine.
The pizza sits half-eaten on my plate.
Marty's salad is still there across from me, abandoned.
Five hundred dollars in cash.
You can keep the change.
Like I'm a waitress.
Like I'm something he can tip on his way out.
I don't move.
Can't move.
I just sit here.
Staring at the money.
Feeling the wetness between my thighs start to cool.
Feeling my arousal drain away and leave nothing but hollow shame in its place.
He knew exactly what would make you wet.
And he was right.