He has me on my knees with my wrists cuffed behind my back, and I've never felt more seen in my life.
My cock jerks in my palm.
She writes the scene like she's living it. First person, present tense, immediate. The protagonist—always some version of herself, always pretending she's not—kneels naked in front of a man who knows exactly what she needs before she does.
The dom in her story circles her slowly. Studying. I can see it perfectly because I've done this exact choreography in my head a thousand times with her body as the reference point.
"You're going to tell me what you want," he says. Not a question. A command.
"I can't," I whisper.
"You can. You will."
I stroke myself slowly, matching the rhythm of her words. She describes the way his hand tangles in her hair, forces her head back, makes her look at him. The vulnerability in that angle—throat exposed, eyes unable to hide.
"Tell me what you need," he says.
The words stick in my throat. Shame chokes them. But his grip tightens and I hear myself say it:
"I need you to use me."
"Be specific."
My grip tightens. I'm reading faster now, breathing harder.
"I need—" My voice breaks. "I need your cock in my mouth. I need you to fuck my throat until I can't breathe. I need you to make me take it even when I gag."
Jesus Christ.
He smiles. It's the most beautiful and terrifying thing I've ever seen.
"What else?"
"I need you to hurt me."
I nearly come as I work my cock in steady, deliberate strokes while my eyes devour each word she's written, every confession pouring directly from her psyche onto the screen in front of me.
This is her fantasy.
TPE. Throat fucking. Pain.
And tomorrow, I will make that fantasy come true.
I will have her down on her knees, gagging.
And she will come for me like the good little slut she is.
