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—reallygrabit, 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 controlat 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.
Actuallywet.
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.
