I know. Fuck's sake, Iknow.
But I can't stop myself from pressing harder, watching her eyes widen as her airway narrows, feeling her pulse absolutelyracingbeneath my palm while her pussy clenches around my cock like she's trying to pull me deeper.
The power rush hits like cocaine straight to the brain.
Better than cocaine.
More dangerous.
This is the addiction Giovanni saw in me at seventeen. Why he made me promise not to touch her throat while she's here.
Promise broken.
I'm choking her while fucking her in a desecrated chapel, and I can't?—
Emmaleen's hand covers mine.
Presses itharderagainst her neck.
I blink.
Wake up slightly from the frenzy.
She's not fighting.
She'saskingfor more.
Her eyes lock onto mine—hazy but present, desperate but certain—and she increases the pressure herself, using my hand to restrict her own airway while she rides my cock.
Shelikesit.
Wants it.
Choseit.
The recognition slices through my spiraling thoughts with sudden, crystalline clarity. I don't have to tear through this like a man possessed.
Don't have to barrel toward catastrophe and destruction the way I've done every other time before—the way I always thought was inevitable, hardwired into my DNA, an inescapable fate written into my very bones.
This doesn't have to end with damage.
With her broken.
With me hating myself in the aftermath, kneeling in this exact spot hours later, rosary beads cutting into my palms while I beg forgiveness for sins I knew I'd commit the moment I started.
Not this time.
Not if I choose differently.
The concept feels revolutionary—almost laughable in its simplicity.Choice.Agency. The radical notion that I could acknowledge the addiction, and make a different decision about how to feed it.
Or whether to feed it at all.
Or—and this is the thought that stops my breath entirely—whether I could train it. Tame it. Turn this dangerous compulsion into something controlled, ritualized,safe.
The way I've ritualized everything else in my life to keep the chaos at bay.
Why not this?
