Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
I smile and nod, already knowing I won't be going anywhere after this meal. I never stay out after dark. Ever. The rule is absolute. Daylight only. Public places only. Home before the streetlights come on.
Because I'm not ready to confront what happens when the sun goes down and I'm alone with someone.
Marty starts talking about his business—some kind of paint-your-own-pottery studio in the neighborhood next to mine. A place where couples go on date nights to make ugly mugs and pretend they're being creative together.
"—and we're expanding to offer wine and painting classes on Friday nights. You know, like those viral videos where everyone gets a little tipsy and paints the same sunset?"
"Mm-hmm." I nod along, watching his mouth move.
Could I fuck this guy?
The thought appears unbidden. Clinical. I study him while he talks—his strong jawline, the definition in his forearms where he's rolled up his sleeves, the way his hands move when he gestures. He's objectively attractive. Fit. Successful enough to own his own business at twenty-two.
I try to picture it. His body over mine. His hands sliding up my thighs. His fingers pushing inside me—
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
My pussy doesn't respond. My pulse doesn't quicken. It's like watching paint dry while someone describes sex to me in medical terminology.
"So what do you do?" Marty asks, pulling me back.
I blink. Scramble for the prepared answer. "I'm a freelance writer. Mostly marketing copy, some blog content. Working from home."
All lies.
I haven't written a single word in six months. Haven't taken a freelance gig. Haven't earned a dollar beyond what's sitting in my bank account from—
No. Not thinking about that.
"That's cool! What kind of stuff do you write about?"
"Boring corporate things." I wave my hand dismissively. "Product descriptions. SEO optimization. Nothing exciting."
The pizza arrives and I'm grateful for the interruption. I take a massive bite, barely tasting it, just needing something to do with my mouth besides construct more elaborate fictions about who I am.
Marty keeps talking. Something about expansion plans. Something about hiring part-time staff. Something about his lease negotiations.
I nod. Smile. Laugh when his tone suggests I should.
But inside, I'm spiraling.
What if I asked him outright? Hey Marty, do you have a freak side? Because I need someone who can make me come and apparently regular sex isn't going to cut it anymore.
Yoga guys don't. They're too... gentle. Too balanced. Too fucking mindful.
They want to make love slowly while maintaining eye contact and asking if you're comfortable every thirty seconds.
I can already picture Marty naked. His cut abs. His careful hands. The way he'd probably ask permission before touching my breast. The way he'd be so considerate about my pleasure while completely failing to understand what I actually need.
My mind shifts unbidden.
What if I flipped the script entirely?
What if I became the dominant one? What if I made Marty bend over a bench in his stupid pottery studio, made him wait there with his cock hard and exposed while I decided whether to touch him—
The image crystallizes. Marty's perfect ass in the air. His dick hanging between his legs. Waiting for me to spank him. Waiting for me to use him.
And I feel... nothing.
Worse than nothing.
I feel repulsed.
The thought of controlling someone, of being the one in charge, of wielding power over another person's body—it makes my stomach turn. It's so fundamentally wrong that I physically recoil, closing my eyes and shaking my head to dislodge the vision.
"Hey, you okay?" Marty's voice cuts through.
I open my eyes. He's staring at me with concern, his salad fork frozen halfway to his mouth.
"Yeah, sorry. Just—" I force a laugh. "Brain fog. Low blood sugar probably."
"You should eat." He gestures to my pizza. "Seriously, take your time."
I take another bite, chewing mechanically while Marty watches me with those kind, worried eyes.
Normal girls would be charmed by this.
Normal girls would appreciate a guy who checks in, who notices when something's off.
But I'm not normal.
I haven't been normal in a very long time.
And sitting here with Marty, pretending I could ever be satisfied by someone this safe, this vanilla, feels like the cruelest joke I've played on myself yet.
Marty leans forward across the table, his whole posture shifting. The casual yoga instructor energy drains away. His eyes lock onto mine—not the polite, friendly gaze from before. Something sharper. More focused.
"Can I ask you a question?"
His voice is different. Deeper. The careful brightness stripped out of it.
A tiny buzz sparks low in my belly. So faint I almost miss it.
"Sure," I say, setting down my pizza slice.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His fingers drum against the table edge—once, twice—then stop. His jaw works like he's chewing words he can't quite swallow.
I smile despite myself. "What's the problem?"
"I just—" He stops again. Looks down at his salad, then back up at me. "There are different kinds of guys, right? Like, there's the… the sensitive type. The ones who do couples yoga and talk about their feelings and want to build emotional intimacy before—before anything physical."