Chapter 2: Chapter 2
He began to thrust, at first a steady rhythm that soon escalated. He's getting rougher, making her choke and spit with each deep push. Clara gagged, her body convulsing as she struggled for air. Strings of saliva splattered onto the floor, and she coughed violently. "Easy," she rasped, but he only smirked and drove deeper. Her eyes rolled back, tears streaming down her face. Sporty watched, transfixed, his own arousal burning hotter. The sound of her choking was both horrifying and erotic. She spat again, this time aiming for a trash can nearby. Her throat was raw, each gasp a struggle. Yet, she didn't push him away; instead, her hands tightened on his hips. "More," she whispered hoarsely, and he obliged with a grunt. The bed creaked under their frantic movements. Sporty's knuckles were white where he gripped the doorframe. He could smell the sweat and sex in the air. Clara's body was a mess of pleasure and pain. She choked once more, a wet, desperate sound. Then she spat onto his stomach, a defiant act. He laughed, a low, dark chuckle, and picked up the pace. Sporty knew he should leave, but his feet were rooted to the spot.
He thrust deeper, his hips pistoning with a new, brutal rhythm. Clara’s body jolted with each impact, a sharp, gagging sound tearing from her throat. Her eyes watered, glossy in the lamplight, as she struggled to draw breath. Spit dribbled from her lips, slick and messy, coating his skin and her chin. He didn’t slow, his grip in her hair tightening, forcing her head to a steeper angle. A thick, choked cough wracked her frame, and she pulled back just enough to hawk a glob of saliva onto the sheets. “Easier,” she gasped, her voice ragged and raw, before diving back down. The wet, slapping sounds grew louder, more frantic. Sporty could see the strain in her neck, the violent bob of her Adam’s apple as she fought for air. Each gag was a punch to his own gut, twisting his jealousy into a sharp, undeniable thrill. His hand crept to his own jeans, applying pressure to the aching hardness there. The guy’s thrusts became jarring, uncoordinated, driven by a selfish urgency. Clara’s fingers clawed at his thighs, a silent plea for a moment’s reprieve that never came. She surfaced again, coughing violently, strings of spit connecting her lips to him. “You like that, don’t you?” he grunted, his voice a low, ugly thing in the quiet room. She just nodded, her breath a ragged whistle, and let him guide her back down. Sporty watched, transfixed, as her body convulsed around the intrusion, a perfect, degrading rhythm. The guy was getting rougher, making her choke and spit, her composure completely shattered. A dark, possessive satisfaction coiled in Sporty’s chest, hotter than any arousal. He knew, with a jolt, that this image was burned into him forever.
His thrusts lost all rhythm, becoming a frantic, shallow pounding against the back of her throat. A guttural groan ripped from him, his body locking up as he held her head down. She swallowed convulsively, her throat working around the sudden, salty warmth flooding it. When he finally released her, she fell back onto the heels of her hands, coughing and dragging in ragged gulps of air.
“Get out,” she rasped, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. He stared, dazed and still panting. “Seriously, go. I’m done.” She stood up on unsteady legs, grabbing his jeans from the floor and tossing them at his chest. He fumbled with them, confusion clouding his satisfied expression. “But I thought—” She cut him off with a sharp gesture toward the door. “You got what you came for. Now I need to sleep.” She didn’t watch him dress, instead turning her back and pulling the crimson tanga from the sheets. The front door clicked shut a minute later, its sound final and hollow. The sudden silence in the apartment felt heavy, broken only by the faint buzz of the refrigerator. Clara stood alone in the center of her room, the taste of him still lingering in her raw throat. She then walked to her bed and collapsed onto the mattress, pulling the blanket over her head.