Choke Me, Smarter

POV: Selena

“Ah…” The sound slips out before I can catch it. Not pleasure. Not heat. Just habit.

It’s not because I feel good. Not because I want to. But because I’ve trained myself to react this way—automatically.

Evan’s body is heavy on top of me, his sweat-slicked skin clinging to mine, each thrust robotic and disconnected. He always starts slow, like that’s the key to unlocking something deep inside me. It never is.

The room is dim, shadows cast by the ceiling fan spinning in tired circles. I stare at it like it might hypnotize me into forgetting where I am.

I don’t think about Evan. I think about the rose-shaped vibrator tucked in my sock drawer. About how much more satisfying it is when I’m in control—when I decide the rhythm, the pressure, the release.

Not this. Not him grunting over me like he’s checking off a chore on a list.

He adjusts slightly. Still missionary. Always missionary. Evan doesn’t venture out of routine. His movements are predictable, practiced, dull. Like a quarterback still playing his glory days out in bed.

He used to be the guy everyone envied—popular, polished, parents glowing on the sidelines. And me? I was the nerdy girl who looked good on his arm. That used to be enough.

But now, I lie still. Waiting for it to be over. Knowing I won’t finish. Again.

Three years of this.

I’ve thought about ending it. More than once. But familiarity is a trap. I know his voice, his smell—cheap cologne that always lingers too long. He’s comfort. He’s habit.

I hate change. But tonight… I try.

I reach up and touch his jaw. “Can you… maybe go a little harder?” I say, softly.

He doesn’t answer. Keeps going like he didn’t hear me.

“What if we, um… did it from behind?” I tilt my hips, trying to nudge him into something different.

He hesitates. Just a second. Then scoffs. “Why mess with what works?”

My stomach tightens. For who, exactly?

“Right. Sure.”

I bite back the sigh. The disappointment. The ache that’s not between my legs, but somewhere deeper. I think of the books I read in secret, under the covers. Stories where the guy pushes the girl against a wall and makes her beg. Where dominance means worship, and surrender means safety.

Fantasy, I remind myself. Fiction. Dangerous ideas. But at least they feel like something.

I press my palm against his chest. He groans, annoyed. “What now?”

I hesitate. “What if you… choked me? Just a little.”

He stops completely. Like I just suggested murder.

His face twists. “Are you fucking serious?”

He pulls out and rolls away like I’ve grown horns. I grab the sheet and wrap it around myself, though he’s seen me like this a hundred times.

“Evan—”

“You really just said that,” he snaps, grabbing his phone. “You want to be abused during sex now?”

I flinch. “It’s not abuse. It’s a kink. Lots of people—”

“Oh, so now you’re into freaky shit?” He’s standing now, pacing. “What’s next? Want me to slap you around? Call you a dirty whore?”

That word—whore—hits me right in the chest. Not because it hurts. Because imagining him actually doing it just made me wet.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say, voice cracking.

“This is why I don’t watch porn with you,” he spits. “You get these twisted ideas from TikTok or some smutty romance crap and suddenly I’m supposed to—what—turn into Christian fucking Grey?”

I tighten the sheet around me, cheeks burning. “I just… I haven’t come in a while. I thought maybe if we tried something new—”

He rounds on me. “So it’s my fault?”

“No, I—”

“You’re the one with the issues,” he snaps. “You should probably think about why you’re into that crap.”

The words sting like ice water. I sit there, exposed and humiliated, while he yanks his boxers off the floor.

“I’m not into anything,” I say, almost too quietly. “I’m just trying to understand why I feel so… nothing.”

He freezes. “Nothing?”

I should walk it back. Apologize. Smooth it over, like always. But something in me breaks open.

“Nothing,” I repeat. Louder. Sharper. “Three years of pretending. Because you never once asked if I was okay. If I liked it. If I even came.”

He stares at me, shocked. “So you’ve been faking it?”

“Have you been lying to yourself?” I shoot back. “You really believed those moans were real? That I could come on cue in two minutes every time?”

His mouth tightens. “You’re being a bitch.”

“No. I’m being honest.” I stand, the sheet slipping slightly. “You want to know what I think about during sex?”

He stays silent.

“My to-do list. Homework deadlines. Whether I unplugged my curling iron. Anything but you.”

“Fuck you, Selena.”

“You already did,” I say. “Poorly.”

He grabs his jeans off the floor, fingers shaking. “You’re right. This is toxic.”

“Finally. Something we agree on.”

He snatches his keys off my dresser, storming toward the door. “Don’t call me.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

The door slams, and for the first time in years, the silence feels good.