Choked Up

“I’ll bet you have a beautiful neck.”

Brooke looked up from her affectionately tattered copy of Middlemarch to see a youngish man standing beside her booth. The word metrosexual jumped through her mind. He was handsome enough, well-kempt; hair just so perfectly messy it had to be the result of gobs of hair product, and the leather jacket of the season. He’s gorgeous, thought Brooke. Not my type at all.

Brooke noticed the guy staring at her neck and glanced down at it, though she was in no anticipation as to what she’d see. Brooke wore a form-fitting cranberry sweater, with a turtleneck that snugly obscured her alabaster neck. Long, straight chestnut hair fell down around her face, further hiding her neck from view.

“Thank you, I appreciate the compliment.” There, that ought to end that. Brooke focused her attention back on the page of her book, not really reading yet but meaning to give the impression that she was.

“Mind if I sit down?” Brooke sighed inwardly. The bastard was persistent. Probably read in one of those damn men’s magazines that women like you to be persistent. Only if we’re attracted to you, she mused. I’m having a nice date with the very attractive George Eliot at the moment, thank you very much. Can’t a girl explore a curiosity once in a while?

“Sure,” she said, her voice dripping with insincerity. Why am I such a doormat? Why can’t I just tell a guy no? I always end up humoring him and wasting away my evening talking to some arrested adolescent and generally souring myself further on the male species in general. What’s so wrong with just saying, no thank you. I’d rather you didn’t sit down beside me and tell me how impressively big my boobs are?

The young man slid into the opposite seat and extended his hand for Brooke to shake, which she took limply and bobbled up and down for a moment before retreating her hand to the safety of her side of the booth, under the table. “My name is Michael,” he said.

Michael, she noted. Of course it’s Michael. Every other frat boy in this godforsaken college town is named Michael or Mike or Mikey, with the occasional Ryan or Dylan thrown in. I am utterly and spectacularly unsurprised that his name is Michael.

“Brooke,” she responded. “So what frat to do you belong to?”

Michael looked confused. “What makes you think I’m in a fraternity?”

“You’re not?”

Michael chuckled. “Um … I’m afraid to disappoint you, but no.”

Brook arched an eyebrow. Hope for the boy yet. “That doesn’t disappoint me at all. I think you’re the last one.”

Michael flashed a smile. Killer, thought Brooke. Maybe I should rethink this whole type nonsense. “Well, that’s good to hear,” he said. “Anyway, your neck. I really like a good neck. Why do you hide it behind that turtleneck sweater?”

Brooke looked down, not at her suddenly prized unit of anatomy, but as the natural reflex that comes with blushing. “I just do,” she said. “It’s my style.”

“Nonsense. You’re hiding something.”

Nervous laughter leapt from Brooke’s lips. “Now what would I be hiding on my neck? A hickey?”

Michael shook his head. “No. Something … else. Something deeper.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“You know so much about me. What might it be that I’m hiding, exactly?”

“That much I don’t know,” confessed Michael. “That’s why I want to get to know you better. To find out.”

“You come on strong for a non-frat boy,” commented Brooke. “More articulate, though. That’s gotta be worth a couple of brownie points.”

“What’s my score so far?”

Brooke smiled coyly. “Hmm. I think you advance to round too.”

“Ooh, the lightning round,” Michael said, rubbing his hands together mock-feverishly. “This is where I do most of my damage.”

Brooke laughed and shook her head. Damn, I hate it when this happens, she thought. I don’t know whether to be repulsed by his cockiness or aroused.

“So can I trade in my points for a special favor?” Michael asked.

“And what might that be?”

“Can I see it?”

“It?”

“Your neck.”

“Ah.”

Brooke shuffled in her seat. His fixation on my neck is a bit closer to creepy right now than flattering. Still … it’s a welcome change of pace from most of these Neanderthals ogling my breasts or ass, or that one guy who wanted to smell my feet. Oh, why not? What harm can it do? I’ll give him a thrill.

“I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped my --”

“No, no. It’s all right.”

Brooke pulled down the neck of her sweater for just a flash, a glimpse of her neck. Michael shook his head.

“No, no. That’s cheating. Do you have anything on under the sweater?”

“A black t-shirt.”

“Then take off the sweater. Let me see that neck in all its glory.”

Brooke hesitated and locked eyes with Michael. There was something in his eyes, something … peaceful. Innocent. Something that made her trust him implicitly. Brooke nodded and slid her sweater over her head, tossling her hair as her head popped through the hole.

Brooke looked down at the table. “Lift your head up,” requested Michael. “I can’t see it with your head down like that.”

Brooke looked up, then, awash in a sudden tide of brashness, craned her neck so Michael could get a terrific glimpse. Michael inspected it as though he were a doctor, taking it in from a variety of angles as he hummed and grunted approvals here and there.

“Just as I thought,” Michael said, leaning back in his seat contentedly. “That’s one hell of a neck you’ve got there.”

“You’re an awfully big fan of the neck,” said Brooke. “Not many men I’ve met like that.”

“What can I say?” said Michael, shrugging. “Some men like tits, others ass. Me, I like that stretch between a girls shoulders and her pretty face.”

Another swell of pink on Brooke’s cheeks. The man was a charmer, that much was certain. He knew his way around the words.

“I also like touching necks.”

Brooke glanced back up. Where was he going with this?

“I’d like to touch yours.”

Brook half-smiled. That’s where I thought he was going with this.

“Look, I’m not really looking for --”

“I’m sorry. I’ve offended you.” Michael paused, then started to slide out of the booth. “I’ll go now.”

“Don’t.”

Michael froze. Brooke wasn’t sure why that just happened, why that word just came out of her mouth, but it did, and she wasn’t about to retract it.

“You want to touch my neck?”

“I’d like that very much, yes.”

Brooke and Michael sat in stalemate for a beat, Brooke waiting for his hand to move across the table at her. Hints of moisture started to form around her pussy. The waiting was a bit agonizing, but most certainly not unpleasant.

“I didn’t mean here.”

“Oh?”

“To touch a neck so wondrous --” Oh, now it’s just a load of crap, thought Brooke -- “This must be done intimately. In private. With no to distract one from cherishing the task at hand.”

Brooke chuckled. “Are you for real?”

“Very.” That was stone-cold. If this guys’ bull-shitting, he’s mastered the art of faking conviction, noted Brooke.

“That’s all. Just touch my neck, nothing else?”

Michael smiled. “That’s all I’ll touch. I promise. Cross my heart.”

Ah, what the hell.

Brooke nodded and got up, folding her sweater under her arm. Michael followed her lead, grabbed her book and handed it to her which she stowed inside the folds of her sweater.

“Thank you,” said Brooke.

“Don’t mention it.”

As Brooke followed Michael through the smoky, crowded path cut through the mass of humanity in the claustrophobic on-campus pub, she noticed herself getting more and more aroused, her hidden-away snatch dampening more and more.

It had been a long time since she had been so intrigued by a man. None of the boys around this zoo referred to as a “university” were anything close to what she was looking for, either over-confident frat boys or confidence-lacking wieners. None of them “men.” There were some professors who, in another day, another time, she might have been drawn to, but … eww, they’re old. I’m not going to be that girl.

But this guy … well, you’ve got to give him credit for originality. He’s got that poster boy look, for sure, but he wears it well over his quiet confidence, something mysterious … yes, that was it. Mysterious. She couldn’t figure this guy out and it was driving her nuts. Nuts and-up-the-wall horny. She hadn’t been this horny for a guy since she was first introduced to Septimus Hodge.

Through the back door and they were outside, in the alley, no one around but peek-a-boo vermin and Mr. Moon playing his constant role as voyeur. Brooke looked around. “Not exactly the Tavern on the Green,” Brooke mused. “Is this romantic to you?”

“Who said anything about romance?”

Brooke nodded, growing more wary with each passing second. “That’s right, just neck-touching. I understand.”

The two stood frozen for a moment, just looking at each other, Brooke shivering a bit without her sweater in the crisp October weather. Michael started walking toward her slowly, a barely audible crunch with each encroaching footstep.. Each time that sound entered Brooke’s ears, she got a little bit more scared, though she couldn’t say quite why … and a little bit wetter inside her plainish cotton panties.

Michael stopped just in front of Brooke and raised his arm, gently lowering his hand onto her neck. He rubbed it slowly, moving downward, then back up … it tickled a bit. Brooke stifled a giggle. It just didn’t seem right to laugh at a time like this. It was obviously very serious to Michael … and some part of her wanted it to be an issue of sexual gravity as well.

Michael’s other hand went to her neck, which he now cradle as if he were holding a priceless vase. He pressed a bit more firmly, slightly uncomfortable for Brooke. A pang of worry cut through her gut. “Okay, Michael, that’s good.”

The hands didn’t come off. Brooke looked at each paw, clutching onto her as if she were some kind of snared prey about to be devoured. Beads of perspiration scooted down her forehead. “Michael, I said that’s good. That’s enough --”

Suddenly, Michael pulled his grip tight, choking Brooke. She coughed and wheezed, fear flashing in her eyes, trying to get out the words, “What--what are you --?”

Brooke struggled and squirmed, trying to break free, but it was no good. Michael’s hands were too powerful, too much in-control. Screams were muffled by the restriction of her throat, and Brooke’s skin tingled with terror. Terror … and excitement. As the downy hairs on her body stood on end, more and more juice gushed from her vagina. She’d never felt like this, so utterly terrified and turned-on at once. It was … exhilarating.

Brooke looked up into Michael’s eyes, suddenly so intense and devilish. Michael’s face seemed as strained and bulging, red and veiny as Brooke’s, as her imposed his will on her body by sheer force, violating her and cutting off her very source of life, her breath. The notion that she might well die flashed through Brooke’s mind, but was swallowed up by the wanton lust that coursed through her veins, making her skin feel electric and her panties soaked through and through with desire.

Air became more scarce by the moment, and light-headedness claimed Brooke’s consciousness. Overwhelming feelings of affection and peacefulness became entangled with her unbridled passion. It occurred to Brooke that she had had fantasies before where she lost control, but nothing like this -- so given away to an urge to be taken and violated, to be fucked and made a lowly bitch at some cruel man’s mercy. All other will emptied from her head, Brooke suddenly wanted this more than anything, to be treated in such a degrading, harmful fashion. The fingers wrapped around her neck seemed welded in place, a permanent attachment to this area of her body she kept so well-hidden most of the time. They were now as one.

What was this obsession with keeping her neck from view, from saving it from exposure? It was sensitive, to be sure; easily tickled, and easily bruised. Many a pair lips she had battled away to keep from leaving their mark on her neck. But this was different. This was no hickey, no playful tickle; this was dominance, was giving herself over to a muscular pair of hands, to a will more powerful than her own, a force that had the ability to take her life or grant her extreme mercy. Brooke was enraptured in awe for Michael in this instant, and loved him even as she found herself scared for her very life because of his hands.

Memories became entangled, sensations merging in association. She remember when she was a child, at the public swimming pool, when she was drowning, fighting for air as she sunk under, unable to swim, before the lifeguard rescued her -- suddenly entwined with other memories from that pool, with a burgeoning young woman, just over the threshold of adolescence, noticing boys for the first time, not knowing why these stupid creatures, grunting and running and yelling like primates, stirred such strange, so new feelings beneath her Strawberry Shortcake one-piece swimsuit, cartoonish innocence concealing a rapid physical descent into decadence. Oh, what glorious times, so full of self-discovery, physical and emotional enlightenment, awash in new desires and tastes for otherwise undesirable boys and hints of shame that in fleeting moments delighted her … just as they were now, at this very instant.

Brooke’s face was turning blue, her struggling losing momentum. She had before given up fighting for her life and continued simply because that was what she was supposed to do, even as she became appreciative for what Michael was doing to her. Now, she hadn’t even the energy to do that. A calm flowed through her, an acceptance that she was about to die, and thankful that she could experience orgasm at that same instant. Orgasm. That was what she was feeling. The sensations suddenly were without name, as cognizance and recognition escaped from Brooke’s suddenly vacuum-like consciousness, but one last thought occurred to her, that she was coming, that unmistakable wave after wave pulsating through her body, claiming her just as powerfully and ruthlessly as did Michael. She was given over now to two masters, to the man and to the orgasm, and she was in horrific bliss.

And just like that, it was over. Michael’s hands opened and fled from her neck, and Brooke’s limp body dropped like a stone to the ground below. She lay panting, as her throat reintroduced itself to air flow, her chest heaving -- from her ordeal or from her ecstasy?

Michael stood above her, his hands trembling out in front of him, as he looked on them almost terrified, as if they were stained with the blood of some poor murdered sap. Brooke managed the strength to raise her head, and looked up into Michael’s eyes. Her own were soft, pleading -- at first, Michael thought, for answers or mercy -- but no, he realized. They were pleading for forgiveness. For herself, and for Michael to forgive himself for what he had just done. She could see the horrific realization etched on his face, that he had gone beyond what he imagine that even he was capable of, and she wanted him to know that not only was she not so seriously harmed, not even angry at him, but thankful. Thankful that through sudden cruel constriction, she was set free inside of herself. Free to explore more depths of her depravity -- or of something wonderful and enlightening. Perhaps both.

Michael straightened his posture, shook off his “willies,” and smiled, warmly and knowingly. He kneeled down beside Brooke, brushed his hand through her hair, causing her to feel comforted and warmed. “I think we discovered what you were hiding,” he exclaimed, his voice soft and yet penetrating. He read her. He knew what she was thinking, what she was feeling, somehow -- he has become one with her. Not by sticking his cock in her cunt, but by something more delicious and painful, more impersonal yet much more intimate.

Michael stood up, took one last lingering glance at his prey, and then walked away, the backdoor to the Irish-style pub slamming shut behind him. Brooke lay quivering on the nasty alley floor, looking up at the stars above her, unable to move, and smiling, color returning to her cheeks. God, the night sky was beautiful, she thought. She felt more alive than she had in a long time -- after all, she had just escaped death, and in exhilarating fashion.

Tenderly, Brooke sat up and searched the area around her. She found Middlemarch, a feet off to the side -- but where was the sweater? She scanned around her, but there was no sight of it. Scurrying rodents behind the dumpster put a momentary fright into Brooke, causing her pussy to twitch again. No, no more of this sensation for tonight, thought Brooke. She got up to leave, giving her search for the sweater. It was just as well. She had no more need to hide her neck; she liked the idea of leaving it so exposed, vulnerable, able to be taken and grabbed and shook.

Brook walked back inside the bar. Michael was gone, not a trace … except for her sweater, neatly folded upon the table where they first met. Brooke smiled and walked on past the table, past the cranberry-hued turtleneck sweater, and out the front door of the pub.