“Too Stuck to Cum: Marshall’s Struggle to Write a Single Sentence”

Marshall’s apartment felt suffocating. The air was thick with the stale scent of old coffee and his own frustration. He was alone — always alone — and yet he felt exposed, as though unseen eyes watched his every move, judging every imperfection in his unfinished thoughts.

The white screen of his laptop mocked him, its cursor blinking steadily, rhythmically, like a heartbeat daring him to act. He sat naked in his chair, the leather sticking to his skin, his body betraying the tension in his mind. He had stripped down hours ago, thinking it might help him feel freer, less confined, but instead, it only heightened his awareness of his flaws.

“Goddamn it,” he hissed, slamming his fist on the desk. The sound echoed in the small space. The word he needed — the one perfect word to start — eluded him. His mind was a haze of self-loathing, tangled in memories of failure, rejection, and the incessant need to prove himself. His hand, trembling with anger, dropped to his lap, finding the one thing that always seemed to ground him when nothing else could.

Marshall’s fingers wrapped around his cock, half-hard from the adrenaline of his frustration. He squeezed it roughly, almost as if punishing himself. “You useless piece of shit,” he muttered, but his hand didn’t stop moving. The warmth of his palm, the slight slickness of his skin, was an anchor pulling him back into his body, away from the chaos of his mind.

The cursor blinked again. Taunting. Beckoning.

He stroked himself absentmindedly, his other hand hovering over the keyboard. He typed a word — deleted it. Typed another — erased that one too. Each failed attempt stoked the fire in his gut, and he tightened his grip, his strokes growing more purposeful. It wasn’t about pleasure, not yet. It was about control, about channeling the storm inside him.

And then, like a crack in the clouds, a phrase came to him. A single sentence. He typed it, his hand never leaving his cock. The words spilled out messily, imperfectly, but they were his. The more he wrote, the more he stroked, the rhythm of his hand matching the cadence of his typing.

You’re not good enough. But keep going. The thought surfaced in his mind like a ghost, and he laughed bitterly, his cock hard and pulsing in his grip. He wrote it down, the vulnerability of it making his stomach churn. It was raw, unpolished, but it was true.

He leaned back, his thighs tensing as his strokes quickened. The anger morphed into something darker, hotter — a mixture of frustration and need. His breathing grew shallow, his chest heaving as his hand worked faster, the other slamming the keys with a manic desperation. He hated himself in this moment and yet, he was alive in a way he hadn’t felt in months.

The words on the screen blurred as his focus shifted entirely to the pulsing heat in his hand. He closed his eyes, letting his body take over, the pressure building like the thoughts he kept locked away. When he finally came, it was with a guttural groan that echoed in the silence, his seed spilling over his stomach and pooling on his lap.

For a moment, everything was still. Quiet.

And then, his eyes opened. The screen was still there, the words waiting for him. His chest still heaved, his skin still slick with sweat, but something had shifted. He wiped himself off, the anger now a dull hum, and placed his hands back on the keyboard. This time, the words came easier. Not perfect, but enough.

And then — shhk-shhk.

The faint sound of paper sliding against wood.

Marshall froze, his hand still gripping his cock, his eyes darting to the door. He stayed like that for a moment, his breath caught in his throat, before shaking his head. “Get a grip, Marshall,” he muttered.

But there it was, sticking out from under the door: a folded piece of paper.

His stomach tightened. Who would leave a note here? He lived alone, barely talked to his neighbors, and certainly hadn’t invited anyone over. For a moment, he considered ignoring it. But curiosity gnawed at him. He stood, the leather peeling from his skin as he rose, and walked to the door.

The note was old-fashioned, folded neatly but smudged with something dark, like it had been handled roughly. He picked it up and unfolded it, his fingers trembling slightly.

The words were handwritten in a jagged, almost mocking scrawl:

“For someone who talks so much shit about everyone else’s writing, you’d think your dumb old ass could manage a single sentence.”

Marshall read it again, his face flushing hot. His first reaction was disbelief — Who the fuck would write this? But the second reaction hit him harder: anger.

“Dumb old ass?” he muttered under his breath, crumpling the note in his fist. “Who the hell…?” He glanced at the door, half expecting someone to be standing there, smirking at him through the peephole.

He tossed the note onto his desk, pacing back and forth, his cock still half-hard, an absurd reminder of how pathetic the moment was. The words clung to him, though, sinking in deeper than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t just the insult — it was the truth behind it.

He did talk shit about other writers, always pointing out what they did wrong while his own work remained unfinished, unpolished, untouched.

The cursor blinked on the screen. His stomach churned.

“Fuck this.”

The words echoed in the small apartment, louder than they needed to be, cutting through the tense silence. Marshall slammed his laptop shut, the screen blinking out like a dying star. His chest heaved with anger, frustration, and the lingering sting of that damn note.

He stood abruptly, the chair creaking under the force. His bare feet slapped against the cold floor as he stomped to the pile of clothes he’d left on the bed. His twill pants were wrinkled but clean enough, and he yanked them on with the ferocity of someone trying to wrestle himself into a new skin.

The button-down followed, the fabric stiff against his still-damp skin. He fumbled with the buttons, cursing under his breath when one wouldn’t go through its hole on the first try. His coat — a dark, heavy thing that had seen better days — hung on the back of the door. He threw it on, the weight settling over his shoulders like a familiar burden.

He paused for a moment, staring at the crumpled note on the desk. The words still burned in his mind. Your dumb old ass…

“Fuck you,” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure if it was directed at the writer of the note or himself.

The door slammed behind him as he stepped into the night. The city greeted him with its usual chaos: the muffled roar of distant traffic, the occasional shout from someone on the street, the biting chill of the wind cutting through the fabric of his coat.

“Fuck.”

Marshall didn’t know where he was going until his feet led him there. The bar was a block and a half away, tucked into the corner of an old brick building that looked like it had been forgotten by time. The faded neon sign above the door buzzed weakly, declaring it simply BAR.

He pushed the door open, the familiar creak followed by the low hum of conversation and the faint smell of stale beer. The place was dimly lit, the kind of joint where no one asked questions and the bartenders didn’t care if you drank alone.

Marshall liked that about it.

He shrugged off his coat, draping it over the back of a stool at the bar. The bartender, a grizzled man with a permanent scowl and a rag slung over his shoulder, nodded in recognition.

“Whiskey,” Marshall said, his voice rough. “Neat.”

The bartender poured without a word, sliding the glass across the worn wooden bar. Marshall picked it up and stared at the amber liquid for a moment before taking a long, slow sip. The burn was sharp, but it felt good. Real.

He set the glass down and let his eyes wander the room. A couple sat in a booth near the back, leaning close to each other, their whispers lost in the din. A man in a rumpled suit nursed a beer at the far end of the bar, his face buried in his hands.

Marshall drained the last of his whiskey, the burn settling deep in his chest as he set the empty glass back on the bar. He exhaled sharply, ready to signal for another, when his eyes caught a flash of movement to his right. There she was — platinum blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, perched on a stool two seats down. She was rifling through an oversized purse, her movements quick and deliberate, like someone with a plan. His gaze lingered, drawn to the way her red lipstick gleamed under the dim light, a vivid slash of color that seemed to command attention.

Their eyes met.

She didn’t say anything — just winked. A slow, deliberate wink that sent a jolt of something between intrigue and unease through him. Then she turned away, the flash of red on her lips like a parting gift.

Marshall frowned, looking down into his glass absently. There was something familiar about her, though he couldn’t quite place it. The way she carried herself, the way she seemed to command the room without saying a word — it tugged at the edges of his memory like a loose thread.

He stared into his drink, trying to piece it together, when she turned back. Her gaze caught his again, this time sharper, more purposeful. She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that made you wonder if you were being let in on a secret or set up for a trap.

“Hey,” she said, sliding her stool a little closer. “Do you like cologne?”

Marshall blinked, thrown off. “What?”

“Cologne,” she repeated, holding up a sleek black bottle she had just retrieved from her purse. “I just bought this for my boyfriend. Thought I’d surprise him. But I’m not sure if it’s any good. Want to take a sniff?”

She tilted her head, the angle giving him a perfect view of her cleavage as her blouse gaped slightly. He tried not to stare, but his eyes betrayed him, flickering downward for just a moment too long.

“Uh…” He hesitated, not entirely sure where this was going.

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. “Look, if I show you this, you have to come to the bathroom with me. Okay?”

Marshall’s eyebrows shot up. “The bathroom?”

“Yeah.” She smiled, a wicked glint in her eyes. “I don’t want to open it out here. Too many people, you know? Come on, it’ll take two seconds. Just smell it and tell me if it’s good.”

Marshall glanced around the bar. No one was paying attention to them, and the dim lighting made everything feel hazy, unreal. He looked back at her — at her lips, her eyes, the curve of her neck — and thought, Why the hell not?

“Sure,” he said finally, setting his drink down.

She grabbed his hand without waiting for another word and led him through the narrow hallway at the back of the bar. The door to the bathroom creaked open, and Marshall followed her inside. It was small and dingy, the kind of place you wouldn’t want to spend more than a few minutes in.

She turned to face him, pulling the bottle of cologne from her purse. “Here,” she said, holding it out.

Marshall reached for it, but before his fingers could close around the bottle, her other hand shot forward. In it was a rag soaked in something sharp and chemical.

“Wait — ” he started, but the smell hit him like a freight train. His vision blurred, his knees buckled, and the world tilted sideways.

Then he woke up, his head was pounding, and the first thing he noticed was the cool sensation of something smooth and soft gliding along his body.

His eyes fluttered open, and he realized he was lying on a low, plush surface. The light in the room was dim, but he could make out her figure — sitting at the end of the couch, her bare feet resting on his thighs.

Her toes curled slightly, the soles of her feet brushing against his cock, which was already hard and aching.

“Good, you’re awake,” she said casually, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

“What the fuck — ” Marshall tried to sit up, but his body felt heavy, uncooperative.

“Shh.” She pressed a finger to her lips, her red lipstick glowing faintly in the low light. “No yelling. It’ll ruin the mood.”

Her feet moved again, stroking him with a deliberate, almost lazy rhythm. Marshall’s mind was spinning, trying to process what was happening, but the sensation was overwhelming, clouding his thoughts.

“You looked like you needed a little…reset,” she said, her voice low and teasing. “All that tension. All that frustration. Don’t worry, I’ve got it all under control now.”

Marshall swallowed hard, his breath hitching as her feet worked him with unnerving precision.

“What do you want?” he managed to choke out.

Her smile widened, and she leaned in closer, her lips just inches from his ear.

“Oh, Marshall,” she whispered. “The real question is, what do you want?”

And before he could answer, she pressed her foot down firmly, dragging him to the edge of something he wasn’t sure he could come back from.

“Go on,” she murmured, her voice smooth and low, like a cat’s purr. “You’re a writer, right? Let’s hear something brilliant.”

Her toes grazed the sensitive underside of his shaft, and Marshall’s breath hitched. He clenched his jaw, the heat rising in his cheeks. “I — I can’t think with you doing that,” he stammered, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

She smirked, leaning back lazily, her foot pressing just enough to make him squirm. “Can’t think? That’s funny. I thought writers were supposed to work under pressure.”

Marshall groaned, his mind flailing for a story, a line, a goddamn word, anything to distract him from the way her feet toyed with him, keeping him on the edge of pleasure and frustration. “There’s…a man,” he started, his voice strained, “who…uh…loses everything.”

“Original,” she teased, her toes curling around him, making him gasp. “Try again.”

He cursed under his breath, his cock throbbing under her relentless touch. The words spilled out faster now, desperate, half-formed fragments of stories he couldn’t fully grasp. “He’s…he’s trapped. In a…a room. And — damn it — someone’s watching him. He doesn’t know why. Or who.”

Her laugh was soft but cutting, her foot pausing just long enough to make him ache for more. “Better. But still sounds like every other half-assed idea you’ve ever had.”

Marshall’s teeth clenched, the humiliation and the heat twisting together inside him.

The room was warm, the air thick with the scent of her perfume — something heady and floral, mingled with the faint tang of whiskey still on his tongue.

And then, she moved behind him.

Her skin was soft and warm as she pressed her bare body against his back, her breasts heavy and full, molding to him like they belonged there. The sensation sent a jolt through him, his hand faltering as he tried to process everything at once.

“I know you don’t think this works,” she whispered, her voice a soft, teasing melody between his ears. Her breath tickled his neck, sending shivers down his spine. “All your big, clever thoughts. All your little reasons why this can’t happen to you.”

Marshall swallowed hard, his hand instinctively tightening around himself.

“You tell yourself you’re too smart,” she continued, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear, “too old, too…broken. But the truth is…” Her voice dropped, the next words like silk sliding over his mind. “You’re just waiting for someone to break through all that.”

His cock pulsed in his hand, and his body betrayed him with a small, involuntary groan.

“Shh,” she cooed, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders, kneading them gently, her breasts still pressed firmly against his back. “Don’t fight it. You’re not here to resist. You’re here to surrender. To feel. To let go.”

Marshall’s mind raced, but her voice was a constant rhythm, pulling him deeper, guiding him away from the chaos in his head.

“You’ve spent your whole life running,” she murmured, her lips trailing lightly along his neck. “Away from pain. Away from failure. Away from anyone who might see the real you.” Her fingers slid down his arms, resting just above his hands. “But not tonight.”

His strokes grew slower, more deliberate, as her words wrapped around him like a cocoon.

“Tonight, you’ll stop thinking,” she whispered, her voice softer now, almost tender. “Because thinking is what’s kept you trapped. Trapped in all those patterns. Trapped in all those excuses.”

Marshall’s breathing quickened, his hand moving faster now, driven by something beyond his control.

“You don’t need control, Marshall,” she said, her voice weaving through his mind like a thread pulling everything tight. “Control is what’s kept you small. Safe. Stuck.”

“Stroke for me,” she purred, her voice low and commanding, dripping with authority. The sound vibrated through his ears, settling deep in his chest.

Her hands slid up his arms, her fingers grazing his shoulders before tracing down to his chest, her nails dragging lightly over his skin. Her lips hovered near his ear, her breath warm and intoxicating.

“Don’t think,” she whispered, her tone softening into a teasing melody. “Thinking hasn’t done you any favors, has it? Just listen. Feel. Obey.”

Marshall’s hand began to move, slowly at first, his grip tightening around himself as the heat of her body against his back seemed to melt away any remaining resistance. She leaned closer, her lips brushing against his ear, and he shuddered at the sensation.

“That’s it,” she murmured, her breasts pressing harder into him, her nipples grazing his skin. “Good boy. Let yourself go. Let me take you where you need to be.”

Marshall groaned, his strokes becoming faster, more desperate. His mind was a haze of sensation and her voice, wrapping around him like velvet chains.

Then, she shifted slightly, her hand reaching around to his mouth. He felt the cool touch of her fingers against his lips, and before he could question it, she slid something onto his tongue.

“Open wide,” she said with a smirk, her tone playful yet firm.

The bitterness of the small square hit his tongue immediately, the taste sharp and unfamiliar. His eyes widened slightly, his body stiffening in confusion, but her hands on his chest and her breasts against his back were an anchor, grounding him in the moment.

“Relax,” she cooed, kissing the side of his neck. “It’s just a little something to help you…see things differently.”

Marshall swallowed reflexively, the square dissolving on his tongue as her words and touch continued to overwhelm him.

“Keep stroking for me,” she commanded again, her voice soft but unyielding. “Let it take you deeper. Let me take you deeper.”

His hand moved faster, his mind beginning to blur as a strange, tingling warmth spread through his body. The edges of the room seemed to shift, the dim light flickering like a living thing. Her voice grew louder, clearer, as though it was coming from inside his head.

“Good boy,” she whispered, her hands roaming his chest, her nails digging in just enough to send another jolt of sensation through him. “Don’t stop. Don’t think. Just feel. Stroke for me.”

Marshall obeyed, his body and mind slipping further into her control, every stroke pulling him deeper into the strange, kaleidoscopic world she was creating around him. The last coherent thought he had was of her voice, her touch, and the overwhelming realization that he was utterly, completely gone.