“Yes.” Then, it slips out of me without volition, without any thought, “Sir.”
I realize it after I’ve said it.
I realize it because my thighs clench so hard that it resembles a climax. My chest aches so badly that it feels like a heart attack. And the blush that covers my cheeks, my entire body burns me to the core. But I don’t look away from him. I can’t. I can’t sever this connection between us.
Because the same things happen to him. His thighs clench too. I feel his stomach hollowing out with a breath and his nostrils flaring. Instead of a blush though, his cheekbonesbecome even sharper, his features become sharp points. But the thing that writes this energy between us in stone—this crazy, palpable energy that’s always been there since the start, since the first moment he crashed into my life and saved me from hurting myself on a broken champagne glass—is the tremor of his hand. He still has it on the top of my head and at my ‘sir’, his fingers flex before going back to firm and strong. Powerful and dominating.
Then, in a low and a rough voice, he says, “You remember what I taught you this morning?”
I already know what he’s talking about and my heart races even more. My belly feels even heavier, like a fist is digging into it and my pussy is clenching around my tampon. I swallow, digging my nails into his thighs. “Yes.”
His fingers in my hair curl into a fist and he tugs on it, making me gasp. “Yes what?”
I swallow again, my chest heaving. “Y-yes, Sir.”
A hint of satisfaction passes over his face, making heat swirl in my belly, and he loosens his grip on my hair. “Good girl.” Then, “You think you can take more?”
My throat dries. “I-I can try… Sir.”
“No, you won’t,” he says. “You’ll do it. Or you’ll spend all night on your knees with my cock in your mouth, gagging on it.”
Shivers skitter down my spine as I lick my lips. “Yes, Sir.”
His chest moves with a long breath. “Take me out.”
And I do. Irushto do it. My hands are sweaty, and my fingers are unpracticed. But somehow, I manage to unbutton his jeans and open his zipper. I manage to push his jeans and his briefs down and get his cock out.
Like this morning, it’s all thick and large, so hard and yet so silky. Hot. God, so fucking hot and alive. Precum is dripping from the slit up top, making the length glisten in the dark. The head is all red as always and needy looking. And that vein of his—that I got to lick this morning—is thick and throbbing. My first thought when I saw it earlier today, from this close, was it’s a pretty dick. But now as I watch it under the stars, it’s more than pretty. It’s beautiful.
It's mine.
And then I proceed to show how much.
Gripping him with both my hands—like he showed me this morning—I do the first thing he told me to. Make him wet, make him slippery. Lube him up so it’s easy for me to get him in my mouth. So I lick him, suck him, let my saliva trickle on him. I taste his flavor, so potent, so musky, both sweet and tart like a strawberry but not quite. It’s something unique, something him and I moan as soon as it hits my tongue.
And then I do what he did the night we had sex the right way. That night, he breached my pussy slowly but steadily, stretching me out and making space for himself. In a similar fashion, I go up and down his length, slowly but surely. I widen my jaw and watch my teeth as I make space for him in my mouth. And I think I’m doing well.
Until I look up.
Still gripping him at the root and still going up and down his length, my eyes clash with his. And I forget everything he taught me. Something about the way he’s watching me, silent and dominating, makes me fumble and make mistakes. It’s like dancing in heels in those early days where I’d stumble and fall.
Here too, my tongue slips and my mouth becomes sloppy. On some strokes, I take him in just enough but then on others he goes in too deep, making me gag. My saliva pours down on him and drips down my jaw. I feel it dribble down my throat and chest and go between my heaving tits. My hands slip on his length and all the while, my moans are louder and more obscene.
Every time I make a mistake like that, his body tightens up. His eyes narrow and his hand on my head curls into a fist. Whichis when I realize he likes it. He likes me fumbling. He likes me making a mess. Hewantsme to be a mess, awreck. And why not? He liked me stumbling in my heels too, didn’t he?
I think it’s because he loves to take care of me. He makes me fall so he can pick me up. He bites me so he can lick my wound. He wants me to give him a sloppy blow job so he can clean me up later. And since I love being taken care of by him, I give him something to clean up later.
I become sloppy. I become messy. I become dripp-y. My jaw, my throat, my hands. My mouth. Even my heaving tits are damp and sticky and before long, I think I’m taking him in more like he wanted me to do. He’s going all the way to the back of my mouth and I’m this close to taking him in my throat, but he doesn’t let me. Just when I think I can do it, I can push him in deeper, he rips my mouth away from his cock and leans over me.
I blink my eyes open, panting, “Did you…like it, S-Sir?”
His face is harsh and sweaty as he growls, “Stick your fucking tongue out.”
Confused, I do it and pulling my head back even more, he spits on my tongue, making me jerk and moan. Which he catches with his own mouth as he kisses me and kisses me and makes my mouth even sloppier. Then, “I fucking loved it.”
I smile. “Oh.”
Looking me in the eye, he says, “You know what’s coming, don’t you?”
