Last night, in bed, Sir flipped the covers off of himself. He said I could say goodnight to his cock. He is already hard–a wonderful sight. I bend down, and gently kiss the underside of his shaft.
“You can do better,” he says. He has the top-tone in his voice. The tone that makes me scramble to obey, happily. I can do better. And I try.
My gag reflex is still strong, so it doesn’t take much for me to choke and drool. I hear that is not entirely a bad thing. I know it pleases Sir, even as we work to dull the reflex.
I wrap my lips over my teeth, make a tight ring with my mouth, and slide down his beautiful cock as far as I can. He puts his hands on my head, and pushes me a little further on my next trip down. I can feel my tears spill out and drip onto his belly.
His cock in my mouth is a joy. When he praises my enthusiasm or my technique, I feel proud. I love the power and the powerlessness of sucking cock. He pushes into my throat and I hang on; trying to relax, to breathe, to submit.
It is a metaphor for our lives; power and powerlessness–and the dance between the two.
Sir had me simply open my mouth and stick my tongue out. He fucked my mouth, there is no other way to say it. I concentrate on keeping my mouth open, teeth out of the way, and relax, relax, relax.
“You’re going to make me come,” he growls. He does. And I swallow.
Every. Single. Drop.