I was texting with Frodo yesterday. The chat quickly turned to how much he missed me calling him Sir as I had sort of let that wane. Not that it was intentional. We haven’t had a lot of contact lately and most of it has been via text and…well, whatever. It’s all my fault, obviously.
I mentioned on a post over on the other blog that at some point in the chat he described our D/s dynamic as “role play.” And I guess, depending on how you want to define that term, what we do is role play but my ears put the emphasis on the play part, not on the role part and it left me nonplussed. My submission isn’t play.
He didn’t mean anything by it, of course. He wasn’t trying to offend. Just using the words he has. And in the context of the discussion, he was actually opening up about how much he values our D/s dynamic. He likes how my submission makes him feel. How it gives him permission to feel more masculine. More like a man. He described how he has tended to push away masculinity because so much of it in our culture and his personal experience with it has been toxic but being placed in a position of sexual dominance over someone who’s consensually submitting to him has allowed him a chance to see it all differently. To feel it differently.
This is fascinating to me because Frodo has never displayed stereotypically gay affectations. Not for as long as I’ve known him (and that’s been a long time now). I, the straight-presenting bisexual man, has many more stereotypically gay affectations than he does. I’ve never really spent much time thinking about it, but now I wonder if his lack of affectation is just who he is or if it’s a byproduct of being teased and bullied for being gay from a young age. Or a bit of both.
Regardless, he says he’s struggled with embracing his masculinity. But I find him to be so wonderfully and effortlessly masculine. In a way that really resonates with me. In a way that makes me sit here and absentmindedly recall burying my face in his thick, dark, pungent post-marathon pubes and nuzzle into his thickening cock and take his hairy balls into my mouth. Because somehow in my fevered little mind, a lack of pubic grooming is just about the most masculine thing I can imagine. Which is in itself interesting, I guess.
Of course, I don’t need masculinity to trigger my submission. I need receptive, appreciative dominance. And it was my assumption that he was more or less humoring me with the D/s thing. It was more play than role. But I was wrong. He made me understand yesterday that he really needs my submission and that it makes him feel better and more in touch with who he is. And that, my dear reader, was like a thunderbolt.
I think a lot of the time dominants aren’t given permission to be vulnerable. That’s a shame. Frodo was vulnerable with me yesterday and rather than puncturing my submissive instincts towards him, it inflated them. Made me so much more dedicated to being his sub. He said, “I can take care to tell you what I need and when I need it. You’re good at giving me what I need when I ask for it.”
In all, it was barely a fifteen minute exchange. But it was so important to me. Because by opening up to the value he got from my submission and how much he even needed it, it made it all so much more real.
Roles without playing.
More than never ever wanting to play at submission, I don’t want anyone to play at dominating me. To humor me. And now I know, he’s not doing that. At all.
We’re getting dangerously close to it being a year since I last saw Frodo. That was in June and May is just a shake of a rabbit’s tail away. He and I FaceTimed last week. It hurts me how much I miss him. How much I crave him.
In January, we were supposed to go diving in Florida. I got super sick (tested positive for influenza A) and couldn’t go. We were supposed to reschedule. We haven’t because we can’t. Who knows when things will be normal enough for that again.
It’s always been the case that Frodo is supremely easy for me to talk to. No matter how long it’s been, we just fall back into it. We know each other so well. He’s my oldest friend.
Have I mentioned how much I miss him? So much.
Sometimes, when I should be sleeping, I’m thinking instead about his cock. His cock in my throat. His orgasm in my mouth. Him using me. Even now, just writing that, causes intense compression inside the steel. If I’m honest, he’s always had that affect on me. Since freshman year of high school. Almost 40 years. I’m just…smitten.
God I miss him.
I’ve written here and over on the other blog the truth of the situation. I just don’t want him to use me and fuck me and take his pleasure from me. I love him. But we don’t say it to one another. He knows how I feel. He knows because he’s read what I’ve written about him. He knows because I can’t hide it. And I know because of how much pain it causes me to be away from him this long. This isn’t just lust.
I miss him. And I love him.
I wish I could see him now. To be held by him. Pushed gently onto my knees by him. Press my face against the growing hardness inside his jeans. Smell him though the fabric. Moaning. Yearning. Craving.
I think what woke me the next morning was the sound of his piss. It’s a sound I’ve really grown to appreciate. A man’s heavy stream of urine, forcefully expelled from his body and striking the surface of the water in a toilet bowl. That’s not me anymore. It’s not a thing I can do. I can’t make that sound.
Whatever the case, the grogginess left me quickly. This was our last morning and we didn’t get him off the night before. There was unfinished business. These holes weren’t going to fuck themselves.
It didn’t take long. He was on me again, cock back inside. Some bottoms just know when they’re ready. I felt that I was and I was. There wasn’t any getting used to his big dick that morning. Just shoved it right back in there and started to pump. He tried me on my stomach with a pillow under my hips for a bit but eventually flipped me over on my back and took me from the front.
His fucking wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t doing it for me. He was doing if for him. It was selfish. And the more he did it, the more he bent my body. The harder he drove into me. Eventually, my feet were up by his ears and I was bent almost all the way over but that’s the position he really wanted and all I wanted was exactly what he wanted and to keep feeling his cock fuck me ragged.
Oh, Jesus, he went to town. He POUN. DED. MY. ASS. SO. GOOD. And my whimpers and moans mixed with his grunts and panting and I was very aware the window to our room was open and I could hear the sounds of fellow travelers outside.
Again, he was covered in sweat. I was so open and entirely his. But again, it wasn’t going to happen. Not like that. He was still spent. Still recovering. He fucked me beautifully and selfishly and he left me a simpering puddle, but it wasn’t a puddle of his seed.
He got up to get ready to leave. I watched him move around the room. His lean figure, olive complexion, and all that hair. Not a bit of it cut or trimmed below his neck. Total man. While I freak out if my pubes grow longer than a third of an inch and even shaved my hole nice and smooth for him, he doesn’t seem to think anything of being exactly who and what he is. I said before he reminds me of a 70’s man and he does. Like from a cigarette ad, but not one of those outdoorsy types. More a city man. Erudite and refined, but but without artifice.
We showered and dressed. I was in my typical fussy and fancy underwear (I think it was the sheer green camo pair with the neon green trim) while he was putting on some maroon pair of Hanes or some shit like that he got from Target. I don’t say that to be critical. It’s so perfectly in keeping with who he is. Why wear that stupid expensive stuff I have when his come in a three pack and work just as well? Men like him — real men — don’t think about such silly things. His sexiness comes from somewhere else, not underwear. It’s incredibly endearing and just thinking about those ugly maroon briefs makes my chest swell with an aching need to see him again.
We had just about finished packing and getting ready. I had even removed and packed the Steelheart in anticipation of air travel (of course, not so he could see anything — and he showed little interest) when he showed me his cock again.
“Want to kiss it goodbye?”
[Homer drool face]
“Then get on your knees and kiss it.”
I dropped instantly and inhaled his still-soft meat. I adore the feeling of flaccid cock in my mouth. The way it stiffens and lengthens and grows so it won’t fit anymore. Soon, I was giving Frodo another energetic blow job. He once again sat down on the chair and pulled my shirt off, feeling my shoulders and back, though my pants had to stay on since the penis was free. I knelt before him, cock in mouth, worshipful.
I mean, how many ways can I write about blowing him? How many ways can I express the feeling of purpose and joy giving him that pleasure brings me? My place in life is right where I was. On my knees. Giving pleasure. Taking only what reflects off the focus of my attention. And my attention at that moment consisted entirely of Frodo’s cock of my dreams.
And suddenly, that “innocent” kiss had turned into a surging cock filling my throat again with hot ejaculate. That’s what Frodo wanted all along, apparently. A mouth willing to accept his gift. To swallow it whole. To make that part of him part of me.
I didn’t want it to end. All that morning, at breakfast, in the car, driving. I didn’t want it to end. It was magical.
I wrote over on my other blog about how grateful I am. Grateful to Frodo. Grateful to Belle. Grateful to a universe that allows these two people to exist and appreciate me for who I am. I said,
There is no limit to love. It is not a finite resource. It’s renewable. It’s bottomless. Our capacity for love is only contained by our lack of imagination and our petty jealousies and insecurities. I am the luckiest fucking rabbit in the world to find myself in this place and there isn’t a moment I don’t realize that.
I don’t know when I’ll see Frodo again. We’ve sketched out some plans, but they’re not firm. Until that time comes, I’ll have to be content re-reading these words about that weekend by the lake.
We whiled away the afternoon partaking in the adorable little town’s amenities. It was, to be sure, quaint as fuck. But this isn’t a travelogue and you’re all like blah blah blah cute town whatever so I’ll cut to the chase.
We arrived back in the room after dinner and Frodo, quite understandably, was tuckered out. We stripped and got into bed and…watched the Food Network. I was doing my best to be good and follow the “sex is not for me” mantra, but he’s so yummy. He announced he was turning in and it seemed like that was going to be that.
But that was not that. What it was was some nice kissing (though, at this point, his stubble was really ripping my face up). I could have left it at a peck. But I might have leaned in a bit. The nice kissing led to him kneading and groping my muscles and that led to me climbing up on top of him and that led to him getting a raging boner. Oh, and did I mention how terribly I wanted a fuck?
Frodo was rubbing the head of his cock up and around my ass crack. I was writhing like the slutty bitch I am. But I was also nervous in that very special way only a committed bottom can be.
“I want to fuck you, Thumper.” Husky, breathy, and lustful.
“Mmmm, I want you to fuck me, Frodo. So badly,” I whined and nibbled at him.
It’s just a fact that having your ass fucked is not as straightforward as all the porno leads one to believe. And it had been several hours since I prepared myself. As much as I wanted to let nature take its course, sometimes its course is awful so I had to put the breaks on for a quick check.
“I’ll be right back…” and I sprung off him, grabbed my kit, and closed myself in the bathroom. Luckily, everything was still in fighting shape and I was back on top of him only a few minutes later, this time with a bottle of silicone lube.
I gave him the lube. He squirted a bit on his hand and rubbed it on his cock. Then he ran his lubed fingers up my crack. They were rough, both in texture and action. I shivered. There was no reason for this to be gentle. He knew it. And I needed this. Deep in my soul was a Frodo’s cock-sized void. It has been there for three and half decades. He knew that, too.
Still on top, I lined his shaft up with my hole and leaned back. I pushed to open my sphincter and slid all the way down as his cock pushed inside me. I am quite positive I moaned or deeply sighed or something but all I remember is thinking, WHY DOES HE HAVE TO LIVE SO FAR AWAY!?
I worked up and down his pole, feeling it slide in and out and force me open. I had very deliberately left my ass alone for more than a week before this trip so it’d be as tight as possible. So he could make it solely his. Imprinted to his shape. I arched my back as far as I could and leaned away from him to bury his manhood as far into me as possible.
Oh. My. God.
There’s that scene in Young Frankenstein. I’m sure we’ve discussed it before. The one where the Monster takes Madeline Kahn in the forest for the first time and she belts out, “Oh, sweet mystery of life, at last I’ve found you…” Yeah, you know what I’m talking about.
I think Frodo was letting me drive in order to grow used to him inside me, but once that was done, he took over. Up on my hands and knees first, pumping hard. Then with my face in the mattress and my ass in the air, his firm hands on my back pushing me down and getting the angle of invasion just right. Every thrust of his hips was just that much harder as he built his head of steam.
When he wanted a new position, he moved me around like the fuck toy I am and I willingly obeyed his every direction, even the unspoken ones. I could sense and feel his needs though my hole and my ass as he shifted his weight for better penetration and how he gripped my shoulders or my neck. Before long, he was pounding me freely, covered in a sheen of sweat as my breath was torn from me and the weight between my legs rocked back and forth.
But he was very tired. And it was late. And no pliant positioning of my ass could find the path for him to come again. He pulled his dick out of me and kneeled between my legs. His hands were back on my ass, feeling it. Perhaps admiring it. His fingers pushed inside me. One, then two. He twisted them, feeling the slick looseness he created. I whimpered and purred. Then he fell back, exhausted.
My entire body was electrified. I had never been more awake in my life. All the nerves in all the tingly places were firing and my balls felt tight and engorged. I wanted to take him back in my mouth right then and suck him off until the sun burned out. But he was done. I had to be content with spooning into him, inert steel pressed into his ass.
And then we talked. For a long time, he humored me. We talked about our lives, from long before and ever since. Our families. Our careers. And that’s when it hit me. I didn’t just love getting fucked by Frodo. I didn’t just love his cock. I loved him. Romantically. And I always had.
Finally, he could keep himself awake no longer. I realized my side of the conversation was dominating and he was down to replying “mmm-hmm” and “yeah” and I may have been a horned up jackrabbit wanting more dick, but I’m not an idiot. I let him go. He was asleep almost instantly.
I was definitely not. Denial can make sleep hard to begin with. “Just got fucked” denial is the worst. I laid there and looked at my phone then put it down and closed my eyes and then looked at the phone again. Eventually, I don’t even know how much later, I did drift off to a fitful sleep. Every time I turned in bed, the heft between my legs would shift and wake me up. I was intensely aware of being locked. Of feeling the residual lube in my ass. Of that freshly fucked feeling.
The next day, Frodo ran a long ways. Long for me, anyway. I style myself as a runner (when not injured from running) but I’m nothing compared to him. He runs long distances and at speeds my frame has never been able to match for more than a few minutes at best. The excuse for us being in the nearly terminally quaint town was a half marathon event he signed up for that weekend so, the next day, that’s what he did.
While he was running, I went back to the room to prepare myself for what I hoped would be a really great fucking. The day before had just been the blowjob in the afternoon and then he had to get to sleep for the run, so we didn’t do anything else. I really really wanted him to fuck me so I was going to make sure that as soon as he wanted to fuck me, there would be nothing to stop or even minimally slow it down. Ablutions, shower, etc.
At the finish line, I waited for him. The festive environment made me want to run more again and see if I could get myself up to half-marathon distance, even if it would be at least 50% slower than Frodo. He finished with a time he was very happy with and after milling about the area and cheering a few other runners as they crossed the line, I drove him back to the room.
I had been looking forward to burrowing into his sweaty post-race manliness. His scent the day before from nothing more than a long, sunny car ride was intoxicating to me and that amplified by 13.1 miles of sweat and effort was everything I hoped for. Deeply musky and animal, but not foul. One hundred precent living, healthy masculinity and I wanted it spread all over my body and for his marking to be obvious to all who looked at me.
Alas, what he wanted was more cock sucking. Of course, that’s not a complaint. It’s just…fucking hell, did my ass want his cock. But I’m wired to be whatever he needed me to be right then so I relaxed my jaw the best I could and ignored the raw soreness in the back of my throat from the previous day’s abuse and swallowed as much of his wonderful tool as humanly possible.
Sucking his balls was an opportunity to get more of his pheromones deep into my lungs. To breath in his masculinity and let it work its magic. I rubbed my nose up and down the crack between his cock and his thigh and down under his sack to absorb as much as possible before his inevitable orgasm.
The orgasm, though, was not cooperating though he said I was “a magnificent cocksucker” (*bunny purrs*). He flipped me over on my back and straddled my face with his crotch to lick everywhere under his cock I could get to while he jacked off over me. Assisting masturbation might seem like a let down, but I live to serve sexually and my partner’s pleasure and satisfaction is paramount. It was no insult to me at all that he needed to get himself there. To the contrary, it only made me work harder at whatever task he put to me. In this case, worshiping his balls.
With him on his knees over my face, clutching the headboard, I was left with nothing to do with my hands. I reached down and grabbed and squeezed my balls, feeling the heaviness of the attempted engorgement inside the steel. In all the times Frodo and I have been together like this, he has never paid the slightest bit of attention to my balls or the device or its contents. Barely any incidental contact, he never even mentions or asks about them.
His pointedly intentional lack of attention says that my only sexual use to him is as a mouth, hole, and male body for him to fill and feel. I might as well be a Ken doll between my legs for all it seems to matter to him. So as soon as I grabbed myself and pulled on those things he ignored, it felt…wrong. Too much like I was attempting to pleasure myself that way. In a way he had decided was irrelevant. If he wouldn’t cross that line, what right did I have to? I removed my hands and instead wrapped them up and around his thighs, grabbing his lean runner’s legs and feeling his muscles work beneath his hairy skin. The only thing I’d feel between my legs the whole rest of the trip would be the weight of the steel pulling on me or the strain of the contents pushing against its confinement. And that felt perfectly right. I am to serve sexually and service to Frodo in no way includes that part of my body.
While I was busy figuring out my place in the sexual hierarchy (always last, BTW), Frodo was bringing himself closer and closer to climax, pumping his beautiful cock just above my head. At the critical moment, he lifted his balls out of my face and abruptly stuck the head of his cock in their place and unloaded. Like the time before, shot after shot travelled down his shaft, past my grasping lips, and slammed the back of my throat. I struggled to contain all his seed and for one horrifying second thought I’d choke or gag and possibly waste some of his gift, but I got myself under control and let him fill me. Also like the time before, his moment of climax caused the Steelheart’s contents to strain their hardest.
When he was finished, he withdrew and I swallowed his whole load with one large gulp, savoring the slick consistency and salty, earthy essence he left in my mouth. As his lust subsided, I was left to struggle with the containment of mine. As if his deposit had supercharged my desire. Now that he was done using me, I needed it ten times more. I wanted that hard cock back. I wanted it in my face and in my ass and in my mouth and EVERY. FUCKING. WHERE. Simultaneously. His cock, the center of my universe.
But I was a good rabbit. I didn’t jump him. I kept my place and let him bask. We cleaned up and set off to explore the cute little town together. As we walked across the small parking lot, I wanted everyone who saw us to know the man I was with had just made me his bitch. Again. Me, not them. I was his whore. His, not theirs.
He pulled up at the terminal wearing a sharp blue suit in his candy apple red European convertible, closely cropped hair finally given over to mostly gray, blacked-out sunglasses over stubbly face. Dreamy. Distinguished. Devastating.
I had not expected this. Frodo told me, but I subsequently forgot, he bought that car for his 50th birthday and the suit and freshly short hair were not part of my mental picture of him. Honestly, seeing him in that ensemble made me a little weak in the knees. He’s so handsome to me. Has been since the day I met him in high school German class in our freshman year. He sat in front of me. Besides Belle, I have no closer friend in the world.
After the pick up, we went to a cider tasting. It was pre-planned and we were to go with his husband but his husband begged off at the last minute so he took just me. I looked passably cute but was very obviously more casual than Frodo. We stood in the hot and crowded space, Pride flags and rainbow balloons festooning the room, and I reveled in the possibility that strangers would think I was with him. Like, with him. Which, in a way, I was. I was there to spend the weekend with him. To cheer him on in a half-marathon. For him to use me in whatever way he wanted.
But not that night. We went and had pizza after our glass of cider and talked about family, the past, and the future. Then he dropped me in my hotel room. He lingered. He seemed to be considering his options, but I think he was tired so it was a simple kiss and a hug. Good lord, I thought, his stubble was going to rip my face up over the next few days.
He came to get me the next morning. No suit, but same car and sunglasses. Also, shorts. As we were getting underway, passing through the twisty and nonsensical city streets of New England, I was feeling a bit of nervousness. Just butterflies. Excitement. I had been looking forward to this weekend for some time. And now it was officially underway. Last I was with him, Frodo was just learning how to be with a sub the likes of me. One who wants to be sexually used. What would happen this time? And when would it happen!?
And then, he did this.
It was so simple. His hand on my knee as he drove. Not stroking. Not moving. Just…laying there. Ever so slightly gripping.
It was one of the most meaningful acts of dominance I’ve experienced. So simple yet so clear. He did it on purpose. I don’t know if he sensed my nerves or just wanted to make a statement, but it both calmed and excited me. By the end of the many hours we spent in the car together, I would wrap my hand around his arm from underneath. Stroke the soft skin under his wrist or play with his arm hair. My way of accepting his dominance over me and submissively reciprocating. Appreciating it. Thanking him for it. Good GOD it made me horny as fuck. Hornier, I should say.
It was a lovely day for a long drive through the wilds of New England and New York. The top was down, the sun was shining. We stopped at an adorable diner next to a small river and had lunch. Back in the car, we talked some about D/s. What submission means to me. How a lot of people confuse consensual exchange of power as abuse. He related that since our last time together, he had evolved into a more top-oriented role. He told me about a boy he met on an app who was a remarkably able bottom who only wanted Frodo to fuck him and of course I became intensely jealous and made an oath then and there that I’d outdo this other bottom, whatever it took. No way was I going to let some other bitch be Frodo’s top bottom.
As we got closer to our destination, my desire for him grew. I placed my hand on his inner thigh and stroked his skin slowly. He said he liked it so it became my mission. Slowly, I meandered up his leg. Under the fabric of his shorts. I could feel the seam of his underwear with my pinky, but nothing else. It was maddening. At one point he had to reach in and adjust his growing hard-on and I took the opportunity to directly feel it.
I have to stop here and give some history. Frodo and I started having sex about 36 years ago. While he wasn’t the first boy I had sex with, he was the first to have a man’s cock. His is my ur-cock. The progenitor of all others. The one all others compete with and are compared to. The one I fantasize about. It’s not about size, though it’s perfectly proportioned and above average. It’s just…perfect. A full, fat head and a lovely upward curve. Thick. Meaty. Just writing these words makes me a little weak and unfocused. I’m dreamily remembering what it felt like inside me.
I’ve known that cock more than half my life. I can’t get enough of it.
And, there it was. I could feel it. So, so hard. So thick. So close, but impossible to get too. I began to stroke the outline of it. Feel it’s curve. Rub it under its head which I could clearly feel through the fabric. I tweeted…
I knew he was leaking under that fabric. I could taste the saltiness of it in my mouth already. I was practically drooling in anticipation.
Finally, FINALLY, we got to the hotel. A nicely updated drive-up motor inn that was probably built in the Fifties. It was beautifully situated on the side of a lake and was quaint and picturesque but I didn’t give a fuck about any of that. I wanted in that goddamned room. I wanted in his pants. I wanted my clothes off. Every nerve in my body vibrated with desire for him.
We played it cool though. Bantering with the desk clerk. Heard about the special discounts and offers in the area. Sauntered back for our bags. Calmly entered the room and gently closed the door. Then, all I remember is our faces slamming together so hard I don’t know how we weren’t injured. His face was so rough. It tore at mine. His thick, manly breath mixed with mine, his tongue forcing its way in. I rubbed the explicit curving bulge in his pants and begged to be able to set if free.
“Get on your knees. Worship that cock. Show me how much you want it.”
Oh my good heavens. Worship is the best word for it. I swallowed it down as far as it could go. Farther. I wanted it in every part of me. I was ravenous for it. He moved me to the nearby chair and sat down while removing my shirt.
“Worship my balls.”
I move immediately to his balls. Licking and lapping and sucking one, then both, into my mouth. Massaging them with tongue. Running it all around his sack. Letting his cock be pushing left and right by my nose, smacking me in the forehead. That cock is my god. I felt it throughout my being. I needed to genuflect before it. Allow it and its owner to see how completely they owned me.
Frodo doesn’t fuck around with manscaping. His bush is full and forested. Deep and musky. No need to cut the hedges back. The potency of his shaft was evident enough. He reeks of an old-school, almost Seventies kind of masculinity. The kinds of cock and pubes from the first years of Playgirl. No artifice or affectation. A man’s cock, even now. Especially now. My face was buried in his essence. I got high from it.
He made me stop while we moved to the bed. He kicked off the rest of his clothing and stripped me of mine. He ran his hands across my body, appreciating the results of my strength training. Told me how good I felt. How strong and hard. Yet still totally under his control. The body and all I’d done to build was at his command. I purred at his compliments but ached to be used.
Take it. All of it. It’s yours.
What he required at that point was for me to continue to worship his cock. So I did. I fought to get it completely inside my mouth. Suckled it. Everything. Again, I was told to go down and lick his balls. So, of course, I did. I would do anything he wanted. After several minutes of ministering to his testicles, I glanced up and saw he was on his phone.
On. His. Phone.
But instead of being annoyed, it turned me on even more. It was a total power move. As if to say, Suck my cock, boy. I have business to attend to. And honestly, it only made me work harder. To make it impossible for him to keep focused on the phone. To lose his ability to think about anything else than my mouth on his cock and balls. And yeah, I succeeded.
The phone was down and off and his head was arched back and his breathing and the noises he was making told me what I needed to know. Time was short.
“Oh, fuck. I’m going to come, Thumper. I’m going to come in your mouth. Do you want that?”
I let my actions speak for me. I wanted literally nothing else in the universe at that moment in time but to have him shoot his load down my throat. It was my personal mission to ensure every tiny bit of it would end up being consumed by me.
Then it happened. He placed his hands on my head and held tight. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. Then his cock erupted and the steel between my legs became tight. Surge after surge of hot ejaculate filled my mouth. Three, six, nine pulses. I lost count. More than I could manage or imagine. Then he was done. I slid his rapidly deflating meat from my mouth, being carful not to spill. Then swallowed it all with a large gulp.
He pulled me up to his mouth for a kiss.
“I can taste my come on your lips.” He kissed me roughly, burning me with his stubble. “Your face smells like cock.”
I wanted more, of course. I vibrated with need and lust. But he was spent and it was getting late and he was hungry. So we dressed and went to dinner. And I accepted my place. None of this was for me. It was all for him.