Let’s start with the obvious: hard and heavy and thick and copious, deep down the back of my throat. After a few rounds of me teasing you with my lips and tongue and hands and spit and all the bells and whistles. Building you up and up and up in time to the music, then letting you plateau for a while in that moment, on the beat, with movements that are almost-but-not-quite fast or forceful enough to tip you over the edge. Once, twice, then three times before you ask me: “Do you want my cum? Are you ready for my cum?” and I mumble my assent through a mouthful of dick with eyes that flash ‘yes please’, so you let go. Pumping it – like I said – hard and heavy and thick and copious. Right down my throat so I almost gag and choke. But instead of gagging, I make a point of guzzling. One big, hard swallow with an almost cartoonish gulp, amplified so you can hear. Then another one, just in case you didn’t.
A few hours after this happens, we’re lying in bed. You’re drifting off and I would be too if I weren’t so writhingly horny. I love swallowing your cum but the problem with doing that is it plays on my mind for the rest of the evening: the noises you made; the sensation of your dick pulsing hard against my open, slippery lips; the sensation of almost drowning just before I do my performative gulps to show you how grateful I am for every single drop. I’ve already pawed at you greedily on the sofa – run my eager hands up the wide opening at your thigh, into your shorts, then pouted because my overtures are far too late.
“I’ve already sucked all the cum from you, haven’t I?” I ask, with feigned petulance that’s only really there to hide my pride.
“You have,” you tell me calmly, dispensing forehead kisses and grins and thanks, because you know how to make a girl feel valued.
So instead of draining you dry one more time, or sucking you hard enough to ride so that I can get off, I let myself drift into fantasy. All the ways you could have come in my mouth, if we hadn’t picked this particular one.
I picture you standing over me in full dominant mode, beating away at your dick. Aggressive, urgent, the way you used to be when you’d walk into my office and tell me “stand up and bend over, I need somewhere to come.” I imagine the expression on your face and the tight grip of your hand and the taut, shiny head of your pre-wanked cock – angry-red and close, so close to coming. You could stand like that over me and tell me to open my mouth, instruct me to stick my tongue out so I can catch every last salty drop.
That leads to another version – same setup, different tone. You, standing over me but this time I’ve been ordered to keep my hands behind my back. Or behind my head, whatever. So long as they’re out of the way. So long as I’m not touching you: how fucking dare I? I’m kneeling. Naked or in clothes that you’ve semi-torn from my body. Shirt ripped open, top tugged down to expose my tits. Knickers round my ankles and knees spread like a slut who’s about to get what she didn’t ask for but desperately wants nonetheless.
Again, you’re beating at your dick. This time I’m playing the brat: refusing. Resolutely ignoring your orders to open my mouth. So as you get closer to coming, you realise you still don’t have an open throat in which to dump this load, and you reach forward with your free hand, grasp my jaw and urge me “open up. Fucking open it” till I give in and crack open my teeth, my mouth. At which point you let yourself go. Start twitching with the first waves of orgasm, pushing the head of it right up against my face, shooting ropes of sticky spunk through and over and around and eventually into the too-tight aperture of my reluctantly parted lips.
Another, then. But this time we switch. You’re trying incredibly hard not to come in my mouth, that’s the hot thing about this one. I’m reminded of moments when we’re getting stuck into a nice long evening of fucking, but the temptation – as I suck you down – is to showboat a little. So I settle in, straddle one of your legs so I can rub my clit up against your bone-hard shin while I give languid licks and strokes. I build you, toy with you, play with your arousal like a cat that doesn’t want to kill the mouse till they’ve had their fun. Your squirming’s far too satisfying, I want to draw it out.
I recall the way you often tell me, during these times: “be careful”. Be careful in case I come. Be careful because I know you want to fuck. Be careful because you’re doing this far too well and I know you want my spunk in your cunt so don’t eat dessert before you’ve been properly sated by dinner. I grin and tease my tongue around the head to pretend that I am pausing. Listening. Obeying. Then immediately slide right back down it, lips tight and moist against the shaft and hand clasped hard round the base to keep the foreskin back and expose the most sensitive parts of the head to the soft, wet palate at the back of my throat.
This fantasy is hot because you really don’t want to come. You’re suspended in a moment where your entire body wants to, but your brain really needs you to definitely not. You’re worried that if you orgasm now, you won’t have enough juice left for the rest of the evening. But if you pay attention, if you really look, you’ll see the flash of confidence in my eyes: the sign that tells you I know I can get you back to the brink before bedtime. And even if I cannot, I don’t care. Right now all I want from a fuck is the feeling of overpowering you. I want to tear this cum from you even as you fight with all your strength to keep it.
I want you to see that I won, and you lost, as I drain and then swallow every thudding shot.
Another, then: that time you let me watch you through the window from the garden, feeling like a creepy voyeur spying on a man who was beating one out while safely hidden behind a VR headset showing porn. Sneaking back into the room because I’d told you to just let go whenever you felt it – and I could sense you were starting to feel it. Kneeling quickly, getting ready to catch, and leaning forward just as you paused and began to grunt – showering my tits, my face, my tongue with ropes of your cum.
Next! You in the bathroom, pre-shower, mid-wank, casually calling me through to come swallow it all.
And then, those times, when you make me suck the taste of my own cunt from your pulsing shaft. Nick-of-time stuff, pulling out then climbing up my body. Kneeling with your thighs pressing down on my chest, your dick angled awkwardly so I can just get the tip in – making a seal with my lips so not a single drop of it goes to waste.
Each and every example I can think of hits with a wave of simultaneous satisfaction and disappointment. This delicious juxtaposition of the knowledge that I could – I did – and the certainty that I’ve fucked my chances of getting anything more. Such a visible, visceral reminder of how the tank empties.
And how long it will take till it’s full again.
Till there’s more for me to extract.