In which I break a man’s spirit

Image by the fantastic Stuart F Taylor

When he tells me to be mean to his dick, I don’t think this is what he expected. But in the moment, I cannot resist. In the moment I realise that although I’m usually uncomfortable in the dominant role, there is one kind of power that I’m more than happy to wield. One way in which I am more than happy to utterly break a man.

He’s sitting on my sofa, legs splayed so I can get between them. Head turned towards the ceiling, eyes closed and face twisted in concentration. I am going to town on his cock.

Long strokes, followed by short ones, plenty of spit and lots of hands working the shaft as I tongue the head. I’m familiar enough with this dick that I am not just sucking with the aim of making him come, I know enough by now that I can toy with it. Build him to gentle, low peaks then slow down a little, make him wait, before starting to layer sensation and nudge him upwards again.

So I do this. And I do this. And I do this.

He’s very good at receiving blow jobs, and he gives me two of the most important things – feedback and gratitude.

The odd ‘yes’, some little plaintive moans, and physical responses too – flexing his fingers to grip the sofa cushions tightly during more intense moments.

When he gives me a ‘yes’ I can tell the difference between a ‘yes that feels good’ and a ‘yes I’m going to come soon.’

The latter is accompanied by trembling thighs – involuntary spasms that eventually start to spread to his torso and arms too. Tensing up and twitching like he’s about to tip over the edge.

And as I said at the start, despite not naturally inclining towards Domme, there’s one kind of power I love to wield: the power to use my mouth on his dick. I can wield that power to keep him teetering right on that edge, or generously – benevolently – decide to nudge him over the edge and into orgasm.

He’s intensely vulnerable, like a startled deer captured in headlights, and I like that. But with a little more precision and effort, I can make him even weaker.

Maybe I can break him.

I slow down a little, and feel the corresponding tension in his body, like he’s worried I’m going to stop. Then, to lull him into a false sense of security, I speed up again. More suction, more intensity, more pressure: I fucking go for it. Giving every indication that this, right here, is the final stretch. He’ll get to come soon! Let go! Let those little trembles in his thighs roll into seismic spasms, then release it all in one powerful volcano of jizz, dumping hot squirts of it nice and deep down my throat.

It’s all about timing. Close, closer, so close and then… I stop.

He blinks and twitches, looking down at me like I’ve slapped him.

“Don’t stop!” He says, with a kind of anguished horror. Like I’ve paused for no reason. Like I am oblivious to how close he is to falling over that edge. Like I am – I can’t believe I’m saying this, it’s so rude of him to even think it – like I am a fucking amateur. The CHEEK.

With his wet dick still in my hand, the taut, shining tip of it hovering less than an inch from my lips, I ask him:

“What do you say?”


Most of the time, people are kind and polite. They’ve spent their lives learning social conventions, and how to rein in their more extreme emotions so as not to disturb those around them. But I swear on my life, as I looked up at this otherwise gentle, sweet, nerdy man, every layer of politeness and convention and personality had been stripped away and I glimpsed in his eyes a rage so powerful he could have glanced through a magnifying glass and burned down the whole fucking city.

When I asked him “what do you say?” he spluttered for a brief moment, then shrieked in a voice that resonated with anger and confusion and an intense, wounded-animal kind of pain:

“No, DON’T stop, I SAID DON’T STOP!”

Like he didn’t know what I meant.

I could have kept going with the suck job right then – taken pity on him or recoiled in fear at the strength of his instruction to continue. But I’m game for this kind of power, remember? This kind of power is truly fun to wield.

“No,” I told him. “What do you say?”

Summoning an ounce of mercy, I offered him the prompt: “Pl…”


When he finally understood the assignment, he was a very good boy indeed. I rewarded his machine-gun barrage of ‘pleases’ with the final few vital strokes, sucking hard like I wanted to drain out all that lovely, baffled misery, and he obliged by dumping what felt like a half-pint of spunk down my throat.

You want me to be ‘mean’ to your dick? I’m in.



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