Serving With My Mouth

serving with my mouth

The first thing that he requires before any blow job is bare tits. This is a rule. Before I’m even on my knees, whatever I’m wearing on top must come off. I used to think that this was arbitrary, but it’s not actually arbitrary if it pleases him, is it? His pleasure is the best reason.

Once he’s filling my mouth, it pleases him when I focus on the underside of his cock, firmly pressing my tongue along the length of it. He likes it just as much, if not more, when I lick and suck him right under the head. The noises he makes when I run my tongue over the ridge are the sexiest. He likes it when I look up at him with a mouthful, and when I gag a little. I don’t love gagging. Sometimes he’ll push himself deep and then hold my head still, forcing me to adjust. I’ll come up for air and cough, and he’ll give me a moment—a brief one—to breath before shoving his cock inside again. I don’t love that, either. Except, I do. I love that I don’t love it. I love that he’s training me to take him deep. 

My favorite part, though, is when he holds my hair so tightly that it hurts and fucks my mouth. That makes me moan around him. “What are you moaning about?” he asked me the other day. “This?” His grip tightened and I moaned louder, my mouth still full of him. “Good little mouth-whore,” he said, and that’s my other favorite thing. The dirty talk. Make me feel like a total fucking slut when I blow you and I’ll be soaked.

I’m wet as I write this sentence and was not when I started this post. It’s not thinking about blow jobs that turns me on; it’s thinking about serving him. It’s thinking about being on my knees and being used for his pleasure, about gagging because he wants me to, about being topless because he wants me to. It’s all of that and what it means as a whole.

It means that I’m finally serving my purpose and that is the hottest thing in world.