You Whore

The most delirious and intense sexual expression is deepthroat. Nothing feels like such heaven, a woman can't give anymore than to be breathless for me, and to choke for me, while I look into her eyes welling up with tears for me. It's a measure of how much she is willing to surrender. A woman who gags hard and is proud to prove her throat is the hungriest, is a fallen angel who needs to be face-fucked every day.

Between lovers, throat-fucking is truly a religious experience and the deepest sexual bond. When time allows, harder and harder is better, while ruthless is best. Cuffed and down, I want my bitch to drool, I want to find out how many lengths she can swallow. Deep, deeper and deepest, and for as long as possible; to become my throat-whore who earns her O-gag, for when she gets tired and begs for more.

Get on your back bitch and hang your head for balls banging your face and the bulge in your tight throat pleasing me again and again and again and again, until I blow my load into your empty stomach. I'm sure you're at your most beautiful drooling cum onto your tits and thighs and grateful for air, with a look on your face like I'm being unfair.

The most beautiful woman is a gasping cocksucker on her knees, covered in sweat, cum, tears, spit and drool, having given everything to make certain I'm fully soothed. But it won't be very long before I need to feel the velvet fuckhole of her throat around my shaft again.

But you already know that, we've been here before, your knees are familiar with my hardwood floor.

As always, you arrive by cab. You often tell me how excited you get in the back while riding along wearing an above-the-knee length black dress, just long enough to hide your stocking tops, but short enough to make you conscious of flashing, especially when you're not wearing any panties and you're worried about getting the back of your dress wet; because your cunthole is almost dripping in anticipation about what happens next.

No bra, as instructed, your nipples stay hard as the cab rides the rough road and your tits bounce in your dress; and the material brushes you so stiff you wonder if the cabbie can see your nipples in his rearview mirror. Nevertheless, you've been told, no bra. But you love to be instructed and to lose yourself in service, and part of you hopes the cabbie can see. You know I like it when you make other men hard, and you like making other men hard because you know I like it. It crosses you're mind that if you raised a knee you're pussy would be on show, even more so if you spread your legs on the back seat and put a hand on each knee. But it was just a fantasy. Not unless I say.

You're naked but for the dress and the stockings and the heels in red. Like a whore, I said. That whore-red, like that lipstick you wear but wouldn't choose to wear; because it makes you look like a whore. As does the mascara and eyeliner; far too thick for an innocent bitch. But you love it, to look like a woman who fucks for money as you travel to me out there in society. It's what's making you wet, because you love feeling like a whore. The fact you're in the cab dressed like that, on your way to get fucked must mean you're a whore. My whore. You lick your lipstick lips and whisper, "I'm His whore tonight."

The cabbie asks what you said, because he didn't hear you under the sound of traffic. You smile and tell him, "Here will do."

You pay the man and walk to my building through the warm summer night. I said eight o'clock sharp and a glance at your phone tells you it'll be all right, you're early, unlike the last time, because that was a mistake (wasn't it?). I took my belt to you first thing and made you pay all night long. But you loved every inch of dick and every lick of punishment and relished the aches days later squirming in your chair at the office. Yet you want to be a good girl tonight and arrive early, because your heart races when you please me and receive my approval. You know exactly what kind of woman I need. You're perfect and you know it and being obedient is your reason for being on nights like these.

You enter the lobby of my building because you can, I gave you the passcode, because total trust is what we have. In the elevator, you straighten your stockings and dress and run a finger through your pussy lips to see how wet you are. Very, and sweet to taste as you gaze in the mirror, neaten your hair and look at the whore looking back at you. "You're a whore," you say, with an urge to spit in your own face.

Saved by the bell, the fifteenth floor; and a corridor like a carpet catwalk for a filthy whore to strut toward my door. Halfway along, my door opens and I stand there in an untucked white cotton shirt and black pants. I watch you approach with a quickening of your heels, a smile on your face, and a gaze eager to please to me. It's exactly what I expect.

As soon as I close the door you stand with your back to the wall and drop your bags, because I expect exactly that. Hands above your head, fingers interlocked; it makes your tits push out and your nipples poke. And when I say, "Wider," you take a step aside to spread your thighs. Not a sound around, just your deepening breaths of excitement laced with fear; a fear you surrender for the sexual abuse you need by the hands of the right man. Me. Sir.

"Are you wet for me?"

You nod, "Yes sir," and I lift the front of your dress to expose your thighs and your stocking tops and your hairless cunt. I can see the insides of your thighs are shiny and slick at the top, I don't even need to finger you to know you're ready to be fucked.

"What made you so wet?"

"I was thinking about sobbing all over your beautiful cock, sir."

"Licking your own tears off my stiff prick?"

You gasp, "Yes sir." Then choke a little as I wrap my hand around your throat and push your head against the wall. And you know to always look me in the eye.

I squeeze a little until I sense your discomfort and say, "What are you?"

Without missing a beat, you reply, "I'm your most precious worthless cocksucking cunt, sir. Do anything you want to me."

I kiss you hard on your whore-red mouth and push my tongue inside, and at the same moment I put my hand up your dress and hook two fingers into your squelching fuckhole. Your ass bucks against the wall and I dig deep up onto your g-spot, and as I find it I pull my lips and tongue free and demand your eyes on mine as I finger-fuck you extra-hard right-away.

Dress hiked, thighs spread, I grab your wrists and hold them against the wall while my fingers rape your g-spot, harder and faster, harder and faster, until your legs begin to shake and I see my whore in your eyes, awakening as you squirt all over my hand and the floor between your feet. As the honey from your cunny subsides, I go again, hard and fast, harder, harder, faster, harder, to make you cum and squirt all at once down the insides of your thighs. I release your wrists and your legs quake and your mouth gapes.

As your legs shudder and give way, you squat below me and pull your dress high so I can see your pussy. As always, you wet your palms, look up at me and rub them over your thighs and mouth, smearing your lipstick. You say, "Like that sir?" You suck your sticky fingers. "Like a dirty fucking slave-mouth?"

"Yes, like that. Rub it on your tits." As I watch you debase yourself, I ask, "What are you bitch?"

Looking up at me, you say, "I'm your most precious worthless cocksucking cunt, sir. Do anything you want to me."

Your mantra. And it serves to remind me of what I am when we meet; a depraved Dom. It fuels my dark desires and my needs. "Say it again."

Looking up at me, you say, "I'm your most precious worthless cocksucking cunt, sir. Do anything you want to me."

When you smile, I smile, and I say, "You need a stiff drink."

You nod and follow me. My place is open plan, kitchen and dining through the living room and at the back the bedroom with ensuite. As I fill two glasses with ice and booze, I casually say, "Come here and suck my cock."

You put your bags down. "Yes sir."

You already feel like a total whore. What you're wearing. What I just did to you. Having said your mantra out loud. A filthy fucking whore entering the kitchen; and as you do I turn to you, and as expected, you kneel, look up at me and unzip my pants. Take me out. Release my balls.

"These have what I need," you say, holding/tugging my balls. It had once been a line to say to turn me on, but not since I made you a complete cum-slut who loves cum-play and cum in every hole and all the way down your fucking throat.

You know how to start, I've trained you, and practice has made perfect. I'm semi-hard in your hand as you lick my balls and suck my balls and make them shiny and wet, always glancing up to try and find my approval. Your hand gets me harder and you put me in your mouth and suck me gently, like I imagine a daughter would, keeping eye contact so I know your mouth doesn't lie to me. As I swell across your tongue, you know the golden rule; no deepthroat yet, that comes next. First, as you know, is a fetish I love to warm you up.

You pull my foreskin forward over my bloated head and take my cock into the back of your mouth and block your airway with the tip, pressing just a little, and a little more, pushing my skin back until just the bald head is gently choking you. You hold yourself there, and of course, you never look away, no matter how breathless, even when your grabbing fistfuls of your dress and feel desperate. You can hold it for so long these days, even when your tummy sucks in and you gag on me. And gag. And I can see the disappointment in your eyes when you can't gag any longer, and your honest sense of failure when you have to cough me up.

"It's okay," I say, "breathe." I so love watching you gasp for air, seeing the first drool, and your eyes get wet. "Again," I say, and push my foreskin foreward for you to choke yourself on me once more.

Sometimes, I have you do this twenty times, until your eyes are raining and your make-up is messy and your drool is dripping onto your tits, dress, and stockings. When I let you breathe, I ask, "What are you?"

Gasping and heaving, because you choked for so long that last time, you say, "I'm your most ... precious ... worthless cock ... sucking cunt, sir. Do anything you want to me."

I kick off my pants and kneel in front of you, and you know to put your hands behind you're back and indulge my usual perversion. You look at my cock, as previously instructed, and watch me masturbate, faster and faster, and out of your mouth a spontaneous comment, "Are you gonna blow your load all over my fuckin' dress, you dirty bastard? Yeah? You gonna shoot your cum on me? Go on, use my pretty dress like a cum-rag. Faster, fuckin' do it, cum on me. I'm your most precious worthless fucking cocksucking cunt, sir. Do anything you want to me. Anything. Anything. Anything."

Your filthy mouth makes me shoot pearls of creamy cum onto your little black dress, thighs, stockings, and the hardwood floor. I don't need to tell you to lick it up, you'd never dare waste a drop. "Cumslut," I say, as you lap the floor. "That's it, lick it up bitch. All of it."

"Yes sir," you say, and proceed to scoop my cum off yourself and eat it.

I stand and you look up to see me squeeze a few beads of cum into your drink; and you thank me, because you're a filthy, cum-eating slut. I turn to you and, as always, you suckle the head of my cock clean of cum and I jerk the last pearls onto your waiting tongue.

"Go wait for me," I say. "Take your drink with you."

"Yes sir." You get off your knees and straighten your dress, then head toward the bedroom, stiff drink in hand.

You've made this walk before, having already squirted all over my floor. You've made this walk before, having choked on my swollen head. You've made this walk before, already stinking of cum like the whore you are on these evenings with me. You already know you'll be fingering yourself in your car going to work on Monday morning thinking about what's going to happen next. Even though you know, it seems to excite you more and more and not get old, while you understand your training is never-ending and heaven-knows what the future might hold.

As you step through my bedroom door, you're my whore to be fucked for hours and hours, until the break of dawn.

I say, "[enter your name]."

You turn to me with your messy face and cum-stained dress. "Yes sir."

I look you in the eye from across the living room. "Try harder."

"Always sir," you say, for a thrill of the heart, because it was true. "I'm a whore."