He was far less gentle with his mouth than his words, far less reserved - but equally precise. I watched my nipple disappear in his mouth. He looked so immersed, diligently exploring every side and angle of my small, perky breasts. I watched him squeeze me over and over, almost as if milking me. This old perv. All I could feel was shame. I was confused, conflicted. My nipples stiffened, my body softened - but that response wasn't much of a choice. I'm chronically over-sensitive to touch, and he had at least a couple of decades of practice on anyone else that's ever touched me before. It felt nice, but wrong. I didn't **want** him. I will never want him.
And then there was this moment - he hovered over me, trapping the very tip of my nipple in a flickering of his rough, freakishly fast moving tongue. Tiny electrical shocks sizzled on my skin, down the spine, up the back of my neck. My whole body tensed up. I closed my eyes. He pulled my waist closer to him, arching my back, and m I could no longer see him. The jolt of pain when his teeth clenched on my overstimulated pink flesh caught me off guard. I heard my own voice, hoarse, confused. Half moan, half plead.
I didn't know yet that pleading worked like lighter fluid on him. He got rougher, faster - sucking, kissing, biting, alternating between intensely overwhelming and soft and gentle. He enjoyed squeezing pained moans out of me. His touch was not unbearable but far from easy to endure.
Warm pleasure spread to my belly, a strange background to the intermittent pain.
By the time his lips reached between my legs i could no longer claim my moans were solely pain-induced. Eyes closed, I felt myself picked up by a rising current, his hands in my thighs, my dress - pushed high up my waist, the thin strip of fabric of my underwear - off to the side. Then, nothing followed - nothing but cold, empty air. My hips inched forward on their own.
That's when he, what I could only describe as **attacked** my pussy. I could tell, I could even hear - I met him with a warm wet welcome down there. I felt the weight of shame again, for my body to betray me like that. Or was it my mind that betrayed my body? Something I heard a friend say once surfaced to mind - "Boys lick your pussy; men - eat it". I certainly felt like a meal about to be completely devoured. I wiggled in his hands, overwhelmed by this powerful new mixture of emotions - shame, pain, and undeniable pleasure.
I felt so stupid.
I leaned back. I never knew a tongue could make you feel this much. The way he pushed against my already swollen little bead was way too much, almost painful - but far outweighed by the sweet rising pleasure. One by one, he pushed every last thought out of my mind too.
He was persistent, relentless - until suddenly the world went completely dark. The force I felt building up in me almost scared me - I closed my eyes and let go, submerged in darkness, bracing myself for the imminent moment of impact.
Moments, a few cursed seconds before the most powerful orgasm I ever saw coming could hit me - he abruptly pulled away. All the tension escaped me in a moan so needy and desperate that just hearing myself snapped me out of the haze. I opened my eyes to a smug, unfriendly smile. Pausing to enjoy the sight between my legs for a moment, he looked up at me and then the dress still hanging on my body.
"Take everything off".
I didn't hesitate, pulling the only two pieces of clothing I had on off myself.
He pulled me by my legs and I slid down to the soft carpet. Leveled with my eyes, he brushed over my lips with his thumb. "I'd like to try these now" and I thought he was about to kiss me.
Instead, he rose up to his feet, simultaneously freeing himself of his pants and pressing my shoulders against the side of the bed. Instead of his lips I was staring at a thick, hard, uncircumcised cock, bobbing just inches from my face. Intimidating, repulsive.
I could feel his desire so distinctly, as if it was my own.
Impatiently, his cock pushed my lips apart and slowly, but surely, filled my mouth with clammy, foreign flesh - only stopping when his tip was firmly pressed against my throat. I felt a rush of panic at the sensations filling my mouth to the brim, leaving little space for air.
His thumb slid onto the nape of my neck, wrapping his hand around it. No, this was all too much, this whole thing - it wasn't right, it wasn't okay. I shouldn't be doing this. My hands pushed on his thighs, I looked up, overwhelmed, even offended. He was leaned over the bed, and I couldn't see his face until my soft attempt to push him off got his attention. His eyes were clouded, heated - desire was mixed with disgust, and so, so much anger. His anger disarmed me.
"Breathe." He said without moving an inch. It felt like I couldn't, but then I felt my nostrils flare up as thin strands of air filled my lungs. It was slower, but my air wasn't completely blocked off. He pet my hair gently, but his eyes were not kind. On one hand, I wasn't sure anyone has ever wanted me with such intensity before - I could feel it in the impatience of his cock growing firmer, in the tension in his hands. But it was like he hated me for it, or deeply despised- and this was something I was certain I've never felt before, at least not in such proximity. It filled me with fear and adrenaline.
I kept breathing. My hands now rested still on his thighs. I'd like to think it was fear alone that diluted my resolve to stop all this - but I can't be sure.
I almost felt guilty for interrupting him. I didn't want him to be disappointed.
Everything softened.
"Okay" he nodded, more to himself than me, and pressed me down just a little harder right before finally pulling out. But only for a brief moment.
Each time he pulled out he dove back in faster, and each time he pushed back in - he pressed harder at my throat, and stayed there longer. My eyes watered from the increasing pressure but I tried my best to keep composure. Every instinct told me not to interrupt him, not to upset his enjoyment. I tried to make sure my teeth were not scratching him. I reached my tongue forward, massaging him as much as his movement allowed me. My efforts seemed to soften the sharpness in his movements and that encouraged me. So absorbed with whether I should be doing this or not before - now I was fully fixated on doing it well. I wanted to give him whatever it is that made him shake and groan like that.
The blowjobs I've given to my previous boyfriends before that night were, first of all, very few - not my favorite thing to do to be honest, and second - they were a special, slow, sensual experience. Nothing like what was happening right now. He was methodical, relentless and merciless. To say it was overwhelming would be an understatement of the year. But my self-pitying had to step aside while I did my best to accommodate him. Between getting enough oxygen and keeping down the ominous throat spasms, I was entirely occupied. I could feel his stiffness and was sure he was about to orgasm any second - or at least move on to the "main event". I just had to hold off until then.
But oh how wrong I was. Time stretched and stretched, and we were not slowing down or moving on. He was entirely consumed by the process, alternating rest and attack modes, determined to feed his entire cock down my throat. This was becoming impossible to endure.
My jaw is tired. There's wetness everywhere - part my tears, but mostly the endless saliva he pulled from from my throat. Im surprised at the amount. Whenever I'd feel him tense up, nearing release - he'd pull out entirely and give himself a break, making sure to keep my mouth occupied in the meantime. At first, just with his fingers, holding me close to his face, exploring the insides of my mouth like it was not at all attached to a real person. Until eventually, instead of bringing me up to his him, he pushed my face down, pressing me against his balls. Ive never done that until then, but it wasn't hard to guess what he wanted. Covered in coarse hair, it felt strange sucking and licking them, but I ignored any and all my reservations with relative ease this time. However weird this might've felt, I was ready to lick his balls until sunrise if it could've saved me from chocking on his cock, again and again.
The air first filled with my embarrassingly loud slurping, then with his increasingly demeaning commentary. His hands were getting rougher too. I'm surprised I don't feel angry at him. Instead, every time he'd take the intensity up another notch - I'd only get softer, smaller. My experience centers on adapting to his needs. Holding the breath better when his hand tightened on my throat a little too much. Not complaining about the way his fingers felt sharp pressed into my cheeks. Agreeing with everything he said, even as his words grew more hurtful and mean. He wasn't wrong, after all. I wasn't exactly not a dumb, needy whore right now.
Unless he had no intention of actually paying me. Somewhere in between being deeply offended by his offer and chafing my knees against his bedroom carpet - there was supposed to be a point where, at the very least, I should've ensured the terms he offered were real. But in my haze, none of this felt real. For all I know, he could laugh me off the next morning and send me on my way, fucked and just as broke. And then I wouldn't even be a whore - just a dumb, easily manipulated slut. This part I didn't need spelled out to me - but now was too late to be figuring that out.
This was ridiculous. He edged himself for what felt like a small lifetime - a lifetime I spent gagging, gasping, sucking and licking. I finally snapped. I pushed him away lightly but decisively as I felt a bubble of emotion burst. I was sobbing.
He pulled away and removed his hands off me, letting me calm down. Then he asked "do you want to leave?". I looked down, embarrassed.
A quiet "No" left my hoarse, tortured throat. I shook my head lightly.
"What do you want then?" He seemed pretty displeased, pulled away from his primal trance.
