Work

It’s hard work, serving him. Down on her knees, between his legs, his cock so far back in her throat that sometimes she can’t breathe, sometimes it slips past a point in her throat that makes it feel like she’s going to retch. Sometimes retching. Head dipped, his hand nestled in her hair, holding it firmly and pushing her down, pulling her back up – impaling her on his stiff cock in a rhythm that suits him.

It is hard work allowing that to be done to her. Fighting back the panic. The shame when she does throw up. Ignoring the raw, opened-up pain in her throat, the screaming muscles in her back and shoulders, the bruises on her knees. Ignoring the plaintive throbbing of her unfucked cunt.

There’s no shutting off. No simply letting it happen. To let it happen requires extraordinary will. Not to fight when he pushes her down. To open her mouth, ready for more, when in fact she can barely catch her breath. To accept the panicky suffocation of his cock in her throat for five, six, seven long breathless seconds without fighting, without flailing. To trust that he will allow her to breathe.

And when he comes, to swallow it all down her fucked-raw throat. To fight the spasms in her chest as she chokes a little. To remain on her knees as he unloads into her, nestled between his legs. Taking it all, every last bit, into her exhausted, aching body. To wait until he tells her that it’s over before collapsing into him, a jelly of hot, aching desire and tired limbs and, sometimes, tears.

It’s hard work, serving him. She knows that. But, when it’s happening, it never once feels that way.