Everyone Gets What They Want

“Sh-h,” I soothed, and stroked his brow, my lips against his temple.

I sat on the end of the high bed and he knelt beside it. My legs draped over his shoulders, his head caught between my knees.

“This is what you said you wanted, isn’t it? His cock in your mouth?” I squeezed my thighs, just to let him know; everyone gets what they want here.

We both looked up at the sound of the zipper. The wrestling out of the cock. The finality of the chink as the belted jeans hit the floor. I smiled at their owner.

“Open. Open wide,” I said, tugging his hair and his head back roughly when he didn’t obey quick enough.

“If you bite, I’ll break your neck.”

But he couldn’t answer around the purpled, swollen cockhead. There was only the panicked shallow breaths, the tensing of his body. He reached upwards to naked hips, but I slapped his hands away.

I did not release him. Not through the tears or the gagging. Not for all his staggered whimpers. He wanted cock and got far more of it that he could have dreamed of. Until he was choking on it, and then the product of its labours. Until my thigh muscles ached under the pressure.

Then he was gasping and coughing and weeping. Tears and snot glazing his face, frothy seed edging his swollen lips.

“You said you wanted cock. You said you wanted it rough. Everyone gets what they want here.”