A Man of His Word

I've been down here all through his dinner.
Licking, sucking, swirling, laving, swallowing, gagging.
  (lather, rinse, repeat...)

Now his hand strokes gently and deliberately through my hair,
  slowly and sensuously gathering it all into a fist.
Knowing what's coming, I take a deep breath -- while I can.

And it begins...

Hard and fast, my head is repeatedly plunged downward.
Rhythm, depth, speed, all taken from my control.
The driving force increases.
I brace my hands on his thighs.
"Keep that tongue going...", he warns.
I struggle to keep pace but he's taking faster than I can give.
I have to cede control of even my own muscles and airways.
I choke, sputter, and struggle to breathe.
Strange noises rumble past my lips.
Fluids I normally contain arc wildly through the air.
He's rough, relentless, implacable.
I'm immobile from the neck up, no longer helping, now just riding out the storm,
  which eventually crashes over us and recedes.

Slowly, our breathing returns to normal.
I rest my cheek on his thigh and he traces the evidence of passion left on my skin.
"I did tell you I'd drown you in cum...", he grins.

"Permission to get a washcloth, sir?"
"Bring two..."