I shared this two years ago when I had about 300 subscribers. It still arouses me, and, given there are now 10x as many of you here, I thought I’d share it with a bit more opened up :) I’ve never re-published before, so I hope you like this trip down my sexy memory bank.
My head lays on his stomach, my ear against his belly button.
“Do you really believe this is it for us?” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“Two kids. Two boys. That’ll be it, then?”
“Absolutely,” he says.
I roll my face into his stomach and smile. Pulling my head up, I accidentally pluck a strand of his stomach hair. His abs tighten reflexively. “Cheeky.”
“That was an accident,” I say.
“Of course.”
I say, “I’d feel sad knowing it was over, no matter how many we have.”
He says, “More kids would be untenable.”
I say, “I’m not thinking logically. I just want more.”
“We’d go mad,” he says.
“Well,” I say, perched over his crotch, with my chin on my fists. “Perhaps.”
Then, in a voice-over voice, I add, “Many may ask if we’ll have more. But only one can decide.”
He squints, tilting his head, almost disturbed.
“The keeper of the sperm. The boss of the semen. The Cum Master. Only he can choose where the seed is sent.” His brow furrows deeper at my performance, but I don’t stop. “I am only its humble recipient. A cum receptacle.”
“Ok, that last part is arousing,” he says, without needing to.
I slide my chin down onto his lap, then drag my chin and nose over his hardened bulge. I look up toward him and say, “Please Cum Master, don’t cum on my face today. My skin is sensitive.”
“Ok. I won’t,” he says — his voice no longer defensive, but benevolent.
“And please Cum Master, don’t cum on my hair today. It’s too clean.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever cum on your hair. Not intentionally.”
“Well,” I say, “please don’t start today.”
He takes out his penis. I pull down his shorts.
His dick bounces up toward his belly button. I lick the back of his erection, base to tip. I’m looking into his eyes.
“This is very coquettish,” he says.
I moan, “Mmm.” I repeat the stroke, the eye contact.
“It’s almost,” he says, “the sort of blow job the Prince of France would’ve received from a concubine in 1610.”
“Regal, you mean? Or old-fashioned?”
“Regal,” he smirks. “What would you call it?”
“I would’ve labeled it as a repetitive, soothing tick. An OCD blow job.”
“OCD?” he laughs. “Wildly different perspective.”
I smile with his dick in my mouth.
He says, “You know. I wish you would name your blow jobs. Then I could call upon them.”
“I’m no good with names. God only granted me the brain capacity to find your lost keys.”
“Was that God, or the lack of sleep?” he smirks.
“You know,” I say, ignoring him, “you can order a blow job without a name.”
“What do you mean?” he says.
“Tell me what you want. Describe it. And I’ll deliver.”
