Learning to Speak

It's funny. Less and less time passes during these meetings between the initial salutations and the pants removal (or what I like to think of as "opening ceremonies"). I sat, putting a foot or two between us, giving the initial impression of some awkwardness, but knowing from experience about how much distance is needed between our bodies. We said our hellos and before I was fully seated or the words fully out of our mouths, his hands creeped toward his waist, my eyes following, a grin forming.

Occasionally, I kiss him, if it's the soft yield of his lips I want. Sometimes, it will be the feel of the roped muscle in his thighs, velvety under my fingers. Every once in a while, I cannot resist the warm pulse that runs from collarbone to just behind the ear, to scent and savor. Whether it had been too long or it was just in the air, that night, there wasn't anything but his cock. I wasn't in a hurry—simply focused.

My hair was back in a ponytail, out of the way already. The last time I'd seen him, I'd forgotten to put it up, and he'd been forced to hold it—though a happy felicity that little morsel became, my locks in his fist as I'd bobbed on his cock—this time I'd thought ahead. As I leaned over him, I felt his hands rest on me, one on my back, one on my tits, idly toying. He was instantly completely rigid in my mouth, fuller than I'd ever felt him before.

I know he likes it slow.

He got it slow.

I wrapped my lips around his cock, delightfully thick enough to present a challenge in these affairs, concentrating on just the head, licking the tip, searching out with my tongue the drops of precum I know must be on the way already, exhilarated when find them just moments into touching him. Sinking onto him, I drew him into the depths of my mouth, the first full stroke going as deep as I could, filling myself.

Withdrawing, I let my hands trail my lips, my tongue curled around his shaft, hands on his balls, pulling the skin tight. Every movement, every gesture deliberate, paced, building. I sucked and swallowed, gagged and gloried; never accelerating, simply accommodating, luxuriating in the firm and flex that filled me.

Feeling his hand increase on my head, I looked up from underneath my lashes, not wanting to tear my eyes from the stiff gift at hand but always happy to take direction from him. "Lick me. I want to see that pretty mouth work," he rumbled. I rarely notice even a trace of an accent, despite how long we've known each other. I even tend to forget that he spoke Italian before English, as a child. Moments like this, though, I remember. I hear it creep in underneath the order, a roll in the r in both "pretty" and "work," I sense it in the pull of muscle under my hands, I see it in the burnished glow the moon lends his skin through the window, and an illusion of civility has been dropped.

I realized as I complied that he hadn't really pulled me off his dick to make his request, not the way he had in the past. This time, it was something more subtle. He wasn't so much so much pulling me off him as nudging in the preferred direction, the way the rider of a well-trained horse can steer with the mere weight of the reins on the animal's neck. I let my head fall to one side, my ear to my shoulder, tips of my ponytail tickling the skin there, the first time I've been aware of any sensation of my own since sitting next to him and beginning.

Licking. From a pretty mouth. I did my best to fulfill his request—dipping my chin to look up at him, I played coy—we both know that I am not natually meek, but I am occasionally able to fake it charmingly enough. Opening only a bit at first, the way a sweet, shy girl would, I brushed the base of him with just the tip of my tongue, just a little peck on the pecker, a feather flutter.

I breathed him in, then. Lips wet, I licked him in earnest. I looked him in the eyes, thick straight fringe of lashes almost blocking out solid dark irises, but I know he sees. I flattened my tongue to cover as much of him as possible as I worked my way up, dragging my cleavage up his legs as I shifted my position and continued.

"You've made me wait too long this time," he began. He wasn't typically a big talker during our scenes, though afterwards was fairly chatty, a surprising reversal to the way these things are traditionally done, from what I've heard. The last couple of scenes, though, he's surprised me by becoming more outspoken, morphing into a more natural dominant. He continued, "So you're going to have to beg for my cum this time, my slut. And you are my slut, aren't you?"

I nodded, concentrated on his cock, as I assumed he'd prefer. I maintained a slow and deliberate pace, keeping the skin pulled tight with my hands at the base, fondling his balls, my mouth busy, soft, teasing, sucking, nipping at the head. My ministrations weren't going unnoticed; his head was thrown back, eyes closed, arms loose, time and place forgotten, his groans progressively increased in volume. He might have been appreciative, but my silence wasn't what he wanted, "Tell me. I want to hear you say it. I know you can suck that big, brown dick. Say it. What else is that mouth good for? Who's slut are you?"

I was somewhat surprised that he's following through. I'd thought I'd have been able to sneak by on this one. I'm good with words, on paper, in my head. When it comes to spitting them out in front of someone I have the hots for—they just don't come. He wanted them, though, and I'd admired him for putting me in a position where I'd wanted to say them. I gave him a wry smile and confessed, my throat raw from his cock, "You know I am your slut."

"And what do you want?"

"I want to make you cum. Please." With this, I reached for him again, thinking that he'd be more than ready for me to finish, that he was just having me jump through a hoop or two before getting off. I was mistaken.

"No, that's not what I want to hear. You know I've been saving it up for you. What do I want to hear?" He was serious. Between scenes, we'd talked occasionally. Nothing deep and dark, but certainly relevant to the time we spent together. I'd assumed in the past that he hadn't actually wanted me talking dirty during our scenes simply because every time I'd opened my mouth, he'd stuck a dick in it. Perhaps this was a point worth reconsidering in the future.

For now, pleading was the order of the day, "Please, please, cum in my mouth. I want that big load down my throat. We both know I'm your slut. I'm begging you to let me suck that thick cock." I took him all the way, gagging on him.

His hand rested on my back, and I let him feel me ride the rhythmic wave of muscle that comes with such an intrusion, my hand tightening on the base of him in syncopated counterpoint to which he took up a chant of, "My slut" and "Oh god" and "Oh fuck" in response.

I resumed my litany to his shaft. "I want to drive home tasting your cum on my lips when you finish. Please, cum for your slut. I'm begging you. Please, please, please, cum for me."

His voice showed the strain before his body did, saying with a kind of ferocity, "That's MY slut." At that, the first hot jets of cream hit the back of my throat, clean and salty. His body stiffened, going completely rigid, almost standing, a series of low, loud groans coming from him as the orgasm tore through him in waves, as I drank him down and cleaned him up.