[Breeder] A Game

[TheBreeder]

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We’re playing a game.

One.

Two.

Three.

I count off the seconds. They’re slightly longer than seconds. They’re heavy seconds—fat drops of water seconds that cling to the faucet before they fall with a two-ton plop.

Four.

Five.

Six.

His lips are wrapped around the base of my dick, pressed deep into the skin. Against my pelvis I can feel the pressure of his front teeth, his nose, the tip of his chin. Bone against bone. My bone deep in his open throat.

Usually I don’t like guys attempt to deep-throat me. My dick’s not a monster, but it’s long. Men who attempt to open their throats and take that extra two-three-four inches use too much teeth. They angle me badly. They expect me to batter open their gullets, they put too much pressure against the sensitive head. It often hurts. But he’s opened up and I’ve slid right down. The sensation is tight, and warm, and wet. His throat’s a perfect pussy, opening and closing around my shaft.

Through the walls of his esophagus I can feel the beat of his heart.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

Fifteen.

He’s looking up at me, this stranger, this handsome man. Muffled sounds resonate along his ribcage as he regards me with glazed, watering eyes that stare blindly at me with adoration. His nostrils flare; his mustache widens its arc around my shaft as he leads me further inside that tight wet place deep inside his chest. Deep into his core.

Nineteen.

Twenty.

I feel it around my cock before he’s even aware what’s happening. His throat contracts suddenly. He gags. He’s choking. Great dollops of drool and mucus slop out of the sides of his mouth.

“Twenty-one,” I say. With my hands cradling his skull, I gently pull him away from my dick. His lungs heave and grasp for air, taking it in great ragged gulps. He’s panting, unaware that there’s a long web of slobber still connecting my dick to his lips. “Good boy,” I murmur.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you. Thank you.”

I’ve never met this man before. This is the game he likes, though. Since it leaves my dick wet, and fat, dripping, and horny for more, I’m willing to play.

“Suck it,” I say, when I know he’s ready. "Suck my cock."

His head is shaved and smooth. He looks up at me with those beautiful, trusting eyes, and widens and flattens his tongue so he can lick up and down my shaft like my meat’s a creamsicle.

I’m sitting on the mattress edge. My feet are almost touching the floor. He’s kneeling between them, reverently, a supplicant in a religious medieval painting. “You like my cock, don’t you?” I growl.

His head’s in the cup of my palm again. I’m guiding that cue ball around and around the head, showing him where to pay his best attention. “I love your cock,” he grunts.

“Tell me,” I demand.

“I love your cock,” he says. He slurps on it. “I love your demon dick. I love it when it’s part of me, deep in my throat.”

He slides the underside along his face. We stare at each other.

“I love the flare of the head. The way it scrapes my throat.”

I nod.

“I love the thickness, the way it swells to my touch. It’s so fucking beautiful.”

As if it hears him, my dick swells within his clutch.

He sucks on the head and then tilts his head. Every word he says is simple and sincere. “I love that it’s a part of you, and that when I take it . . . you’re part of me.”

Now I’m the one staring at him, almost enraptured by his touch, his mouth, his breath against my wet skin, his words.

“I . . . love . . . your . . . dick,” he breathes.

He waits for a response.

I pull myself up, put both hands on the back of his head, and slowly pull him down. “One,” I say, low and soft. Then, I count aloud.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Again, they’re long seconds. I draw them out, let him know it’s not inevitable another will follow. He’s down at the base again, engulfing my inches deep inside his throat.

Nine.

Ten.

In a low, slow voice, I tell him, “Your capacity for cocksucking is exceeded only by your sense of poetry.” He looks at me with gratitude, both for the compliment, and for the quantities of precum coating his throat.

Twelve.

Thirteen.

So soft. So snug. So slick.

Twenty.

Twenty-one.

He starts to gag, to attempt to save himself by backing off. I can hear the noises of choking deep in his throat. I keep my hands on the back of his head. Detain him there. Hold him still.

Twenty-eight.

Twenty-nine.

Thirty.

Thirty-one.

I release him. He flies back, again gulping down bucketfuls of oxygen. He’s got tears on his face. Drool on his beard. Spit on his chest. “Thank you,” he says. He repeats it in a rush. Thankyouthankyouthankyou.

My cock’s in my hand. It’s the same temperature as his mouth, a deep, deep purple, and so wet that it splats against my palm where I strike it.

“You knew what to do,” he said. “You knew I needed you to hold me down on it. It felt like—“ he waved his hands. “Flying. It felt like—you were God. I love your cock, man.” He’s babbling now. He’s kissing the head and looking at me with worship in his gaze. “I love your cock.”

I nod. “I like this game,” I tell him.

Then I pull him down again. Slowly, while his mouth and throat open wide. We start again.

One.

Two.

Three.

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