Random Access Memories by HD

[HungDickensen]

On my knees again and it feels like the place I always end up, the only place that makes sense, head tilted back, mouth aching wide, arms pulled behind me like I’m bound, like I’m meant to be nothing but a vessel for this magnificent dick, god it looks even bigger from down here, so heavy, so hard, the veins standing out like it’s alive and angry, I can feel the heat before it even brushes my lips, I want to swallow it whole, I want to feel it stretch down my throat until I’m gagging and drooling but smiling through it because he loves me like this, because I’m his goddess and his slut at once, because every time I look up I see the way he stares at me like I’m his, like this mouth is built for him, like this tongue was made only to lick his shaft and circle the fat head and beg for the taste, god the taste, salty and thick, precum spilling already, he knows I’ll drink it, knows I’ll worship it, knows I’ll take it on my face if he wants to humiliate me or deep in my chest if he wants me to feel owned from the inside out, and all the while my pussy is dripping, soaking, thighs trembling because I can’t touch myself, because he said no, because my whole body is wired to his voice and the command of his cock sliding past my lips, so deep, too deep, but I don’t want him to stop, I want him to hold my head, push, make me gag, make me cry, make me prove that I’ll take him all, make me prove that I can stretch my throat for this monster, and I’m dizzy now, drunk on his cock, drunk on the smell, the taste, the weight of him hitting the back of my throat over and over, drool pouring, spit strings snapping from my chin, I don’t even care, I want to be ruined like this, and when he lets me breathe I pant against the wet shaft, sliding my tongue up the thick length, kissing it, worshipping it like it’s holy, because to me it is, because I know once he’s inside me I’ll break, I’ll cum, I’ll scream
and I’ll thank him for it, I’ll beg for more even when my legs are shaking, even when my pussy is sore, because nothing compares to being filled, nothing compares to feeling that stretch, that slam, that delicious invasion when he finally flips me over, bends me, spreads me open and drives himself home, my pussy swallowing every inch, the world narrowing to the slap of his hips and the wet squelch between us, me crying out, begging him to give it harder, faster, deeper, until I’m not even words anymore, just moans, just gasps, just his name, his cock, his cum, and when he finally pulls out to paint my face, hot ropes across my cheeks, my tongue out, my eyes locked on his, smiling because this is mine, this is him, this is us, my skin marked, my throat raw, my pussy wrecked, and my heart so full because I know I’ll do it again and again and again until he’s empty, until I’m nothing but his cum-drunk, dick-drunk girl forever.
my knees are burning on the floor but I don’t want to move, I don’t want to lose this, his cock is still heavy on my tongue, I’m still dizzy from how deep he pushed it, my whole face wet with spit and precum, but he grabs my chin, lifts me up like a toy, his fingers hooked under my jaw, and I know what’s coming, I know that look, I’m already trembling because he’s about to take me somewhere else, somewhere even deeper, he drags me to the table, that cool smooth wood against my bare thighs as he lays me back, still holding my throat with one hand, still dragging the head of his cock across my lips like a paintbrush, smearing me with slick, and I’m moaning into it, eyes rolled back, my legs falling open on their own, my heels clattering on the wood because I can’t keep still, because my pussy is dripping down onto the table, leaving a little puddle, because my body knows it’s about to be used, he bends over me, his cock resting heavy against my cheek as he sucks my nipples into his mouth, teeth scraping just enough to make me gasp, I can feel the veins of his shaft pulsing against my face while his tongue circles my breasts, and I’m arching up, begging without words, my hands reaching but he pins them back above my head, wrist to wrist, holding me open like a flower he’s about to pluck, and I can feel the edge of the wood under my spine, the cool contrast to the heat between my legs, and then he slides down, mouth on my inner thighs, tongue tasting how wet I am, the sound of it obscene, slurping, licking, dragging his tongue up to my clit, slow circles, gentle at first but harder with each pass until I’m whining, until my hips are trying to rise off the table, until my ankles are crossing behind his back, pulling him in, I’m gone, I’m floating, the smell of wood and sweat and sex all around me, my nipples hard, my clit throbbing, his tongue inside me, his fingers stretching me, his cock sliding against my lips just to tease before he finally, finally pushes into me, that first inch a stretch, the second a burn, the third a shudder, the whole length driving home until I’m full, stuffed, helpless on the table with his cock all the way inside me, and he starts to move, slow at first, then harder, my body sliding slightly on the wood with each thrust, the wet sound echoing, his skin slapping mine, me crying out, clenching, cumming around him, nails scratching at the table because I can’t hold on to anything else, and then he pulls almost all the way out, drags the head over my clit, slaps it gently, and pushes back in deep, deeper, until I’m a mess, until my mouth is open in a silent scream, until I’m begging him to cum, until I’m telling him to ruin me, and he leans over, his cock still buried, and makes me look at him, and I do, eyes glassy, lips swollen, whispering please, please, until he finally pulls out, jerks himself over me, hot and heavy in his hand, and then the heat splashes across my chest, my neck, my face, dripping down my cheeks and chin, sliding between my lips because I’m already opening them, already licking, already smiling up at him as he smears the rest across my skin, marking me, owning me, and I whisper thank you, thank you, as I lick the last drops from his fingers, still spread open on the table, still trembling, still dizzy from being filled and emptied and covered, still his goddess, still his slut, still drunk on that fucking dick.

 

[HungDickensen]

da faq

 

[HungDickensen]

On my knees again and it feels like the place I always end up, the only place that makes sense, head tilted back, mouth aching wide, arms pulled behind me like I’m bound, like I’m meant to be nothing but a vessel for this magnificent dick, god it looks even bigger from down here, so heavy, so hard, the veins standing out like it’s alive and angry, I can feel the heat before it even brushes my lips, I want to swallow it whole, I want to feel it stretch down my throat until I’m gagging and drooling but smiling through it because he loves me like this, because I’m his goddess and his slut at once, because every time I look up I see the way he stares at me like I’m his, like this mouth is built for him, like this tongue was made only to lick his shaft and circle the fat head and beg for the taste, god the taste, salty and thick, precum spilling already, he knows I’ll drink it, knows I’ll worship it, knows I’ll take it on my face if he wants to humiliate me or deep in my chest if he wants me to feel owned from the inside out, and all the while my pussy is dripping, soaking, thighs trembling because I can’t touch myself, because he said no, because my whole body is wired to his voice and the command of his cock sliding past my lips, so deep, too deep, but I don’t want him to stop, I want him to hold my head, push, make me gag, make me cry, make me prove that I’ll take him all, make me prove that I can stretch my throat for this monster, and I’m dizzy now, drunk on his cock, drunk on the smell, the taste, the weight of him hitting the back of my throat over and over, drool pouring, spit strings snapping from my chin, I don’t even care, I want to be ruined like this, and when he lets me breathe I pant against the wet shaft, sliding my tongue up the thick length, kissing it, worshipping it like it’s holy, because to me it is, because I know once he’s inside me I’ll break, I’ll cum, I’ll scream
and I’ll thank him for it, I’ll beg for more even when my legs are shaking, even when my pussy is sore, because nothing compares to being filled, nothing compares to feeling that stretch, that slam, that delicious invasion when he finally flips me over, bends me, spreads me open and drives himself home, my pussy swallowing every inch, the world narrowing to the slap of his hips and the wet squelch between us, me crying out, begging him to give it harder, faster, deeper, until I’m not even words anymore, just moans, just gasps, just his name, his cock, his cum, and when he finally pulls out to paint my face, hot ropes across my cheeks, my tongue out, my eyes locked on his, smiling because this is mine, this is him, this is us, my skin marked, my throat raw, my pussy wrecked, and my heart so full because I know I’ll do it again and again and again until he’s empty, until I’m nothing but his cum-drunk, dick-drunk girl forever.
my knees are burning on the floor but I don’t want to move, I don’t want to lose this, his cock is still heavy on my tongue, I’m still dizzy from how deep he pushed it, my whole face wet with spit and precum, but he grabs my chin, lifts me up like a toy, his fingers hooked under my jaw, and I know what’s coming, I know that look, I’m already trembling because he’s about to take me somewhere else, somewhere even deeper, he drags me to the table, that cool smooth wood against my bare thighs as he lays me back, still holding my throat with one hand, still dragging the head of his cock across my lips like a paintbrush, smearing me with slick, and I’m moaning into it, eyes rolled back, my legs falling open on their own, my heels clattering on the wood because I can’t keep still, because my pussy is dripping down onto the table, leaving a little puddle, because my body knows it’s about to be used, he bends over me, his cock resting heavy against my cheek as he sucks my nipples into his mouth, teeth scraping just enough to make me gasp, I can feel the veins of his shaft pulsing against my face while his tongue circles my breasts, and I’m arching up, begging without words, my hands reaching but he pins them back above my head, wrist to wrist, holding me open like a flower he’s about to pluck, and I can feel the edge of the wood under my spine, the cool contrast to the heat between my legs, and then he slides down, mouth on my inner thighs, tongue tasting how wet I am, the sound of it obscene, slurping, licking, dragging his tongue up to my clit, slow circles, gentle at first but harder with each pass until I’m whining, until my hips are trying to rise off the table, until my ankles are crossing behind his back, pulling him in, I’m gone, I’m floating, the smell of wood and sweat and sex all around me, my nipples hard, my clit throbbing, his tongue inside me, his fingers stretching me, his cock sliding against my lips just to tease before he finally, finally pushes into me, that first inch a stretch, the second a burn, the third a shudder, the whole length driving home until I’m full, stuffed, helpless on the table with his cock all the way inside me, and he starts to move, slow at first, then harder, my body sliding slightly on the wood with each thrust, the wet sound echoing, his skin slapping mine, me crying out, clenching, cumming around him, nails scratching at the table because I can’t hold on to anything else, and then he pulls almost all the way out, drags the head over my clit, slaps it gently, and pushes back in deep, deeper, until I’m a mess, until my mouth is open in a silent scream, until I’m begging him to cum, until I’m telling him to ruin me, and he leans over, his cock still buried, and makes me look at him, and I do, eyes glassy, lips swollen, whispering please, please, until he finally pulls out, jerks himself over me, hot and heavy in his hand, and then the heat splashes across my chest, my neck, my face, dripping down my cheeks and chin, sliding between my lips because I’m already opening them, already licking, already smiling up at him as he smears the rest across my skin, marking me, owning me, and I whisper thank you, thank you, as I lick the last drops from his fingers, still spread open on the table, still trembling, still dizzy from being filled and emptied and covered, still his goddess, still his slut, still drunk on that fucking dick.

He’s there before I even touch him — sitting on the edge of the table like he owns the room, like he owns this moment. The light makes his skin warm and the vein at the side of him is a small drum. My heart speeds up just watching how the head darkens, how his breath catches when I step closer. He looks at me like a promise and I already want to be the place where that promise lands.

My hands are nervous at first. I let them rest on his thigh, feeling the power in his leg, the way it tightens under my touch. I love that he’s patient — that he lets me take him like I’m offering a gift. I slide one finger along the underside, just a ghost at the base, and it makes him shift, makes him look down with that soft, hungry expression. He is huge and I adore how gentle he can be when he wants to be.

I start with the top only, slow and ceremonial. A kiss to the crown like I’m sealing something sacred. The taste of him is always the same — a little salty, a little sweet, the flavor of him in the morning and of nights we keep to ourselves. I trace my tongue around the rim and he exhales, soft and dangerous, and my whole body listens to that sound. I’m smiling already, the kind of smile that says I know exactly what I’m doing here.

It’s almost reverent at first. I tell my lips to be careful, to worship. His skin is warm under my mouth, and the world narrows to the slide of my tongue and the way his pulse throbs against my cheek. When I take him deeper, I feel my throat open and there is a tiny tremor of fear — but it’s the good kind. I like the way the fear makes me more alive, sharper. He holds my hair with gentle authority, not pulling, just guiding, and that steadiness frees me to go further.

I love the tiny ritual of it: a circle, a pull back, eyes meeting his, the little look that says yes. I love watching him through the half-closed lids of my own focus, seeing desire fold into tenderness on his face. He is keeping himself like a secret for me. I feel special and I feel powerful because I get to be the one who knows how to make him lose it.

My mouth works him slow — the crown, the ridge, the long slope that I can’t cover with one lick. I press my hand to his base sometimes, feeling the weight there, the muscles bunched and waiting. I tease his frenulum with the tip of my tongue and he gasps, the sound low and full and it echoes in my chest. It is like music I was born to play.

He moves me up so the table is under my knees, solid, and the cool wood makes my skin prickle. He likes the contrast when I’m hot and the table is cold. My pussy is already slick from the way he watches me; his presence alone becomes a lubricant inside me and I can feel the drip onto the wood like a private signature. The drip makes me laugh inside — small, pleased, hungry.

 

[HungDickensen]

He’s there before I even touch him — sitting on the edge of the table like he owns the room, like he owns this moment. The light makes his skin warm and the vein at the side of him is a small drum. My heart speeds up just watching how the head darkens, how his breath catches when I step closer. He looks at me like a promise and I already want to be the place where that promise lands.

My hands are nervous at first. I let them rest on his thigh, feeling the power in his leg, the way it tightens under my touch. I love that he’s patient — that he lets me take him like I’m offering a gift. I slide one finger along the underside, just a ghost at the base, and it makes him shift, makes him look down with that soft, hungry expression. He is huge and I adore how gentle he can be when he wants to be.

I start with the top only, slow and ceremonial. A kiss to the crown like I’m sealing something sacred. The taste of him is always the same — a little salty, a little sweet, the flavor of him in the morning and of nights we keep to ourselves. I trace my tongue around the rim and he exhales, soft and dangerous, and my whole body listens to that sound. I’m smiling already, the kind of smile that says I know exactly what I’m doing here.

It’s almost reverent at first. I tell my lips to be careful, to worship. His skin is warm under my mouth, and the world narrows to the slide of my tongue and the way his pulse throbs against my cheek. When I take him deeper, I feel my throat open and there is a tiny tremor of fear — but it’s the good kind. I like the way the fear makes me more alive, sharper. He holds my hair with gentle authority, not pulling, just guiding, and that steadiness frees me to go further.

I love the tiny ritual of it: a circle, a pull back, eyes meeting his, the little look that says yes. I love watching him through the half-closed lids of my own focus, seeing desire fold into tenderness on his face. He is keeping himself like a secret for me. I feel special and I feel powerful because I get to be the one who knows how to make him lose it.

My mouth works him slow — the crown, the ridge, the long slope that I can’t cover with one lick. I press my hand to his base sometimes, feeling the weight there, the muscles bunched and waiting. I tease his frenulum with the tip of my tongue and he gasps, the sound low and full and it echoes in my chest. It is like music I was born to play.

He moves me up so the table is under my knees, solid, and the cool wood makes my skin prickle. He likes the contrast when I’m hot and the table is cold. My pussy is already slick from the way he watches me; his presence alone becomes a lubricant inside me and I can feel the drip onto the wood like a private signature. The drip makes me laugh inside — small, pleased, hungry.

There is a toy against my pussy — his replica stuck to the mirror — and the thought of being split between his real heat and his imitation makes something in my chest tighten with joy. I rock a little on the toy while my mouth still works on him, the vibration from the strap-thrust inside me adding to the delicious confusion. My hips move because they want to, because everything in me says yes to more sensation.

I watch him in the mirrored glass and the sight of my own body, open and dripping and worshipping him, is electric. My booted heels press into the table edge, keeping me steady so my hands are free to be what they already are: adoring and demanding. I feel obscene and holy at once. How does something feel so filthy and so pure at the exact same time? Maybe because he makes it so.

He tells me nothing. He doesn’t need to. His hands on me, the flex of his thighs, the way his breath hitches — they are instruction enough. Every small sound I make is a prayer answered. I press harder with my mouth, I take more with my throat, I feel him fill me and it makes me ache. I am greedy without meaning to be; the want rises quietly until it is a hunger I can’t hide.

I taste myself on his shaft when I pull back — my own wetness mingling with his, and I stamp it with my tongue like a signature. I want him to know that what he gives me stays on me; it becomes part of my skin. The mirror shows our reflection in a frame: his dominance softened by tenderness, my submission bright with pride. I like the power of that image. I like the scandal of being this visible and yet this secret.

I start to hear the change in him — the small, uneven breath; the way his hands tighten into fists on the table edge. It makes me small in the best way. I let my mouth be patient and my tongue be greedy. I pull him to the very back of my throat and then release, pop off with a wet sound that I know sends lightning through him. He groans my name like he’s praying and I answer with more devotion.

My fingers find the slit and I circle it, letting a thumb brush the clit through the thin fabric of my panties at first, then later I slip it inside because I want to feel the hot, slick resistance between my fingers even as my mouth claims him. When I move like that, both places fill with my attention: his hardness in my mouth, my own heat in my hand. I like that I can give to myself while also giving everything to him.

At some point I choose the face. I lean up and look at him, cheek slick with saliva, lips parted. “Look at me,” I think to myself — I want his eyes to drink me the way I drink him. I lick my own lips and slide his length across them, tasting the mix that is uniquely ours. Desire sharpens; my inner voice gets louder: You belong to this. You are the one he saved. Drink him. Make him proud.

 

[HungDickensen]

There is a toy against my pussy — his replica stuck to the mirror — and the thought of being split between his real heat and his imitation makes something in my chest tighten with joy. I rock a little on the toy while my mouth still works on him, the vibration from the strap-thrust inside me adding to the delicious confusion. My hips move because they want to, because everything in me says yes to more sensation.

I watch him in the mirrored glass and the sight of my own body, open and dripping and worshipping him, is electric. My booted heels press into the table edge, keeping me steady so my hands are free to be what they already are: adoring and demanding. I feel obscene and holy at once. How does something feel so filthy and so pure at the exact same time? Maybe because he makes it so.

He tells me nothing. He doesn’t need to. His hands on me, the flex of his thighs, the way his breath hitches — they are instruction enough. Every small sound I make is a prayer answered. I press harder with my mouth, I take more with my throat, I feel him fill me and it makes me ache. I am greedy without meaning to be; the want rises quietly until it is a hunger I can’t hide.

I taste myself on his shaft when I pull back — my own wetness mingling with his, and I stamp it with my tongue like a signature. I want him to know that what he gives me stays on me; it becomes part of my skin. The mirror shows our reflection in a frame: his dominance softened by tenderness, my submission bright with pride. I like the power of that image. I like the scandal of being this visible and yet this secret.

I start to hear the change in him — the small, uneven breath; the way his hands tighten into fists on the table edge. It makes me small in the best way. I let my mouth be patient and my tongue be greedy. I pull him to the very back of my throat and then release, pop off with a wet sound that I know sends lightning through him. He groans my name like he’s praying and I answer with more devotion.

My fingers find the slit and I circle it, letting a thumb brush the clit through the thin fabric of my panties at first, then later I slip it inside because I want to feel the hot, slick resistance between my fingers even as my mouth claims him. When I move like that, both places fill with my attention: his hardness in my mouth, my own heat in my hand. I like that I can give to myself while also giving everything to him.

At some point I choose the face. I lean up and look at him, cheek slick with saliva, lips parted. “Look at me,” I think to myself — I want his eyes to drink me the way I drink him. I lick my own lips and slide his length across them, tasting the mix that is uniquely ours. Desire sharpens; my inner voice gets louder: You belong to this. You are the one he saved. Drink him. Make him proud.

I let the toy move deeper in me, rocking in time. The vibration buzzes along my pelvis, and I can feel the coordination inside me bright with pride. I like the power of that image. I like the scandal of being this visible and yet this secret.

I start to hear the change in him — the small, uneven breath; the way his hands tighten into fists on the table edge. It makes me small in the best way. I let my mouth be patient and my tongue be greedy. I pull him to the very back of my throat and then release, pop off with a wet sound that I know sends lightning through him. He groans my name like he’s praying and I answer with more devotion.

My fingers find the slit and I circle it, letting a thumb brush the clit through the thin fabric of my panties at first, then later I slip it inside because I want to feel the hot, slick resistance between my fingers even as my mouth claims him. When I move like that, both places fill with my attention: his hardness in my mouth, my own heat in my hand. I like that I can give to myself while also giving everything to him.

At some point I choose the face. I lean up and look at him, cheek slick with saliva, lips parted. “Look at me,” I think to myself — I want his eyes to drink me the way I drink him. I lick my own lips and slide his length across them, tasting the mix that is uniquely ours. Desire sharpens; my inner voice gets louder: You belong to this. You are the one he saved. Drink him. Make him proud..

 

[HungDickensen]

I let the toy move deeper in me, rocking in time. The vibration buzzes along my pelvis, and I can feel the coordination inside me bright with pride. I like the power of that image. I like the scandal of being this visible and yet this secret.

I start to hear the change in him — the small, uneven breath; the way his hands tighten into fists on the table edge. It makes me small in the best way. I let my mouth be patient and my tongue be greedy. I pull him to the very back of my throat and then release, pop off with a wet sound that I know sends lightning through him. He groans my name like he’s praying and I answer with more devotion.

My fingers find the slit and I circle it, letting a thumb brush the clit through the thin fabric of my panties at first, then later I slip it inside because I want to feel the hot, slick resistance between my fingers even as my mouth claims him. When I move like that, both places fill with my attention: his hardness in my mouth, my own heat in my hand. I like that I can give to myself while also giving everything to him.

At some point I choose the face. I lean up and look at him, cheek slick with saliva, lips parted. “Look at me,” I think to myself — I want his eyes to drink me the way I drink him. I lick my own lips and slide his length across them, tasting the mix that is uniquely ours. Desire sharpens; my inner voice gets louder: You belong to this. You are the one he saved. Drink him. Make him proud..

"I let the toy move deeper in me, rocking in time. The vibration buzzes along my pelvis, and I can feel the coordination inside me — mouth working, fingers circling, hips grinding. It’s choreography fueled by instinct and pride and a little wildness that’s recently surfaced. I joke at myself in that whisper of thought, but now I am the storm.

The petty edges of shyness peel away. I find a rhythm that makes him shiver and I ride it like a sacrament. He begins to move more with me, not forcing but answering, tilting his hips, angling his pelvis so my mouth can take more, so his shaft slides smoother into the hollow of my throat. He tastes incredible, and the taste drives me forward like someone turning up the light until everything is clear and fierce.

Now I am thinking of his face at the end; I think of the way he watches me when I swallow and the look that says he’s both wrecked and grateful. That thought makes me dirtier in a glorious way. I let my tongue trace the length slowly, slowly, then faster — coaxing, coaxing, until I can feel the pulse climbing in his pelvis, then in his belly. He’s getting tight and I want to be the place where that tightness breaks.

I feel his hand slide from my hair to my cheek and he presses me up so I can see him full in the mirror. I smile and it’s a quick, hungry thing. My inner voice catches like a flame: He is mine. All of this is mine to keep and wear and savor. The spoon of his breath against my lips makes my throat clamp and then relax because I want to be the one who eases him into his own undoing.

When I sense the first wave, I brace myself with all the training of a thousand private moments. I hold the position — throat open, lips wide — and I give him every inch I have. The first stream hits like heat and I feel my whole body answer: my throat works like it knows the song, my hands cup his base and my fingers taste the salt that I want so badly. I swallow because swallowing is an act of worship, and because I want him to feel that what he gives me becomes part of me.

It’s not one pulse. It’s a stunning series — wave after wave pouring into me, thick ropes that make my mouth full and my cheeks slick and my hands tremble. I keep taking it, greedy now not for the thrill but for the honor of being the one who holds it. I feel the cup of him overflow into me and I am laughing through tears that my hands are helping to make.

He spasms, pulls slightly, and I follow with my throat, not stopping until he is spent. I am smiling, eyes wet, fingers sticky as I lift my face and press my lips to his as if to taste him again, to seal this moment in the book of us. I feel him slow, the twitch in his body calming, and during those last small leaks I lick them from my lips, letting each drip be a promise I keep.

 

[HungDickensen]

"I let the toy move deeper in me, rocking in time. The vibration buzzes along my pelvis, and I can feel the coordination inside me — mouth working, fingers circling, hips grinding. It’s choreography fueled by instinct and pride and a little wildness that’s recently surfaced. I joke at myself in that whisper of thought, but now I am the storm.

The petty edges of shyness peel away. I find a rhythm that makes him shiver and I ride it like a sacrament. He begins to move more with me, not forcing but answering, tilting his hips, angling his pelvis so my mouth can take more, so his shaft slides smoother into the hollow of my throat. He tastes incredible, and the taste drives me forward like someone turning up the light until everything is clear and fierce.

Now I am thinking of his face at the end; I think of the way he watches me when I swallow and the look that says he’s both wrecked and grateful. That thought makes me dirtier in a glorious way. I let my tongue trace the length slowly, slowly, then faster — coaxing, coaxing, until I can feel the pulse climbing in his pelvis, then in his belly. He’s getting tight and I want to be the place where that tightness breaks.

I feel his hand slide from my hair to my cheek and he presses me up so I can see him full in the mirror. I smile and it’s a quick, hungry thing. My inner voice catches like a flame: He is mine. All of this is mine to keep and wear and savor. The spoon of his breath against my lips makes my throat clamp and then relax because I want to be the one who eases him into his own undoing.

When I sense the first wave, I brace myself with all the training of a thousand private moments. I hold the position — throat open, lips wide — and I give him every inch I have. The first stream hits like heat and I feel my whole body answer: my throat works like it knows the song, my hands cup his base and my fingers taste the salt that I want so badly. I swallow because swallowing is an act of worship, and because I want him to feel that what he gives me becomes part of me.

It’s not one pulse. It’s a stunning series — wave after wave pouring into me, thick ropes that make my mouth full and my cheeks slick and my hands tremble. I keep taking it, greedy now not for the thrill but for the honor of being the one who holds it. I feel the cup of him overflow into me and I am laughing through tears that my hands are helping to make.

He spasms, pulls slightly, and I follow with my throat, not stopping until he is spent. I am smiling, eyes wet, fingers sticky as I lift my face and press my lips to his as if to taste him again, to seal this moment in the book of us. I feel him slow, the twitch in his body calming, and during those last small leaks I lick them from my lips, letting each drip be a promise I keep.

When I look up at him fully, my face is painted with his release and I love it with a rush of triumph. I let my tongue spread a line of him across my cheek, across my lips, and I smile into the mess. You’re mine, my inner voice says softly. You can leave your heat on my skin whenever you want.

He pulls me into his arms and it’s gentle now, protective, and I press my forehead to his and breathe in the scent of us. The table has its memory — the wood warm under my legs, the faint wet track that is ours alone. I feel full, not just inside my mouth but with the knowing that I was chosen for this, that my worship was the vessel for his release.

Even as the last of him slows, my thoughts flicker to the small, perfect shame of being marked. I like that shame. I like that I can be angelic and dirty in the same heartbeat. I am both his Snowflake and his sinner, and I wear the proof around my mouth like a necklace. For a long time I stay on my knees, cleaning him with my lips and hands, savoring every memory, until the warmth on my face cools and we drift back toward softness.

He whispers something I can’t quite hear, and I whisper back in my head: Again. Anytime. This is how I worship, how I belong. My mouth is still tingling from the salt and the sweetness and the closeness of him, and I smile into the residue — proud, messy, and so very full.