John inserted the key into his front door as quietly as he could. He slipped inside, putting his laptop case down ever so gently, and closed his eyes for a moment. Oh, hello you! There she was, padding barefoot down the stairs. She did not come to him; she stopped three steps up, so that her womanly pubis was level with his mouth, so that he had to look up to her, almost look up her.
Today she had on a plain black cotton t-shirt and a plain black cotton miniskirt. He knew that under the skirt would be plain white cotton knickers. At the height she stood they were a hair’s breadth from being visible to him.
Sandra’s soft brown eyes looked at John. The urgent feminine greed he saw there unnerved him now as it did every evening when he returned home. Her lips were parted, her slim body faced his, her face was tilted down and her straight, shoulder length hair swung forward a little. There were no words, but her plea was loud and clear. Come upstairs with me now. Come up and give me what I need. Now. Right now.
In the bedroom Sandra undressed him with practiced and efficient grace. Short-sleeved shirt, tie. With submissive obedience he lifted each foot so she could remove his shoes, socks and trousers. She did not hurry, but he felt her anticipation, her delayed gratification. It had become a ritual of helplessness for him, each step taking away the need for him to participate, each devotional act confirming his passive role. She knelt before him and slowly pulled down his briefs. He was already made hard by the anticipation of his wife’s attentions and their inevitable outcome. Now he stood naked and erect. Utterly submissive.
As part of her ceremonial preparation Sandra washed John’s genitals. She used a soft flannel soaked in cool water with a dash of lemon-scented bath oil. He knew she had learned to take her time because any sense of pressure or urgency would reduce his output. He knew that from this point and for the next few hours her sole aim was to make him come as many time as he was able, and for each pulsing orgasm to produce as much semen as possible. Their physical relationship had turned from something sexual and mutual into something parasitic. No, not parasitic, because parasites took from their hosts and gave nothing back. This was symbiosis. She took his creamy fluid, all he could manage, and in return she gave him orgasms, through the evening and into the night, leaving him in a state of dizzy, throbbing exhaustion that had become addictive for him.
At first, as he realised what was happening to them, John had tried to turn the ceremony back to what had been before, something more normal. He would reach for her knickers, roll over on top of her, kiss her nipples. But each time, with beautiful, gentle authority, she guided him back to her path, led him to her needs. And, oh, how he would succumb. Succumb. It was the perfect word for what he did. He was sucked; he would come. She would suck, until he came again. Suck. Come. Suck. Come.
When he asked her why, she told him it was what she wanted. When he wondered if it was what he wanted his throbbing, aching member betrayed him, playing stupid, helpless slave to the mastery of her cunning lips. A masculine glimmer of rebellion flashed through him, as it often did at this stage, just before the relentless sucking started. He had the impulse to kneel down, pull her up to her feet, hold her, kiss her, undress her, fuck with her. With. Together. But she always seemed to sense this moment and her soothing, teasing massage would slow and intensify, stroking away his impulse and his will.
His role was to be sucked. At this moment it was what he wanted too. As he relaxed he could feel his cock harden even more, and his moment of uncertainty would melt away under Sandra’s cool, wet rubbing and his own surging need for release. He lay back on the bed with his breath catching in his throat. She tied his wrists to the bedhead. She had learned that this excited him, increased his capacity. She lay down next to him smiling and looked lovingly at him. Was it love? He let this final flit of worry dance into the shadows and closed his eyes. He was strong and fit, but he needed to save all his athletic prowess for what was to come. He felt her hair brush lightly but deliciously over his thighs. Her delicate fingers closed around his bulging cock and began to slide his foreskin back and forth in slow, gentle strokes.
In the six months since the sucking had first started John had gone through several stages of wonder and disbelief at how good Sandra had become at doing the things she did to him. All his previous experience of being masturbated by a woman, including her, was a mix of pain and dissatisfaction. They would push down too hard on his foreskin, hold his cock too low down, go too fast, squeeze too hard, keep changing hands. The worst times were when they stopped stroking, as if caught by surprise at his ejaculation.
But driven by her need to express and taste his fluid, Sandra had learned well. Her fingers curled around his cock an inch from his tip, sliding his foreskin slowly back and forth over the helmet of his penis. She did not push it down all the way, her strokes were just long enough to stretch his sliding skin over the base of his helmet and then back up almost, but not quite, to his tip. She started with thumb and forefinger curled around his hot shaft, a gentle but insistent rhythm, two or three strokes a second.
He knew she would not stop or vary this perfect, delicious motion until she made him come. The certainty of her relentless stroking allowed him to slip into semi-consciousness. As he surrendered carelessly into erotic catatonia his breathing slowed. The bed bounced softly as her hand worked its up and down magic on his rock hard shaft. He was getting close now, his breaths deepening, and he felt that lovely, involuntary physical sensation of fluid flowing in his balls, moving, filling tubes and pipes, waiting to explode out of his body and into her sweet, sweet mouth. He felt her lips close gently around his tip and, without disturbing the slow, pistoning rhythm of her hand, they began to suck him. He knew that she spent a lot of her day at home working out, strengthening her muscles and her breathing while she waited eagerly for his return.
Each time now it felt that her sucking was becoming more intense. Tonight it was almost too much and he gasped as he felt the force of her oral suction on the end of his cock, as if she was going to suck him inside out. Her hot saliva lubricated his throbbing tip, ensuring a perfect suction seal that was so strong he could feel the end of his penis expand inside her mouth and sense the blood being pulled into his shaft making it even harder and longer. It was erotically primitive, this sense of something, someone, her, her mouth, wanting, needing, demanding, sucking, feeding, pulling, drawing his fluids out of him and into her. Her tongue caressed his bulging helmet inside her hot, wet mouth and he succumbed. Completely. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Thick, hot gouts, spurting, squirting deep into her, trying to fulfil, trying to sate. Great pulses of pleasure coursed through his loins, surging more and more of his creaminess up his throbbing shaft and discharging it over her honey sweet tongue, into her eager, swallowing throat. He came and came, gave her everything he had. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck! When will it stop?
He was panting, sucking in great gulps of air. His head was spinning and his vision sparkled as the world seemed to tip and sway with the shuddering intensity of his endless climax. As his euphoric insanity cleared he sensed her final savouring and swallowing of him, heard her sigh, felt her lips open and move down his still pulsing cock, sucking and licking, slowly and firmly, making sure they did not lose a single drop. She too was breathing hard, giving little shivers of delight against him. It felt like a deeper need, beyond sex. He didn’t want to understand it. Perhaps she didn’t either. But she indulged herself in that need, submerged herself in it totally, and she was pulling him in with her.
Sandra left John for a few minutes. When she came back she had a glass of orange juice and a bowl of yoghurt. She did not untie his hands. Instead she help the glass to his lips and then fed him with a spoon. He drank and ate everything. It reinforced his obedient submission. It occurred to him that apart from her greeting when he had arrived from work, the only words uttered between them were his vocal ejaculations as he came. He opened his mouth, as if to attempt conversation. Several times he had wanted to ask if she put something in the drink, something that helped him come so many times. But this too now seemed unimportant. What mattered was how many times. He swallowed his final mouthful and she leaned forward to kissed his lips, leaving a wasteful glaze of his semen on them. Her big brown eyes looked into his and he gave her what she was seeking, total acceptance of her need, total surrender to her ordeal by oral sex. Yes, he was ready for her.
Without a word she climbed over him and faced down the bed so that her knees were either side of his head, resting against his shoulders. He looked up her short skirt at her white knickers. They were a few inches from his mouth. He wanted to reach up and kiss them but his hands were tied and he knew he had to remain still and passive. Only when she sensed his complete calm would she open her knees and let her hot gusset press against his mouth. It was another discovery, his powerful sexual response to being smothered by her panties. Through weeks of learning they had found that simple, white cotton worked best. Simple white cotton always made him come again. Her hot, cotton covered sex pressed against his open mouth and his nose. He had to strain to breathe and each struggling inhalation drew into him the sense and the spicy smell of her gently squirming vagina. His questing, tasting tongue rasped against the hot dryness of the fabric, moistening, oiling, so he could better feel the outline of her vulva as it rocked across his mouth.
He was helplessly erect. Again he felt her hair brush against his thighs and again he gasped as her mouth slid slowly over his helmet enclosing it in her wet, irresistible vacuum which only he could fill. Her hand was already pumping his hard shaft, gliding up and down with exquisite relentlessness. He opened his legs and, at this invitation, she moved her other hand which now clasped his testicles and began a gentle, pulsing squeezing. It was an erotically merciless interrogation that always produced his liquid confession; the only question was when.
Now. Oh. Now. I confess. And it hurts, it hurts. His loins thrust up towards her as his fluid jetted into her mouth once more. His aching muscles spasmed with waves of joy and release. His cries of agonised fulfilment were muffled under her genital gag. He strained to take huge, smothered intakes of breath that were laden with the hot smell of her sex. He was blacking out as the final, desperate gouts of his semen left him for her. The cocktail surge of depleted oxygen, ecstasy and pain drained him of his feeling of self. Who was he? He didn’t care. He didn’t even know.
Slowly he recovered. Hormones of arousal bubbled in his blood and the euphoria of such intense release simplified his reality. He was to be sucked. He wanted to be sucked. She must suck him again. Now she took her panties off and, with the same waiting for his breathing to slow, the same patience, she lowered herself onto his mouth again. A third arousal so soon after orgasm might be painful which is why she kept the lubricant in the fridge. He felt soothing coldness squirt over his hot, throbbing penis. Eased by the cool, slippery jelly, her hand moved differently, sliding up and down the full length of his exhausted cock. The intense taste of her womanhood sliding over his mouth together with the inevitability of her interrogating hands forced his response. He hardened slowly, but she knew how to rebuild his resolution. Cold jelly squirted against him again. It was so soothing and lovely, allowing her hand to move up and down faster and faster, making her body bounce and thrust against his mouth. His tongue twirled inside her, tasting her juices as she too became aroused. Now he needed to sense her excitement in order to give her the answer she needed. Now she started to come, great sobbing cries of joy as his tongue licked and curled against her pulsing, shivering clitoris.
Afterwards, if he remembered, he might wonder how she had become so multi-orgasmic, for this was new as well. In the old days she would lose interest after the first one. Now she was insatiable. Or had she learned that this was the best way to make him produce another orgasm so quickly? Was she faking it just to get what she needed from him? But increasingly he did not remember or wonder. Increasingly she was reducing him to a state of emptied fulfilment that left no desire or space for thought.
Her wet, thrusting vagina smothered him, filling him with another divine cocktail of panic and arousal. Again he felt her lips close over him. Again he felt her suck, harder still this time, the vacuum so strong he could feel it forcing the fluid out of his balls. Again he climaxed, her lips clamped round him and accepting his gouting discharge into her mouth as if she was part of his cock, as if her whole being was a sucking, swallowing extension of his sexuality. Now it felt right, the inevitability of her need and what it meant to them, to him. Now he felt himself being immersed in her obsession, floating away in it, carried by her along a river of orgasmic oblivion that had no end.
Sandra left John a little longer this time. When she returned she had her iPod and some electric toys that she would use on him to ensure his complete emptying. She slipped the headphones onto him and saw a new look in his eyes. There was wonder. There was love mixed with confusion. He felt as if she was gradually sucking him away, swallowing his masculinity, his very meaning. He looked at her beautiful mouth. Her lips were full and soft, inviting him to come inside. Again and again. To perform his role. To be sucked. To feed her mouth with his body. His cock jerked upright as if woken from a dream, as if it was disconnected from him; leaving him so it could spend the rest of its life inside her warm, nurturing mouth, carrying out its own selfish purpose of taking his ever diminishing essence and delivering it into her hot, sucking desire. He felt a final surge of fear, as of a man who realises he is becoming insane, just before the madness steals him away.
There, there. She kissed him lightly on the lips. Her reassurance was wordless. Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you; I only want one thing from you. That’s all I want. And it’s all you want too. Shhh. The stroking and buzzing and sucking went on for hours. At some point deep in the night he whispered hoarsely that he could not come any more. But, as they always did, her clever lips found a way, sucked a little harder. Until he was gone.