How does it feel?

-How does it feel?

Splutter, mumble, jaw stretched, mouth full; words can’t do justice to sensation. It’s a dilemma; where there is room to articulate, freedom of lips, tongue, breath; the answer must be not enough.

-I can’t hear you. Answer the question. How does this feel?

He pushes an increment deeper, cock-head twitching against the back of my throat.

-Nnngggggnnnuggghhh, I say, which is shorthand for; I can barely breathe, my jaws are beginning to ache, any moment now my gag reflex is going to kick in, I feel captured and pinned and raided and subservient and and oh my god, it’s fucking glorious, don’t stop don’t stop, please, I love it.

And he starts to thrust; jabbing at my face with short, urgent strokes as he clings to the back of my skull and his breath whistles in and out through his clenched teeth; syncopated backbeat to the smacking squelch of my drool-slick lips sliding back and forth over his hilt.

-Good, he says, ahhhh, so good; and I don’t know whether he’s talking about my wordless enthusiasm or the slippery press of my throat muscles around his glans, maybe both, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s all fucking magnificent; friction and constriction slathered with mouth-watering, eye-watering lust, served strong; hot and greedy.

Receptacle sings my mind, abdication, submission, adoration, head-fucked, breathless, filled with, fulfilled.

Like happiness, only fiercer. Like burning, only sweeter. Like unholy communion, dirty and impure and delicious, guilt-free glory.