Magic Comfort Lollipop
It started as a joke – humourous reassurance delivered between sobs, a verbal shorthand for I’m okay, I’m good; oh god that really fucking hurt; I loved it, I love you; I want you so much it aches more than the welts you just inflicted; please let me demonstrate my deep appreciation; a litany which I was wholly incapable of articulating at the time. I don’t recall which particular implement it was that broke me – maybe the arm-length misery stick, possibly a cane – but several sharp blows from whatever evil thing it was, in quick succession across the backs of my thighs tipped me over the edge from shrieks and gasps into a waterfall of tears.
Though the sight of me crying never fails to make him hard and full of want, his first priority is my welfare – he held me tight, told me all the things I need to hear; how brave and beautiful I am, how much I pleased him, that he’s here, he’s got me, I’m safe and loved. What do you need? he asked.
I’m not very good at getting words out when there are big feelings in the way.
“…magic comfort lollipop?”
Because what I needed right then was to cram my mouth full of his hot, hard cock, suck on it like I’m drowning and it’s an oxygen-giving lifeline. I needed his hands in my hair, holding me tight and close as he drove deep. I needed the sense of intimacy and fulfilment that having my face so full I can’t breathe brings me. Also, his is delicious.
Fortuitously, he obliged; fucking my mouth with hard, commanding strokes until I gagged and choked, pulling back now and again for just long enough to allow me to catch my breath, until my jaw muscles were aching and my cunt even more so. It felt so good.
…
And then there was that time when a slight miscommunication between us at a particularly vulnerable moment gave me the head-wobbles and caused me to cry over an imagined rebuke. Talking it out between us got my head on straight again, but it wasn’t until he jestingly proferred the “magic comfort lollipop” and I’d accepted with eager gratitude, that my mood caught up with my reasoned conclusions. Happiness is a wide-open mouth, a busy tongue, a fought-down gag reflex. It’s a face full of good hard cock, it’s a big beaming smile of pride and joy with hot spunk drooling from the corners.
I have a theory about my oral fixation being a form of autistic stimming, which totally tracks. I don’t feel like I need any justification for my love of sucking dick, but knowing the why of things is its own satisfaction.
So as turns out; giving head has a remarkably cheering effect on my disposition. Magic comfort lollipop is actually a thing.