Might I But Moor—Tonight—In Thee!

You say it, and you're half-laughing, but the laugh dies when he steps toward the couch and grabs you. His hand is on the back of your neck before you can finish your protest. His thumb presses into the spot just under your skull, right where your spine meets your head. It’s a pressure you know well. Your head tilts back automatically, a puppet on a string he loves to pull. Your phone clatters to the floor. You don't care.

He shoves his jeans down his thighs. And then it's out. It’s right there, inches from your mouth. The head is slick and dark, a drop of pre-cum shining in the lamplight. You look from it to his eyes. They’re dark, hungry.

His thumb presses harder. Your mouth falls open with a soft sigh.

He nudges forward. The tip of him presses against your lips, slick and warm. You don’t move. You just watch him, your heart kicking up a notch. He pushes a little more, parting your lips. You taste him. Salt and musk. His fingers tighten on your neck, not hard, just firm.

He pushes in.

Your throat clenches instantly and you start to gag, but he doesn't stop. He moves slow. So slow. Inching past your teeth, sliding over your tongue. His other hand comes up to cup your jaw, holding you steady. You can’t look away from his face. His eyes are half-closed, his own breath coming faster now.

He pulls back until just the head is inside your mouth, then pushes forward again. Deeper this time. The thick ridge of his cock hits the back of your throat and you buck against his hand. Tears prick your eyes. You can’t breathe anymore, your whole world narrowing down to this single, overwhelming sensation. The feeling of being filled. Stuffed. Used.

He sets the pace. A slow, punishing slide in and out. His hips rock with the movement. Your hands come up and paw at his thighs, gripping him. You need to hold onto something, and he's all there is.

He goes deeper.

Your whole body tenses. Your toes curl. He’s pushing past the point of comfort, pushing into that place that makes your brain short-circuit. You start to whine — high and thin. He groans, a low sound deep in his chest. That’s what he wanted. That sound.

"More."

He grips the back of your head with both hands now, fingers tangling in your hair, and fucking shoves.

No more slow slide. No more teasing. He bottoms out against the back of your throat. Your vision whites out at the edges. A choked, strangled noise is all you can make, a sound trapped behind the thick root of him. Your body arches off the couch, trying to escape, but his hands hold you fast. You are pinned.

He pulls back just enough for you to half-catch a breath before he slams into you again. And again. In. Out. In. Out. Fucking your face, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes your head rock back. Your jaw aches. Tears stream freely down your temples, soaking into your hair. A thick string of drool, mixed with his slickness, connects your chin to his shaft.

Your brain is gone. There are no thoughts. Just the relentless pounding. The pressure. The burn. The desperate, animal need for air. Your hands claw at his legs, your nails digging into his thighs. You’re just barely holding on.

"ghlk~mmph~nnngh—"

Oh, he liked that sound too. His pace gets faster, choppier. You feel the pulse at the base of his cock, a heavy throb against your tongue. You know what’s coming. Your eyes widen.

He drives in one last time, impossibly deep, and holds you there. His whole body goes rigid. His fingers tighten into fists in your hair, yanking your head forward onto him.

A hot, thick flood shoots down your throat. The first pump fills your mouth, but you rush to swallow it. Then the second. The third. It keeps coming. You can’t breathe. You can’t do anything but take it. Your throat muscles contract on their own, trying to swallow, trying to make room.

He stays buried inside you until the last pulse fades, his breath coming in ragged pants against your cheek. Then, slowly, he pulls out.

The air that rushes into your lungs burns. You collapse back against the couch cushions, coughing, sputtering. Your throat is raw, your face is a mess of tears and spit, and the taste of him coats your entire mouth.

You blink up at him. He’s still there, looking down on you. His cock is slick and glistening. He reaches out and wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.