I don’t know.

I can’t explain it.

Maybe it’s one of those primitive urges, y’know?

A Neanderthal-derived instinct.

Something to be studied by nerds far smarter and accomplished than me.

All I know is that sometimes–nah, more like often--when I see you, you know, when I really take a second to appreciate you, I just can’t help thinking about how much I’d love for you to be on your knees. Right there, in your sweat shorts and worn, vintage tee, knees rubbing against the shag carpet. Do I enjoy it when you suck me? Not just suck me but fucking engulf me? Obviously. And what about when I find that little piece of heaven between your thighs? Duh. But those are essays for another time.

There’s just something so right about pulling out my cock and stroking it while you look on diligently, patiently, like such a good girl. Hands folded in your lap. Eyes watching me attentively, waiting for any instruction. Always ready to act, no questions asked, with a perfectly delivered, “Yes, Sir.”

And I like that, sweetheart, I really do. But sometimes I just want you to sit there and wait. Look pretty. Bite your bottom lip and flutter your eyelids and whine the way only you do. Dig your nails into your thighs because you want it that bad. Want to grab the base of my shaft and stroke it yourself–instead of watching and waiting as I slide my long fingers back and forth. But you study me, don’t you? Try to ascertain what I like. How firmly I hold my thick cock. How fast–or slow–I go. What I look like when I’m about to cum.

Sometimes I thump it against your cheeks. Maybe you wanna say something to tease me–“wouldn’t it look better pressed against them from the inside?”--but you hold it in, take what I give you. And if that’s a face full of mushroom shaped red marks, then you’re game–because you’re a good fucking girl.

Sometimes you don’t even get that. You don’t feel a thing until that first, sticky strand of slowly sinking precum finally lands on your upper-lip. You’ll lick it up. Tease me. Ask for more. In your mouth. All the fucking way. Past your uvula. Make you fucking sample–in detail–every last inch.

Keep it up.

Tell me what you want. What you’ll do. It only makes me harder. I’ll fucking stroke it while you’re batting your eyes like such a cute little thing. You’ll get a little bold: ask, “Can I at least rub my pussy?”

No. Fucking sit there and wait.

You wanna beg?

Then beg for my cum.

Open your mouth. Stick your tongue out. Wait for that first, thick rope to hit your tastebuds. That salty, metallic taste you’ve grown so accustomed to. My cock, still pulsing, throbbing, convulsing, against your cheek, your forehead, the bridge of your nose. Finally, hands around the back of your neck, holding you against me, balls pressing against your lips. Then, those words that always come, always some variation of the same command, “Lick me clean.”

And, god, do you ever. Suck it deep. All the way. Coat me in spit and then make it disappear. Hold it in your mouth while your eyes search mine. Wait for it…Wait for it…

Good girl.

Now you can touch yourself.