It was a day quite heavy in “almost good enough.”
It was our special Saturday, so let’s get up at 7 AM and go for an early run. Easy as cake, right? Of course, you had to roll out of bed at 7:03. Oh so close. We planned to get going by 8, but you took long enough getting into workout clothes that we couldn’t even leave until 8:05. Alright, fine, still close.
But after making the loop 6 miles around our neighborhood, you decided it would be a good day not to keep up, and I lost you somewhere near the end. You showed up 2 minutes after your goal time, making me wait for you before hitting the showers.
You apologized for all three of these shortcomings, but I found that inadequate. Better than apologizing for falling short is to _not fall short in the first place_. I could offer grace for one or two mistakes, but three pushed me to a place where I couldn’t forgive. Sweaty and disgusting you might be, you’re still not getting a shower. I have you kneel in front of the shower while I clean off, your sweat-soaked clothes chilling your skin and making you shiver. I’m positively buoyant throughout, enjoying the hot water and whistling a happy tune. I don’t take long to wash myself off, feeling clean and refreshed. I shut off the water and open the door to step out.
Grabbing a towel to dry off, I step in front of you. You’re kneeling down, eyes open, and facing the ground. I don’t like the lack of eye contact. “Eyes,” I say as I watch your gaze draw to meet me. You look guilty in your eyes, and I’m sure you feel guilty in your head.
“Why did you fuck that up?” I ask you as I drop my towel to the side. You anxious, almost weepy, but muster a direct enough response: “I don’t have any reason. I just fucked-” I load up and shoot a wad of spit at your face, which lands directly above your eye. You’re composed (and wise) enough not to break stride in your speech. “-up. No excuses,” you finish.
“How do you think that makes me feel?” I ask. As I speak, my cock begins to extend itself. I have an intense glare on my face, but you stay locked into my eyes and undistracted.
“Disappointed,” you say. “But not surprised,” I finish.
“Sir…” you say as you gaze up at me. “Can I… can I please make it up to you? Make you feel good, even if you’re disappointed?”
I nod, sighing slightly. Even as my cock hardens to full mast, I’m not displaying much by way of a smile. You lean yourself forward, still kneeling in your soggy clothes, then take my head into your mouth, gripping the base.
You’d always told me that you were apprehensive about giving oral. That guys in the past have given you negative feedback about your skills, or lack thereof. That’s why I find myself surprised at your move in this direction. Considering your recent record of underperformance, why try something that requires such… individual talent? I suppose you’re earning points for being forward and brave. But forwardness and bravery mean little without the ability to back oneself up.
“Don’t put your hands on my cock,” I tell you as my head hardens in your mouth, leaking precum just a bit. “Keep them behind your back.” You nod, looking up at me and giving me that trying-to-be-sexy-while-sucking-a-dick look (the one that inevitably just makes you look like a zombie). You take your hands from the base of my cock and plant them firmly behind your back. As you train your gaze forward and make your way slowly but surely onto the rest of my shaft, your face gets a look of *what the fuck am I getting myself into*? Another wad of spit makes its way down, this time to your forehead. You muster a smile.
I made an initial bet with myself that you’d be able to get just over half of my 7″ length into your mouth before your gag reflex would have you reeling back. I don’t have a ruler on-hand to confirm, but based on a glance at where you first let out a loud *HNNNK* and pull back, I’d call my bet pretty spot on. I look down at you, unimpressed. “I hope that’s not as much as you’re going to offer me,” I flatly tell you. You shake your head and mumble “no,” drool making its way from your chin. “Then use your mouth for what it’s for, whore,” I glare. You take another dive back on.
The second try is certainly an improvement. You get your mouth down almost to the balls, and I can feel your tongue make its way forward, but… the feeling of teeth rubbing against the base of my shaft bristles me. Almost purely out of instinct, I reach down and offer a clean *SMACK* to your face, forcing you to pull back. I don’t allow it, grabbing the back of your hair and yanking you back forward. “Don’t _ever_ fucking use your teeth on me like that, do you understand? That’s not the part of your mouth I’m interested in. Try again.” I can see you on the verge of tears. But you still give it the old college try, moving your mouth forward and taking in my length.
Another bit of pressure from your teeth, and now I’m just plain furious. I offer you a slap that would daze a pro boxer, keeping hold of your hair as I bark at you. “WHY IS THIS SO HARD FOR YOU TO UNDERSTAND?” I yell as I watch tears start to stream down your face, mixing in with the snot already running down past your nostrils. “Suck. The. Whole. Dick. And don’t even use a hint of your fucking teeth. It’s not hard.” You mumble out a garbled “Srrryh, srrryh, srrryh,” almost panicking in your inability to get out a thought more complicated than an apology – but I’m not having it. “I won’t accept an apology, but I’ll accept you doing your fucking job.”
You give a stern, resigned nod. What’s unsaid is that even as you’re tearing up, taking loud orders and admonishments barked in your face as you gag on a dick, you’re still playing with your sweaty pussy and enjoying the fact that I actually give a shit about your performance. Back on it you go.
This time, I can tell you’re paying close attention to your form. You work yourself on it slowly, hands free, tongue out and forward. You close your eyes to fight against the gag reflex and continue forward, forward, forward. Shaking a bit as you try to work my head close to where your throat can successfully take it. After what must have felt like an eternity for you, but all of about 9 or 10 seconds on the actual clock, I feel your tongue connect with my balls.
“Hold. Hold. Hold,” I tell you as I quickly take my hand and grip the back of your hair, keeping you pressed on it. “Let’s count together.” Your eyes open with a flash of panic. We hadn’t talked about you holding your throat, nor for how long. After getting my grip on the back of your hair, keeping your tongue contacting with the base of my balls, I find a number to open our countdown with. “6… 5…”
Each number thereafter provides something interesting and unique to watch: Getting to 4, you start letting out pronounced, rough gags, which rumble on the head of my cock, which you end up inhaling as you struggle to contain yourself.
Getting to 3, you start to pull away, at times with a lot of strength, forcing me to use my grip to keep you locked in. Your eyes look wide as the Pacific and bloodshot as the aftermath of a crime scene. Your panicked eyes convey a fear that you might actually asphyxiate this way, and I have to keep all of my strength trained on the back of your head as you push back.
Getting to 2 prompts you to break our “hands behind back” rule, as you swing your hands forward, one of them exiting the pussy you were playing with. You clench your fists and start to punch the tops of my thighs. These blows feel rough as the treatment I’m giving your mouth. But it’s not going to help you one bit – our safe action was always a tap to the _calves_ or _stomach_, not the thighs. Perhaps you just forgot that, perhaps you’re trying to vent some of the emotions you’re going through in these long, difficult seconds. But I’m not letting go. My hand continues to hold firm on the back of your head.
I’m taking a generous amount of time between each one of these counts, of course.
1 is where your eyes literally start rolling back up into the back of your head, not even able to summon the energy to swing for my thighs, and your energy starts to fade. At this point a steady stream of spit has been making its way down my balls and taint, and I’m as much a spectator of this – seeing if you can make it over the finish line.
I let you go at zero. I somewhat expected a hard, immediate pullback from your assumed position, and I _might_ have gotten that at 3 or 2. But by the time the count was over, just about every drop of resistance had been drained from you. You sink back and flop over, pulling your arms back to buffer your fall. You let out a series of loud coughs, catching your breath after maybe 5 or 10 seconds. Waves of white flush over your face and then quickly recede.
Standing over you, still hard, I watch as you start to come to. Once your voice returns, you offer a rather pointed take, wiping away a patch of drool from under your chin. “I could have passed out.” Your voice emits a certain gravelly quality as you look up at me. “Would we have been able to get to what I was looking for quicker if you’d just been passed out the entire time?” I snap back. You offer a disapproving smirk in response.
The rest of the blowjob continues in a relatively undramatic fashion: You’re able to get yourself deep several times more (I suppose it’s easy after you’ve had to hold it for 5 seconds). You reach back into your sweaty pants and play with yourself further, and I take the lead role in pumping your face, deep and hard, getting you to let out several more gags as you struggle to consistently take me. But it’s more than enough to put more over the edge, as I let out a loud “fuck!” while I take a particularly deep excursion past your uvula. Pulling myself back, I let my load out as a gift to your mouth. It feels fantastic for me. I cap it off with a well-earned “thank you” to you. I still don’t permit you to shower, but I do permit you a change of clothes. We go upstairs to cuddle and watch TV.
And, at the end of the day, you managed to be good enough. Considering where we started today, that’s a resounding success, right?
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