His fingers tease expertly at my neck’s nape. Fixing me in position, urging me onwards as, head in his lap, I suckle hungrily on the expanding popsicle nestling in my mouth.
My tongue swirls about his thick-veined muscle; foreskin withdrawn, smooth dome pressing insistently. I gurgle and splutter; dribble flecks decorating my wide pulled lips. His fingers tighten their controlling grip, guiding my bobbing head for his delight.
I feel his surging tension, absorb his sharp intake of breath and await his explosion.
“I’ve cancelled the TV subscriptions.”
I cry salty tears as his brackish essence deluges my throat.
