He fucked my face that way, using it like a cored melon or a pillow, for what seemed like hours. He took it slow, pleasuring himself, as if he were alone in his room masturbating. In and out of my throat, with slow luxurious strokes. Then bursts of violence—pushing my face into his groin, flattening my nose against his steel-hard belly, grinding deep and hard, making my throat convulse and ripple around his shaft. Juices ran from my stuffed mouth until his lap was slick with spittle and pre-cum.

My mind settled into a profound calm. I was aware, alert. But there was a sensation of timelessness, disembodiment. I was outside any normal dimension, as if, freed from breath, freed from my body, I was beyond panic or pain.

He coaxed me through clenched teeth, his voice low, his mammoth chest heaving so I knew he was close. “It feels good down your throat, doesn’t it, Bill? My cock in your mouth. What you really wanted from me, what you need. To have your throat crammed with meat. You’re a born cocksucker, Bill.” He would get close that way—I could feel his cock spurting pre-cum—then pull me off till I held only the head. Hold off, catch his breath. And start over again. Until my jaw hung open like a broken hinge. Until his surging tube of meat felt a part of me, and I couldn’t tell where my throat ended and his thick shaft began.

He got close again. Pulled my mouth off his cock. Held my head up by a fist in my hair, his other fist around his cock. The shaft glistened in the candlelight beneath a thick glaze of spit. He stroked himself haltingly. His hips bucked gently. On the brink.

His eyes were almost closed. The pupils flashed like sparks between the long, dark lashes.

“I’m gonna come now, Bill. Yeah.” He hissed with pleasure. “My cock is gonna shoot. You want it in your mouth? Sure you do. The big bad leather boy wants my come in his mouth. Then beg for it, Bill. Beg me to shoot it down your fucking throat.”

I tried. My lips couldn’t even shape the words. I flexed my jaw, twisted my tongue, and curled my lips like a spastic. There was no sound except the hollow gurgling of the mucus in my throat.

Michael cried out and pushed my face onto it, down to the base. It jerked in my throat like a startled snake. His fingers bit into the base of my skull like pincers. A wild animal roar filled the darkness. I instinctively tried to swallow as the pumping started. His come clogged my throat, backflushed into my mouth. It tasted bitter and strong.

He held me down on his pulsing meat for a long time. No need to pull out. I didn’t need to come up for air.