This.. Face fuck. Love it

There’s a big difference between blow jobs and face fucking. A blow job can be calm or active – hard and wet and sloppy, with quick strokes, spit and choking. Or it can be gentle – soft and teasing. My tongue on his cock, stroking delicate tremors along it until he’s practically whimpering with a need to have it harder.

A face fuck, on the other hand, isn’t done gently. The whole point is excess: him filling my mouth just as much as he can, and then a tiny bit more for good measure. Me sucking down on him greedily, uncontrollably.

Not all I can eat, but all I will.

It’s the willfulness that makes me hot. His deliberate, hard strokes as he pushes my head against the back of the sofa. I’m not sucking his dick, I’m being fucked. Barely holding myself together as I splutter and gag and angle myself just right to take him all the way down to the base. To feel the head of his swollen cock thumping against the back of my throat.

Face fucking. Not a blow job. Not doing something, but having it deliberately and precisely done to me.

The back of my head squashes hard against the sofa cushions as he positions himself to get further in. One knee up for purchase, the other foot on the floor for balance, he pushes in deeper and harder. Thirty seconds of swift, rapid fucking then a pause. He pulls his cock out and streams of saliva trace a path from the head to my gaping, choking mouth.

“OK?” he asks. And I can’t speak so I nod – a quick one before he plunges back in. Faster now. Harder. I know which angle gets the best sensations, because he’s found it now and I can feel the ridges of the head of his dick catching the roof of my mouth. I try to take it smoothly – to hold my tongue tight and slick against the underside of him as he fucks in and out. It’s not easy. OK, it’s not possible – but I try.

Because – and I should state in case it’s not clear enough already – being this kind of fucktoy is one of my favourite things.

Watching him get the look that says he wants to fuck something and knowing that – more often than not – that something will be me. It gives me more than shivers – it gives me pains. Longing, aching, cunt-moistening agony.

I love being active – taking control and playing with him, or fucking him in a way that’s just for me. But sometimes I like to be passive. Like a rag doll. Like a hole. Like I’m not even fully there. As if he’s simply jerking off, and I’m the handy aid with which he can reach the climax.

I couldn’t do it with anyone else – not properly. Sometimes I wish I could fuck a stranger. I feel like their ‘look’ would give me that gutpunch of helpless desire even harder than the guy I know so well. The darkness. The uncertainty. The thrill as he gives in to his need to get his cock wet.

But I’m wrong, of course. Because what makes face-fucking the best with this guy is that he knows every twitch and movement. His wilfulness – his desire to pump jizz hard into the back of my throat – comes hand in hand with a desire to know that every thud of his crotch meeting my lips, every hard stroke of his cock as he fucks my face, prompts a simultaneous pulse deep in the crotch of my knickers.

He didn’t come in my mouth that day. He grabbed my wrists and held them above my head as he fucked my face good and hard. I choked and gagged and swallowed with each fat thud of his dick. But as it happens, at the end, he switched up. Pulled his wet cock out of my mouth and ordered me to bend over, so he could finish himself in the tight folds of my cunt. I was so hot by the time I bent over that the pulse of his dick inside me felt like the only way to end – I couldn’t understand why it hadn’t occurred to me earlier.

That’s what’s so good about his dominant, horny, fuck-like-I’m-wanking attitude. Why his look gives me shivers like no other: because he knows what he wants and he’ll take it, but we both want the same kind of fuck.