Deepthroat

These days, while trying to make myself come, I’ve been able to push myself over the edge only when letting out his name. It feels strange, misplaced, to let the name of a guy you barely know spill out of you. I penetrate my mouth with my fingers then tighten my hand around my throat as I do so and imagine it’s his. My breath quickens and I feel something far inside me loudly pulse as I let the vibrations on my helpless pussy speed up. With my eyes closed like this, I can nearly feel the weight of his body on top of mine again. I imagine my face finding a safe haven in the nook of his neck as I whimper louder and my nails claw deeper into his freckled back. 

“You make me feel so good,” I croon into his skin, unsure if my sisters can hear me through the thin walls but too taken by the fantasy to consider the consequences.

A feeling I can’t wholly articulate led me to go about things differently that night. I never dress up for first dates but I’d worn a thin powder blue silk slip that night, knowing it drives men up the wall, the way the fabric delicately clings to my hips, small breasts, bare nipples. The outline of my underwear just visible enough to invite a closer, more roaming glance from them. It was raining that evening, the warm and noisy kind that slicks the sidewalks with running shades of reds and purples, and I felt like a girl again, taking my time to match something as silly as my umbrella to the rest of me. 

I’d been feeling more and more disappointed and worn out by dates during the eight months since my breakup. It had taken me nearly a year since the end of things to cut him out of me, and even now, I still feel sharp hurt at the mention of his name. Once I was finally able to step out of love for him, I started to see what took place between us so differently. I’d realized he’d taken advantage of my trust and openness more than once, felt entitled to my body in a way that made me sick to my stomach, convinced me that things weren’t working between us because I was selfish for wanting to dress and write and spend my time the way I wanted, that my friends and family didn’t tell me the hard truth about myself like he did, and that no other man could love me like him. 

I’d swallowed and buried all the bad feelings back then because I’d wanted so badly to prove I could find a way to keep things together if I just tried a little harder. It was hard to let go. It was even harder when I’d bumped into him and his new girlfriend, when it dawned on me how easy letting go had been for him. But the hardest part? Going on first date after first date and not stumbling on anything that feels meaningful and extraordinary and lasting. I’ve lost count of how many drinks I’ve shared over a routine rehearsal of lines, how many strangers I’ve kissed at the end of the night never to be seen or heard from again. 

That’s why when I arrived at the bar, time seemed to arrestingly slow as he walked up to me, and I could sense in the marrow of my bones that something about the way things would unfold between us was going to be different. He leaned in to kiss my cheek and his clean, smoky scent was enough to send a wave of goosebumps down the inside of my thighs. At six foot one with a broad chest and wide shoulders, he towered over my small, five foot six frame. He’s only three years older than me but with his dark chest hair peeking out of the unbuttoned opening of his shirt and well-groomed thick facial hair, I suddenly felt less like a woman and more like a girl beside a grown man. I felt a nervous heat rise to my cheeks at the simple necessity of having to lift my chin to look up at him, already sensing or hoping I’d be obediently, eagerly, on my knees for him later. 

“Nice to meet you, stranger from Hinge,” he makes known his subtly French accent and smirks. 

He has a provocative but well-meaning appetite for subverting expectation. It leaves me high and giddy with excitement, feeling like I’ve discovered something I’d been longing for but had been losing faith was out there for me to find. Used to being the one more often than not to catch others off guard with overly blunt and probing questions, I fail to bite back a huge, goofy grin when only a few questions in, he leans in closer and asks me about my strangest sexual fantasies. A question that can easily come across as violating from a man you just met, and yet his soft eyes, precise control over his warm charm, and astute self-awareness of its allure makes his audaciousness all the more electrifying. “We’re going to get along very well,” he notes when I explain to him how nervous I can get, how badly I like being taken charge of and ordered around by someone who knows better, how much more pleasure I derive from giving than receiving. 

Nothing about our conversation mirrors any of the dates I’ve been on. We flow from one subject to the next with comfort and fluency as though we’ve known each other for years and are merely picking up where we left off. 

“So you’re intense,” he observes aloud, refusing to break eye contact all through the night, when I tell him about the all-consuming feelings I’d had for my ex-boyfriend.

Unfazed by my out of proportion-ness, he acknowledges it with a surprising tone of respect. There are few things I find sexier in a man than him not being afraid of my intensity. Sometime along the way, his hands, large and deliciously rough, find their way underneath the table and start stroking my naked legs up and down with his calloused thumb.

By the time we leave the bar, I’m so wonderfully warm—strung out on the charged energy between us, the couple of drinks, the feeling of his hands roaming my bare legs so freely, the thrill of disclosing our most private sexual thoughts to one another and the noise of the bar melting away. 

Suddenly, as we’re standing on the wet sidewalk, he’s towering over me as he grabs hold of my face with both hands and looks down at me. I can tell he’s endeared and turned on by how wide-eyed and unreservedly, generously submissive I’m being. While I usually find myself more guarded, possessive of how much control I’m willing to give up, with him I feel like open water. When I’m with him, all of my grown-up, guarded bits seem to retreat and I feel like a small child again— uninhibited and trusting and taken care of. 

“Can I give you just a little kiss?” he grins an arrogant smile, already certain no part of me holds the willpower to deny him. 

Strangely, it makes me feel more emboldened to lay all my cards on the table, surrendering control to him. He kisses me and the urgent longing with which we explore each other’s mouths leaves us both breathless as we pull away. I can tell he’s taken aback by how fucking good of a kiss it is and feel myself swell with a smug, beaming sense of accomplishment. 

We had entertained banter about how we won’t have sex with one another tonight, it being our first date, but right there and then he asks to take me home and I let him. When we get to his apartment, I ask to take a shower and when I’m done, I find him asleep. He looks so different while sleeping, his features so unarmed and curls disheveled. As I climb under the sheets, I feel him rouse beside me in the dark and am surprised to feel his arms wrapping around me and bringing me into his chest. He squeezes his firm biceps tighter around me and kisses the top of my hair. The proximity of our bodies to one another must have been enough to wake him because all of a sudden I feel him asserting himself on top of me and his kisses grow richer, more domineering. The way he grips my head with one hand while the other roughly runs through my hair is already enough for an unplanned, yearning moan to escape me. I must sound starved and he must love it because his hips begin pressing and rolling into mine and I feel the outline of his cock swell and harden. His hand finds the inside of my leg, and he raises it higher with an intoxicating forcefulness to open me up wider. He takes his fingers and begins ever so lightly grazing the softness of my inner thigh, helping me center myself in the sensation of how good his touch feels before getting close to my pussy. 

I’m already so afloat and enraptured by how completely, patiently he’s melting me down. For the first time in my life, there’s no noise in my head, and every single one of my nerves feels wired by his. I’ve never felt so present in my body and I’m already squirming restlessly underneath him, being driven absolutely nuts by his hands and his scent and his weight on top of mine. Finally, he finds his way to my underwear and traces the outline of what’s whimpering for his attention underneath the lace. He moves my underwear to one side and places a couple of firm fingers onto my clitoris, beginning to tease and soften me even further than I thought possible with small, confident circles. As he dips a finger into me, we both discover just how unbelievably sopping wet I already am and let out a synchronized, dumbfounded moan. He continues, varying the pace and pressure and direction on my clit and expertly syncing it with my breathing and the little noises I’ve now lost all control over. 

“Can we try something else?” I ask after a few minutes, impatient to give back and prove to him that I can make him feel good too. 

“We can do whatever you like,” he stops, and even in the darkness I know that he’s smirking. 

“Can I go down on you?” I softly murmur, letting my lips skim the rim of his ear for a moment. 

I notice how much more girlish my voice sounds when speaking to him. I can tell he’s surprised by the initiative and gentle tone of my request. He’s soft with me in return and quietly nods and gets on his back for me. I can’t help but giggle as I climb on top of him, but as I begin planting kisses down his chest, I begin to take my job very seriously, intent on giving it my all and showing off for him. 

“Will you hold my hair for me please?” I purr, and he’s very pleased by the sound of this, making sure to gather the loose strands on the nape of my neck into his fist. 

I let my hand delicately graze the side of his ribcage and stomach while I continue marking him with wet, deep kisses as I get lower and lower until, finally, I take hold of his cock and pause to look up at him before I let it enter my mouth wholly. Rather than build up to it, I prime his head with as much saliva as I can regurgitate, then deep dive, taking him by surprise, and sloppily take his entire length inside me. I open up my throat until it can go no further and begin vehemently moving my head up and down in long, deep strokes, making sure to get every last inch of him inside me each time I make my way back down. I connect one firm but gentle hand to my lips, my thumb connecting to my index finger, and stroke him in sync with my mouth. The other hand I let travel down to his balls and begin to squeeze and massage him down there while I deepthroat him. 

When first starting out giving head and awfully nervous of being bad, I had a friend explain to me that it doesn’t matter all that much what you do, but how enthusiastically you do it, how much you show them that you really love it. Tonight, I love it like never before. 

With his hand tightly gripping and pulling on my hair, he mutters to himself over and over, “you’re so fucking good at this… fuck, you’re amazing.”

Seeing him writhe with so much pleasure makes me want him even more. I imagine this is the first and last time we’ll ever see each other and that I need to give him something to remember me for, so I let go of any trace of inhibition left and begin to devour him with flustered, deprived desperation, not a care in the world about how I might look or sound, I’m releasing loud primal hums while my mouth is full with him. I let my tongue loose and glide it along his shaft, making sure to frustrate his head with drawn out teasing. I sense him beginning to throb in my mouth and on the sharp precipice of entirely losing control, but instead of letting go, he abruptly yanks me up toward his mouth and pulls my sloppy lips in for a full french kiss before flipping me over on my back and mounting me.

He reaches over to his bedside and tears open a condom with his teeth, sternly watching me from above as he rolls it down his dripping, erect shaft. He pulls me closer into him by my legs with calculated force and directs himself inside me. My eyes open wide and I gasp from the pressure, my hands flailing at him in order to grab onto him and sink my nails into something. He smiles to himself at how little control I have over my own body and sounds and then raises both my legs all the way up, squeezing and holding them together with his hands. Tightening and deepening my entrance in this position, he tests all my limits and starts rounding his hips and pounding into the most sensitive, buried-deep part inside me that makes me tremor all over each time he grazes it. I feel my eyes rolling back in my head and don’t recognize the sound of my voice as I pull at my own hair and wail his name. 

“No, no, I can’t,” I furrow my brows and whimper, fighting the climax as hard as I can. “It’s too much, I can’t, it’s too much,” I beg, terrified of letting go all the way. 

Coming with somebody always feels so different than coming on my own, a kind of intimacy I never feel I can wholly give myself over to. Suddenly his hand finds its way to my jaw. 

“Look me in the eyes,” he demands. I open my eyes and he lowers my legs and comes down to me so that we’re face to face. 

“You’re my baby,” he grunts into my hair as he continues to thrust into me, “you can let go with me, I want you to let go with me.” 

He’s practically a stranger, and yet looking into his steady eyes, I feel grounded by the inexplicable, unwavering safety and trust I already feel with him. It all feels so good, and I decide to give myself over to his fluent command over my body and nod my head to signal how desperately I do want to try to let go with him, for him. 

“Turn around,” he tells me, and I croon a shy okay and climb onto my hands and knees for him.

He places his hands gently on my hips and spreads my legs wider apart with his knees. Wildly turned on by the view and sensing my sudden onset of nervousness, he lowers his head to plant a long kiss on the crown of my head. 

“Good girl,” he softly laughs. 

I want to be a very good girl, the best girl, so I lower my chest deeper into the sheets and arch my back so that the delicate line at the bottom of my back deepens and my tiny yet shapely ass grows fuller. Before I realize he’s entered me, he’s deeper than I thought possible. 

“That feels so good,” I cry out over and over again as a smile spreads all through my body, “you make me feel so good.” 

As he thrusts into me, gradually getting a little rougher, he moves one hand to my clit and starts teasing me there and brings the other in between my cheeks to stroke my asshole. Nobody’s done this before, and I have no clue what to do with all these sensations all at once and can’t fathom how one person can possibly make me feel this fucking good. To my convulsing delight, he pushes his thumb deeper into my ass with no intention of easing the pressure or slowing down his hand on my pussy. I’m on the verge of tears from so much overwhelming pleasure tearing through me—I’ve never felt such deep vibrations pulse and erupt everywhere at once as I feel him violently throbbing somewhere far inside me, getting closer and closer. He shakes and jerks behind me as he comes and grips my body tighter, and I wonder what his hot, thick cum would feel like pumping deep inside and leaking out of me. 

I can sense that as much as I feel familiar and safe with him, one night of unimaginable sex will be all I get from him right now. It deflates me a little, to have stumbled upon somebody who makes me feel so unbelievably good and for him to be so walled up. As he falls soundly asleep, I can’t, so I quietly watch him in the dark instead. Stoned on pleasure, I nurse a quiet sensation of loss from grieving something I haven’t even gotten yet, but the aching translates to relief, finally catching a breath after being trapped underwater for so long. I was stuck on the same somebody who had emptied me of so much, that I can’t help but smile to myself in the dark. I want someone new and can’t have him right now, and it’s nice to long again. I softly trace his freckled back, and sleep doesn’t feel so far anymore.

Photo by CottonBros