“Open wide” I say, and so you do. The shock of your teeth, white against the bla

“Open wide” I say, and so you do. The shock of your teeth, white against the blackness that settles inside your mouth. Ready, willing, the kind of little body movement that I fall in love with so very easily. It’s laden with meaning, pregnant with it, all spilling out of that hole like Vesuvius finally blowing its lid.  You think that I don’t know what you’re thinking, right this moment? As you imagine what it might be like to lie there, blindfolded and open, about to receive… what? That’s the question that’s etching itself into your mind like screenburn. The stars dancing on the back of your eyelids, each one spelling out another word. What. Is. It.  My finger? Perhaps. You would know the taste, of course; my finger is no stranger to your mouth. Although it’s usually a little more laden, tidying the juices that deemed fit to stray from your errant little cunt. But let’s dismiss that, for now. Fingers are far too mundane. My spit? I’ll admit, there’s a certain attraction to the humiliation of it all. You lie there, eager and willing, and I just spit in your mouth, a physical manifestation of vulgarity, an erotic disrespect to your utter surrender. Trivialising something quite so powerful has its power, but it does its damage, too.  Food? It’s an old favourite, for sure, but nothing quite equals watching those perfect white teeth slipping through the flesh of a strawberry, or a peach, and watching the juices flow in rivulets down the sides of your face, the first streams of spring. Having you chew only when I say for you to chew. The temptation would be fierce. But you’d obey me.  My lips? Could be. Could be. An anonymous kiss, an altered memory that you have to composite back together to tell who had their mouth around yours. You would know it was me, but there’d be that niggle at the back of your head, one that demanded proof. And so you’d seek it, Inspector Holmes on the tip of your lips, investigating.  Then there’s the rest of me. The hardness, the solid core, surrounded by the beating of my heart, the heavy throb that you sometimes swear you could feel from across the room. You wonder, I know, what it would be like to play with my foreskin with your tongue, whether you could slide the tip underneath it without being able to see. To taste that soft warmth, without visual aid. You crave. You yearn.  Every question sits on the cusp of your mind, each one a possibility, along with a dozen more. That’s what you enjoy, I think. It’s what I enjoy, I know. The trepidation of it all, the feeling that we’re all just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Your jaw moves ever so slightly, a flicker of doubt.  Let’s see what your answer is, shall we? -- source link

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