It’s early Sunday morning and his cock is in my mouth.

It plumps and stiffens, expanding inside me. He is slightly salty, spicy fragrant perhaps from his brand of soap in his morning shower. My mouth waters around him, bathing it in my desire.

I don’t know if it has been his intent, but these practice sessions with him and those I’ve mimed on my own have effectively created a special appetite within me for him and this experience of servicing him. I shouldn’t even say if it has been his intent — of course it has. It’s exactly what he has aimed to do. I realize now Master K has been conditioning me in literally the Pavlovian way: instead of morsels of dog food, with me he’s substituted his meaty cock, which has the same effect of making me salivate and reminding me how ravenous I am for it.

This is why he has delayed my ultimate satisfaction. I’m sure of it.

Right now, he is standing and I am squatting. The squat is what I have been practicing over and over on my own. I have a flash vision of joining a health club, in my first session with a personal trainer who looks at my body and says, “You have some work to do, Shae, but your quads are remarkably well developed — what kind of work are you in?’ And from that my responses get both funny and embarrassing.

So, as Master K’s “manager of user experience,” I squat, my quads strong and stable, my mouth impaled by his organ, and I’m in a corner of heaven.

He teaches me not to rush my fellatio with him. He says, “Take your time. Your purpose is not to get me off. It’s to give me the fullest pleasure of your mouth. The urgency is not during your cock-sucking. It’s when I tap you on your head. In the meantime, slow it down.”

And I do, savoring the creases and folds of his elastic skin with my tongue.

One other thing we are working on this time is reducing the sounds of my fellatio. Sucking and smacking sounds, in particular. Not too hard to avoid them, but it’s an added thing. Doing this more slowly helps in that regard.

But once again he stops the proceedings before any climax. I feel the head taps, and he times me in my sequence of restoring him and me to an appearance of professionalism. Note taking. Or, might I suggest, “dictation.”

I accomplish this with time to spare, I have it down. I could do it blindfolded.

So, granted that this is part of my Pavlovian conditioning and I am the dog, his bitch, being trained to respond to his stimulus. But it also leaves me feeling exasperated. Frankly, I don’t think my “response to his stimulus” was ever really lacking, and I’m thinking, Please just fucking come in my mouth, Sir.

But I quickly recall my exasperation earlier in the week and how well that went down with Mistress Amanda. I quickly dial myself back. He doesn’t owe me anything, I tell myself.

So maybe I’ve actually learned my lesson this week.

We practice several times with him sitting in his desk chair. He sits forward, and I nestle between his legs, on my knees. Again I unzip him, and again he fills my mouth with his cock.

I am aware now that everything Master K does with me is raw sex. He is about putting his flesh inside my flesh. He sees me this way. It was, during the night of my claiming, about him being inside me in all the ways possible. Then I had the intense feeling of my body being “home” to his cock. I have felt that with him ever since, but my sense of it now is more than “home,” but one of “belonging.” Right now his cock feels like it belongs in my mouth.

I have thought for some time that I exist in a corner of his universe as his fuck toy, which is what he often calls me. He will use me for fucking, when he has the urge. And while that is true, I am more aware now through this experience of practicing these scenarios that with me he isn’t really about getting himself to climax. Just as he has advised me regarding my service of his cock, to take it slow, it is true of his approach to me and his use of me in every sexual way. He is about enjoying himself within me, just being there, flesh inside my flesh.

In light of that, I am wondering he he really ever intended to do any of this at the office, or in the car, or in public. Maybe this is just want he wants to do with me sometimes.

He shifts us to the couch — the two of us sitting side-by-side, with me leaning over onto his lap. This is actually the most difficult of the three scenarios, as his pants are tighter around his hips as he sits, and my orientation is sideways to my usual straight-on perspective. We have several reps of this, and I manage to make it work each time.

In between one of those reps, he poses to me a question: “What will you do if someone just barges in without advance warning. What if they see you, your face buried in my lap?”

I don’t know, and he proceeds to tell me to act as if nothing is wrong about what we are doing. “Zip me up, just as you have been doing, but act normally as if it’s all OK.”

“But I will blush.”

“You shouldn’t feel that it’s wrong or embarrassing.”

“I don’t,” I say. “But I always blush.”

“OK,” he says, not quote knowing what to do about an Irish lass who blushes easily. “But act as normal as you can. Let me handle it.”

This morning is our longest session yet. When the couch sessions are done, I think we are done for good. But he stands again in front of his desk, and calls, “Maura,” so I am once again squatting with my now over-developed quads and my mouth frothy with Pavlovian desire.

And so here I am. It’s early Sunday morning and his cock is in my mouth.

I close my eyes as I take him in slowly, as his balls press against my chin and lower lip. I slide back, coating him for the millionth time this morning. I want to lose myself in this, even at the risk of missing his taps on my head. I just want to enjoy his flesh inside mine, not execute a practice session.

I pull him out and lean my head underneath. My hand shields his balls from his pants as I take them into my mouth, one by one, sucking them. I absolutely love doing this. I savor them, their musk and salt. I then wipe them gently with my hand to prevent them from making marks.

Once again, he is in my mouth, thick and heavy on my tongue.

And this time he groans. His body tenses.

It surprises me, but I collect myself, and position his climaxing cock midway inside my mouth. I have thought of this in my many private practice sessions. If his cock is too far back, I might choke; if too far out, it might slip out and spray over my face.

I close my mouth around him, my eyes looking up toward his. He jerks, but my lips hold him secure. His thick ooze spreads across my tongue. It’s warm and, like, really thick. It tastes earthy and briny, like a dirty martini. He spasms again, and there is more. I try to hold it there, not let any seep out, but I begin to fear there will be too much. He stiffens again, delivering one last drop into my mouth.

I’m in heaven again, though this time not in a corner but on main street.

I feel taps on my head. It catches me in my reverie, my fantasy-cum-reality, but I collect myself quickly enough. I wrap my hand around the base of his penis, now starting to soften, and wipe it clean of my saliva and his cum. What was there pools in my hand and as I’m still squatting I wipe my hand along my inner thigh. I fold him back into his slacks at an angle, and zip him up. No spots on his pants.

I stand facing him, smoothing down my skirt, positioning myself between him and the door, while grabbing my notebook and pen from the end table.

“Very good,” he says finally. “I didn’t think you could do that first time.”

I say nothing, but nod.

“OK,” he says, “We’re done here.” He starts to turn away, then has a thought. Looking back at me, he asks, “By the way, do you still have it all in your mouth?”

I nod.

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