There is something special about it being leisurely, not subject to time or purpose. It is the slow delicacy of these moments that yield such pleasure, the quiet ease with which the act unfolds into casual, unhurried attentions of touch and tongue. It becomes a sensuous quiet, seemingly endless like a dream.
He pays no mind to me, reading and reviewing papers in his chair during my doings, and it’s better that way, my administrations then having no expectation. What happens or not will be what it is or isn’t, and there’s no need for it to be more. It becomes less of an act of intention and more a plane of existence.
Mine are the caresses of adoration, a celebration of his manhood. It is real for me, this personal devotion — an obsession, for one thing, to kiss and coddle men’s cocks, which I could do forever, but also a worship of him uniquely, the specific “Master M” cock he bears that drives his manhood and mastery of me. He joys in both — laughingly making fun of my compulsion for cock in general and quietly receiving my wonder and awe at his cock specifically. He knows now I will think of this in moments apart and dream of him in darkness of night.
I thrill as I take one of his balls between my lips, knowing that the source of his manhood — this engine of his leadership of companies around the world and of his control of me— is swathed in my wet liquid warmth. I hold him there gently on my tongue as if a precious gem.
I breathe deeply as I nurse his soft firmness. Slowly, without need, it’s my fingers first, touching points at the base then along his shaft, as if I’m playing a ballad on a guitar. I kiss his tip, tasting him, sweet and smoky, then softly place my kisses along the length of his shaft, both wrinkled and tight, veiny and smooth. This something-special quality that a cock possesses — to be opposite things at the same time — mesmerizes me always.
I can’t help but think of him inside me below. A cock, even semi-erect, forecasts its own destination. And in the case of Master M, he is willing to wield it upon me, brandish his sword into my vagina, and dominate my sex. But while it’s compelling to think about that, I remind myself of the simple pleasure of this having no motive and no end game. It’s about the journey, slow and meandering. I need not detour this into a fucking of me, for god’s sake, of which there is no shortage, nor do I need to entice it.
Licks and kisses for the longest time before taking him in my mouth. Many more minutes — fifteen, twenty? — of my tongue encircling just its head, entranced by its smooth yet coarse texture, like fine sandpaper. Moments of my lips gracing his tip, an oral meditation interspersed with silences, as if I’m praying the rosary.
I realize it’s now been a while since I attended to his balls, and like a girl playing with imaginary friends, I go back to them, precious souls, tilting my head close, silently apologizing for my neglect and comforting them once again with my juices.
His softness becomes hard, a metaphor for his dominance of me. I guide his erection between my lips and across my tongue, wrapping my cheeks around him. I hold him there, closing my eyes. If my attentions are worship, this moment is right at the very gates of heaven.
There is a unique sensuality that comes from not being hurried, something special in the experience of a cocksucking lasting an hour or more… like a long bath. In time, every inch of his cock and balls are slathered with my wet — my dripping wet. His cock now glistens in the light of the lamp he reads by.
It isn’t the point but it happens, and as I slowly slide my mouth back along his shaft, my lips catching slightly on the ridge around his cock head, he starts to come. It burbles up warm from within him, like the thick lava of a slow volcano, not violently erupting, but rolling out, oozing upon ooze, leaving dollops inside my mouth and on my tongue, then over my lips like gloss, and down my chin like liquid sugar.
This is not, as in other times with a purpose, the end of the affair. I continue, first collecting his cream from my face and lips, capturing it all and making it a part of me. I clean his shaft with my tongue, careful not yet to lick his head, so sensitive after, but I attend to him there later.
And there is a “later,” and a “more,” my journey with his wondrous cock continuing until it settles heavy in my hand and my head rests on his thigh and my eyes close into dreamy bliss.