the experience of strangers, 8: making me his

His cock feels textured along my tongue, ridged and veiny, and as I wrap my mouth around it, I close my eyes, savoring.

My penchant for a man’s cock goes back to my mid-twenties in my vanilla life, and my first experience giving fellatio to a guy I got involved with briefly. It would be clever literarily to recount that here, as it would be a true story wrapped in an imaginary story wrapped in the true story of my life as a slave. But such would be more clever than interesting, as the experience itself was unremarkable — not because of the guy but because I didn’t know what I was doing. And, I really mean I didn’t know what I was doing. Baptist girl stumbles into carnal knowledge.

Yet, even as I fumbled and worried about my salvation, I liked it. A lot. Something about it felt so wrong to me, yet was somehow exactly right for me. Later on, as I discovered my submissiveness, I understood why.

I kneel before Master Z, a posture of subjection. My mouth is his receptacle, available and utilitarian, as if always there ready to be used and emptied into. The cocksucking is all my effort (he does nothing), my slavish sexual servitude. Fellatio carries an implication that it isn’t really sex, not for him a real commitment to me and my body, but something else casual and distant, maybe intentionally demeaning, as if my vagina is undeserving of his presence.

This is why I loved it so much that first time when I was twenty-five. Cocksucking was a uniquely humbling act and excited the submissive in me, long before I knew myself, my submissive DNA, and my destiny in D/s slavery.

He is long, and his cock reaches to the back of my throat. I slide my mouth back, my lips in red-matte flattening against his shaft. My eyes take in a series of close-ups: his shaft extending long before me like a bridge into his manhood, and his balls larger than life like planets.

I glance up. Master Z is watching me service him. After all I’m the new girl — he wants to see what I’ve got. It will be interesting, assuming he commands of me this service every day this week, if at the end he will be reading a book while I’m swallowing his testosterone.

Perhaps this too is a test, but I know better than to make it a performance. I’ve learned that, ironically, his best experience is always my own passion, however that leads me. I know how to do things, sure: to catch my lips on the ridge of his cock head, to slather him with my wet as I go down on him, and above all to do it slowly. I also know what to do when he’s not impaled between my cheeks: to ever-so-lightly scrape his balls with my fingernails, to slowly lick the underside of his cock, to slightly twist my hand as I stroke him. But it’s not about technique. It’s about my doing him because I just damnably crave it, worshiping his member from within my wanton passion, as if there’s nothing else in the world, as if his cock alone masters me.

This comes naturally. I’m a cock-slut. And he sees it in my eyes.

He takes his time, allowing me my slow, slathering attentions. He’s hard and pulsing, and soon is on the edge. He has me pull back, telling me to put my hands behind my back and open my mouth.

I obey.

Without a further stroke, Master Z releases, splashing his dominance into my mouth and onto my cheek and chin.

Strangers though we still are, in this moment we are changed together. He has bound me to him.

I look up to his eyes, his cum still painting my lips. I say, “Thank you, sir.”