I had such carefully planned filth to share with y’all today… and then got fixated on one particular image and found that my cunt was quite insistent that I shouldn’t write about anything else. Today, I’ve been thinking about how hot it would be to hold someone’s head in place so someone else can fuck their face. Like seriously, mmfff…
I play with your hair in public. My hand is on the back of your neck, possessively; you’re hyper-aware of my fingers, twisting through your soft curls. To anyone else it would look like a gesture of casual affection, but you know it’s a subtle display of my dominance. Your dick knows it too, already hard in your jeans. You shift uncomfortably, trying to distract yourself from your arousal and focus on the conversation around us.
It’s hard when I’m sitting next to you, idly playing with you hair and smirking at your attempts to hide your blushes. And I didn’t make it easy on you, of course. Stop playing fair, you’d told me the last time we’d fucked, and I brought you to the edge again and again before ruining your orgasm. I love it when you rig the game so you win. I remind you of your words – pointing out that you really have only yourself to blame – when you protest as I start to whisper filth in your ear.
I want to remind you that I’m in charge and if I want to turn you on before the rest of our friends join us in the pub, I’m going to. So I do, and now I get to watch you squirm. Usually so in control, it’s fun to see you so unsettled. You’re doing your best to act as though your dick isn’t hard, to join in with the teasing even though your cock is leaking pre-come. Just from my words, from the simple question I asked you. Fuck, the power I hold over you is a little intoxicating.
You can’t even look at him. And I’m not surprised, after I asked in a low voice if you’d like me to hold your head in place so he can fuck your face.
We’ve talked about him before, about how hot I’d find it to watch you suck his cock and how hard your own dick would be if you were on your knees in front of him. You know I want to jerk off while you kiss him, and you know I want to fuck your mouth with my strap-on while he fucks your ass. I’ve made you come before while describing how I’d show him how to make you moan and whine and whimper, how I’d demonstrate how to fuck you, then sit back and watch him efficiently and effectively take you apart.
But what I want most right now is to hold you still so you’re forced to choke on his cock. And right now that’s all you can think about. If I sauntered off to the bathroom right now and told you to follow me, you’d do so and get on your knees without a second’s hesitation. I have my strap-on in my bag, and your mouth open for my dildo is such a delicious sight. I could fuck your face, keeping up a stream of dirty talk about how we both know you wish it was his dick in your mouth. I wouldn’t let you touch yourself, but I would kiss you fiercely and send you back to the table with puffy, swollen lips.
The mind-fuck of drawing attention to your mouth would make you even more embarrassed – and thus even harder in your jeans. Knowing I could fuck you in the toilets right now makes it tempting, but I restrict myself to whispering the idea to you while moving my hand from your hair to your thigh. Not touching your dick – you haven’t earned that yet – but near enough that it’s perfectly clear what I’m deliberately taunting you.
To you, at least. You’re actually doing well at hiding your arousal and discomfort from our friends. But you don’t want this to be easy, so I take great delight in volunteering you to go to the bar to get the next round. You have a moment to prepare yourself, but even if no one notices the bulge in your jeans, your red cheeks and burning ears are more obvious.
“Still game?” I ask when you’re next to me again. You don’t answer, instead turning to kiss me with an urgency and energy that draws the attention of our group. When you pull away, you’re grinning. I tug gently on your hair – affection mixed with a scold for not giving me the verbal response you know I want. I keep my hand on the nape of your neck as we drink and talk, as a reminder that the game isn’t over.
At the end of the evening, when we’ve waved goodbye to our friends and are walking towards the tube, you turn to me looking awfully cocky for someone who gave me control.
“So. You were an awful tease and kept me mercilessly hard and blushing throughout the evening – but that’s nothing you haven’t done before. Was that really that much of a challenge, darling?”
“Oh no. That was just the warm-up, delicious as it was. At the start of the evening I asked you if you’d like me to hold your head so he could fuck your face. I think it’s pretty clear – probably to everyone in the pub tonight – that you really would like that.”
“I texted him the same question – if he’d like to throat-fuck you while I held you still. Want to know what he replied?”
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.