“Vince,” I said plainly. “My penis is ready for consumption.”
He squinted up at me.
I sighed.
“You know what I want,” he said, voice rough.
And yeah, I did. If there was one thing I’d learned over the last couple of years, it was that Vince Taylor is a cock hound. He loved sucking dick. He could go for hours if I’d been able to last. And he always looked slightly disappointed when I couldn’t. I felt bad. Well. As bad as I could after having my brain sucked out through my dick.
And while he usually topped, he liked to be manhandled a little bit while giving head. I found that I had little problem with that.
It was heady, this feeling. I could doubt myself until the cows came home, but in a moment like this, when the man I loved was on his knees, waiting for me to fuck his face, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit powerful.
So I did what any good person would do.
I gripped my dick, smacked it against his face a few times, and told him to open his mouth.
He did, because he was good like that.
I fed him my cock, the heat of his mouth and the twist of his tongue causing my eyes to roll back in my head. He kept his hands in his lap, letting me control everything, trusting me to do it right. The thrusts of my hips were shallow at first, even though he really did have little to no gag reflex, something that he was quite proud of.
And it was while I was deepening the thrusts, while I was getting really into that, no longer caring that I was doing this at work where we could get caught (nay! I told myself; maybe I wanted to get caught), that someone knocked on the door behind me.
I froze.
And since Vince was the absolute worst, he kept right on going, not waiting for me to move, instead working my cock over with his mouth, letting it pop obscenely from out between his lips, spit trailing down his chin, his cheeks blotchy, eyes dilated. He leaned forward and licked the underside until he got to my cockhead, which he sucked back into his mouth, cheeks hollowing.
“Holy crispy corn,” I managed to say.
The knock came again.
“Who is it?” I said, sounding rather shriekish.
“Um, it’s Mildred?” came the voice through the door.
“There’s someone there,” I hissed down at Vince, who had a mouthful of Paul Auster.
He didn’t seem like he minded. If anything, he redoubled his efforts, now using his hands, one tugging on my balls, the other rubbing up and down my spit-slicked shaft.
He was a thing of evil, and I only had myself to blame.
“Mildred!” I shouted. I then had to bite into the fleshy palm of my hand when Vince took me deep into his throat, nose pressed against my pubes, throat working around me. His eyes were watering, but he didn’t back off, breathing shallowly. He pulled back slowly, lips stretched wide.
“Wow,” I breathed. “You are so fucking—Mildred! What do you want!”
“I, um. Need a highlighter? For my—Paul, are you okay? It sounds like someone is slaughtering chickens in there. I know because my grandfather was a chicken farmer.”
I yelped as Vince groaned around my dick. “No! No chickens! What the fuck, Mildred! Of course no one is slaughtering chickens. This is an insurance company, not the mind-scarring hell you grew up in.”
“Right,” she said, as she tried the doorknob. “Paul, the door is locked.”
Vince grinned up at me as my cock slid across his cheek when he went for my balls.
“It’s locked because I get shy when I have to take inventory,” I blurted. “Oh sweat balls, yeah, right there. Oh fuck, baby, that’s—I mean, oh. God. Yes! I just love filling out this order invoice for the office. Oh, we need more paper clips. Damn, that’s so good. I’m gonna get those damn paperclips all over your face, you don’t even know.”
“Excuse me?” Mildred asked.
“Sorry, sorry! I just like… taking stock. Of things. You know how it is!”