Page 42 of Wicked Dreams

I don’t think the very act of being on your knees in front of a guy is talked about enough. It puts me so much lower than him; his intimidation factor automatically goes up a notch. It’s nothing he’s doing—he’s intimidating enough in his own right—but now, he looms so high above me. He could lift his knee and smash me in the nose, or…

Anything, I guess.

So the quicker I pull this off, the faster I can get out of this position.

I pull his hand off his dick, and he grunts in surprise. It bobs in front of me, not just longer than expected—I don’t really know what I was expecting, honestly—but thicker, too. I wrap my hand around it, my fingers barely overlapping, and mimic his movement.

He exhales, letting me do that for a moment. But then he grabs my wrist, stopping me, and tuts.

“Blow jobs require your mouth,” he says.

I narrow my eyes, but his lips just quirk.

His one hand is still on the wall, bracing himself over me.

I open my mouth and inch forward. The first taste is a tentative lick, a swipe of my tongue across the head. The tip of my tongue catches on his slit, and the flavor of his pre-cum is surprising. Better than when he made me taste my own arousal, but barely.

I lick again and put my hand back on his dick. At the base. I use my grip to guide it into my mouth. An inch, then out.

Drooling on it.

Right.

The wetter the better, someone once said. Another foster kid at a group home. Talking about sex was a currency all its own there. I didn’t have anything to contribute, but I tried to listen.

Some of those tricks they always talked about come back. Twisting my hand, taking him deeper as I let my saliva run down his shaft. I drag my hand up and catch the wetness, coating the rest of his length.

I try again, taking him deeper, and remember the key point of blowing a guy is to suck.

So I do, and he lets out a grunt above me.

My tongue swirls around his length when I come back up. I’ve only taken half of him in my mouth, but I don’t know that I can take much more. He’s already nearing the back of my throat when I dip down.

On the way out, I flick my tongue against the underside of the mushroom head. His hips jerk, and only my hand keeps him from thrusting deeper. Until he grabs my wrist and removes my hand, and his fingers slide into my hair.

Is that a control thing?

I ignore it and keep going. Down, suck, swirl. Flick.

Suddenly, his fingers tighten on my scalp, and he uses my downward momentum to keep pushing. His hips slide forward, and his dick hits the back of my throat.

Deeper.

I gag, my body tensing, and as soon as I relax, he slides in farther. I choke on him, my eyes pricking with tears. He pulls out, his grip firm, and I suck in a ragged breath. And then he’s filling my mouth again.

My hands find his thighs, gripping through his jeans as his hips rock forward.

He fucks my face. I guess there’s no other way to describe it.

I look up at him, catch his expression. His gaze is locked on my mouth. I am caught, gagging and choking every time he plunges too far.

“Relax,” he finally orders. “Relax your throat.”

I try. The other option is for him to treat me like a door he’s knocking down with a battering ram. And surprisingly, he’s able to get through.

I just don’t expect my air to be cut off.

“Fuck, that’s tight.” His fingers move along my hair, almost like a caress.

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