“Brace, whore,”

Dad commands, and I lean forward and arch my spine, setting my hands on his hips. “Good. You've proven you can suck a cock well. Now we determine whether you can also take a cock well. That is of equal essence.” I moan my understanding.

He rolls his hips, sliding his cock down across my lips, to position his crown. Then he slides the hand on top of my head to the back, splaying his fingers to assert control over my skull. I maintain eye contact, and Dad nods once, and then thrusts.

His hips sweep forward, and his hand pushes my head toward him. The thrust in no manner slow or tender, his balls slap my chin, but his control is flawless. His hips stop millimetres from my cheeks, arriving without a harsh slap into my face.

“I will exert discipline in my use of you,” Dad tells me, holding my head exactly where it is, “I will not leave you reddened. You have done nothing to deserve punishment.” I moan appreciatively as Dad sways, sliding his cock free from my throat.

He moans, himself, before he establishes a hard, relentless rhythm. His nuts slap my chin at every hammering thrust, like a perfectly-calibrated piston slamming into its housing. My eyes locked on his, Dad only stares down at me, unemotional.

His eyes are not cold, but not warm: his gaze critical, assessing. I am being evaluated, as his hips sweep forward and then retreat, then slam forward, once more. I don't choke, or cough, or gag, and my eyes don't water. I stare up, submissively.

I swallow, each time his balls slap my chin, moaning as his hips sway backward, his cock sliding free. My eyes remain his, riveted, submissive, attentive. As his shaft leaves my throat, I switch from emptying my lungs to refilling them. Quickly.

Each time my throat becomes unobstructed, I breathe in his aroma. His scent floods my lungs, as I breathe in, smoothly, until his crown forces down my throat. I pace my inhalation, so that my lungs are full just about as he blocks my airways.

For four minutes, Dad offers me nothing but his cock. The silent, austere evaluation of a man who is accustomed to his rod being well-serviced, stretches in silence. The sole sound is his nuts, slapping against my chin, and me moaning each time.

I see it, the moment that spark of pride returns to his eyes. His lips twitch, but his hips don't shift their movements in any discernible manner. Dad continues to use my mouth as if it this is the sole reason it even exists, as if I don't really need it.

His shaft too thick for me to smile around it, I can only communicate by touch. I moan, louder, each time his phallus slides backward, away from me. I flex my tongue and let my hands slowly caress downward along Dad's thighs, as he rams it in.

“There's a good slut,” Dad coos the words, and his lips twitch as he smiles at me, earnest and true, “My good little faggot.” My hands caress their way up his thighs as his hips sway away from me, as my moan offers sensual vibrations around him.

He continues slamming me, his smile widening slow, but smooth, minute by minute. I can tell I've passed the examination, but Dad doesn't slow down, shows no indication of being done using me. His phallus rams down my throat, and I take him.

For more than an hour, Dad resists the need to release. I simply sit in my chair, my entire frame positioned for submission to Dad and his monumental cock. When his hand on the back of my head curls to gather hold of my hair, I moan around it.

“You have done well, whore!” Dad tells me, growling low to control his voice more forcefully, “Since you have satiated me, I will let you drink my milk, this time!” He smiles at me lovingly, now, pulling my hair, drawing my mouth along his shaft.

Author's Note:
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