On My Tongue

For two hours, Mom guides my head up and down her cock, controlling my every motion as she sways, pumping herself in and out. I look up at her, maintaining eye contact for her increased pleasure, and moaning as she uses my mouth, happily.

“This is where you belong, faggot,” Mom purrs the words, “You look so beautiful on your knees, taking my cock, like this.” She continues to ride me, even as her thick shaft pulses in my mouth and throat, driving herself to the absolute maximum.

Finally, when she can handle no more of my lips, tongue, and throat, she forces my head to halt. Her hips cease to sway as she pulls out entirely. One hand grips her cock, stroking her cock as she looks down at me. “Open your mouth, now, slut.”

I open my mouth, and Mom strokes herself until the first stream of her milk pulses through my open lips. The sweet taste of her cream floods my taste buds, but I force myself to wait. I wait until the fourth pulse to swallow, my mouth near full.

Three more times, I swallow, over a hundred grams of Mom's milk by the time she finishes. She draws the last drop out to the crown, brushing it up across my upper list. Mom smirks down at me as I immediately lick it up and swallow it, as well.

“Good little faggot cum dump loves the taste of Mom's milk, huh?” Mom asks, and I nod immediately in answer, lovingly looking up at her. I love the way she's talking to me, now, and as programmed, it forces a smile to brighten my whole face.

“Good, because I am going to need to use you a second time, now,” she tells me, “are you ready to serve Mom's cock again, faggot?” I nod enthusiastically as my brain rewires to rationalise the fact that I am smiling, and feel as if I should be ready.

“Yea, Mom!” I answer, and Mom smiles at me. She strokes the hair out of my face, looking down into my eyes as she does, before her fingers find their way back to my scalp. Mom grips my head firmly in both hands, and I look up at her, silently.

“Since you've been a good boy, I'm going to give you the privilege of choosing how I use you next,” Mom tells me, “Or of requesting my promise that I will feed you, when I finish. Which would you prefer?” I take a moment, thinking about that.

“Promise to let me drink the next serving, too, Mom?” I ask, and Mom nods. Her fingers flex against my scalp, massaging for a moment as she decides how to use me. I've left that, and myself, in Mom's capable hands, hers to use as she pleases.

Author's Note:
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