Let her do all the work

You remained perfectly still, a statue of mahogany and slate, leaning your back against the graffiti scarred wall. You didn't guide her, nor did you push; you simply stood there and let her do the work. You watched the top of her head, the waves of her jet black hair spilling over your thighs, while she bobbed her head in a rhythmic, wet cadence. The sensation was an overwhelming flood of friction and suction, a concentrated heat that radiated from your groin up to your chest. Every slide of her lips felt like a deliberate attempt to draw the very soul out of you, and you closed your eyes, savoring the visceral reality of her desperation.

The sounds in the small room became an intimate symphony, the wet slaps of her mouth and the frantic, muffled moans she made against your skin. You could feel the muscles in her throat contracting, gripping you with a tight, pulsing intensity that pushed you closer to the edge. The sterile smell of bleach vanished, replaced entirely by the scent of her arousal and the heavy musk of your own excitement. You shifted your weight slightly, your fingers digging into the wallpaper of the wall, as the first tremors of an orgasm began to build deep in your gut, a tidal wave of pressure that threatened to shatter your composure.

You felt the tension peak, your breath hitching in your throat as the pleasure became almost painful. Maya sensed the shift, her pace accelerating, her eyes locking onto yours with a fierce, feline intensity as she felt you thicken in her mouth. The build was a slow, agonizing climb, a coiled spring of raw nerve and heat. You let your head fall back against the wall, a sharp gasp escaping your lips, while the pressure behind your eyes intensified, the world narrowing down to the rhythmic, wet heat of her mouth and the imminent, explosive release.