Eager Beaver

She is still lost in the feel of you—fist sliding slowly up and down the thick shaft, thumb smearing precum in lazy circles over the flushed head, free hand cupping and rolling your balls with open fascination. Every pulse of your cock against her palm draws another soft, appreciative sound from her throat. Her eyes are glassy, cheeks dark, thighs pressed tight together.

You let her stroke for another long moment, watching the way her fingers still can’t quite close around the girth, the way she stares at that fact like it rewires something fundamental. Then you speak, voice low and even, almost thoughtful.

“It needs more lube.”

Her hand stills. She looks up at you, lips parted, breath already a little ragged. Understanding flickers across her face, followed immediately by something hotter, hungrier. There is no hesitation this time. No coy pause. She simply sinks to her knees on the hardwood floor as if the order has been waiting inside her all morning.

She leans in without another word.

The first wet drag of her tongue is long and deliberate, starting at the base and traveling all the way up the heavy underside vein until she reaches the shiny head. She circles it once, twice, gathering the thick precum that has been beading there, then opens her mouth and sinks down. The stretch is immediate and obvious—her lips thin around the thick shaft, cheeks hollowing as she takes the first several inches. A soft, muffled sound of pure pleasure vibrates against your cock.

She pulls back just enough to breathe, strings of saliva already connecting her lower lip to the glistening head, then dives back in with clear enthusiasm. This time she goes deeper. The head pushes against the soft palate; she adjusts the angle, relaxes her throat, and takes another inch. Wet, filthy sounds fill the quiet room—soft gurgles, the slick slide of spit-slick skin, the occasional choked little moan she can’t quite swallow. Saliva runs down the shaft in shiny trails, coating you thicker with every bob of her head.

Her hands are not idle. One wraps around the base she can’t yet fit in her mouth, stroking in time with the wet pulls of her lips. The other cradles your balls, rolling them gently, squeezing just enough to feel the weight. She is openly, happily working to get you as wet and slick as possible, treating the task like the most natural thing in the world. Every time your cock throbs harder against her tongue she makes another eager noise, eyes fluttering half-shut in concentration and pleasure.

She pulls off with a wet pop, looks up at the thick, spit-shined length of you, and gives a breathless little laugh that is pure satisfaction.

“God, it’s even bigger like this…”

Then she is back on it, mouth stretching wide again, taking you deep in long, greedy strokes. Spit drips from her chin onto her tank top. Her thighs are pressed tightly together on the floor, hips shifting restlessly. She is not performing reluctance. She is sucking your cock like she has been waiting for permission to do exactly this, and the more lube she works up with her mouth the happier she sounds—soft, wet, hungry sounds that fill the room while she does her best to coat every thick inch.

You rest a hand lightly on the back of her head, not forcing, just steadying. She leans into the contact at once, taking you a fraction deeper, eyes watering slightly but never pulling away. The house remains quiet. No one is coming up the stairs. She is on her knees in the middle of your room, happily, messily sucking your big cock exactly the way you told her it needed.