“On the sofa, faggot.” [ Harsh Irrumatio ]

At Dad's command, I move to the sofa, and he rolls his hand in the air telling me to lay on my back. He grabs my hair and pulls me to one edge, so my head hangs over the armrest. Dad nods as he steps up to me, one hand on the sofa, and rams.

My lips stretch taut around his cock as he slams himself to the hilt, his nuts slapping against my eyes. I blink, and stare at my Dad's balls as he pulls out, then hammers back in. I grunt around him as his balls slap my chin, my throat stretching.

Where sucking his cock was a slow, peaceful servitude, this is Dad simply, full stop, using me as a pleasure toy. Not even a slave, not a person, just an object to be pounded and wrecked. His hips slam against me, his fingers gripping the sofa, tight.

The television is background noise, now, something to drown out any sound I might make, the wet sound of my mouth, or the slap of his balls against my eyes. I close my eyes and take it as best I can, arching my body for him, hands underneath.

My spine arches as I wrap my fingers around the edges of the cushions underneath me. Dad growls with arousal, now, and pinches my nipple, twisting hard. I yelp in pain around his cock, and he groans. “Get back to moaning on my cock, faggot!”

I moan, very happy to oblige and not hold back, anymore. I keep my eyes firmly shut as Dad's nuts slap against them with every pile-driving slam of his meat down my throat. This position lets my cheeks avoid being smacked by Dad's hard pace.

My lips stretched taut around him, moaning and grinding my tongue across the topside of his cock are about all I can do to show my appreciation. He hammers in, and I reach carefully, cautiously, past my head to touch Dad's thighs, encouraging.

The muscle flexes hard and taut under my fingers, and Dad doesn't scold me for it. Gaining some confidence, then, I press my palms on the outside of either thigh, curling my fingers against the back. I can feel him using his full strength on me.

I feel a bit proud, even as my throat conforms around his meat, as I realise that. Dad's hammering me with everything he has, and I'm able to take it. I don't even feel like my throat is sore, although I'll still probably need something, regardless.

For now, I focus on the sensation of Dad's balls slapping rhythmically against my eyelids. The flavour of him drowning my tongue, his scent flooding my lungs. I can feel his heat bubbling, his fat rod hot and slick with need, as he crashes into me.

“Fuck, you take a pounding so fucking well, faggot!” Dad groans the words, an unmistakable compliment as Dad slams his prick down my throat. “Gonna give you more milk!” I moan louder, as best I can, as I take Dad's unrelenting hammering.

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