Becoming a cock cleaner

"Darling. Could you help Mike align his cock for me?"

I set the pillow down on the armrest of the sofa. She was draped over it, ass up, skirt bunched at her hips, and stockings laddered. When I reached for the waistband, she put a hand out.

"Leave it. Round my waist. I want to be fucked like a whore."

I nodded. Took hold of him instead.

He was ready already, jutting up out of his trousers, hot in the hand, the vein running under my palm like a wire. My fingers barely closed on it. This was the cock that would do it—the one that would knock her up, put a blonde baby in her, and make me a cuckold, me with my black hair so the whole street would know within a month. The porch had already done half the work. By Friday they'd all have decided.

He flexed in my grip. I looked down at my own hand, and it looked like a child's.

The head was broad and blunt, mushroom-capped, wet at the slit. I put it between her lips. She was soaked, open, and soft as anything. She pushed back before I'd finished positioning it, the head went in half an inch on its own.

Something stiffened in the front of my slip. Straight up against the jersey.

He began to push. Slowly, so I could watch it. The shaft went in an inch at a time, stretching her, the lips of her coming up round it white and thin, the vein dragging in last of all, then his hips were against her arse, nothing of him left outside.

A beast cock. Built for exactly this.

I looked at his balls, hanging heavy between his thighs, full again after barely thirty hours. Big as a fist, both of them, swinging slack with the weight in them.

Then he started to move.

Slow. Long, rolling, pulling almost all the way out, sliding back to the root. Anna's head came up off the cushion.

"There," she said, breathless, to me. "You see that, honey? That's a true cock."

"I see it."

"Look how he splits me in two. Look at it." She reached back and spread herself with two fingers so I could see the stretch. "That's what it's supposed to look like. God, he's so deep. He's all the way up in me, darling, up against the top of me, and you can't even—oh—you can't even reach that, can you? Not with your little thing."

"No," I said.

"No." She laughed, then the laugh broke into a moan. "Poor love. Look at him standing there with his little penis in his panties. Still soft, is it?"

"Not soft."

"Half a hope." She turned her head to Mike. "He's got a little penis, Mike. It's sweet. It's like a little finger."

"It's a nice little penis," Mike said, deadpan, not slowing.

"It's a polite little penis. It knocks. It doesn't arrive." She laughed at her own joke, then gasped, because he'd changed his angle. "Oh — oh — there. Right there, keep it there, don't you dare—"

"Make some pictures, darling," she said, moaning, without looking at me.

I knew the tone by now. I went to the guestroom and got my phone out of my trouser pocket.

"Close ups," she said. "Close up where it goes in."

I crouched, framed the joint, and tapped. The wet shine of it, her lips round the base of him, his balls in the foreground. Then wider, her whole back, the bunched skirt, the stockings, and her knuckles in the cushion. Then her face, mouth open, eyes shut. Then over Mike's shoulder, his jaw, his hand on her hip, and the red prints of his fingers coming up in her skin.

Then video.

Thirty seconds. Her moans going up a register, his hips smacking, the sofa arm creaking under her. Stop, start again—a minute this time, the whole length of it, her heels lifting off the floor with each shove.

"Send them to me," she said. "WhatsApp. Then send them to him."

I did it while he fucked her. My thumb is shaking on the screen.

She got louder. Real noise now, unguarded, carrying off the walls. He dropped his weight onto her, one hand flat between her shoulder blades, stopped being polite about it—hard, fast, driving, the whole of him in, the whole of him out, her arse taking the slap of his hips, ringing with it, her tits swinging under her in the black straps, her stockings pulling at the seams. The sofa walked an inch across the rug.

"Oh—oh God—oh—"

"Tell him," Mike said.

"Look at him go," she said, wrecked. "Look at him go, honey. That's it, that's—oh—that's how you fuck a wife, you hear it? You hear how wet that is?"

I could hear it. It was the only sound in the house.

She came. First one, suddenly, a hard squeeze of her whole body, a shout into the cushion, her feet drumming. Mike went straight through it.

Then he sped up. Grunting, short, thick, at the end of every push. She felt the change and lifted her head.

"Yes—yes, in me, in me—"

The balls came up. That was how I knew. They swung forward and struck her, heavy, then they began to draw—slow, the sac tightening, the skin going thin and creased as it climbed, the whole weight of them shrinking up hard into a knot under the base of his cock.

"Oh—oh God—honey, look—"

I looked. The shaft had gone darker and swollen, the vein standing out along the underside like a rod of its own, the head flaring wide where it went into her, and the white ring of her stretched thin over the root. Big as a fist, those balls, still. Big as a fist and climbing.

He got three more in. Then he shoved up hard and held still.

The first load of cum went through him like a shock. I saw it start—a lift, a jerk, the sac pulling up into him—travel up the shaft in a hard visible pulse, the vein jumping with it. His jaw came open. He made a sound like a man lifting something.

Anna's head went back.

"MIKE —"

She came on the second pulse, hard, her whole body curling round it. The cry didn't stop. It stretched out, got higher, and turned into his name, over and over.

"Mike—Mike—oh God, Mike—"

Her cunt was working. I could see it—the ring of her closing and opening round the base of him, rhythmic, unhurried, pulling in long, slow draws like a hand wringing a cloth. Every draw dragged another one out of him. His hips jerked with each. His balls jumped in the sac. Second pulse, third, fourth—timed to her contractions, driven by them, wrung out of him.

"That's it," she gasped. "That's it, that's it, oh—"

Fifth. She bucked, and her heel came up off the floor. Sixth—his whole body locked, hips jammed flush, the groan breaking in the middle of his throat, something giving at the seal of her, white at the base of him.

It came out round the shaft. Thick, grey-white, running down over his balls in a slow rope, gathering, dripping off the bottom of the sac onto the rug in one fat string.

"Mike —"

Seventh. Eighth. Long hard surges. There was more of it than she could hold—it pushed back out round him with every pulse, spreading, making a wet mess of both of them, her hips tilting up under him trying to take it, take all of it, her voice cracking apart into pieces of his name.

"Mike—Mike—oh, don't stop, don't you dare stop, fill me—"

Ninth. The sac was drawn up so tight it had gone nearly flat, the pulses shorter now, thinner, his knees shaking with the effort of them.

Tenth. Nothing left. He sagged onto her, forehead between her shoulder blades, breathing in rips. She held herself up on the arm of the sofa, both arms locked, shaking, her hips still twitching back into him, still milking, still pulling.

An eleventh, dry, small, weak. She made a soft high sound and stopped.

"Good," she said, into the cushion. "Oh, good. Good boy."

He pulled out.

It came after him—a thick rope of it down her thigh, another, then a slow flood that ran to her knee and dripped off. She gaped. I could see into her—pink, open, shining, and full.

He sat down beside her, thighs apart, spent, shiny to the root.

Anna rolled onto her hip, looked at me, and pointed at him.

"Clean him up, darling."

I looked. His cock wet, half hard still, plastered in her, in him, cooling.

"Lick his cock clean."

I hesitated. She reached over, got a fist in the back of my hair, and pulled my face down.

"Suck it clean."

The smell hit me before my mouth was anywhere near—turned, salt, warm-animal. I hovered. She let go of my hair and slapped up into my balls where they hung out of the slip.

Hard.

"SUCK IT!"

I yelped. She did it again, same place, harder, my vision going white at the edges. The third slap on my balls folded me.

"LICK!"

I put my tongue out and touched it.

Warm. Soft. Salt first, then her underneath it, then something thick and sweet at the back of my throat that had nothing to do with her. Better than the stockings. So much better; my eyes watered for a different reason.

I licked up the shaft. She watched me.

"There he is. Good cuck." She let go of my hair. "Again. Flat. Tongue flat, not a point—you're not a cat. Flat, wide, right down the middle. Go on. Base to the top, slowly."

I did it. Slow, flat, from the root.

"That's it. Keep that. Same pressure all the way up, no rushing. Now—teeth. Roll your lips over them; you'll have him raw otherwise. Feel that? Lips, not teeth. Good."

I got to the head, and she caught my ear.

"Don't stop there. Under the ridge. That's where it lives, all of it, right under the ridge—that's the bit that gets a man hard, not the tip. Tongue under it, press, work along it. Both sides. Slowly."

My tongue found it, and something in Mike's thigh jumped.

"See? You felt that." She sat forward, elbows on her knees, watching me like a card player. "Now the slit. Clean the slit out. Small strokes, top to bottom, don't be shy about it. He's been inside me for ages; there'll be plenty in there."

I did it. He tasted strongest there.

"Breathe through your nose," she said. "Through the nose, darling. If you're going to hold it in your mouth, you can't be gasping at it like a landed fish."

I breathed through my nose.

"Right. Take it in. Not the tip—properly in, past the ridge. Down."

I took it. My jaw had to open wider than it wanted.

"Further. Come on. Three fingers' worth at least."

I pushed, my eyes streamed, and she laughed, warm and pleased.

"Don't bob. Everyone bobs; it's a nervous habit. Hold it. Just hold it there; let your mouth get it warm. A cock in a warm mouth stands up on its own if you leave it be."

Mike made a low noise. His hand came down, settled on the back of my head, with no pressure yet, just there.

"Now suck. Not hard—steady. Like drawing on a straw you mean to finish. Even. Count to four and swallow, count to four, swallow. Keep the rhythm; don't chop at it."

I sucked. He swelled against my tongue, slow, thick. She saw it happen.

"There. Look at him filling out. Look at that." She sat back, delighted. "That's you. You did that."

His hand got heavier. He pushed, a little, then more. I gagged and pulled off with spit down my chin.

"Back on," she said. "You don't get to pull off because it's uncomfortable. Hand at the base now—grip it, firm, and turn it as you come up. Twist. Like opening a jar, nice and slow. Mouth follows the hand. That's the whole trick, darling; that's all it is. Hand does the work; mouth does the welcome."

I did it. His whole body went rigid.

"Good. God, look at him. Keep that up and you'll have him standing."

He was. Fully, in my mouth, upright, hard as the arm of the sofa. I could feel the pulse going under my tongue. My own penis was a hot ache in the purple slip, my knees going on the rug.

"Now—this is the bit." She got a hand in my hair again, gentle this time, rocking me. "If you do this right, you get a reward. You hear me? Tomorrow morning, before he goes to work, you get to do this to him again. On your knees in the kitchen, while I watch, while I have my tea. You'll bring him up hard in your mouth, and then he'll take me against the counter with it, and you'll clean it again after. That's tomorrow. That's if you're good."

I sucked harder.

"Ah—there she goes; look at him, he's going. Don't you dare stop now; if you stop now, you'll lose him. Keep the hand going, keep the twist, keep the mouth right behind it, and don't let him cool off. That's it. That's a good cuck. Lick him clean now, properly—his balls too, both of them, get under, get behind them, and don't leave a drop on him anywhere."

I got under. Heavy, loose, and warm as bread. I took one in my mouth, then the other, licked the crease behind them, sucked the skin dry, and worked back up the shaft with my tongue flat again, the taste thick on it now.

She stroked my hair slowly, the way you would a dog that had finally done something right.

"Good boy," she said. "Good little cuck. Get him dry."

I finished. The last of it came off on my tongue. I sat back on my heels, my mouth wet, my jaw aching, my penis standing up out of the open front of the slip like a question.

Anna looked at it, then at me.

"Hands at your sides," she said. "You don't get to touch that yet."

Mike leaned back, arms along the top of the sofa, and laughed at the ceiling.

"Christ," he said. "He's good at it."

"He's learning." She picked her wine up. "Now get up and serve the steaks before they're shoehorned."

To be continued.