Quick on the draw

You don't think. You can't think.

Your body moves on its own, driven by something primal and ****. Your hand shoots out and grabs his cock—still hard, still jutting obscenely from his unzipped jeans—and the heat of it shocks you. It's so hot, almost feverish against your palm, the skin silky-smooth over the rigid shaft. Before he can react, before you can second-guess yourself, you drop to your knees on the rough carpet and take him into your mouth.

"Fuck—" Darrell gasps, genuinely caught off guard.

The taste hits you immediately—the slimy flavor of your old spit and his cum still coating his shaft, mixed with the salty-bitter tang of his precum and the masculine taste of his skin. You swirl your tongue around the head, feeling the ridge of his corona, the slight give of the spongy glans, and you suck hard. His hand flies to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

For a moment, he just stands there, letting you work. You can hear his breathing—short, sharp gasps that echo slightly in the apartment. The smell of him fills your nostrils: sweat and musk and something darker, more primal. You can smell yourself on him too, that sweet-sour scent of your arousal.

But then his fingers tighten, gripping your hair so hard your scalp burns, and you feel the shift in his energy.

"You want it that bad?" he growls, his voice thick with arousal and something darker. "Then take it."

He pushes your head back against the wall—hard—and your skull connects with the plaster with a hollow thunk that reverberates through your bones. Before you can process the sharp spike of pain radiating from the back of your head, he's thrusting forward, driving his cock deep into your mouth.

You gag immediately, your throat convulsing around him with a wet gluck sound, but he doesn't stop. He pulls back just enough for you to gasp for air—a ****, wheezing inhale—and then he's slamming forward again, using your mouth like it's nothing more than a hole for his pleasure.

Oh god, you think frantically, your hands flying up to grip his thighs. Through your watering eyes, you can see the defined muscles of his abdomen flexing with each thrust, the dark trail of hair leading down from his navel. I can't—

But you can. You are.

Your head is pinned between the wall and his pelvis, and every thrust makes your skull bounce against the plaster. The sound is rhythmic and obscene—thud, thud, thud—each impact sending a dull ache through your head, punctuated by the wet, sloppy sounds of your gagging: gluck-gluck-gluck. His deep, guttural groans mix with the sharp smack of his pelvis hitting your face, the coarse hair of his groin scratching against your nose and lips.

"Fuck, that's it," Darrell moans, his hips pistoning faster. "Take that cock. Take it all."

You're trying to breathe through your nose, but it's not enough. The smell is overwhelming—his sweat, thick and pungent, mixing with the musky scent of his cock and balls, the sharp tang of semen. Your lungs are burning, your throat is raw, and every time he drives forward, you feel like you're going to ****. Saliva is pouring from your mouth, dripping down your chin in thick strings, mixing with the tears that are streaming from your eyes and blurring your vision.

Through the haze, you can see his dark skin glistening with sweat, the veins standing out on his forearms as he grips your head. You can see the thick shaft of his cock disappearing into your mouth—inch by impossible inch—stretching your lips obscenely wide. Your jaw is already aching, the muscles burning with the strain of accommodating his girth. The corners of your mouth feel like they're tearing, stretched to their absolute limit, and you can feel your jaw joint protesting, threatening to dislocate with each brutal thrust.

How is this even possible? you think wildly, watching through tear-blurred eyes as more and more of his length vanishes into your mouth. How can I—

And then, unbidden, a memory surfaces.

You're twelve years old, standing in the dusty midway of the county fair, clutching a half-eaten corn dog. Your parents are somewhere behind you, but you're transfixed by the performer on the small stage—a thin man in a sequined vest, tilting his head back as he slowly, impossibly, slides a gleaming sword down his throat. You watch, mesmerized and horrified, as the blade disappears inch by inch, the hilt finally resting against his lips.

How? you'd wondered, your young mind unable to comprehend it. How can a person do that? How can you fit something so long, so impossibly thick, down your throat? How do you relax enough? How does your body even stretch that way?

You'd asked your dad about it later, and he'd laughed, ruffling your hair. "It's all about relaxing, kiddo. Mind over matter. The body can do amazing things if you let it."

You hadn't believed him then. It seemed impossible.

But now—now—as Darrell's cock drives deeper into your throat, as you feel yourself stretching in ways that shouldn't be physically possible, you understand. You're the swordswallower now. You're doing the impossible, accommodating the unaccommodatable, and your body is somehow, impossibly, making room.

The realization makes something twist in your stomach—shame and arousal and a strange, detached fascination.

Your vision is blurring, your head spinning from lack of oxygen and the relentless pounding. You can feel mucus running from your nose, warm and slick, can taste it mixing with the saliva and precum in your mouth—salty and bitter and disgusting. The humiliation of it makes you clench.

I'm disgusting, you think.

But even as the thought crosses your mind, your hand is sliding between your legs, fingers finding your clit, rubbing frantically. You can feel how wet you are, how swollen, and the shame of it makes you rub harder.

Darrell notices and laughs—a dark, triumphant sound that vibrates through his body and into yours.

"Look at you," he groans, his voice strained. "Getting off on getting your throat fucked?"

You can't answer. You can barely breathe. All you can do is gag and gasp and try to survive as he uses your mouth. The wet sounds are constant now—the schluck-schluck-schluck of his cock pistoning in and out of your throat, the gurgling of saliva and mucus, your **** attempts to breathe producing a whistling wheeze through your nose.

Your jaw is screaming now, the muscles exhausted from being **** open so wide for so long. You can feel your teeth scraping slightly against his shaft—you can't help it, can't control it—and the sensation makes him groan louder. The burning ache radiates from your jaw joint down your neck, and you're not sure how much longer you can hold your mouth open like this. But you don't have a choice. He's not stopping.

The sound of your gagging fills the apartment—wet, ****, obscene—mixed with his loud groaning. He's not holding back, not trying to be quiet, and the noise is so loud that suddenly there's a sharp BANG BANG BANG from the other side of the wall—three hard, angry strikes that make the picture frames rattle.

The neighbor. Someone's pissed about the noise.

For a split second, you think Darrell might stop, might ease up. But instead, he groans even louder, his grip on your head tightening until you feel strands of your hair pulling free.

"Fuck yeah," he growls, slamming into your throat harder. The thud of your head against the wall gets louder, faster. "Let 'em hear. Let 'em know what a good little whore you are."

The banging comes again—BANG BANG BANG BANG—four strikes this time, harder, angrier. You can hear muffled shouting through the wall, words you can't make out over the wet sounds of your throat being fucked. But Darrell just laughs and keeps going, his hips moving faster, more erratic, the smack-smack-smack of his pelvis against your face creating its own rhythm.

Your hand is still working between your legs, rubbing your clit in **** circles, and despite everything—despite the pain and the humiliation and the fact that you can't breathe—you're getting close. Your body is betraying you again, responding to the degradation, to the feeling of being completely used. You can feel your own wetness coating your fingers, slick and hot.

And then Darrell changes the angle, tilting your head back against the wall, and on the next thrust, something gives.

There's a sharp, tearing pain deep in your throat—something ripping, stretching beyond its limit—and suddenly his entire cock is buried in your throat. Every. Single. Inch. Your nose is pressed flat against his pelvis, crushed into the wiry hair there, and you can smell him so intensely it makes you dizzy—sweat and musk and the sharp, almost chemical smell of arousal. Your lips are stretched obscenely around the base of his shaft, wrapped around the very root of him, and you can't breathe at all.

You can't breathe.

Through your tear-blurred vision, you look down—and you can see it. You can see the muscles of his stomach, the dark skin glistening with sweat. You can see your own hands scrabbling weakly at his thighs, your pale fingers against his dark skin. You can see that there's nothing left—his cock has completely disappeared into your mouth and throat, vanished entirely, swallowed whole.

Panic floods through you, your hands scrabbling at his thighs, trying to push him back, but he's too strong. He holds you there, his cock lodged so deep you can feel it in your chest, and the pain is immense—a burning, tearing sensation that makes your eyes roll back. You taste something metallic and warm—blood—mixing with the salty bitterness of his precum and the mucus from your nose.

Your jaw feels like it's going to break. The joint is screaming, the muscles trembling with exhaustion, and you can feel the corners of your mouth splitting, tiny tears in the delicate skin. But still he holds you there, buried to the hilt, your face pressed against his pelvis.

I'm going to die, you think wildly. I'm going to fucking die like this.

But even through the pain, even through the panic, you're still trying. Your tongue is moving, swirling weakly around his shaft, feeling the thick vein on the underside, the heat of him. Your hand is still between your legs, still rubbing, your fingers slipping in your own wetness.

"Fuck," Darrell groans, his whole body tensing. You can feel his muscles going rigid, can feel his cock swelling even thicker in your throat—impossibly thicker, stretching you even more. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"

And then he's coming.

You feel it before you taste it—the way his cock pulses in your throat, throbbing against your tongue, the way his grip on your head tightens to the point of pain. Hot cum floods your throat, pouring directly down into your stomach, and you can't swallow, can't do anything but take it. The taste is overwhelming—salty and bitter and thick, coating your throat.

He pulls back just enough for the last few spurts to hit your tongue, and the taste intensifies—warm and viscous, almost creamy. You watch through blurred vision as his cock slides out of your throat, inch by glistening inch, finally emerging from your mouth completely. Then he's pulling out completely, his hand wrapping around his cock as he strokes himself through the final waves of his orgasm.

The last of his cum splatters across your face—hot and thick—landing on your cheeks, your nose, your lips. You can feel it, warm and sticky, dripping down your skin. You're gasping for air, coughing and ****, and you can taste it in your mouth, smell it in your nose—that sharp, bleach-like scent of semen mixing with the copper taste of blood from your torn throat.

Your jaw is still trembling, still aching, the muscles exhausted and burning. You work it slowly, trying to close your mouth, and the movement sends sharp spikes of pain through the joint.

You slump against the wall, your whole body shaking, your throat burning with pain. Through your blurred vision, you can see the white streaks of cum on your pale skin, can see it dripping from your chin onto your bare chest. Your hand is still between your legs, and you're so close, so fucking close, that you can't stop. You rub harder, faster, feeling the slick heat of your arousal, smelling the musky scent of it mixing with his sweat and cum.

Within seconds you're coming too—a ****, shuddering orgasm that makes you sob. The sound is broken and wet, your throat too damaged to make proper noise. Your whole body convulses, and you can feel your pussy clenching around nothing, can feel the wetness coating your thighs.

Darrell stands over you, his cock still in his hand, his chest heaving. You can hear his breathing—deep and satisfied—and smell the sweat rolling off his body. He looks down at you—at your tear-streaked face, at the cum dripping from your chin, at the way you're still touching yourself—and he smiles.