Taste tester

You let her stand there a moment longer, still flushed, still breathing a little too fast, still staring at the thick, upright cock she has not been allowed to touch. The chores are finished. The bed is neat. The trash is bagged. The clean clothes are put away. She has spent the last several minutes moving around your naked body, bending and stretching and folding, while you stayed exactly where you were—hard, leaking, completely on display.

You don’t move closer. You don’t reach for her. You simply look down at the heavy shaft standing out from your hips, then back up at her face, and speak in the same calm, even tone that has already stripped most of the attitude out of her voice.

“Come here.”

She steps forward at once, the last of her hesitation burned away by the simple authority in the order. When she is close enough that the heat of your body reaches her, you tip your chin toward the flushed, shiny head of your cock.

“Give it a taste.”

The words land soft but absolute. Her eyes widen. A visible shiver runs through her shoulders. For half a second the old version of her—the one who would have rolled her eyes or made a joke—flickers across her face. Then it dies. She sinks to her knees on the hardwood floor without another word, the motion almost graceful in its surrender. Her hands come up, hover for a heartbeat, then settle lightly on your thighs for balance.

She leans in.

The first contact is tentative: the flat of her tongue pressing against the underside of the head, tasting the thick smear of precum that has been gathering there. A soft, involuntary sound leaves her throat—half surprise, half something warmer. She pulls back just far enough to look at the glistening strand connecting her lower lip to your cock, then leans in again, slower this time. Her tongue circles the crown in a careful, exploratory sweep, gathering more of the salty-sweet fluid, mapping the shape of you with deliberate attention.

You stay still and let her work.

She grows bolder. The tip of her tongue traces the thick ridge beneath the head, then slides lower along the heavy vein that runs the length of the shaft. She opens her mouth wider and takes the first two inches, lips stretching around the girth, cheeks hollowing as she sucks gently. Another quiet noise vibrates against your skin. Her eyes flutter half-shut. One of her hands slides higher on your thigh; the other stays braced, fingers tightening whenever your cock throbs against her tongue.

She pulls off with a wet sound, breathes once, then takes you deeper. The head pushes against the soft palate; she adjusts the angle and sinks farther, testing how much she can manage. Saliva gathers at the corners of her mouth and begins to slip down the shaft. She works in slow, measured strokes—down, hold, up, tongue swirling—never rushing, as if she is studying the weight and heat and taste of you with the same focused curiosity she once reserved for ordinary things. Every time your cock pulses harder against her tongue she makes another small, helpless sound of appreciation.

Her thighs are pressed tightly together on the floor. The damp spot on the front of her shorts has grown darker. She is no longer pretending this is reluctant. She is tasting you like she has been waiting for permission all morning, and the quiet, submissive pleasure of finally having it is written in every slow bob of her head and every soft, wet noise she makes around your cock.

You rest one hand lightly on the back of her head—not forcing, just resting—and feel her lean into the contact, taking you a fraction deeper in silent answer.

The house is still quiet. No one is coming up the stairs. She is on her knees in the middle of your room, mouth full, eyes half-lidded, tasting every thick, leaking inch you decide to give her.