I look down as I grip a mass of wild, ebony hair. Pale blue eyes glance up and back away before darting to meet mine once again as I grip the mass of hairspray–and god knows what else–harder. Her technique is admirable; minimal gagging, doe-eyed, submissive, using her hands when needed and her mouth as the main attraction. I’m sure she’s had a lot of practice.
We started the scene with some light impact play, her cheeks are still reddened from my hand, makeup smeared from tears and spit, and I feel… nothing. I’ve been given a lot of freedom in how I want to shoot this scene, and this girl said she was down for anything. I’m pretty sure her exact words were to treat her like a whore. This girl was sweet, told me her name was Ashley–or maybe it was Brooke. On the outside, you would never assume she was interested in having me slap and choke her into tears, to shove my cock so far down her throat I can see it pulse through her throat, but I suppose that’s part of the beauty of this world.
Inspired by my own thoughts, I shove Brookshley on her back and start a mental timer to see how long it will be until she chokes on my dick and begs for air.
Brookshley isn’t really my type, which is why I’m not so keen on the “afterparty” she invited me to once we’re done here. She’s tiny and lean, the epitome of the teenage fantasy. I can pick her up easily and toss her over my shoulder like a ragdoll without a second thought. Her tits are fake, though whoever did them did a decent job. Her curveless body is just too adolescent for me. It’s enough to get me off, but my mind is going to have to go elsewhere to finish the job.
I hear the girl start to gag and I let up a little. Yeah, sorry Brooksley, I’m not interested in an afterparty.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/ayb9k1/thoughts_on_an_excerpt_from_my_writing_str8_mf
From the bit you’ve posted here, I’d say you write well, but a complete story will be a more accurate measurement of where you are in your writing levels.
I would like the full story too