There’s an unusually long pause between the garage closing and the sounds of your keys in the front door. I turn from my spot at the counter and my suspicions are confirmed; your face is drawn, mouth set in a hard line. You have had A Bad Day At Work. Blessedly rare, but when things go sideways and tempers flare, you’re the one they send in to smooth things over. Sometimes, that means getting berated until you can calm the client down enough to figure out what the actual problem is.
I frown and shut my laptop, ending my own workday. This at least explains the short, terse texts throughout the afternoon. You’re still standing in the entryway, trying now on a conscious level to leave the day’s events behind you. I slide off the stool and you blink, focusing on the movement.
“So…” I approach and snag your lunch kit from your hands. “Here are the options: 30 minutes to decompress, a stiff drink, and a blowjob” I list, holding up three fingers in turn. You huff a laugh through your nose, that dour expression finally cracking.
“What order would you like them in?” I cock my head to the side and flutter those same three fingers in what I hope is an enticing, coquettish manner. Your laughing eyes flash with surprise and then something slightly predatory as you realize that I’m serious in my offer of all of the above, and that this wasn’t a straightforward multiple choice.
I back away into the kitchen, holding up the lunch kit between us. “We’re doing takeout, so go chill downstairs for a bit and then I’ll join you with a drink.” I start disassembling the plastic containers, wrinkling my nose at whatever salad dressing remnants coat the inside. I don’t turn back to see the look on your face before you shuffle downstairs, loosening your tie – but if I had – it would’ve heated me to my core.
I hum to myself, gathering up the ingredients for the cocktail. Being a little selfish, I throw together something with grapefruit and a sugar rim so that it’ll combat whatever garlic was in the dressing. I give the drink a tentative sniff and then a sip. I’m no mixologist but a finger and a half of decent gin should make anyone’s day at least a little better, in my opinion.
I pad down the carpeted basement stairs to find you slumped in your regular spot on the couch, game controller in hand. For some reason you’re still on the loading screen. As I approach from behind, I swirl the drink so that ice tinkles on the sides of the glass. “Dinner is served” I joke, and the corners of your mouth turn up in the first genuine smile I’ve seen on your face this evening.
I sidle up behind you and bend over, placing the stout glass in your hands and letting my fingers graze yours gently. I stay bent over the couch back and draw my arms around your chest, resting my head in the hollow of your neck. You’re less tense than before; it’s no longer rolling off of you in waves but the set of your jaw and shoulders are still all wrong. I turn my face inwards, lips brushing against the side of your neck, eliciting a swallow from you. “Do you want to talk about it?” I probe gently. When your only answer is to take a sip of the drink, I continue with another light kiss – this time higher, closer to that sensitive spot where your neck and jaw meet. Ah. One of Those Days. Where you feel powerless and useless and helpless … just less in general. Small. I pause in between kisses. “Do you want to take it out on me?”
I feel your breath catch in your chest and the slightest pause before you press the power button on the controller and toss it aside on the couch. The game’s splash screen darkens, “no input detected” message now displaying across the TV in its place. Another sip and your shoulders loosen slightly. I kiss you again, closer to your ear so that I can nudge it with the tip of my nose and tickle you with an exhale of warm breath. “What exactly did you have in mind?” Finally, you speak.
I graze my teeth along your earlobe and reassure you that my offer from before still stands. Noting with a tiny smirk that your eyelids flutter when I do so. Time to play. “May I please suck your cock?” I whisper directly into the shell of your ear. I love asking for permission to please you, softly murmuring the filthy things I want to do until you’re in a near frenzy. My own personal wind-up toy. Your breathing has quickened, the hand not holding a drink now wrapped around my wrist and rubbing tiny circles with a thumb.
You lean forward to set the half-empty cocktail on the coffee table and pull me around the side of the sofa. A few quick steps and I drop to my knees in front of you, beyond eager at this point. Your eyes are half-lidded, your voice thick with lust as you nudge the controller further aside and inform me that you hadn’t made it past the loading screen because gaming was suddenly the last thing on your mind the second you set foot down here. “I couldn’t play Halo with an erection” you shrug, eliciting a bark of laughter from me. I’m delighted to see this is the truth, and your slacks are strained mercilessly taught in the front. I smile and wordlessly offer you a hair tie. In answer, you silently take the elastic from me, gently raking your fingers through my hair and into a ponytail that I know you will use to guide my movements as I gag and sputter on you later.
That particular ritual started a while back – I love the sensation of having my hair played with, and one thing led to another often enough that it has been firmly cemented into our foreplay. I have a hard time keeping my eyes from rolling back in my head as your strong hands run through my hair with the utmost gentleness. Finished, you hold my chin in your hands for a moment and admire your handiwork. Nodding towards your belt, I lift an eyebrow. “May I?”
So calm and collected on the outside, the perfect simpering little doll at your knees, I slide my hands up your thighs and graze the tight fabric tented up between them before gingerly tugging your belt loose and undoing your fly. I’m trembling inside. You’re not the only one who had a shitty day, darling. I am so tired of making decisions; of figuring out what the best course of action is. I want you to take control, tell me what to do. This is why we mesh so well, I think as you draw me up by my hair to kiss me deep and hard. We fill in the gaps left behind, shoring each other up where we’re most needed. Better yet, you’re able to keep up with my capricious moods, gentle and giving when I need to take from you in turn. I know that in a few days, it’ll likely be you bearing the brunt of my frustration as I ride you angrily, seeking my own release.
The mental image arouses me, and I moan slightly into our kiss, my fingers fumbling with the waist of your pants as I tug at them. Apparently this is all the encouragement you needed, and in the blink of an eye you’ve scooted forward and shoved your clothes down until you’re bare from waist to shin, pants and belt tangled around your long legs. Your thick erection is an impressive enough display on its own but my eyes are drawn to the flamingo-patterned socks peeking up above the edge of the pooled fabric and I snort lightly at the contrast between them and your grey slacks. So buttoned up and tightly wound but a riot of joy and colour underneath. You are so wonderful and I want to make all the things dulling your shine just go away if only for a moment.
Ponytail firmly grasped, you draw my head back until my neck is exposed and I’m looking at the ceiling. Teeth, lips and stubble scrape across delicate skin and I shudder, reaching blindly for your erection. Your kisses are interrupted by a short, sharp gasp when my hands make contact and wrap around the thick length of you. Stroking softly with my fingernails, I continue up and down until your breathing is ragged. I will absolutely torture you until you take control and force my head downwards. Make me. Instead, both of your hands end up fisted in my hair, pulling me nearly off-balance as I’m drawn forward into a deep kiss. “I think I liked hearing you beg for it just now,” you smirk and my insides turn liquid.
“Oh?” I can’t even hide my surprise. Normally I have to goad you a little to get past the cheese-factor of saying things like that. Seems that 25 minutes of staring at the Halo launch screen alone in the rumpus room has gotten your motor sufficiently warmed up. You nod slowly, holding my head in place gently but firmly. “Puh-lease?” I drawl with a tinge of sarcasm, dropping into a bratty, punish-me pout and bat my eyes over top of my glasses.
“Mm hm.” You shake your head at me. “You said you wanted something, that’s not how you ask.” I start to roll my eyes and laugh, but am drawn up short when you lean forward and bite my neck again. A strangled cry escapes my lips in surprise when you roughly shove your free hand down the front of my pants, deftly navigating elastic bands and folds of stretchy fabric that so starkly contrast with your own formal office attire. Perks of working from home, I barely have time to think before your fingers bury themselves in the slick cleft between my legs. Your chest rumbles deeply with a laugh at how my own body has betrayed how badly I want this. “Ask me again.” You repeat your instructions but this time it is a command and not a request.
Even fully clothed with you splayed out in front of me, I suddenly feel exposed. Brazen. I start stroking you again and your fingers twitch in response against me. “Please.” I swallow again, trying to concentrate against the tightness and warmth now slowly building between my legs as you tease me back in turn. You jerk. I finally gasp and shudder, trying to twist away from the ever-increasing speed of your fingers as they work over me. I’m held firmly in place, though; and the only sound in the basement is us breathing heavily as we stroke each other and wait to see who will break first.
“Beg for it.” You growl into my ear and I finally whimper plaintively enough for you to pause those wonderful, magical fingers of yours. I can’t stop myself as the words tumble from my mouth; I want to please you and I’m on my knees rambling about how badly I need you as I stare up into your eyes. Finally satisfied with the power dynamic, you guide my head down so that I can take you into my mouth.
Without thinking, I let out a deep moan which is shortly joined by your own. I pause, the tip of your impossibly-hard prick resting against the back of my throat. “More?” You rasp, and I give the barest of nods before you groan again and use my hair to drag me upwards a fraction of an inch. I inhale through my nose and look up at you questioningly. Breathe. Don’t gag, not yet. I want to show you how well I can behave when you demand it of me. There’s a strange look on your face, as if you’re trying to decide something. I try to break the tension by pulling forward again and beginning to suck you in earnest but your fist wrapped around my hair holds me in place. “I want you to hold still.” You shake your head at me and I know from the timbre of your voice that you are trying extremely hard not to cum. I’m not above admitting I felt a twinge of pride at that.
A few moments later, and I tentatively move my tongue against you. Gently, at first. Testing, feeling your downy thighs tense under my palms, your hands curl and twine further into my hair. Inhale deep and wrap my lips around you. Feel the pulsing hardness slide deeper into my mouth as you begin to thrust slowly while holding my head in place. “Is this ok?” You whisper, stopping momentarily. In truth I want you to bend me over and make me cry out your name, but this moment is not about what I want. I do, however, want you to continue fucking my face until you finish buried deep in my throat and I relish telling you that plainly. I don’t have to repeat myself though I do get to enjoy a moment of slack-jawed dumbfoundedness dancing across your face before your expression sets and you shove your now aching prick into my waiting mouth.
A few short, sharp thrusts later and I can tell that the point of no return is nearing. Eyes watering slightly, I look up at you to see your reaction when I begin caressing your balls. This is enough to push you over the edge and you freeze as thick, hot cum spurts over my tongue and splashes against the back of my throat. Finally, this makes me gag slightly though I recover and bat your hands away from my hair so that I can take over and coax the rest of your orgasm out of you.
Collapsing back onto the couch, chest rising and falling as you pant, aftershocks make your thighs twitch as I work my way slowly up and down the length of you. I swirl my tongue and nibble gently until your breathing slows. Let me worship you until it becomes too much. I’m so focused on my task that I’m surprised to note that you have the drink in hand when I look up. You swirl the mostly-melted ice around and sigh, looking down at me contentedly. The tension is gone from your shoulders, and you’re a veritable puddle slumped against the arm of the couch.
“So.” You begin. “How was *your* day?”
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/jea144/afterwork_relaxation_mf_blowjob
Well written and very hot. Thanks for sharing.