I like how you rub your fingers on the insides of my cheeks. How you cradle my face in your other hand as you press my tongue down and push into my throat. The gentle, soothing voice, when you tell me to *be a good little slut and open for me*. The inadequacy is crushing when my throat starts to spasm around your fingers, my body resisting your desires. It’s not good enough, I know.
I like how you kiss my nose and forehead before licking my tears. You look at me with such concern and nod your head as if you understand. I appreciate that you won’t make it easier, that you won’t stop when I cry. You stroke harder and faster and grip my throat with your other hand. You whisper *this is what I want, you can cry if you need to*.
I like how you coo and shush, how you stroke my hair, how you say *that’s a good girl, keep your fuckhole open* as I retch and sob. I clench my fists and curl my toes. I rasp my breaths on your fingers as you croon for *more, you can take it deeper*. I drool and thrash and choke, and demand my body to accept your will over my own.