“Well, I just don’t want to do that to my *wife*,” Keeran had said. We’d been having one of those no-holds-barred, late-night-honesty type of discussions about our sex life, and he’d curve-balled me a bit. Rough throatfucking, the kind you see on darker porn sites. That was his secret fetish.
I’d deep-throated him plenty of times, and knew he loved it. But he’d never done more than hold my hair back while I did it so that it didn’t get in the way. After some forceful prompting, and promises not to get mad, I got him to show me the videos. We sat up in the dark of our bedroom, faces lit by the glow of porn on a phone screen. Deep, retching gurgles, desperate, whining gasps, insults, spitting, cum and bile everywhere.
“I’m sorry – I really don’t know why I like it, I shouldn’t have even said it…” he’d closed the browser, unprompted. It took me a moment to process the warmth between my thighs before responding.
“So, if not with me, then…”