I watched as a layer of spit built around Sam’s hand as she stroked up and down my cock, her hand closely following her mouth as she rocked back and forth on her heels, sucking me off. Saliva, propelled by her surprisingly quick motion, dripped down to her cleavage, pushed together by the blue sports bra she was wearing, mixing with the sheen of sweat from biking through the late June heat that hadn’t dried yet. Her mouth and the motion of her hand felt incredible, like a machine sucking the life out of me through my dick.
She was going fast now, the combination of warm, slippery mouth and her light yet firm hand stroking quickly bringing up the familiar burning, pent-up feeling of getting close. From my position leaning back on my elbows, legs hanging over the edge of the bed and her kneeling between them on the floor but sitting up, seamlessly sucking and stroking me, I imagined leaning forward, gently but firmly grasping her straight reddish-blonde hair and holding her mostly still 3/4 of the way onto my dick and cumming right down her throat. I didn’t, however; since we had met only half an hour before and I wasn’t sure she could take it without choking or puking. I’m not that much of an asshole, although I did consider that the scrapes and bruises down my right side were kind of her fault.