He nodded. ‘I am, actually.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I replied, beginning to cough weakly. ‘Because I have this itch in the back of my throat I was hoping you could help me out with.’
He opened his can and took a swig, oblivious to what I was getting at. ‘Sore throat?’
I placed the last of the cutlery in the drawer. ‘Not sore, no, but it’s about six or seven inches down and I just can’t reach it myself . . .’
He paused, mid-swig. ‘You mean . . . ?’
‘Yep. But if you’re too tired, I can—’
‘I’m not tired. You must have mistaken me for someone else.’
‘I see.’
He made his way back towards the living room with a spring in his step, slapping my arse as he passed me. I heard him tell Molly it was bedtime and that if she hurried, he’d read her the cat book she loved so much. Given that he hates that book, it was clear he wanted her in bed and sleepy as soon as possible.
There wasn’t much to do in terms of preparation, apart from dim the bedroom lights and move Oliver’s old socks the fuck away from me. Gah. That old saying where you’re supposed to love everything about your partner and never want to change them is such bullshit. Hisdropping clothes at his arsehabit needs to go before I strangle him with them.
I flicked though Facebook while I waited for Oliver, inwardly scowling at the inspirational memes and laughing at a video Lucy had posted of a man walking into a lamppost. Finally Oliver came into the room, announcing that Molly had passed out during the third re-read of her book.
‘That cat is a dick,’ he whispered, locking the door. ‘Hang on, why are you still dressed?’
I put my phone on the bedside table. ‘You only need from the shoulders up!’
He laughed. ‘Fair point. But take your shirt off. Let me see your tits at least.’
So I stripped to the waist, aware that swinging boobs and a roll of fat hanging over my trousers was not my best look, but Oliver didn’t care. He’d already started groping me.
‘Hang on,’ I said quietly. ‘We need some rules here.’
‘Sure,’ he mumbled, attempting to get my entire right boob in his mouth.
‘If I slap you on the leg, it means stop.’
‘OK.’
‘Warn me if you’re going to cum.’
‘I always do . . . God, you’re so soft.’
‘And go slowly.’
He pulled away from my boobs and cupped my face in his hands. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know. If you’re unsure . . . I’m just saying . . .’
I paused for a moment, biting my lip. ‘I read that me lying face up on the bed with my head hanging over is the best possi—’
‘Do it.’
It was awkward at first. As promised he did go slowly, just gently moving in and out of my mouth and running his hands over my body. I felt like an idiot but tried my best to keep my teeth away from his cock and breathe. I hadn’t had my mouth stretched this wide since I got my wisdom tooth out in 1998. The first time he went deeper than normal, I was ready. I’d trained for this. I was the Cucumber Queen of Glasgow and I prayed to God no one would ever find out about that. I must admit I was surprised at the sound he made. It was almost animalistic. It turned me on. I relaxed my throat and let him continue. However, the moment he said, ‘Oh fuck me, I can see it in your throat,’ he thrust with excitement and I gagged, slapping his thigh hard.
‘Slowly!’ I reminded him. ‘Ugh, I have spit on my chin.’
‘Sorry,’ he replied. ‘This is just so hot.’
I took a breath and we continued, making sure I took breaks. I wished I’d taken my mascara off first. That shit will make your eyes water – no one warned me about that. Fuckers. We mixed it in with normal blow job stuff, hands and ball play, and it didn’t take too long before Oliver announced he was going to cum and I let him, listening to him as he made that sound again, loudly. I think that sound was the best part of this whole experience.
Afterwards we lay in bed, me removing the mascara that had smudged into my cheeks and him just quietly nuzzling against me.
