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As I kneel, his dick in my face, he looks down at me. “Touch me.”
I lick my lips and obey, using my hand to wrap around the base. I begin to pump him up and down, then I slowly wrap my lips around the head. It seems natural for my mouth to follow the movement of my hand, and I look up at him as his eyes roll and his head cranes back.
Gently gripping my hair, he moves with my head as I take in the saltiness of the precum dripping into my mouth. I can feel him shuddering, and his moans are all the encouragement I need to keep spurring me on.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he says shakily.
I don’t stop what I’m doing, but instead, use my hand to pump him faster, my mouth following, drool dribbling down my chin. I hum in acknowledgment and he repeats, “I’m gonna come, Taryn, you better pull off of I’m gonna explode down your throat.”
Well, that sounds good to me. I hum again and grip him tighter.
He groans and his dick jerks. Suddenly, warmth gushes into my mouth and slides down my throat like he promised. I have no other choice than to swallow it, so I do, and it’s not as bad as I thought it would be.
Now, when do I pop off here? Do I keep sucking until he’s soft?
I feel the gentle encouragement of his hand in my hair, pulling me off. Which I do with a slight suckingpop.
Looking up, I can see him staring down at me with hooded lids and breathing heavily. “Holy shit, Taryn, that was amazing.” He helps me up then plops down into the chair he’d vacated. He quickly slides his sweatpants back on and pulls me into his lap.
With one hand, he brushes my hair out of my face and says, “Thank you, love.” Then, we kiss again, him obviously not caring that I’d just had his junk in my mouth, and I happily kiss him back, feeling wet again and ready for more.
***
I’ve got the phoneon speaker as I chat with Christa from my mom’s garage.
“I just have no idea what I’m supposed to do with all of this shit!” I say, exasperated.
“Like, what is it?” she asks.
I swipe the back of my hand against my forehead. “Just crap. Garden tools. Boxes of stuff. A broken washing machine. Car washing supplies. So much other stuff too.”
“Take pictures of the bigger stuff and list it for sale or free online locally. State that they have to pick it up. It’ll save you from paying for junk removal,” she says.
“Who wants a broken washing machine?” I ask, exasperated.
“You don’t know what’s wrong with it?”
“No clue, Mom just said it was broken then bought another one. Thankfully that one and the matching dryer still work so it’s staying in here and I’ll probably sell it with the house when it comes down to that,” I reply.
“It could be something small. People who are handy fix them then re-sell them. I’m sure someone will come get it,” Christa says. She sounds out of breath.
“What are you doing?” I ask, leaving the phone propped on the broken washer and heading to a dark corner that is stacked with boxes.
“Walking,” she replies. “You know I don’t run but I do walk around my neighborhood every day when the weather is nice.”
I look out of the open garage door to see the sun is out. I’m jealous she’s out in the sunshine while I rot here in the damn garage, sorting through this crap.
“That’s right. I need to start walking with you. My ass is getting bigger by the second, sitting in a chair all day,” I say dryly.
“Fat asses are in style, rock it, girlie.”
I laugh. “Yeah, no thanks. Cellulite is not attractive.”
“Just do some squats,” she suggests.
“That would require me having time for the gym these days,” I mutter.
“True. Well, I’m almost home. Gonna hop in the shower and get my stuff ready for work tomorrow. We need to talk about Mr. Hottie Boss later though,” she says.
