She loved the taste of cock more than anything else. The thick, hot weight on her tongue, the way it stretched her lips, the salty drip of pre-cum that always came first. Every time she got on her knees it felt like coming home.
Tonight was no different. The guy from the bar had followed her home without much convincing. Tall, rough hands, a cock already half-hard when she yanked his jeans down in the living room. She didn’t waste time. She wrapped her fingers around the base, gave it one slow stroke, then opened wide and took him straight to the back of her throat.
“Fuck,” he groaned, hands grabbing her hair. She didn’t care. She bobbed hard, sloppy, letting spit run down her chin and drip onto her tits. Every time the head hit her throat she swallowed around it, milking him. She pulled off just long enough to spit on the shaft, then licked from balls to tip before swallowing him again.
She was good at this. Always had been. She knew how to relax, how to breathe through her nose, how to keep her tongue flat and working the underside while she sucked. The guy was cursing now, hips jerking, but she held him still with one hand on his thigh and kept control. She wanted him to cum in her mouth.
She always wanted that.
When he finally blew, it was thick and heavy, pulsing across her tongue. She didn’t pull back. She swallowed every drop, then licked him clean, making sure nothing was wasted. Only when he was soft did she sit back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and smiling up at him.
“Again later,” she said. “I’m not done.”
He left eventually, legs shaky. She stayed on the floor a minute longer, tasting him still, already thinking about the next one. There was always a next one. Cock sucker stories weren’t just things she read. They were the life she lived, one load at a time.
