Throat Fucking

The other week on the blog The Erotic Writer, an invitation was put up for writers to respond to the following prompt:

Write a story about the first time you really felt a man’s cock or a woman’s pussy; when you knew you were hooked; when you knew you couldn’t live without it. Where were you? What position were you in? Was your lover older or younger?

My own response is written below. If you like the prompt, however, I encourage you to pen something of your own on the subject, and perhaps check out some of the other submissions. All of them can be found as guest posts on The Erotic Writer, along with a whole bundle of fantastic stories by the four main authors of the blog. Enjoy reading/writing.

Best,

Smithy

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“In a moment I’m going to hold down your head. You won’t be able to breathe, and your brain might panic and tell you you’re dying. But you are going to be fine. Is this alright?”

My eyes were frozen on him while my lips hovered at the tip of his cock. He was slick with my labors to please, but despite the practice I was not yet used to taking the whole length of him. Nervousness twisted in my stomach, and I nodded my consent. He caught my gaze and watched me steadily, waiting for me to take the deep breaths I needed to calm myself. His fingers brushed through my hair, gentle, from temple to the soft groove above the nape of my neck.

He must have sensed my resolve when it firmed, because it was then that his hand gripped and pushed.

“Relax,” he muttered as I tensed to gag–his member slid warm over my tongue and pressed against the entrance to my throat. I took a slow breath, and he pushed again.

My throat was not accustomed to this kind of intrusion; he felt thick and foreign. Relax, relax, relax…I repeated to myself, until I softened to admit his firmness.

And suddenly, I was full of him. He was not a monstrously hung man, but his cock pushed wide the walls of my throat in a way that felt like a fuck. He hilted himself that extra centimeter, so that my lips sunk to kiss the skin of his pelvis.

Dear God. I groaned into him, and heard an echoing sound from him.

Dear God.
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Invictus Cunnus

To provide some brief context, a D/s-ish dynamic in one of my relationships had once led me to partake in daily edging–that is, masturbation ending with a denial of orgasm. This poem (based on Henley’s Invictus, in case the title wasn’t enough of a giveaway) was written then in a moment of particular despair and vaginal indignance.

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Invictus Cunnus

Upon the brink of perverse glee,
I still my swiftly frigging limb,
And thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable quim.

In the fell clutch of cruel denial
Though I now wince and cry aloud,
It’s but a temporary trial
From which my crotch might emerge proud.

There looms the orgasmless waste
Of my masturbatory ban!
Shedding frustration and distaste
I face my ordeal, clit in hand.

It matters not if I am bound
From fully pleasuring my front,
I am the master of my mound:
I am the captain of my cunt.