He likes me to greet him when he comes home from work. But ‘greet’ means different things to different people. To him, it means ‘come and meet me at the front door, give me a hug and kiss like you missed me.’ I’d prefer to greet him on my knees, mouth open, ready for him to tell me “I’ve had a really hard day at work” before proceeding to brutally fuck my face.
“I’ve had a hard day,” he says.
In my mind.
While I’m wanking.
Then:
“I’m not in the mood to talk.”
He shrugs off his coat, then winds up the cord of his headphones and stashes them in a pocket. Hangs his jacket precisely on the hooks by the front door.
I’m on my knees on the carpet in the hall, knees spread wide so I’m at just the right height for cocksucking. Waiting for him to turn his attention to me. Eager for him to fuck my face.
At no point does he make eye contact. Not as he opens the door, nor as he removes his coat, nor even as he turns to face me, one hand on the fly of his jeans. He unzips, with a sigh. As if this ritual – this cocksucking – is as much of a chore as the commute he’s had to endure on the way home from work.
He unzips first, as if he’s about to take a piss. Thumbs his cock out from the opening at the front of his jeans, and reiterates:
“I’ve had a hard day.”
Already semi-hard, his cock twitches as I wrap my lips round it. He takes a tiny step closer and leans towards me, putting one of his hands on the wall high above where I’m kneeling. Leaning in the way he’d lean towards a urinal after four or five pints.
The ‘aaah’ of satisfaction when I suck him down to the back of my throat is the same as the ‘aaah’ of that drunken Friday-night piss. Not pleasure, but relief: he’s had a hard day.
I use my hands to open his jeans further, yanking them down along with his underpants. All the while his cock is in my mouth, growing harder. Stretching until it fills my mouth and throat.
“That’s it,” he tells me and “good girl.”
When I try to use my hands again – for grip around the base or to form a cup at the head of his dick to drool pools of spit into – he smacks them away. Instead he grips my hair, and yanks me forward onto him. Dragging my lips down his shaft until my nose and mouth are buried in the post-workday scent of him.
“Good girl,” he murmurs again, as I choke on his cock. “Good girl,” again, as I cough and gag and swallow him.
One hand on the wall behind me, for balance. One hand on the back of my head, to get his dick as deep inside me as possible.
He’s had a hard day, and every stressful aspect of that day must be sucked out of him. The pointless one-hour meeting. The conference call which didn’t go his way. The email from accounts querying his expenses, the stress of delivering a huge project to deadline and the fact that the coffee machine had run out of pods again.
It is not my fault – none of it’s my fault. But it’s all my job to fix. To soothe. My job to be the one he takes out out on. The translator who turns his sadness and rage and frustration into the sensations which feel good on his cock.
This is how I want to greet him: not with hugs and kisses and sympathetic frowns. A stroke on the shoulder and a soothing ‘poor thing.’ A cup of tea and slippers in the lounge, while dinner leaks thick, rich comforting flavours from the kitchen. No: I want to greet him open-mouthed and wet-eyed and desperate to gulp down his dick. I want to be the equipment on which he takes out his frustration. The hole into which he squirts his spunk.
I want him to grip my hair so tight I feel it tingle at the roots, and fuck my face so hard I almost vomit. I don’t need him to make eye contact or kiss me or greet me or even love me – just use me. Fuck my face the way he hangs his coat on that hook or winds up the cord on his headphones: functionally. Knowing full well that everything has its purpose, and my purpose is this.
To hear the sound of his footsteps leading up the front door and immediately anticipate the sound of him unzipping his fly. To know from the tone of his ‘on my way home’ text that he’s had a hard day. To open my mouth wide and let him fuck my face while my eyes water and I drool and choke and gag.
To look up at him as he stares into the middle distance, then swallow every drop of his come as he grunts in satisfaction.
To be his relief. At the end of a really hard day.
This post is also available as audio porn. Click ‘listen here’ above or visit the audio porn page for more sexy stories read aloud.
23 Comments
Oh my god, yes please, this. The joy of being used with emotional detachment as merely a functional fucktoy, unfff. Damn, you’re so good at this
Thank you Zebra! <3 Emotionally detached fucking ftw =)
Yeah. How do I say this?
Your writing often makes me want to *be* you. That’s how much I resonate with the writing. Like today.
blessed be.
Blimey, thank you! <3
As wonderful and hot as this is to read, my brain does weird things sometimes, often to do with some accident of scansion.
TTTO “Love Me Do”:
Fuck, fuck my face/
I need more than a taste/
Instead of embrace/
Won’t you ple-ea-ea-ease/
Fuck my face?
Fuck, fuck my face/
Without any grace/
Your stress to erase/
So ple-ea-ea-ease/
Fuck my face!
(I’ll get me coat)
Hahaha no coat-getting required – inevitably I LOVE this =)
I think No Coat-Getting Required was a Phil Collins album , and if I’m not mistaken, Valery is quoting a Beat
ing-off-les song.Where is a good place to get my eyes fucked out.I need a good pussy wrapped around my cock and the taste of her in my mouth
There is a profound satisfaction being used solely for relief, and knowing that you can provide it.
You were mentioning that you thought that you were lacking in photographic skills. I looked at the photos of you and when viewed together they have a common tread that the Gallery Snobs call a ‘body of work’. I don’t know if you took them, but it doesn’t really matter as without you they wouldn’t be. Perhaps you are somebody’s muse? That would be a common thread….a collaboration! That and the style to which the all subscribe. The light is part of the common thread as well as the colors. I like the colors and the saturation. They just all hang together; do more!
Phil
Really, do more. When you have a slew of them, sort them into a small book. You will know what to do once you start seeing the book as a real possibility and……..whatever else it becomes. You have experience with books! It makes me a little excited to think about it. You have the skill with the computer to make the photos just so…..TAKE TIME and things will come together at their own pace which (at least for me) is best.
Phil
I don’t enjoy photography. I hate having my photo taken. All those photos were taken by other people and, talented though those people are, I do not want to spend any more of my life than I absolutely have to posing in front of a camera. I added them so that there was *something* to try and stem a little bit of the tide of men on the internet who don’t think I’m a valid sex blogger unless somewhere there’s a glimpse of my tits. Yet here you are. And here you will *still* be if I post more pictures, along with others who will demand more, and then more and then more.
I am not a model or a photographer, I am a writer. I write words. I like writing words. I hate taking pictures. https://www.girlonthenet.com/2013/10/30/on-the-hotness-of-words/
Maybe it’s a visualisation thing and men* have less imagination. Or maybe asking for pics that aren’t freely given is indeed a control thing. In which case, that’s out of order.
*massive generalisation, obviously.
Unf. This was brilliant. About being a vessel, a toy, stress relief. Yes, please
Thank you Cara! I think you and I are on the same wavelength with a lot of this stuff =)
It was only a suggestion.
You make quite a lot of suggestions, and you often phrase them as imperatives. That makes me feel as if I’m being ordered to do something that is very very different from the work I’m doing right now.
That you’ve also said this on a post that has nothing to do with photos is also kind of odd and rude. Like if I offered you an apple pie and you completely ignored it, saying “Hey! You should cook a roast dinner! I LOVE roast dinner!”
I guess that I am a visual artist. There is no real way to explain. It is the colors, the form. It doesn’t have anything to do with leering at the images. I am sorry that I wrote anything about images and proportion and such. How I look at images or create them is not on the ‘word’ side of communication. I should know better by now. Odd? Perhaps. Rude? Never.
No more suggestions.
You can’t just declare, “Rude? Never.” and think that means that others don’t find you rude.
It’s not about you preferring images, plenty do. It’s about you using phrases like, “Really, do more.” to a woman on the Internet, as if she is required to do as you say. That is what’s rude.
Oh my. To be on the receiving end of this “treatment!” Wowzers! 😎
=)
I loved the audio. The nonchalant, matter-of-fact, dry delivery of such debauchery is right down my alley. And it was so timely as it hasn’t been more than a month since I first actually uttered the words, “I can use a good face fucking.” I totally related to everything you wrote/said.
Thank you! <3