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My hands were in his hair. Both of them. I looked down at him like he was some -- some 20th century fuck toy. A device, in himself.
That hair, hanging down, now damp with a little sweat. The gag locked tightly in his mouth. A nice, 7-inch cock extending up from his gagged mouth, glistening now as I stroked it, slowly, with lubrication.
Maybe he smelled the scent of it. Maybe he felt the way my hips were moving suggestively on his chest.
"I'm about to fuck you," I said. Hissing, I imagine, because I was aching with desire. My pussy grinding, already, against the fabric of his t-shirt. I knew he could feel how wet I was. How hot I was.
"You..." I hissed. "You have this big, thick cock sticking up from your face. I am going to sit on you. Sit on your face, do you understand? I am going to fuck you. I am going to cum on your face. You will feel it. You will feel it, because the harder I plunge myself down onto you, the deeper that cock will get shoved into your mouth."
He whimpered. It was a priceless, audible whimper.
"I am masturbating, right now, on your chest. Getting myself ready." My words, breathless, distracted him. I could tell. As I moved my fingers under my panties I saw him squirming, more now, and I studied him. Studied my prey.
I eased my panties down. I eyed that cock I would soon mount. I though how helpless he must feel, unable to speak, to see. Knowing he was about to be fucked like an object.
"You wanted me to use your mouth," I hissed, leaning over, brushing my lips over his ear. "And I am."
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