His hand in my hair was the imperative to open my throat to his demands. I am called to his service, kneeling, thighs open. Lashed behind my back, my hands are no help for balance. Leaning to my task, I must trust his hold as I must trust him in all things.

My awareness is only him, his breathing, his grip in my hair, his cock down my throat.

Then tension, release, and I’m filled with his sweet, sweet juice. I swallow gratefully, thanking the friend who recommended the fruit salad.