i have new rules for the new year because in have more goals as well. the main one being to do oral training more consistently, both normal blowjobs and deepthroating. Sir and i have come up with 2 main rules for me to follow: i am to do oral training 2x a week for at least 5 min each and to do 5min of oral training before i am allowed to give any stimulation to my clit.
so far ive been enjoying these rules. ive also come up with my own rule that is just for fun: when i start training, i am to take note of the time and then start. not allowed to set alarms or keep glancing at the clock, just focusing on sucking the cock. then when i think i have done enough training or surpassed the 5min, i can check the clock. i usually overshoot by a lot and end up doing way more than 5min, but if i ever look at the clock before 5min have passed, i will start over and do 6min from the beginning.
i have gotten way better at sucking and throating, but ive also gradually have been getting more enjoyment out of my training. makes me so very wet and i cant help but smile when i make a mess with my own spit.
it is interesting how much denial can do to your kinks. i used to not like the idea of having anything in my mouth at all, but now im having the time of my life sucking a cock for 10min just because i wanted to.
This used to be just a dream I had. An eagerly obedient personal fucktoy, always hungry for my cock in her throat and cum to greedily swallow down. Working hard every day as my pretty little maid doll, scrubbing and cleaning and vacuuming (super important with the kitties and doggo!) while also being a hot bondage object too! Udders out after a session of pumping earlier.
@desperatelybegging is edged, denied, and shaped every day to be a better piece of property for her Master.
Only a broken bitch would eagerly lap at her crushâs soaked nutsack whilst he makes love to a more superior bitch. Maybe one day you can make love to his asshole too.
She has belonged to me for a year now. Her cunt hasnât been used in a month, and even that was just humping my leg. She has one purpose only: to lick and suck whatever I tell her to. As I woke up I felt her stirring beside me. She knew her morning ritual, and I felt her slowly arrange herself until her head was resting on my thigh. I felt her tongue lapping gently at my balls and I shifted to give her easier access. She knew not to suck my cock until told, but just to kiss and lick my balls and asshole while I woke up.
I left her there for a while. I picked up my phone and quickly checked it. I texted some friends and briefly scrolled through my other notifications while she lapped at my ass. I reached under the covers and tugged on my mouth slutâs hair and she gratefully took my cock in her mouth. She was used to this, she knew exactly what to do. Her head bobbed up and down under the covers, and I laid back, relaxed, and let her work.
She was talented, and very well practised. Her tongue and lips worked together, she gently stroked my balls with her hand. I was already close to cumming, so when she deepthroated every inch and started gagging herself, I didnât last long. I gripped her hair and held my cock in her throat as I came. Once she would have struggled to swallow my cum like that, but now she accepted it and barely gagged. She dropped my cock from her mouth and nuzzled into my leg again, and I petted her hair slowly.
She knew our morning routine wasnât finished, and after a few minutes I guided her head to my cock again. She sealed her lips around the tip and waited patiently until I began to piss. This had taken a long time to train: at first she had gagged at the taste and spat piss everywhere. Weâd spent weeks with her kneeling in the shower for practice. But now, she swallowed rapidly, making sure she didnât make any mess at all. As my stream slowed, she swallowed the last few drops and released my cock again. I stroked her hair and thanked her, and she quickly rolled over and out of the bed to go make my coffee.
I got up a few moments later and followed her through to the living room. I had a slow day of work ahead, but I wanted her mouth to be kept in use. Often she would spend the day under my desk, cockwarming. Today I felt meaner though. I picked a dildo from the drawer, and stuck the suction base to the window. I fixed it low, so it would require her to bend over or kneel to suck it. She didnât really notice until she came over with a mug of hot coffee and spotted the toy. I could see in her face that she wanted to argue, but she didnât.
I sat on the sofa and sipped the coffee as she knelt. The window opens onto a car park, so it was unlikely she would be seen. On the other hand, she was entirely exposed, anyone who did look would see her; naked and kneeling and deepthroating a dildo enthusiastically. I let her slowly suck the toy for a while as I finished by coffee, then stood, âKeep sucking while Iâm working. When I come check on you in an hour, I want to see pool of your spit on the floor. If I think itâs good enough, youâll get a break while you lick it up.â
She didnât stop sucking, but moaned out a âYes, Sirâ around the toy. I ran my finger down her back to her cunt and she shivered. She was dripping wet.
âGood girl. If thereâs another puddle from your leaking cunt Iâll use it as lube to fuck your ass.â She looked up at me with wide eyes and nodded, pleading to be assfucked. I gently gripped her hair and pulled her off the dildo. She gasped and I held her there as a drop of my spit fell into her mouth. She moaned, and I forced her head all the way back down the dildo until she gagged. I left her there and went to start my working day while my mouth slut trained.
Therapy. The room is a study in beige and muted reassurance. Leather armchair, plush and deep, that seems to swallow you whole. A mahogany desk, polished to a respectable sheen. Tasteful abstract art on the walls that suggests intellect without provoking any actual thought. It is a space designed to soothe, to quiet a mind at war with itself.
It doesnât work.
You sit, hands clenched in your lap, and try to meet his gaze. Itâs calm and patient, framed by tasteful spectacles. He has a captivating way of listening â a probing pressure that seeks out the cracks in your composure.
"You said on the phone that things have become⊠unmanageable," he begins. "Can you tell me what that means for you?"
You swallow against a throat gone dry. "I canât focus. At work. I⊠Iâm distracted."
"Distracted by what?"
The words are lodged somewhere behind your teeth, barbed with shame. You've danced around this for weeks. Youâve talked about anxiety, about stress, about a pervasive feeling of being overwhelmed. Youâve used every therapy-approved euphemism in the book. But you're not getting anywhere.
"Itâs a⊠a physical sensation," you manage, your eyes fixed on a point just over his shoulder. "A need."
"A need for what?" he presses. "I canât help you if you wonât be honest. This is a safe place. There's no judgment here."
The dam breaks. A trickle of poison that burns your throat on the way out. "To touch myself," you whisper. The admission hangs in the air-conditioned stillness of the room.
He simply makes a small note on the pad in his lap. "How often do you feel this need?"
You laugh, a little bitter. "Often? All the time. It doesnât stop. I wake up and Iâm already⊠my clit is already swollen. Itâs throbbing. Iâm wet before my feet even hit the floor. I have to⊠I have to take care of it before I can even think about making coffee."
You finally look at him, daring him to show a hint of disgust, but you only see clinical interest. "Take care of it? With your hand?"
"Sometimes." The confession is a torrent now, unstoppable. "Usually not. Itâs not enough. I have toys. A lot of them. Iâll use a dildo, fuck myself on the edge of the bed until Iâm shaking, but it doesn't⊠it doesn't last. The ache comes back. At work, I have to go to the bathroom three, four times before lunch. I keep a vibrator in my purse. I press it against my clit through my underwear, just to get a moment of peace. Itâs not even about pleasure anymore. Itâs like an itch I canât scratch deep enough. Itâs ruining my life. I just⊠I just need to be fucked. Constantly."
Youâre crying now, hot, humiliating tears tracing paths down your cheeks. Youâve said it. Youâve laid the ugly core of your problem bare. Now he knows you're a hopeless addict.
He lets the silence sit for a long moment, allowing the weight of your words to settle. When he speaks, his voice is unchanged, a steady anchor in your storm. "This isnât uncommon, you know. Not in this intensity, perhaps, but the mechanism is the same. The mind fixates. It creates a feedback loop. Urge, release, fleeting satisfaction, stronger urge. The cycle shortens until it consumes all other thought."
He leans forward slightly, his eyes holding yours. "Behavioral therapy often uses totems. Grounding objects. A way to focus a powerful obsession onto a single, tangible thing. By controlling the totem, you learn to control the urge. Instead of this need being a shapeless monster that hounds you everywhere, we channel it."
You wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand. "A totem? Like what? A stress ball?"
You see him smile for the first time. It changes the landscape of his face, revealing something predatory beneath the professional veneer. "Something a bit more⊠resonant. The object of fixation should be related to the obsession itself. It should be something you can hold. Something you can worship. A focal point for all that desperate energy."
He stands up, his movements fluid and unhurried. He walks around the desk and stops in front of your chair. You have to crane your neck to look up at him.
"Your problem is that your need has no object. Itâs just throwing a tantrum in your head."
He places a hand on your shoulder, a gesture that feels both comforting and proprietary. "During our sessions, and only during our sessions, I will provide you with a totem. This will become the vessel for your urges. You will pour all of your need into it, right here, in this controlled environment. That way it'll leave you alone out there."
"What⊠what is the totem?"
He unbuckles his belt. He unbuttons his trousers, unzips his fly. And then he's free. His cock. Thick and heavy, silencing the screaming in your head and replacing it with a single deafening note of pure want.
"This," he says softly, "Now get on your knees."
Your body moves before your mind can object, sliding from the leather chair onto the floor. You're on your knees before him, your eyes level with your new fixation.
"Good," his voice s a balm on your frayed nerves. "This is where the need goes. For the rest of the hour, worship. Look at it. Learn it."
You stare, mesmerized. The head is a deep, flushed plum, a single, glistening bead of pre-cum at the tip. You can smell him, a clean, masculine scent that makes your mouth water. He's growing harder under your attention.
"See, youâre already calmer. More focused."
The frantic, scattered energy that has plagued you for months is coalescing, narrowing to this single point. The itch is still there, but now you know exactly where to scratch.
"Next week, weâll move on to the next stage. But for now, just look. Tell me what you see."
You describe the veins that trace a path up the thick shaft, the way the skin moves, the color, the shape. You speak like you're describing a holy relic. And as you speak, you can feel the wetness pooling between your legs, a familiar symptom, but this time, it feels different. More under control.
The next session, you're buzzing with anticipation. You barely register his initial questions about your week. You just nod and agree that yes, youâve been more focused. Focused on what's next. On your totem.
"Iâm glad to hear the treatment is showing early signs of success," he says, that smile on his face again. "Are you ready for the next stage?"
You nod eagerly, already moving to your knees as he stands and unzips. This time, he's already hard. Hard for you.
"Today, we incorporate touch. The tactile is a crucial part of grounding. Reach out. Hold it."
Your trembling hands cup him. His skin is hot. He's so thick your fingers barely meet around him.
"Good. Feel its weight. Its heat. Now⊠bring it to your lips. Itâs time to taste."
You lean in. You press an open-mouthed kiss to the head of his cock, your tongue sliding out to taste that single, perfect bead of fluid. Itâs salty, intoxicating. He groans, his hips pushing forward instinctively.
"Yes. Like that. Youâre a natural. You see how this works? All that need you felt? Itâs flowing out of you and into me."
His words are a hypnotic mantra. He is healing you. His hand comes to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. Guiding. Suggesting.
You take him into your mouth.
The sensation as your mouth is filled, of him pressing against the back of your throat, is overwhelming. You gag for a moment, but his fingers are a reassuring presence in your hair. You relax, and begin to suck. You treat his cock with the reverence it deserves, licking and swallowing, your tongue tracing every ridge and vein.
The sessions evolve. Each week a building block. You learn to take him deeper, to swallow him whole. You learn the specific rhythm he likes, the way a flick of your tongue can make his back arch. He tells you how well you're doing each and every time.
"Youâre such a good patient, aren't you? My perfect little patient. So devoted to your therapy."
"Yes," you gasp around him. "So devoted."
"You donât need those pathetic toys anymore, do you? They canât help you. Only I can help you. Only my cock can fix you."
"Only your cock," you agree, your mind a blissful vessel filled only with him.
One day, you arrive for your session and he doesnât wait for you to sit down. He meets you at the door, takes your coat, and points to the floor in front of his chair.
"Kneel," he says. "Your totem is waiting."
You obey without question. This is your routine. This is your life. And it works. You can function at your job. You can have conversations with people without wanting to run to the bathroom and press a vibrator against your clit. Because you know, twice a week, for one beautiful hour, you get your medicine.
He strokes your hair as you suck him off, your cheek resting against his thigh.
You look up at him, your eyes full of adoration and gratitude, his cock still slick in your mouth. Heâs right. The need is gone. It has been replaced by this. A singular, perfect obsession.
"Thank you," you whisper, your voice wet and muffled. "Thank you for fixing me."
He watches sports games with his cock in my mouth. If I've been consistently well behaved, I'm allowed a pillow from the couch to kneel on. Otherwise, I stay kneeling on the hardwood floor until he's done using my mouth, no matter how sore my knees may get.
Usually it's cockwarming. That involves keeping his cock warm and wet in my mouth while he focuses on the game, texting his buddies, drinking beer, what have you. The important part about cockwarming for me is to breathe softly and quietly around his cock. This usually means I have a few millimeters of space that I lose once he begins thrusting and face fucking begins. I can pull in air quietly without being a distraction. Drool pools in my mouth when I cockwarm, and I practice swallowing discretely, often enough to not drip out of my mouth, but always insuring that his cock stays wet and warm. Teeth are a big no-no. Feeling teeth on his cock earns me a warning slap, and a proper thrashing for repeat offenses. He's well-endowed, so it can be tricky, but I've learned to use my lips and tongue as aids to keep myself out of trouble.
Downtime is for face fucking. Whether it's a commercial break or a quick lull in the game, this is when he usually wants to thrust in my throat and fuck my mouth. Usually, he has me kneel up, and he'll hold my neck as he thrusts in and out. There's no escape here, the only option is to relax my throat and time my breathing to avoid gagging. Face fucking is an ordeal I'm expected to suffer through for his maximum enjoyment. It's a highly submissive act, and one that serves as reminder that my mouth is another hole for him to use. My jaw and throat are usually quite sore after being face fucked.
He gets oral service on command. Sometimes he wants more stimulation than cockwarming, but wants something more relaxing for him than face fucking. My husband generally likes my hands out of the way when I'm sucking his cock. Sometimes he wants my hands behind my back, sometimes he'll cuff them, other times he'll want my hands to gently stroke his balls as I work up and down his cock. We've been together long enough that I know what he likes, and my husband will also give me clear instructions if he wants something specific -- "I want to feel that tongue", "get your tongue moving", "all the way down", "make your lips tighter when you suck".
For all of the above, my husband demands that I maintain eye contact when his cock is in my mouth, like a good little porn star. He's usually not looking at me, since the game's on, but he expects to look down and see me obediently looking up at him.
All of the above are my job to do, and do well, with a good attitude. He doesn't hesitate to punish me if he feels any disrespect, lack of effort, or if what I'm doing is simply less pleasurable than what he expected. Spanking is the baseline punishment, and occcasionally a sports game ends with me over his knee, taking a session with the paddle for a subpar performance, followed by corner time to reflect on how I can improve my performance next time.
High standards keep me docile, happy, and a better wife for him. I always look forward to a game night -- another opportunity to improve my service. It boggles the mind that there are girls out there who suck cock half heartedly or do not eagerly swallow their man's cum (and men who accept this kind of behavior).
In our household, my tongue better keep moving, my lips better provide adequate pressure on his cock, and I better be doing all of this with enthusiasm, or there will be painful consequences. And that's how it should be. â€ïž
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