Awhile back, Robbie drew my attention to this discussion on Fetlife. He has long wondered if I could have an orgasm just from giving him a blowjob, and thought that would be a rather fine thing for me to do, or to be trained to do.

On reading the thread, I did an internal and (I trusted) invisible eye-roll. I figured I would come from blowing him when he figured out a way to hook the controls on a remote vibe to the back of my throat.

Lest anyone think that I am the one getting all the pleasure, the pounding, the pampering in this relationship, I want to reassure you that Robbie gets his share (though possibly not his fair share) of attention. He can ask me for a blowjob any time, in any circumstance; he knows he has my explicit consent for that. He also requires back rubs, foot rubs, and other massages as part of the regular service I provide for him. And, as I think the number of posts here categorized under “blowjobs” show, on the whole I am very happy to provide these services. Just not, you know, ecstatic about them. Or so I thought.

So a few nights back, I was in a new kind of chest harness, trussed up tightly with by breasts bound into Madonna-like cones, kneeling with my knees spread on the ground in front of him, the object of all kinds of sadistic moves on his part, when I got my cue to start with The Oral Sex.

Lately I have been getting more and more raw in everything I do, but especially with The Oral Sex. If I don’t gag myself within the first five minutes, and work up to a rather steady gag-fest, I feel disappointed with the whole thing. I am not sure what this is about but in general, lately, I have been pushing myself rather viciously, and liking it.

Anyway . . . partway into my rather fervent throat-fucking, I started to get incredibly turned on. (I take it you all see where this is going?) Between my own sense of abandon, Robbie’s obvious enjoyment of it, and my mind’s smutty little tapes, telling me what a slut, cum-hole, cum-receptacle, yadda yadda yadda object of objectification I was, I was getting pretty turned on. Robbie was rock-hard, my hands were tied behind my back, my breasts felt as though they were going to burst, and I was finding it hard to breathe in the it’s-arousing-not-suffocating kind of way. Or so I thought.

Within seconds I was having a body-rending orgasm. My hips were bucking, my arms were pulling against their bonds, my throat was sliding, jerkily, back and forth along Robbie’s cock, and my lungs were bursting, struggling between the fact that my throat was blocked and that my abdominal muscles had spasmodic plans of their own.

My brain was loving every second of it.

Robbie, though, seemed to think otherwise, because he pushed my shoulders back hard, prying my face off his crotch, and pulled up on my torso with his considerable strength. He hauled me up from the floor, gasping and choking as I was, and held me close. “Shh,” he soothed. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay, you’re fine, you can breathe, you can breathe, it’s okay.”

I struggled for air, coughing and frothing at the mouth like a wild thing. I wanted so desperately to get back down there, back to my orgasm, back to what I had planned would be his. At times like these–and there have been a few–I get incredibly confused and frustrated at being yanked out of subspace.

“Bu-but-couahghahck!” I said.

“What?”

“But Inomnombcoughspatsktic!”

“Sh, shhh, now,” he whispered, and smoothed my long hair down against my shoulders.

“But I was cumming!” I finally managed to say, pulling back a bit to look him in the eye.

He looked straight back at me, and with his perfect deadpan, replied, “That’s no excuse.” Then he twinkled at me and I caught a grin lighting his face as he pulled me into him again and hugged me tight, until the sobs and shakes and sniffles and coughs had left me, and the shudders too, and we continued on, laughing and fucking, for the rest of the evening.