My Favorite Kinds of Blowjob

The first blowjob. The phrase “knock your socks off” is too mild and clichéd for what I plan to do to you. You’ve probably read my blog posts or tweets where I profess my oral enthusiasm, but I don’t want you to mistake those for boasting; I’m no more skilled than the average cocksucker, I’m just preternaturally excited about the act. So lay back and let me figure out what you like, through minuscule experiments of tongue and lips. I want to map your tastes like a cartographer of cock. Let’s depart on this voyage together.

The drunk blowjob. Sloppy and slurring, we grin and giggle, thick as thieves. If you were a stranger, I’d be nervous, but you’re not, so I just laugh and laugh. “I kinda wanna go down on you,” I mumble in your ear. Our bottles clink together, inadvertently punctuating my sentence. “I kinda want that too,” you mutter back at me. I take another swig before replacing my beer bottle with something even more phallic.

The subby blowjob. “Come here.” Yes sir. “Lie across my lap.” Yes sir. “Are you going to take your spanking like a good girl?” Yes sir. “Does that hurt, little one?” Yes sir. “Do you want some more?” Yes sir. “Does that feel good?” Yes sir. “You’re getting wet for me, aren’t you?” Yes sir. “Do you want a bruise on your pretty little ass?” Yes sir. “Had enough yet?” Yes sir. “I think you can take a few more.” Yes sir. “There you go, baby. You took that so well for me.” Yes sir. “Think you’ve earned a reward?” Yes sir. “Do you know what that reward might be?” Yes sir. “I think you want my cock in your mouth.” Yes sir. “And I think you deserve that.” Yes sir. “So get on your knees for me, princess.” Yes sir. “Now unzip my pants and kiss my cock.” Yes sir. “You’re going to do such a good job for me, aren’t you?” Yes sir. “Okay, you can take me in your mouth now, little girl.” Yes sir. “Mmm. You like that, darling?” Yes sir.

The established-partners blowjob. I know precisely what works for you but I’m going to take my time getting there. I love those familiar noises you make, the predictable tensing of your muscles, the telltale quickening of your breath. I love knowing I’m doing a good job for you. I love that this is neither expected nor demanded but instead, freely given: an enthusiastic expression of enduring affection. I am not winning your heart, but instead, showing you how much I value it.

The stoned blowjob. I’m not even sure how I ended up here. Here between your knees. My hands skim across your thighs: the coarse wisps of hair, the familiar scent of your skin, the warmth of the blood pumping underneath. My head in your lap is a comfort to both of us. I slide your cock along my tongue and it lights up every nerve ending, one by one, stacking and unspooling. Everything tastes so good. Your salty skin, normally a fact of life, is now a cascading symphony. I sense a hint of precum at the tip of you and lap it up slow but eager, determined to make that happen again. All my senses just want this, want you.

The morning blowjob. You get so hard in the morning, you could practically cut steel. With your consent, I adore sliding down your body under the bedsheets and taking you in my mouth. A sweet and surprising wake-up call. Whether this blooms into other activities or remains a simple and singular pre-coffee treat, I am content here, with the early light streaming through the window, making these moments feel languid and full of fresh hope.

3 Hot Fantasies I Have About Sex Dolls

Eerie voyeur. Sir is kissing me, and peeling off my clothes, when suddenly… “Hang on, I forgot something important,” he breathes against my lips. My eyes drift open and I watch him stand up, grab the sex doll sitting on her chair, and wheel her around to face us. Her cold eyes catch mine; in them, the slightest hint of undead mirth.

“Is she going to watch us?” I ask uneasily, and Sir nods, before climbing back on top of me and pressing me into the bed with his body.

As long melty minutes tick by between kisses and caresses, I can almost forget the doll is there. That is, until Sir mutters in my ear, “Look at her.”

By then he’s got his fingers in me. I’m self-conscious about my moans, my twisted grimace of pleasure, my wetness seeping onto his hand. And it all seems so much more pronounced when there are two people watching me – even if one of them isn’t actually alive.

“Keep looking at her,” he continues, darkly, his fingers pushing into me in exactly the way I like. He’s going to make me come like this. My face flushes hot. My thighs tremble. The doll’s eyes stare unflinchingly. I’m uncertain. I’m uncomfortable. I’m coming.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. As my breathing slows, I realize my eyes are closed. And there’s Sir, in my ear again. “Didn’t I tell you to look at her?” he warns. I know I’m in trouble, and I can’t stop smiling, and the doll’s still there looking placid and placated.

Learning vulva tricks. “Babygirl, you’re gonna learn something new today,” Sir says, gently pressing me forward over the bedroom threshold, and my heart judders at the sight of a silicone love doll on the bed. She’s spread-eagled, hair pooled beneath her like a yellow-gold puddle, and she looks like she knows what’s up.

“You keep saying you don’t know how to eat pussy,” he continues, and he’s right; this comes up whenever we flirt about threesomes, my incessant fear I wouldn’t know what to do with another vulva if it looked me square in the face. “So daddy’s gonna teach you.”

He pushes me down onto the bed gently, next to her, and pulls up a high-backed chair for a good view. My lesson begins with gentle warm-up – “Kiss her thighs” – before progressing to more insistent teasing – “Lick along her pretty pink lips” – and then to full-on giving her what she wants: “Suck on her clit, little one.”

I melt under his words, eyes sliding shut as I press my face further into this soft silicone vulva. I can almost hear the noises she’d be making if she were alive. I can almost feel like I’m giving someone real pleasure. And when I glance over at Sir, and see the way he’s biting his lip, I know that I am.

Hands off. I’m in trouble, because I made a bratty comment at dinner. I can tell from the stormclouds in Sir’s eyes that I am in for a punishment tonight – but I never quite know what it’s going to be. That mystery itself is part of the punishment.

He shoves me through the doorway, shuts the door, and slams me up against a wall. Instinctively, I reach for him, pining for kisses and warmth, but he pins my wrists over my head and growls, “No. No touching tonight.” I whimper reflexively. No touching? But how?

Guiding me to a chair with firm tugs on my dress, he deposits me where he wants me and then loosens his necktie while I watch. His strong hands guide it over his head and then he’s wrapping it around my wrists and the arms of the chair in quick loops and knots, so fast my eyes can’t keep up, like a con man playing three-card Monte. Find the lady, find the lady. Am I the lady?

No. There’s another lady. Sir pulls the doll from the closet and tosses her on the bed. He climbs on top of her, the way I like. He kisses her lips and then her throat, the way I like. He grazes one hand along the swell of her breast, the way I like.

I don’t like this. And also I do.

Sir makes me watch for long minutes as he bites and smacks his little proxy-me, drags his fingernails along her ribs and hips, presses her thighs apart with his. I like when he treats me like his little fuckdoll. This is not that. This is something else entirely.

He tugs his shirt off over his head and throws it at me, so it lands on my face, obscuring my vision. I’m torn between leaving it there so I can inhale his scent and shaking it off me like a dog so I can see him again. Eventually the latter option wins when I hear him unzip his jeans. If I can’t have that cock inside me tonight then I at least want to see it.

I extricate myself from his fragrant tee just in time to see him pushing two lubed fingers inside his doll, warming her up with slow and deep strokes that make my cunt clench sympathetically. And then he’s pulling his hand out of her and replacing it with his cock, one steady slide all the way inside her. He quirks an eyebrow in my direction, and I realize I’m drooling, quivering, whimpering. Who knows how long I’ve been this way? (Sir does. Sir always knows.)

Eventually, he comes inside her, panting and grunting, and I’m so desperately jealous that there are red welts on my arms from where I’ve struggled to break free of this divine and devious torture.

 

This post was graciously sponsored by the folks at OVDoll, and as always, all opinions and words are my own.

Nightstand Necessities: Wednesday Addams

Happy Friday the 13th and early Halloween, my loves! Nightstand Necessities is a feature where I pick a fictional character and imagine what sex products they would own. Previously: Rosa Diaz, Chuck Bass. Content note: this post contains mentions of bloodplay, knives, bruising, and hypothetical death/murder. Also note that this post describes leaving someone in bondage for hours, which you shouldn’t do in real life because it’s a safety issue.

Wednesday Addams has been a known troublemaker ever since, as a child, she obsessively guillotined her dolls and attempted to execute her brother Pugsley in an electric chair. Now, all grown up, she’s the sadistic domme she never knew she could be until she discovered the kink scene. (Secretly, she still takes joy in decapitating dolls, and wonders what it would look like if she’d thrown that switch while Pugsley was strapped down.)

You meet her at a goth fetish club, which she finds boring because bloodplay is strictly not allowed on the premises (“Even if it’s consensual and you’re professionally trained in switchblade safety,” she whines, pouting and rolling her kohl-rimmed eyes). She’s bedecked in an elegant black dress and a black leather choker bearing the word “Mistress.” From her black PVC clutch, she produces a ballgag. “You’d look good with this in your mouth,” she deadpans, in what you don’t immediately realize is her way of flirting.

Less than an hour later, she’s throwing you onto a bed in a nearby hotel. (“I don’t want to ruin my sheets,” she explained when you looked quizzical.) She dumps out her little clutch on the bed and out tumbles a menagerie of silver-glinting implements.

The bed is pre-fitted with under-the-bed restraints. (“I have this room on retainer,” she purrs with a shrug. “It’s neater.”) After a brief consent negotiation so smooth as to seem practiced, she cuffs you and tugs the straps tight. You’re mentally comparing your current predicament to medieval torture racks – only hot – when she lifts a Wartenberg wheel from her sadistic stack of utensils. “Close your eyes,” she barks as she begins to roll it along your left arm. “It’s more fun that way.” The metal tines creep along your skin in tingly little lines. You catch yourself thinking, I’ve never felt anything like this, unsure if you mean the Wartenberg wheel or the crushy feelings growing fonder in your heart the longer you spend with this mysterious, witchy minx.

Hours later, your body is rife with scratches, bite marks, and hickeys. Your thighs are bruised from a heavy paddling you’re astonished to have begged for. And now you find yourself begging for something else: you want her to fuck you. Maybe you need it. Maybe you will actually die if she doesn’t. (Maybe she would like that.)

She quirks an eyebrow at your pathetic form on the bed. “I hardly think you’ve earned that, but okay.”

Soundlessly, she unzips her dress, which somehow has remained on and impeccable through this entire rigamarole. A cold smile crosses her face when she catches you outright staring at the way her creamy, bloodless skin peeks through her black lace lingerie. “Turn over,” she commands, and laughs wryly as you struggle against your bonds to try to obey. She unbuckles the cuffs and gives you just a few seconds to rub at the welts that have formed on your wrists before she kicks you over with her shiny leather boot. “Now.

You arrange yourself on all fours. In the carpet-dampened acoustics of the otherwise silent hotel room, you hear the telltale clicking and creaking of a lithe goth princess stepping into a leather harness. Then the soft slick squelch of lube being applied. Then… a clink? Maybe one of her sparkling rings tapping against a…?

You don’t have time to finish the thought, because suddenly something cold and wet collides with your most sensitive bits, and you squeak your surprise. As your body acclimatizes to the sensation, you realize it’s a glass dildo. And it’s huge and veiny. And it’s strapped to Wednesday. And she’s pushing it inside you.

You’re so turned on already from those hours of delicious torture that you don’t even need warm-up. The veins are tricky at first but then they’re fine – better than fine, divine – and you’re pushing back against her, breath catching. “Did I say you could move?” she warns, and stills. You drop your forehead to the cheap hotel bedspread and let all the tension melt out of your body, til you’re just her plaything. Her good little fucktoy. “There you go,” you barely hear her say as she resumes those long strokes in and out of you.

Wednesday keeps her grip firm on your hips. “You’ve been so good for me,” she murmurs. “And this is your reward.” The glass cock slides in to the hilt, then out to the tip. You groan into the pillow beneath you. “Next time I won’t be so nice.” It’s with this that the orgasm building within you coils and tips and you’re spilling, coming, yelling hard into soap-scented bedlinens, lips forming something like “Wednesday.”

Minutes later, when you’ve caught your breath, you turn to the side and see her, stately in the high-backed hotel-room armchair. She’s dragging on a black and gold cigarette in flagrant violation of hotel fire safety regulations, legs crossed at the knee, wearing nothing but her black harness and black boots.

“Come here, pet,” she says, and you kneel at her feet. She strokes your hair as you begin licking and kissing her boots. You’ve never done this before with anyone else. You’ve never wanted to. But here, beside this pale and devastating queen who smells like leather and blood oranges, there’s nothing else you’d rather do. You feel safe with her fingernails scritching along your scalp and your tongue lathing all the leather you can find.

 

This post was sponsored by the excellent folks at SheVibe! Go shop their wonderful selection of sex toys, lingerie, kink gear, and more. As always, all writing and opinions are my own. All the photos in this post were taken by my friend Cadence, who is magnificent.

5 Times Kink Helped Me Love My Body

One of kink’s many magical qualities: you have to keep talking about it. All the time. There are no assumptions, no scripts, nothing for which consent is presupposed. At least, not the way I prefer to do it.

My first dominant fuckbuddy teaches me this. Our sext exchanges have consent conversations built right in. “I like restraining partners with chains,” he says. “I’m not a fan of being choked,” I say. “Teach me how to make you come with a toy,” he pleads. “I think I want to sit on your face,” I hypothesize.

I get good at asking for what I want. In the throes of subspace during my BDSM hookups, sometimes I lose my words, unable to form sentences longer than “Yes,” “No,” or “Harder” – but the more I try, the easier it gets. Though power exchange often leaves me literally gagged and silenced, it also makes me better at speaking up when I need to.

So after my fuckpal makes one too many vagina-shaming comments in my presence, I decide I don’t want to see him anymore. He’s not into period sex, he’s not into “excessive” wetness, he’s not into falling asleep next to me unshowered after sex – and while it’s fine for him to have his boundaries, it’s also fine for me to have mine. I want sex while I’m bleeding, wet, and/or dirty. My sexual menu just doesn’t feel complete without those things. A partner who can’t unabashedly adore my body in all its various weird states is not a partner I want to give myself over to.

So I tell him. “I don’t think I want to do sex/kink things with you anymore. I’d still like to be friends, though.”

He’s a little taken aback, but fine with it. My sigh of relief is immediately followed by a rush of pride: I identified an unmet need in my life and did something about it. I owned my desires and asserted them. And now I’ll no longer have to bang someone who makes me feel, in the smallest and saddest of ways, like my body is to be tolerated and not to be devoured.

I’m wearing nothing but lingerie in front of a crowd at a sex club. A photographer is snapping pictures. It’s terrifying – but I’m less scared than I thought I’d be, because a hot, brassy babe is bossing me around.

“Bend over and show the crowd your ass,” she barks. “There you go. Good girl. Doesn’t she have a great ass, folks?!”

The crowd bursts into applause, whoops, and yells of affirmation. Apparently they agree with her. I grin and laugh and blush and laugh some more.


I’m midway through a blowjob when my one-night stand starts to get antsy. “Come here,” he growls. My eyes flick upward, quizzical. Can’t I just… stay down here?

I climb up his body to kiss him. “No. Higher.” I straddle his belly. Is he really asking me to…? “Higher,” he commands again. Yep, I guess we’re doing this. I slide over his chest until my vulva is settled over his mouth. He wraps his big strong hands around my thighs and hips and pulls me toward him. My clit has no choice but to tangle with his tongue. I gasp and clutch at the headboard. Fuck, he’s good at that.

I’ve never sat on someone’s face on a first date before. Usually I date someone for months before I let them invite me onto their face. It’s just a lot: they get a mouthful and noseful of pussy, plus an eyeful of belly and underboob and double chin. I worry I’ll crush them with my chubby body, drown them in my juices, embarrass myself with unladylike sounds. I need to believe someone 100% wants me, in all my weird and overwhelming glory, before I’ll feel comfortable giving them that. This requires at least a few months of dating… or, apparently, a well-placed command from a one-off hookup.

See, when you command me to do something, I have to assume you want that thing. Maybe this is part of why I’m submissive: my irksome sexual anxiety insists I’m unattractive, unless and until someone cute is there to insist on the opposite. So, while “I love your body and find you gorgeous” is a highly effective line, “Come here and sit on my face immediately” achieves more-or-less the same purpose.

Sometimes there’s no time to worry about whether I’m “attractive enough,” because I’ve been given an order and I have to do what I’ve been told immediately. It’s important, after all, that I be a good girl.


We’re hours deep into our second date, lying on his bed in the hazy afternoon sun, stoned as fuck. The weed, as per usual, is working its magic: I am craving pain, knowing it will permute into pleasure. I turn to this boy I only met three days earlier and say, slyly: “I want you to spank me.”

I see his reaction in slow motion, because weed does that. He bites his lip, smirks, breaks into a grin. And then he says it: “With what?”

Everything else is slow and so too is the spread of goosebumps over my entire body, from my shoulders down my arms and all down my back. His question outs him as a true kinkster, one experienced with impact play and potentially owning a collection of implements. But what really excites me about this question is the tone of voice in which he said it: dark, rough, and absolutely dripping with want. I can tell he cannot fucking wait until I’m over his lap. And I don’t want to wait, either.

“Your hand, please,” I reply, and hitch up my skirt.


I’ve always hated my butt. The jiggly cellulite, the amorphous shape. I grew up on a steady diet of SuicideGirls and vintage pinups, and coveted those perfect, round butts. Mine did not look like theirs.

I didn’t know, when I got pretty pink bows and the words “good girl” tattooed on my upper thighs, that they would unravel years’ worth of insecurities in one fell swoop. Overnight, I went from trying to orient my body so partners couldn’t see my butt during sex, to openly showing it off and asking gleefully, “Do you like my tattoos?!” It felt odd to go back and look at photos of my backside pre-tattoos – not only did I dislike how it looked, but it also simply didn’t seem like it was mine.

One summer evening, I’m hanging out in an upscale Toronto sex shop with my friend Taylor. He’s teaching an impact play class, and I am the demo bottom. After the introductory preamble, it comes time for me to get spanked. “Should I take my dress off now?” I ask, and Taylor nods. I pull my simple cotton dress off over my head, revealing a matching set of lingerie underneath, and bend over the shop’s grey sofa to show off my ass to the crowd. Taylor explains how to wield a paddle, and then demonstrates. I smile through my grimace of pain, because I know I can handle this.

“You looked so confident tonight,” my boyfriend tells me later when I’m tucked into his bed, “just wearing lingerie in front of all those people.” He’s running his hands all over me and it’s hard to focus on his words, but when I do clue in to what he’s said, I feel proud.

“It wasn’t hard,” I say with a nonchalant shrug. It would’ve been, five years ago, or even one year ago. It would’ve made me cringe and blush and doubt myself. But tonight it was easy. Because I love my body and don’t care if other people don’t.

Just as long as the people I’m dating/kissing/fucking think I’m hot. And judging by the way my boyfriend is groping my ass and nibbling my neck, I would say that he does.

 

This post was sponsored, and as always, all writing and opinions are my own!

Review: Stockroom Cocksucker’s Mirror

As amateur porn legend Heather Harmon slurped down her husband’s dick on my laptop’s tiny screen, I turned to my boyfriend and said, “This is weird.”

“Why?” he asked, reasonably.

The porn itself wasn’t weird. In fact, if anything, my inner erotic rhythms feel tuned to Heather’s, after adoring her porn for at least half a decade. I’m well used to the mischievous twinkle in her eyes, the slick facility with which she swallows her man’s entire dick, the pleasingly predictable sounds he makes as she brings him closer to orgasm. What felt weird was sharing this all-too-familiar experience with another person – albeit a person whose dick has been in my throat. “I dunno, it’s just, you’re here, and I’m having private-time feelings,” I attempted to explain.

My darlin’ snuggled a little closer to me and our eyes drifted back to Heather’s eager mouth on-screen. “It’s okay,” he said, over Jim Harmon’s formulaic moans, “because I’m right next to you having private-time feelings too. And later, you’re gonna put that BJ mirror on me and suck my cock.”

A shiver went through me. Had he planned this on purpose? A perfect evening of weed-smoking and blowjob-ogling, all in the service of making me more comfortable with the Stockroom Cocksucker’s Mirror I had to review for my blog? If so, apparently my boyfriend was a fucking genius.

The mirror scared me, you see. Don’t get me wrong, I had requested it to review, because it scared me in the same way as certain edgy kinks like knifeplay do: they’re a little hot and more than a little terrifying. What worried me about the mirror was being literally face-to-face with myself during a BJ, after fearing my own sexytimes visage for my whole adult life. I don’t like eye contact during sex, or being aware that my face is someone’s erotic focal point, or feeling my face twist up into aroused contortions when a partner can see. The whole idea makes me incredibly, inexplicably anxious – to the point that I’ll often wear a blindfold during sex on bad anxiety days, to limit the amount of my face a partner can see, and to free me from being expected to watch them in return.

We kept putting off testing the mirror – me because it made me anxious, and my boyfriend because “the thought of it didn’t do anything for him.” I found this surprising, because, months earlier, he’d told me, “The most intensely arousing thing for me is to force my lovers to do things I know they want to do, and have previously consented to.” I thought it would turn him on to watch me do something he knew made me consensually uncomfortable – in this case, watching myself give a blowjob.

After a few more Heather Harmon scenes and a little more weed, my mouth was sufficiently horny that I did something I rarely do with my mega-dominant boyfriend: I got bossy. “You should take your pants off,” I said, in a tone of voice that was closer to begging than commanding.

“Okay,” he said, laughing. “I can do that.” I watched as he shed all his clothes, smiling at me all the while, all chest hair and strong muscles, my toppy masculine angel.

And then he slipped the hole of the BJ mirror over his half-hard dick and I burst out laughing.

Even after he laid on the bed and I set to work, I couldn’t control my giggles. Sometimes laughter is how my body responds when I’m enjoying myself in bed, and sometimes it’s a nervous response to discomfort; in this case, it was decidedly both. The tactile pleasure of his dick in my mouth, coupled with the visual assault of my own face devouring his cock in up-close-and-personal HD, felt so sinfully sexy to me that I was almost uncomfortable being that turned on in front of another person. These were, once again, “private-time feelings,” and my partner was watching me have them. And I was watching me have them. From inches away.

My boyfriend, who is prone to mid-beej dirty-talk, cleared his throat and began to speak. I steeled myself for a filthy missive, but instead, he said, “If you deepthroated me all the way, you could kiss yourself!” It was more a gleeful proclamation than a salacious jibe. I laughed around his cock until I couldn’t breathe, and then I took it out of my mouth and laughed some more, nose tucked into the warm crease of his thigh. Some doms try to cut you down with critical jeers, and here mine was, essentially encouraging me to love myself. Through BJs.

I eventually caught my breath and returned to the task at hand. It was at this point that I began to notice how much I was drooling. Sloppy BJs are increasingly my jam – especially since I read Aerie’s blowjob guide where they advocate “drooling uncontrollably and making a giant mess” for the lubrication and visual appeal – but this was on another level. I have never gushed this much spit during a beej before. It reminded me of when you see a commercial where someone takes a big bite of a juicy hamburger and your salivary glands immediately kick into gear – except in this case, the burger was a dick, and the commercial was my own fucking face. It was absurd, and delightful, and wet.

It helped that my boyfriend was holding the mirror in place, and moving it back into my sightline whenever it slipped off to one side, as if to demand, “No, seriously, look at yourself.” I imagine that the mirror would stay put better if it was draped over a huge dick – the hole has a diameter of 5.5 centimeters or about 2.2 inches – but it might also dig in uncomfortably if used on a dick of that size. It didn’t bother my boyfriend to have to hold the mirror still, except that he couldn’t fully relax.

I snuck peeks at myself from time to time, but mostly my eyes remained closed, as they usually are during BJs. It allows me to concentrate on the sensations in my mouth, and keeps me focused on the steady rhythm that’ll get my partner off. Every time my eyes drifted open for a moment, though, I felt seized with a strange blend of arousal and guilt: seeing myself give head was unbelievably hot, but it felt arrogant for me to enjoy the sight of myself that much. And it embarrassed me to imagine my boyfriend watching me watching myself, as if he’d think I was being arrogant, too – even though he told me later that it turned him on to see me viewing this act from a different angle than I would normally get to.

The mirror didn’t just induce arousal and embarrassment in me, though – it also made me competitive. With my damn self. Seeing myself give head from the angle at which I’d usually watch porn stars doing the same, I saw that what feels like intense deepthroating to me isn’t actually that deep. That real-time view made me want to do a better job: go deeper, faster, harder, put on a better show for my love (and for myself). I could see I was bringing my A-game, but it didn’t feel effortful – it just felt fun.

When my darling started to come, he grunted, “Deepthroat me,” just like Heather Harmon’s husband does in all the porn clips I like best – and I did as I’d been told. Though it would’ve been hot to watch my own face at that crucial moment, doing so didn’t occur to me; I squeezed my eyes shut with the effort of keeping that dick as deep as it needed to be, and enduring the intense contractions of muscles against my tongue and throat. I swallowed, and swallowed, and kept on swallowing, and I couldn’t breathe for a while but it didn’t matter.

When it was over, I pulled myself up and gently slid the mirror off my boyfriend’s dick. He lay there panting and raised one finger as if he had something to say, but couldn’t get it out quite yet. I curled up beside him and waited patiently for him to catch his breath.

“That was the best blowjob you’ve ever given me,” he said finally.

You know that silly adventure-movie trope where the hero uses a powerful artefact to beat the bad guy, only to discover afterward that “the power was within them all along”? I feel that way about the Stockroom Cocksucker’s Mirror. Like a good coach, it brought out the best performance of my career thus far – but it did so by pitting me against myself, challenging me to meet my own standards. It literally reflected my own capabilities back at me, and made me better in doing so.

And y’all, I looked hot.

 

Thanks so much to Stockroom for sending me this product to review!