His Pleasure, My Command

The rain hammered against the panoramic windows of our penthouse suite, a relentless rhythm matching the frantic beat of my heart. Below, the city glittered, oblivious to the private, sweaty pleasure unfolding within these walls. My wife, Seraphina, lay on our king-sized bed, the silk sheets clinging to her flawless skin like a second, more intimate garment. The scent of her – a heady mix of vanilla, gardenia, and something uniquely her – filled the air, pulling me closer, demanding my attention.

We'd been discussing this, of course. The fellatio, the act that held a strange, powerful allure for both of us. It wasn’t about dominance or submission, not in the traditional sense. It was about connection, vulnerability, and the sheer, unadulterated joy of being utterly consumed by another's pleasure. I’d read the article, absorbing every word, every carefully chosen phrase, trying to understand the nuances of this taboo practice. It spoke of trust, of acceptance, of a shared desire for intimacy that transcended the usual boundaries of our sexual encounters.

Seraphina looked exquisite, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her eyes closed in anticipation. The moonlight caught the curve of her breasts, the delicate swell of her hips, painting her in shades of silver and shadow. Tonight, I decided, I’d explore every facet of this ritual, every possibility, every variation that existed within its framework.

I began, gently, tracing the line of her jaw with my fingertips, drawing her lips slightly apart. She shivered, a soft, involuntary response that sent a jolt of electricity through me. My hand moved lower, caressing her chest, feeling the warmth radiating beneath my touch. She arched her back slightly, her breath catching in her throat.

“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?” she whispered, her voice husky with desire.

“Absolutely,” I replied, my voice low and confident. “Let’s see how far we can take this.”

My tongue entered her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her saliva, the subtle tang of her breath. The initial contact was hesitant, a slow, deliberate exploration, but it quickly escalated into a frantic, passionate assault. My hands moved across her body, teasing, stimulating, urging her deeper into ecstasy.

She moaned, a raw, primal sound that vibrated through my body. I pressed harder, digging my tongue into the crevices of her throat, feeling her muscles tense and release in rhythmic waves. I could feel her approaching climax, the building anticipation, the inevitable release that would follow.

Then, as she reached the peak, I did something unexpected. I pulled back, stepping away from her, allowing her to experience the full force of her orgasm. The sound of her cries filled the room, a symphony of pleasure and release. I watched her, mesmerized, as she writhed and shivered, lost in her own private world.

But I wasn't finished. As she began to recover, panting and breathless, I returned, this time allowing her to take the lead. I guided her hand, letting her control the rhythm, the depth, the intensity of the pleasure. She guided me, too, pushing me further, demanding more.

She lifted her head, her eyes wide with pleasure, and whispered, "You want me to spit it out, don't you?"

I nodded, unable to resist the challenge. She tilted her head back, allowing the viscous fluid to stream from her lips, landing on my outstretched hand. I caught it in my palm, feeling the warmth, the texture, the sheer physicality of it. It wasn't repulsive, as some men might believe. It was powerful, primal, a tangible representation of her desire, her vulnerability.

I brought her hand to my mouth, savoring the taste, letting it coat my tongue. The sensation was intense, overwhelming, a complete immersion in her pleasure. I swallowed, and a wave of pleasure washed over me, mirroring her own experience.

As she continued to mount me, I shifted my position, allowing her to spray it on my stomach, my buttocks, even my face. The sensation was both strange and exhilarating, a violation of my own boundaries, yet one that felt profoundly intimate and connected.

She watched me, a knowing smile playing on her lips. I felt a surge of affection for her, a deep appreciation for her willingness to push me, to challenge me, to explore the depths of our desires together.

Then, she shifted her weight, bringing her hand down on my chest, initiating the final act. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the pleasure, letting her control every aspect of the experience. Her movements became more frantic, more desperate, as she neared her climax.

As she orgasmed, she let out a final, piercing cry, then slumped back against me, exhausted but satisfied. I held her close, feeling the residual heat of her body, the lingering scent of her skin.

“What did you think?” she asked, her voice still breathless.

“It was magnificent,” I replied, my voice husky with pleasure. “Absolutely magnificent.”

And as we lay there, tangled together in the silk sheets, the rain continuing its relentless assault on the windows, I realized that this wasn’t just about fellatio. It was about something far greater – a shared experience of intimacy, a celebration of pleasure, a testament to the boundless possibilities of human connection.

Later that evening, as I cleaned up the remnants of our encounter, I found myself thinking about the article, about the different choices that women might make. The act of getting out of the way, allowing him to spray it on their body, was a rejection, a denial of his masculinity. But it could also be an act of empowerment, a way for them to assert control over their own pleasure. Swallowing, on the other hand, was an act of submission, a willingness to accept his essence, his power. It was a choice that could either multiply or diminish the pleasure, depending on the circumstances, on the intention behind it.

I realized that there was no right or wrong answer, no single correct way to approach this act. It was all about communication, about understanding, about finding a balance between pleasure and submission, between control and surrender.

And as I looked at Seraphina, sleeping soundly beside me, I knew that we had found that balance, that we had created a space where both of us could feel safe, comfortable, and utterly satisfied. The rain continued to fall, a constant reminder of the wildness, the unpredictability of life, but within these walls, we had found a moment of perfect tranquility, a sanctuary of pleasure and intimacy. And for that, I was eternally grateful.

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