He messaged me tonight—Bing. The same beautiful boy whose body I’ve memorized since the last time he let me worship him.
His message was blunt:
“When’s the last time you sucked cock?”
I told him the truth:
“The last time your cock was in my mouth.”
That was all he needed. He was horny. Hunting for a threesome. When that didn’t pan out, he replied:
“I’m coming anyway.”
At 8:45 pm, his message lit up:
“Here.”
I opened the door. No words. No hesitation.
He walked past me into my room. Lights off. Door shut.
He lay back on the bed like it belonged to him. Pants loose. Phone in hand. Vaping. Scrolling porn.
He radiated casual dominance—the kind that short-circuits my thoughts.
I managed, “No vaping inside.”
He barely nodded. I didn’t push it.
I dropped to my knees.
I started with his balls—warm, heavy, rich with his scent.
He moaned instantly.
“Yes… suck those balls.”
Not a request. A command.
I stroked his shaft while I licked and sucked one orb into my mouth, then the other. My tongue moved in slow, reverent circles.
My hand matched the rhythm of his breath—steady, purposeful.
Then—he pulled my head up and shoved his cock into my mouth.
No words. Just action.
And I opened for him.
Slow at first. Long, wet pulls of my lips over his length.
I looked up. He looked down. Our eyes locked. Everything else vanished.
I alternated—deep on his cock, then back to his balls.
When my mouth was on him, my hands worshipped.
When my hands were on him, my mouth worshipped.
God, I wanted to eat his ass. To bury my tongue there. To feel him tremble.
But this wasn’t about me.
It was about service.
He began to fuck my face. Controlled at first. Then harder.
His fingers twisted into my hair.
Then came the order:
“Balls.”
I obeyed.
Back to them. Wet, slow, eager.
He moaned louder.
“Oh God. Don’t stop. Keep going... Keep going…”
Then—
“Fuck, I’m gonna cum. I’m cumming. Hold there.”
He pulsed into my mouth.
Warm. Salty. Heavy.
He held my head still. Watching.
“I want to see you swallow. Every drop.”
And I did.
He stood. Pulled up his pants.
“Thanks.”
And he left.
The silence after was thick. Holy, almost. But also cold.
I messaged him:
“Please… let me eat your ass next time. I want to worship all of you.”
Now I’m sitting in the dark.
His taste still lingers. My throat still warm from the rhythm of him.
I feel used—in the best way.
But I also feel hollow.
Longing.
Not just for him.
But for someone who stays after the hunger fades.
I don’t know if Bing will come back.
But if he does—
I’d kneel again.
