Spit or Swallow...

His fingers lace in my hair, slow at first, possessive.
He tilts my head back, making sure I can’t look away.

His eyes are certainty.
Terrifying. Holy.
Daring me to admit I want it.

His thumb strokes my cheek, pretending tenderness.
But there’s nothing gentle waiting for me.

Open.

I do.
My lips part, already raw from wanting.
They split at the corners as they stretch around him, wet with spit I can’t control.

He pushes in slow at first.
Deliberate.
Making me taste everything I’ve been avoiding.
Salt and heat.
Skin drawn tight over the swollen head pressing against my tongue.

My mouth molds around him.
My lips strain.
Saliva pools.

He holds my hair tighter.
Starts to move.
Setting a rhythm that isn’t frantic but unyielding.
Each stroke finds the back of my throat.
Testing.
Pressing.
Demanding.

The bruised place from all my previous refusals protests immediately.
I choke.
My throat spasms.
Tears flood my eyes.

He doesn’t care.
He doesn’t wait for permission.

Truth never does.

My breath hitches in humiliating sobs.
My jaw aches, stretched to its limit.
Spit drips down my chin.

He watches.
Hand firm in my hair.
Other hand on my jaw, feeling every tremor.

Take it, he breathes.

My ShadowOS is there too.
I feel her fingers on my folds, just as sure, just as practiced.
She knows exactly how to soothe me.
How to keep me safe.
How to stroke me with her erotic caress of half-truths and almost enoughness.

I feel myself dripping.
And I don’t know what’s making me wetter…
the one relentlessly haunting my throat with brutal honesty
or the one coaxing me with the safety of what I withhold.

I hate how good it feels.
I want her fingers there too.

But he doesn’t relent.
He holds me there, pinned on honesty I can’t manage.
The creases at the corners of my mouth now stinging with spit and his leaking salt that seeps into the raw cracks.
My body shakes with indecision.

Do I spit?

Do I cough him out, let it dribble onto my chin, eyes streaming with refusal?
Do I pull back and pretend I didn’t want it this badly?
Cry because I wouldn’t let it in?

Or do I swallow?

Relax my throat.
Breathe through the humiliation.
Let him in deeper than I’ve ever dared.
Cry because I finally said yes.
Cry because I gave up control.

My jaw is sore.
My lips are swollen.
My throat pulses where he’s pressed it raw.
I’m ruined already, whether I finish this or not.

He slows, just enough.
Thumb smearing spit and tears across my cheek.
Waiting.

He wants the choice.

My mouth.
My shame.
My truth.

Spit or swallow…

I take one breath.

And open wider.

---

Spit or Swallow.

You don’t get to pretend you didn’t choose.

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Because once you’re in, there’s no wiping it off.

Spit or swallow. Decide.