That spot

With that spot, he renders this sequoia of a man completely and utterly helpless

In his power

Bottom of the head, the tuck of skin under the ridge.

His

A flick, a lick, a kiss and he will become soft wax.

Mr. Man becomes his toy

He twitches, his whole shaft shaking, his balls contracting involuntarily.

He quivers, eyes closed tight, that gym-hard body he preens over, utterly and completely surrendered to him.

Pathetic really, and so much fun to watch

He emits some sad little sound, like a wounded cow

Helpless. Quaking. At his mercy

That’s entertainment, folks

But he also knows how this will end.

Soon – any moment now by the looks of it – his fingers will thread through his hair

A firm, two-handed yank at the roots, a thrust of his muscled hips, and that spot – his spot – gets lodged firmly at the back of his throat.

And stays there until he moves it.

That helpless mass of flesh becomes a towering, pulsating, face-fucking blur.

That wounded cow becomes a feasting wolf

His pathetic whimpers give way to a feral growl. And to his own helpless gurgles

His control evaporates; he becomes his toy

Tears. Drool. Blur

And as reward for the torture he gleefully delivered, he knows, he can expect an impossibly stuffed mouth. Of cock, spit, and endless paroxysms of warm, sticky cum. Filling his mouth, coating his throat, dribbling off his lips, dripping onto his chest.

And yeah, he’s ok with that part too.