Chapter 25: The First BJ Lesson
The soreness was a constant, low-grade hum. It wasn't the sharp pain of the initial stretch, but a deep, muscular ache that announced itself every time Alex shifted in his desk chair at work. He’d catch himself wincing, then feel a flush of heat crawl up his neck. The memory was embedded in the discomfort, a phantom fullness that made the sterile engineering documents blur before his eyes. He’d touch the bite mark on his shoulder, hidden under his shirt, and the hum would intensify.
Annie noticed. Of course she did. That evening, as he moved gingerly from the kitchen to the living room, she watched him with a soft, knowing smile. “Walking like a cowboy who lost his horse,” she teased, patting the sofa cushion beside her.
“Feels like it,” he grumbled, lowering himself carefully.
She curled into his side, her hand resting possessively on his thigh. “Good. It’s supposed to.” She was quiet for a moment, tracing idle patterns on the fabric of his jeans. “We’re not doing that again tonight. Your body needs to adjust. But,” she said, her voice dipping into that playful, instructive tone that made his stomach flip, “we’re not done with your education.”
He looked at her, a question in his eyes.
“You learned to take a cock,” she said simply. “Now you’re going to learn to worship one.”
An hour later, he found himself kneeling on the plush bedroom rug, the fibers soft against his bare knees. The room was warm, lit by the same gentle lamp. Annie stood before him, a vision of deliberate power. She wore only the black harness, the tan silicone cock jutting out from the ring at her pelvis. It looked different in this context—not a tool for penetration, but an object of veneration. She’d brushed her long blonde hair until it shone, and her blue eyes held a focused, pedagogical glint.
“This isn’t about my pleasure,” she began, her hands on her hips. “It can’t be. It’s silicone. I can’t feel what you’re doing.” She reached down and tapped the head against his lips. “This is about your technique. Your attitude. Your submission. It’s about learning to service a man in the way he wants. And since I can’t feel it, you have to show me. With your eyes. With your commitment. Understand?”
He nodded, his mouth dry.
“Good. Now, look at it. Really look.” She guided his chin up. “It’s not a scary thing. It’s just a body part. A beautiful, powerful part. Your job is to make it welcome. Start by kissing it. Not like a lover. Like… an acolyte. Like it’s a relic and you’re devoted.”
He leaned forward, the faint, clean smell of the toy filling his nostrils. He pressed his lips to the tip, a chaste, closed-mouth kiss.
“More,” she commanded softly. “Use your tongue. Taste it. Get it wet.”
He licked a tentative stripe along the underside, from base to tip. The taste was neutral, slightly synthetic.
“Better. Now, open your mouth. Take just the head. And look at me. Always look at me.”
He parted his lips, taking the broad, realistic head into his mouth. His jaw stretched uncomfortably. He forced his eyes up, meeting her gaze in the mirror across the room. The sight was arresting: him, on his knees, his mouth stretched around her cock, her standing tall and watching his reflection, her expression one of calm assessment.
“See?” she said, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet room. “It’s a conversation. You’re asking permission with your eyes. I’m giving it with mine. Now, suck. Gently. Just on the head.”
He obeyed, creating a soft vacuum. She hummed approval. “Good. Use your tongue. Circle it. Imagine there’s a sensitive spot right there, on the frenulum. You’re not just sucking a popsicle.”
He swirled his tongue, the motions awkward at first, then growing more deliberate as he watched her watch him. Her chest rose and fell with a slow, deep breath.
“Now, more,” she said. Her hand came to rest on the back of his head, not pushing, just present. “Take a little more. Relax your jaw. Let it slide deeper.”
He inched forward, the silicone pressing against the flat of his tongue, then starting to depress it. The sensation triggered a primal gag reflex, a tight clench in his throat. He pulled back, coughing.
“It’s okay,” she soothed, her hand stroking his hair. “That’s normal. Your body thinks it’s a threat. You have to teach it otherwise. Breathe through your nose. Try again. Slow.”
He did. He took the head again, then, focusing on his breathing, let her guide him forward another inch. The pressure in his mouth increased, the tip nudging the back of his throat. His eyes watered, but he kept them locked on hers in the mirror.
“There,” she whispered. “You’re at the threshold. That’s where most people stop. That’s where good becomes great. You have to decide to let it in. To invite it past the gate.”
He hesitated, his throat fluttering in panic.
“Do you want to be good at this?” she asked, her tone leaving no room for dishonesty. “Or do you want to be exceptional?”
He gave the tiniest nod, his lips stretched around her girth.
“Then open your throat. It’s like swallowing a large pill. Don’t think of it as something going down. Think of your throat opening up to welcome it. On my count. Ready? One… two… swallow.”
On ‘swallow,’ he contracted his throat muscles deliberately. At the same moment, she applied the faintest forward pressure with her hand.
The head popped past the muscular ring. The sensation was instantaneous and overwhelming. His vision blurred, his body convulsed with a deep, wrenching gag. Tears streamed down his face. But she held him there, not retreating.
“Breathe,” she commanded, her voice firm. “In through your nose. Out through your nose. You have it. You’re deep-throating me. Look at yourself.”
He forced his watery gaze back to the mirror. The image was obscene, beautiful, shocking. His face was buried in the thatch of the harness, the thick shaft distorting his throat. Her expression was one of fierce pride.
“You see that?” she said, a smile touching her lips. “That’s commitment. That’s service. Hold it there. Get used to the feeling of being full in a different way.”
He held, trembling, tears dripping onto his chest and the rug below. The ache in his throat was a bright, singing counterpoint to the dull throb in his ass. He was filled at both ends, conquered completely. The thought sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated shame-fueled arousal through him.
After a small eternity, she gently pulled him back until he was free, gasping and sucking in huge lungfuls of air. Saliva coated his chin and the silicone, connecting them with glistening strands.
“Wow,” she breathed, genuinely impressed. She ran her thumb over his wet lips. “You’re a natural. A few weeks of practice and you’ll be able to do that without gagging. You’ll be able to take it all the way to the base, until your nose is buried in me, and hold it there.” She wiped his tears away. “How did it feel?”
“Intense,” he croaked, his voice rough.
“That’s the point.” She let the words hang, her thumb still tracing his lower lip. A new curiosity sparked in her eyes, a playful challenge. “But we’re just getting started. You think you can handle going deeper? For real this time?”
Alex swallowed, his throat already feeling raw. He gave a slow nod, his gaze unwavering from hers.
“Good. Show me that devotion.” She guided his head back toward her, the slick silicone pressing against his lips once more. He opened willingly, taking the familiar head onto his tongue. The process was smoother this time, his jaw relaxing by increments as he focused on her breathing, on the approving look in her eyes. He worked his way down the shaft with deliberate, wet sucks, his hands coming to rest lightly on her thighs for balance.
He felt the impending resistance as the tip neared his throat. His body tensed in anticipation of the gag.
“Wait,” she murmured, her fingers threading through his hair. “Look at me. Only at me.” He fixed his eyes on her face, on the slight flush coloring her cheeks. “Don’t fight it. Just let it happen. I’ve got you.”
He inhaled sharply through his nose and let her push forward. The invasion was brutal and complete. His throat opened in a convulsive spasm, his eyes bulging as the full width stretched his esophagus. Tears sprang instantly, blurring his vision of her. A guttural, choked sound vibrated around the intrusion.
She held him there, perfectly still, her grip firm. “Breathe,” she whispered, her own voice tight with concentration. “In. Out. Just like before.”
He tried. Each nasal breath was a frantic, whistling struggle. The pressure was immense, a constant, living presence that obliterated all other thought. Saliva dripped from his stretched lips, coating her harness. The ache in his throat was a white-hot line connecting his mouth to his stomach.
“See?” she said, her voice softening with pride. “You’re taking it all. Every inch. You look so beautiful like this.” He watched her free hand drift down to stroke his cheek, catching a tear. The tenderness of the gesture, contrasted with the violent fullness, shattered something inside him. He wasn’t just performing an act; he was fulfilling a purpose.
The seconds stretched, each one a marathon of willpower. His lungs burned for a proper breath. The muscles in his jaw and neck screamed in protest. The world narrowed to the salt-sting of his tears, the scent of her skin, and the profound connection of her gaze.
“Now, one more time,” she said, her voice low and compelling. “Try to hold for at least a minute.”
She grabbed his head with both hands and slowly pushed him down until the whole cock buried inside his throat. He gagged profoundly, a deep, body-wracking shudder that made his vision tunnel. Tears ran in hot streams down his cheeks, dripping from his chin. But he kept looking at her loving, dominant eyes. They were an anchor, a lighthouse in the storm of sensation.
He held. The minute felt geologic. His consciousness frayed at the edges, focused solely on the rhythmic in-and-out of his nose, on the unwavering blue of her irises. He was an object, a vessel, and in that reduction, he found a strange, soaring freedom.
When she finally pulled him free, the rush of air was a cold shock. He collapsed forward onto his hands, coughing violently, his body shuddering as he dragged in ragged, glorious breaths. Spit and tears pooled on the rug beneath him.
Annie quickly unbuckled the harness, letting it fall aside, and sank to her knees before him. She gathered his face in her hands, wiping the mess from his cheeks with her thumbs. Her expression was radiant, awed. “Holy shit, Alexey,” she breathed, a laugh bubbling up. “A full minute. You are… unbelievably good at this.”
He tried to speak, but only a rough croak emerged. He nodded instead, leaning into her touch.
She kissed his forehead, his eyelids, his swollen lips. “My champion,” she murmured against his skin. “My perfect, throat-fucked champion.” She helped him stand on shaky legs and guided him to the bed. “Tomorrow, you’ll be sore in new places. And the day after that,” she said, curling her body around his, her hand splayed possessively over his stomach, “And the day after that…😈”