I’ve had a hard day / Fuck my face

Image by the awesome Stuart F Taylor

He likes me to greet him when he comes home from work. But ‘greet’ means different things to different people. To him, it means ‘come and meet me at the front door, give me a hug and kiss like you missed me.’ I’d prefer to greet him on my knees, mouth open, ready for him to tell me “I’ve had a really hard day at work” before proceeding to brutally fuck my face.

“I’ve had a hard day,” he says.

In my mind.

While I’m wanking.

Then:

“I’m not in the mood to talk.”

He shrugs off his coat, then winds up the cord of his headphones and stashes them in a pocket. Hangs his jacket precisely on the hooks by the front door.

I’m on my knees on the carpet in the hall, knees spread wide so I’m at just the right height for cocksucking. Waiting for him to turn his attention to me. Eager for him to fuck my face.

At no point does he make eye contact. Not as he opens the door, nor as he removes his coat, nor even as he turns to face me, one hand on the fly of his jeans. He unzips, with a sigh. As if this ritual – this cocksucking – is as much of a chore as the commute he’s had to endure on the way home from work.

He unzips first, as if he’s about to take a piss. Thumbs his cock out from the opening at the front of his jeans, and reiterates:

“I’ve had a hard day.”

Already semi-hard, his cock twitches as I wrap my lips round it. He takes a tiny step closer and leans towards me, putting one of his hands on the wall high above where I’m kneeling. Leaning in the way he’d lean towards a urinal after four or five pints.

The ‘aaah’ of satisfaction when I suck him down to the back of my throat is the same as the ‘aaah’ of that drunken Friday-night piss. Not pleasure, but relief: he’s had a hard day.

I use my hands to open his jeans further, yanking them down along with his underpants. All the while his cock is in my mouth, growing harder. Stretching until it fills my mouth and throat.

“That’s it,” he tells me and “good girl.”

When I try to use my hands again – for grip around the base or to form a cup at the head of his dick to drool pools of spit into – he smacks them away. Instead he grips my hair, and yanks me forward onto him. Dragging my lips down his shaft until my nose and mouth are buried in the post-workday scent of him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs again, as I choke on his cock. “Good girl,” again, as I cough and gag and swallow him.

One hand on the wall behind me, for balance. One hand on the back of my head, to get his dick as deep inside me as possible.

He’s had a hard day, and every stressful aspect of that day must be sucked out of him. The pointless one-hour meeting. The conference call which didn’t go his way. The email from accounts querying his expenses, the stress of delivering a huge project to deadline and the fact that the coffee machine had run out of pods again.

It is not my fault – none of it’s my fault. But it’s all my job to fix. To soothe. My job to be the one he takes out out on. The translator who turns his sadness and rage and frustration into the sensations which feel good on his cock.

This is how I want to greet him: not with hugs and kisses and sympathetic frowns. A stroke on the shoulder and a soothing ‘poor thing.’ A cup of tea and slippers in the lounge, while dinner leaks thick, rich comforting flavours from the kitchen. No: I want to greet him open-mouthed and wet-eyed and desperate to gulp down his dick. I want to be the equipment on which he takes out his frustration. The hole into which he squirts his spunk.

I want him to grip my hair so tight I feel it tingle at the roots, and fuck my face so hard I almost vomit. I don’t need him to make eye contact or kiss me or greet me or even love me – just use me. Fuck my face the way he hangs his coat on that hook or winds up the cord on his headphones: functionally. Knowing full well that everything has its purpose, and my purpose is this.

To hear the sound of his footsteps leading up the front door and immediately anticipate the sound of him unzipping his fly. To know from the tone of his ‘on my way home’ text that he’s had a hard day. To open my mouth wide and let him fuck my face while my eyes water and I drool and choke and gag.

To look up at him as he stares into the middle distance, then swallow every drop of his come as he grunts in satisfaction.

To be his relief. At the end of a really hard day.

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