To be sure, John Brownstone – as an entire human being – is amazing. I love every part of him, inside and out. But his balls make my mouth water.
When I see them, nestled against his pelvis, full and dusky purple, I literally salivate before I lean over and gently take one testicle into the dark heat of my mouth. He always gasps, always falls back against the bed, always forgets what he’s doing.
Sometimes I release him with a gentle pop, smile, wink, and walk away. He can’t possibly miss the swagger in my step.
Sometimes, comes out of his relaxed pose like an avenging Viking, grabs my hair and pulls me back down, shoving my face in his crotch. Gawd, I love that.
I slurp and suck, careful not to be too rough with such a delicate morsel. If he decides to shove his cock down my throat, forcing me to gag and choke, he always gives the same reminder once his balls are back in my mouth.
“Be gentle, girl.”
I don’t need the warning. His rough edges only inspire softness. The more he uses my mouth, takes what he wants, forces me to accept his cock, the more I acquiesce. My tongue is soft against his testicles, my fingers gentle on his perineum. He takes, and I give. He forces, and I receive. It is a mutually beneficial relationship, and we both get what we want most.
No, he doesn’t unload down my throat, and I don’t choke on semen and snot.
He forces me up, over, down, around, wherever he wants. Maybe he kicks my feet apart or maybe his knee nudges my thigh. Very often, he pulls me into his arms, his little spoon, smacks my flank, and waits for me to arch my back and push against his cock. We fall into each other, and I worry that we’ve lost the energy, the primal urge my tongue on his balls creates. From the first thrust, he always knocks my concern aside.
A thirty second position change isn’t enough time for his mind or body to forget what I’ve done to him and what he wants to do to me. In no time at all, the lust and energy between us pops and fizzles again until his balls slap against my body.
Damn I love his balls.