The Blowjob Master

Here it is, that strange piece I wrote from some days ago. I like the sexuality and the pain of it. I like its honesty.
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The blowjob master

So, first you tell me that you like to play with people to see what they do, to see how they react. You say it’s fun. I say I don’t play with people, but I think we both know that isn’t true.
We talk a lot about different things. About movies and where you have been and music. You play me something from your music collection and I am patient, but all I want to do is rip off your clothes and fuck you senseless. I give off these vibes.
I think you catch them, but you are playing with me, so you disregard these vibes.
I look a lot at you, and I remind myself of that horrible guy with the make-up who just looked at me because he wanted to do with me what I want to do with you. Or that other guy with the glasses or that drunk couple that time.
I feel a little pathetic and I curse myself for not just taking hold of you and stick my tongue down your throat.
I tell myself that I am respectful now, but that is only an excuse.
You play the guitar for me, and your voice is deep and bass-like. My heart is racing and I want to tell you that you have seduced me a long time ago and that you can stop the show.
You have won me over from the moment I first saw you in the cold with the coat and the scarf.
But we keep on talking.
You lean over to find something, and your body is extended over mine, hovering like some taut mist over my stomach. Then you lower yourself down, and as your stomach hits mine, I am harder than I have ever been before
I think you can feel my rock-hard cock, but I am not sure.
You are playing with me, and I know it. But I don’t know what to do about it. Is this really the fun part?
I tell myself I am being respectful and I just enjoy it while it lasts, skin-against-skin separated only by your shirt and my sweater. I unconsciously strain my muscles.
Thinking about taking hold of you as you slip by, thinking about saying something like:” Hey, where the fuck do you think you’re going. I like your body on mine” or “Come back here. We are done with the playing.”
But I don’t. So you slip away.
You have told me I can stay the night, and you were very cute when you said it. Since I have decided to stay, I will wait and not jump at you like I want to. I fantasize faintly about what we are going to do all night, about our naked bodies under those sheets, about me laying close to you and my exhausted cock touching your ass and me smelling your black hair and holding around you.
So I wait, telling myself I am respectful.
You play me some of all your music. I play along, nodding, saying stupid things like:” I like this” and “this is nice” and “This isn’t really me” and all that other crap.
When we have finished the list, you suddenly come to me and we kiss. I am eager. You say:” Hey, hold your horses” and I said something I can’t remember, probably something stupid like:” Why?” or “I have waited so long” or “You make me really hot”.
We kiss. You say I am good. That makes me feel proud and I distantly hope you get as much out of this as I do. You have seemed calm the entire afternoon, but there have been just a few little hints that you are not. You are more familiar to this than I am and I analyze everything too much. I have told you that. It's not a secret.
We move, you moan, I don’t really make that much of sound. I feel and kiss, use my tongue and my hands and my fingers.
It’s really good.
I feel the weight of what the rest of this night and perhaps even tomorrow is going to be used for burn in every loin and knuckle and bone and joint.
You undress my shirt, kiss my nipples, softly touch my chest and shoulders. Then I sit on top of you and say:” I wanna unbutton your shirt.” And I do.
Then we kiss more, moving, dry-humping each other. I touch your cock from under the fabric of your pants. You are half-hard.
You unbutton my pants and take off my socks. The fact that you take off my socks only makes me want you all the more. You smile to me and I wonder how I ever could have lived without you and how mad I am right now, burned by sexual scourge.
I take off your pants and eat your cock that snakes around under the fabric of your boxer-shorts. I decide it is time and remove them. Then I remove mine.
We hump again, kissing, feeling. I distantly feel your touches do not reach as far as mine do. I take your ass, your stomach, your chest, your arms. But yours seems only to grace my body, hovering and softly squeezing.
You are not hard any longer and I go down and stars kissing your cock. I take it in my mouth, sucking, playing, licking. I feel really good about this. I feel like I am the master of blow-jobs because I am inventive and I am pretty sure you enjoy it. I wish you would to the same for me. But I do not want to push you.
You soon become wet. I dip my entire face into your increasing limb. You say:” Would you use your teeth? That makes me hard?” and I use my teeth. You moan. I feel good.
You whisper:” Don’t stop” and I don’t stop.
When you are hard I go up again and we turn and hump more.
I sit on top of you and move my hard cock over yours. It has shrunken again.
No problem. I just do the same as before.
When I get up again, you turn away from me.
I think maybe you are too excited. Afraid to say anything. Afraid to embarrass you or myself.
I ask, after eternities:” Is everything okay?” and I think you answer:” Yes”
Rest my hand on your shoulder to show you that I am not angry and I remain respectful. You seem to have closed your eyes. I recall that in the middle of our act you went to the toilet. I haven’t seen you drink anything in hours.
Don’t want to ask you why you have fallen to your side like this. Don’t want to acknowledge the pillow-valleys that separate us.
My head is on your shoulder and my arm is under your back and I guess it is kind of painful for you with my hard arm under your swaying back, but I don’t recall my arm because I don’t want to move.
You ask me softly:” Are you comfortable” and I say that I am, my mind racing. I too have shrunken now and I feel the wetness of my cock in full splendor, wishing deeply that this soon will pass, that the desert of sex and that its relentless dryness soon will fade.
But it doesn’t.
You start talking again and I faintly play along. You ask me how many I have had and I give a vague number, between five and seven I say. I ask you how many you have had and you say ten and I think that I wish I had more experience so I knew what the hell to do.
After a while I reach for my clock, finally done with the delicate dance of pre-sexual relations and deciding to speak openly.
You start to mutter something about this having happened before and that there are some you can make it with and some you cannot make it with and that it is purely a psychological thing.
I say that this kinda sucks. We don’t laugh at the pun and you agree. Thinking I did something wrong, did something too little or too much, being too eager, being too ready too fast.
Feeling ugly, feeling it is my fault.
You say that I am free to leave and faintly I ask you what is going to happen here. Nothing, you say.
And so I leave. You are kind and relaxed, following me down to the bus. When the bus comes I say a badly pronounced “bye” and sit down thinking now I at least have another experience under my belt where my cock ache.
When I get home I jerk off and I come after about two seconds, amazing amounts of cum flowing everywhere. But I can’t feel anything.
So then I wipe it all off…