I got on my knees.
The tile was cold through the dress. Graham did not touch my hair. He held his c**k in his fist and waited until I looked at it properly, the way the video had made me look at myself. Thicker than Reece. Longer. The head flushed, a bead at the slit, the weight of it obscene in a room that smelled like soap and the gala. My ex had fit in my mouth with room to spare. This would not.
"Open," he said. "You don't use your hands until I say. You sent a film. This is the reply."
I opened. He set the head on my tongue, salt and heat, and pushed in slow. My jaw stretched. Spit gathered immediately. I took what I could and gagged when he gave me more, eyes watering, the silk of the dress pooled at my knees. He pulled back enough to let me breathe and did it again. Not a thrust.
