Gag Reflex

She is learning to deep throat, despite her gag reflex. We have agreed that she might throw up. We have agreed that if she does it does not constitute a reason to stop.

The first three times she manages to swallow it down. She is on her knees, hunched over. Naked. I hear her gag. Hear her swallow. Feel the heat of her bile in her mouth, bathing my cock in warmth. But she keeps it down.

After she has successfully kept herself from puking three times we switch position. I lie on the bed and she gets between my legs and I hold her by the hair and push her head down onto my erect cock, rocking her back and forth until I feel myself slip into her throat.

In this position, she throws up almost at once. Reeling back, she retches. A throatful of hot, clear spit hits my thigh. She groans, shuddering, and reaches up to cover her face. She’s bright pink. Not from lack of air. From embarrassment, I think.

Slowly, patiently, I pry her hands away from her face. She cannot look at me. “Are you hurt?” I ask her.

She shakes her head.

“Just embarrassed?” I ask.

She nods, still avoiding eye contact.

“That’s okay,” I tell her. Very slowly I force her head down and press her face into the slick mess of spit and bile on my thigh. She groans again, pitiably. I rub her face back and forth in the mess she made, then let her up. Her eyes are closed. She looks a bit like she’s sobbing. I consider her for a moment, and then ease her face back onto my cock.

She throws up three more times as she’s serving me. Each time I rub her face in what she’s brought up, and then press her back into place on my cock. She doesn’t open her eyes until we’re done. Eventually I come in her mouth and she swallows my load and collapses gasping beside me on the bed.

Her embarrassment is more plain once we’re finished. She scrubs her face in the shower, still panting from exertion. The bed she insists on cleaning up by herself. Won’t let me help. “I’ve never done that before,” she says as she strips the sheets. “Thrown up, I mean.” She lowers her voice. “I’m sorry. I tried not to.”

“Did you like it?” I ask.

She shakes her head. Hesitates. There is a conflicted look on her face. “It was horrible,” she says. And then later, once we are cuddling in a freshly-made bed, she adds in a whisper, a small voice, like she doesn’t want to hear herself saying it, “I… I did like it. That you punished me for it. That you made me carry on.”