Old Habits

She drools more freely now. She never used to, not when they first started playing. Back then she would pause frequently in the act of going down on him to wipe her mouth with the side of her hand. When wearing a ball gag she would swallow frequently. She would apologise, mortified, for the mess she made when it was removed.

The change has been a gradual one – effected through dozens of sessions of sloppy, prolonged face-fucking. Repeated uses of her mouth. One session where he came on her face and smeared it over her cheeks and she felt it still hours later, a tightness in the skin that was him dried onto her, and was surprised by how warm and owned this made her feel. One session where he made her spit into his hand, and this same spit became lube with which he fucked her arse. One session where he told her to spit directly into his mouth, and she did, and he held it in his mouth and passed it back to her when they kissed, and it was their spit intermingled, their own fluids mixed.

Now, the same woman who felt such embarrassment at having drooled in front of a lover, now she rises from between his legs with a mouth full of his come, satiny slick on her tongue (and still warm from his body) and catches sight of herself in the mirror. Two fat strings of drool hang between her chin and the tip of his member. She sees this, and feels not even a momentary urge to wipe them away. She relishes this connection between them. She locks eyes with her own reflection. Her lips shine with his come.

When she swallows, she does so deliberately slowly.

*

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