The Parlor of Sighs Pt. 04

I obeyed.

Like in some dream my tongue swept across my lips, shuddering as, for the very first time, I tasted myself.

I never -- not even in my filthiest, most deranged fantasies -- imagined my mouth would be anywhere near someone else's cum... let alone my own.

Sure, there were watercooler stories -- those MMF threesomes where some poor guy caught a stray drop on his lip or somewhere else.

But surely not me. Never me.

My cock had always been the center of attention -- the sole star of the scene. That was the golden rule.

And now...

The warm, salty, spicy slickness hit me with a shock.

It mingled with every other fluid already coating my tongue, and my taste buds screamed.

In disgust.

In confusion?

In arousal!

"Good boy. Get ready for the main course now."

She crouched over me, fingers scooping most of my cum from the ridges of my abs, mocking my body as she worked.

"Look at this six-pack," she sneered, pressing her sticky fingers into the defined lines. "So proud of it. So used to being worshipped by your little blonde sluts.

Now you will eat what you made them swallow."

Slowly, she gathered a generous scoop of my jizz in her hand and brought it closer to my mouth.

Tasting it had already jolted me with alarm. But swallowing? That was beyond anything I'd ever imagined.

Back at the watercooler, me and my jocks always rated sluts by if and how much they swallowed -- how eagerly, how loudly they moaned, how vividly they described the thickness, color, warmth.

It was a mark of devotion, a scorecard of their hunger to worship a cock's ultimate offering. And if they didn't swallow, they better have some other incredible skill -- and that was rare.

Because who wants to deal with a sticky mess at the most important moment of an ejaculation? That moment demanded perfect attention.

Their swallowing was expected. Assumed. A given.

And now here I was -- tied up, ruined, stripped of all control and pride -- about to do the very thing I'd praised so highly in others, while even the thought of doing it myself, even to my own semen, would be unthinkable.

I wriggled, struggling in vain.

She stopped her hand mid-motion, fixed me with a cold, cruel stare -- almond eyes icy, brows raised in a silent question.

"Are we disobeying now?"

I met her gaze and found myself shaking my head, powerless to resist.

"Good."

Her hand finished its path, sliding her sticky fingers into my mouth. Thick cream dripped over my tongue and pooled at the back of my throat.

"Clean up every drop. Make sure there is nothing around or beneath the rings."

I sucked them clean, trembling, humiliated paying special attention to those rings.

Her hand lingered on my throat.

"Swallow it," she ordered.

I gulped -- hard. She smiled as she felt the motion under her fingers.

"Bon appétit," she said, mockingly.

Then she stood over me again, eyes smoldering with dark amusement.

Slowly, she brought two fingers to her mouth and began gathering spit--working it deliberately, letting it build. Her gaze locked onto mine, unwavering.

When her lips parted, a huge thick spitball glistened on her tongue.

"Open," she commanded.

I obeyed.

She leaned in and let it drip straight onto my tongue -- slow, warm, intimate -- watching it slide down my throat.

Her hand pressed once more against my neck.

"Swallow. All of it."

I did.

She hovered over me -- eyes unreadable, voice suddenly grave.

"There are two roads for you now, white boy" she said softly, but with razor-sharp clarity.

"One: resist. Pretend. Ignore what happened. Go back to your old ways... and never come to me again."

Her eyes darkened, her hand resting lightly on my throat.

"Or two: admit. Break. Obey. Submit. And I will show you the depths of forbidden Asian-flavored desire and pleasures you white boys didn't even know existed."

I whimpered, eyes wide, breath shuddering.

Then I nodded -- slow, surrendering.

She saw it.

Felt it.

And smiled with cruel, satisfied delight.

"That was very brave of you, white boy. It makes you eligible for the dessert."

Then, as if nothing momentous had just passed, she casually turned and retrieved her discarded black panties from the floor -- drenched and tangled.

She held them up and smirked, bringing them to her lips again, then hocked a heavy glob of spit right into the center, mixing it with all the other juices.

But she wasn't done.

With lazy, ritualistic cruelty, she lifted one bare arm and wiped the panties deep into her sweaty left armpit -- slow, deliberate strokes.

Then switched arms, repeating the motion under her right, grinding the fabric in just as thoroughly, soaking it in her scent.

"There" she said, folding them with decadent care. "A proper blend -- spit, sweat, and all the ripened pussy juices. My personal essence."

She turned back toward me, the panties dangling from her fingers like a sacred offering.

Leaning in, she stuffed the warm, spit-slick, armpit-scented fabric into my mouth again.

"Something to keep you nice and horny until next time," she whispered.

Then continued to command in a firm voice: "I did the homework on your profile. You'll break up with your obedient, wife-material trophy girlfriend. No more cheating on her with blonde sluts either. Satisfying solo sessions with porn? That's over."

Then she stepped to a nearby shelf and pulled something small and black from a sleek, high-tech device -- a USB stick, sliding it between her fingers like a card.

"This is the only exception."

"High-Definition. Dolby Surround Sound. Multiple camera angles. Full footage of tonight's session -- every sound you made, the way you squirmed, every delicious second of your ruin."

She placed it gently beside my head, letting the weight of it settle like a curse.

"You are allowed to watch it. I want you to watch it. Edge to it. Slowly. Obsessively. As many times as you want. But you do not cum. Not ever again without my permission. Your sperm belongs to me now."

She fixed me with a cold, commanding stare.

"Ask for Lulu the next time you schedule -- but only after at least seven days have passed."

Then, grimly: "And you'd better show up with fully recharged balls, just like today."

Lulu...

Her short, powerful, exotic name--Lulu--fell like a hammer blow after everything she'd done to me while remaining nameless until now.

It felt like I'd finally earned the right to know it.

I was mesmerized -- not just by her words, but by their weight.

The full gravity of what she meant settled over me like a suffocating fog: my life would never be the same.

I would never be the same.

A twisted mix of horror and exhilaration surged through me as I realized--she wasn't just changing how I came.

She was rewriting who I would be.

Every pussy and mouth I'd ever marked with my cum flickered through my mind -- a dizzying highlight reel of what I once considered sexual triumphs.

Wild, filthy romps with rowdy dive bar sluts in grimy hotel rooms during business trips. Girls who screamed as they came on my cock or tongue -- some real orgasms, some not, but all feeding my ego.

The threesomes I bragged about -- two blondes, a redhead and a brunette.

That unreal time my lesbian friend ate her bisexual roommate while the roommate gagged on my cock -- a locker room story I milked for months, earning envious glances from other guys.

The upscale escorts I didn't have to use, but did anyway -- for the thrill, the expertise, the cinematic blowjob from a working girl who played her craft like a virtuoso.

The naive college girls were a different game -- fresh, full of dreamy ideas about older men and "maturity." They swarmed polished businessman like me like bees to honey. My tailored suits, my confidence, my ability to buy dinner at a posh retaurant without blinking -- it all dazzled them.

They thought they were playing grown-up games. They didn't know I was hunting -- selecting the ripest, hottest, and the dumbest (so they wouldn't cause problems later; the smart, bitchy ones were dangerous). They mistook my interest for romance, not hunger. I'd fuck them once and barely remember their names.

And then -- the MILFs.

Older divorcées and cheating wives, trapped with overworked or impotent, useless husbands, desperate for younger cocks like it was salvation.

I ruthlessly cherry-picked only the best of the best. The ones scuplted out by maniacal workouts, trying to undo the damage of husbands, childbirth, gravity, time...

They were oh so proud of their hard-won bodies, and I was obsessively selective -- only the tightest abs, the most sculpted glutes, the best boob jobs, the ones who went overboard in their refusal to fade quietly.

Their desperation turned me on.

And in bed, they were insatiable -- like drowning women clinging to straws, throwing themselves into every thrust, every filthy request with frenzied devotion, knowing their time was slipping away.

It wasn't just sex. It was survival -- their last gasp at being wanted, being fuckable, being alive.

I fucked them hard, rough and they took it stoically. Gave them what felt like hope... then ghosted with a smile.

Then there were the "angry fucks" -- chaotic, primal, post-argument sessions with my girlfriends, bodies crashing like storms, claws and cocks out.

And the countless blowjobs. Deep, face-fucking, throat-gags. We scored girls silently and aloud -- technique, stamina, obedience, messiness, pierced tongues, swallowing...

Every memory surged back -- a tidal wave of conquests.

Then came the decree:

"Never again."

It hit like a branding iron.

But instead of panic... I felt something unexpected.

Relief.

All that noise -- the chasing, the scoring, the performances, the ego -- suddenly felt like theater. Impressive on the outside, empty at the core. Because from now on, there was no rotation. No variety.

Only her.

Only Lulu.

The one woman who wouldn't kneel to please me -- but would have me kneeling to please her.

The only mouth that mattered now was mine... and what it could do for her.

The only orgasm that mattered now was hers.

And I wasn't giving anything anymore -- I was offering. Hoping.

Because she had the power to take everything.

Some women I fucked had power -- on paper. Lawyers. Doctors. Executives. Athletes. But in bed? Only the power I allowed.

I never left a date without a powerful, satisfying orgasm -- that was the rule. And they scrambled not to leave dry, hoping they'd earned it.

But Lulu's power was the only power that truly mattered -- the power over me.

So -- yes.

No more games with slutty blondes pretending not to be easy. No more shallow hookups I'd later exaggerate at the water cooler. No more chasing records or validation from other guys.

From now on, there was only her.

And only she decides when I come.

If I come.

And in that moment -- trembling, dripping, broken -- a shiver ran through me, so deep it felt like my soul changed shape.

A whisper escaped me before I even realized I'd spoken.

"Lulu..."

Her name. For the very first time.

And I knew there would be many more times. I would whisper it. Moan it. Say it. Scream it. Worship it.

Lulu looked at me -- truly looked for the first time -- and for a flicker of a second, I saw something behind her cruel smile. Satisfaction. Maybe even... empathy.

But just as quickly, it vanished. The mask returned. The armor slid back into place.

Still, I'd seen it.

A promise. A hint.

That incredible things were waiting... but only if I proved worthy.

And in that moment, I knew: I was ready.

She straightened and glanced at the wall clock.

"Your session -- the first of many -- is over."

Lulu turned and paced toward the door, leaving me tied, cum-soaked, gagged and completely hers.

No aftercare.

She didn't even glance back.

Just her essence in my mouth, my ruin in my head, and the USB drive on the pillow -- a cruel souvenir to edge to alone until I come back to beg.

And I couldn't wait to beg for more.

***

Epilogue

Once Lulu was gone, I lay in silence and realized something chilling -- and beautiful:

I'd never truly been fucked before.

Not until tonight.

Not until Lulu.

She had broken me in just one session.

Completely.

And my mind spun -- horror and arousal tangled -- as I imagined what Lulu could do to me if I gave her weeks... months... years.

The possibilities were overwhelming. Too dark. Too arousing. Too vast to name.

I just lay there -- tied, leaking, her scents and remnants of my cum still thick in my mouth -- waiting for the receptionist to come.

The receptionist.

And then it hit me.

I remembered how I'd smiled at her earlier. Flirted. Let my fingers linger, imagining she might be impressed -- maybe even sneak me something extra, like I was special.

But I wasn't special.

I was typical.

She'd seen it all before. A hundred times. A thousand.

Cocky first-timers -- smirking, posturing, thinking they were seducing her -- only to crawl back out broken.

Changed.

She didn't need to say anything. That wasn't her role.

No -- she was the quiet finale. The humiliation epilogue.

Soon, she'd open that door, all polite efficiency. Smiling. Pretending not to notice the state I was in.

She'd untie me. Hand me warm, wet towels. Watch as I wiped Lulu's pussy juices from my face... and my own cum from my abs.

No judgment. No smirk. Just quiet, professional grace.

And the final twist of the knife?

Getting dressed in front of her.

The same girl I once thought I might impress -- now watching, knowing.

Knowing exactly what had been done to me.

What I'd become.

Knowing I'd never dare check her out again.

Because now I was just one of them.

Just another name on Lulu's list.

Just another man rewritten by her hands.

I belonged to Lulu now.

And finally... I understood the reviews.

*** THE END ***