My Mouth My Rules

The bedroom was warm, candlelit, her perfume still clinging to the sheets. She stood at the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly on her thigh, the other holding a single condom between her fingers like a silk ribbon she was about to wrap around a gift. You.

She watched him. Towel open, cock half-hard, heavy and promising. Already leaking a little at the tip -- her favourite kind of invitation.

He was waiting for her mouth.

But she had other ideas.

She stepped between his legs slowly and knelt, but didn't touch him. Not yet. She wanted to watch him ache first -- that thick weight of him rising as she hovered just inches away, her breath grazing his skin.

God, she loved his cock.

The way it thickened in her hand. The way it jumped when she whispered.

But she didn't want him to come in her mouth. Not tonight. Not ever, if she could help it.

It wasn't just the taste -- though that was part of it.

The texture, the heat, that sudden flood -- sometimes salty, sometimes metallic, sometimes sharp, depending on what he'd eaten. It had never been her thing. Too strong, too much. Not a flavor she wanted on her tongue or the back of her throat.

But she still loved making him come.

She loved containing it. Seeing the condom swell with his release. That way she could see it -- hold the proof of his orgasm in her hand. Own it. And tonight, she wanted to take her time. She wanted to bring him to the edge slowly, until his body betrayed him with need.

So she reached out and curled her fingers gently around the base of his shaft. It twitched in her palm.

"Lie still," she whispered. "I want to feel you get hard for me."

Her strokes were feather-light at first -- just enough to let him know she was there, that she could make him explode in minutes if she chose. But she didn't. She teased him with the barest movement, just her fingertips circling, tracing the length from root to tip. Occasionally she paused to lick the bead of pre-cum away, but never with her mouth -- only her tongue, a single flick.

He groaned.

Her inner voice purred:

That's it. Let it build. I want to feel you swell so thick you ache. I want you to be begging for my mouth, so when I finally wrap that condom around you, your balls are already tight and full.

He bucked slightly, desperate for more friction, but she tightened her grip and stopped.

"No. You don't get to fuck my hand," she said, eyes narrowed playfully. "You take what I give you."

He moaned in frustration, which made her smile. She stroked again -- now firmer, her grip stroking up slowly, then twisting lightly on the down stroke. She could feel him thickening more in her hand, could feel the rush of blood, the heat, the subtle pulse beneath his skin.

He was getting close.

She bent over, her face just above the head of his cock. She could smell him now -- that rich, male scent she knew so well. She opened the condom wrapper slowly, deliberately, so he could hear it.

"You want this?" she asked, holding it up.

"Yes," he rasped, almost hoarse.

"You want me to take you in my mouth?"

He nodded furiously.

She tilted her head. "You know why I don't let you finish in my mouth?"

He hesitated.

"It's not the act, love. It's the taste. It's too much for me. And I want to enjoy every second of this -- I want to feel your power, your need, without being overwhelmed by it."

She paused, then added wickedly:

"But when I make you come inside this... I get to see what you gave me. I get to hold it in my hand. And I love that more than anything."

She stretched the condom over her lips and rolled it onto his cock slowly with her mouth. It glided down tight, smooth and perfect. She pulled back and admired the way he looked, fully sheathed, thick, and desperate.

She licked along the latex, letting her saliva mix with the lube, then took him deep -- one long, slow suck, then another, each stroke wet and purposeful.

Her hand cradled his balls again -- heavy now, so ready.

He started to twitch in her mouth.

She didn't stop.

She wanted him to burst inside the condom while her mouth was wrapped around him. She wanted to feel the hot pulses, hear the muffled groans, and know that every drop was captured, preserved, for her to admire later.

And when he finally came -- oh, he came -- she kept him there, buried in her mouth, his cock pulsing thick jets into the condom. She moaned around him, feeling it expand slightly with each wave of cum, the warmth pooling, the tip swelling.

She held him there until his hips stopped shaking, then eased off with a slow glide and kissed the condom's head.

Still full. Still warm. A trophy.

She slid it off carefully, tied the top, and held it up between them.

"Not a drop wasted," she whispered. "You came so beautifully for me."