December Service

My husband and I make a deal for the month of December. He knows that this month is a rough one for me, my emotional map of the holidays scarred with grief and winter’s darkness. I switch between modes of craving pleasure or discipline to dull the pain. There’s no map to these waters, but he knows how to navigate them after all these years, steering like a salty old sailor through the canals of my complicated desires. Sex may be sparse this month, he knows, but he suggests an alternative and we come to terms. I will service him every day but will refrain from my own pleasure — even self-stimulated — until the New Year. It’s a game and a maintenance plan.

I agree without hesitation, enjoying that I do not have to try to decide my feelings for myself. It is far easier to heed his instructions than to dip into my emotional well. Do I feel like fucking? I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to be bared in this moment, or think of my own pleasure. But serving is something that I can do. We decide this arrangement near the middle of December, and I am happy to make him happy for the remainder of the year.

My husband likes oral sex better than he likes fucking. Not only fellatio, but cunnilingus as well. He eats my pussy with abandon and loves sixty-nine, and every time we have sex we “flip” so that we can curl against each other’s parts with tongues and mouths wet with abandon. I usually insist that after it he goes inside and fucks me for awhile, because I love the feeling of being filled more than anything in the world. Occasionally he asks to finish in sixty-nine and I do it, and although he always makes me come I also feel a little letdown not feeling him push inside, leaving me gooey with his lust. So this interlude in December is special to him, my ultimate Christmas present to the man with whom I share my life, love, and lust.

He reminds me of our deal on the first day, and on his lunch break he lays down on the bed and I unzip him and pull his pants down past his hips. The winter sun is shining in the picture window in our bedroom and there’s no need to pull the shades because no neighbors can see directly into our room. His cock is flaccid at first, and it’s quite small when he’s soft. I once heard someone describe a limp penis as something like a frightened bird, and I remember this as I take the squishy little appendage in my palm. It’s not really big enough to properly grab hold of at the start, but I just lean over and put his cock in my mouth. I like how it’s small and soft and smooth. I love feeling it harden in my mouth, although I wish it stayed small enough that I could keep it all in my mouth.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m reluctant with blowjobs. It’s not that I dislike giving head, but that I need some urging, sometimes more than others. This agreement with my husband gives me the motivation and I go to town, sucking and stroking and licking. I give myself a little goal to make him come as quickly as I can, which honestly is partly so that I can get back to the other things I need to do today: laundry needs folding and the like. Between my wet palm and eagerly bobbing mouth, I hope to make fast work of him.

He’s clearly loving it, and very hard, but it takes him longer than I thought it might. I work harder, diligently suckling and using my tongue over his hard shaft, my chin shiny and slippery. I’m sort of a neat freak, and I don’t want to get my clothes messy.

“Go down further,” he begs. “Deeper.”

I do as he tells me, taking him further into my mouth. I’m not good at deepthroating guys, and it’s something I often fantasize about, but I have a quick gag reflex. I had a boyfriend when I was just starting college — well, not so much a boyfriend as a guy I fooled around with briefly — and he had a cock that was on the smaller side. I loved it because I could actually give him the experience of taking most of him in my mouth. My husband isn’t particularly large but he’s thick enough that I just can’t do it, and so I do my best. I cough a little. He lets out a moan as I take him more deeply.

“As far down as you can,” he groans.

Okay, okay. I go down. Press further. Cock filling my mouth. Opening wider, feeling the fat tip against my throat. I gag a little and come up for air.

“Aw, Christ, Moll,” he says. “That’s amazing.”

“Good,” I say. I try again, with about the same result, but he loves it.

A few more minutes of sucking and stroking his shaft and he’s ready. I can tell by his sharp gasps and the little movements of his hips. He always warns me when he’s close and I go as long as I dare. I struggle with swallowing, with men cumming in my mouth, and I always have. Lots of water under that bridge, but at the last minute he gives the signal and I jerk him the rest of the way across the finish line. His hot cum spills out over my knuckles and he gives the most satisfying groans.

By this point I’m wet and wouldn’t mind getting fucked, but we’ve made a deal. He offers to get me off and I decline.

“It’s the rules,” I say, getting up, my chore done.

The next day I do him in his office chair. Nothing kinky, he’s not in a meeting or anything, it’s just a comfortable chair to get a blowjob. I’m on my knees dressed in yoga pants and a hoodie — not perhaps the sexiest outfit but he doesn’t seem to care.

“I know it’s not your thing,” he says. “But sometime I’d love it if you’d let me come in your mouth.”

He told me once that he’d briefly been with a girl before me who was excellent at blowjobs and would swallow. I admit that I feel a little jealous since I do not, and though he doesn’t mean to, he makes it sound like it was a religious experience. I’m frankly more of a cum-in-my-pussy kind of girl, but I love my husband.

“Okay, I’ll try,” I say. “But give me lots of warning.”

So I suck him and stroke him, secretly trying to beat my time from yesterday. He’s close and I can tell. My mouth is all sloppy and his cock is slippery with lust. He lingers on the brink for minutes and the whole time I’m braced for what’s coming. Don’t pull back. Just relax, ease in, let it come. But he doesn’t. Come, I mean. I’m stroking, slurping, sucking and he’s moaning and lifting his hips, but he’s not quite there. I sit up to take a break, continuing to stroke and he gives a little lurch.

“Now,” he says. “Now, now.”

I take a deep breath and go down, sliding his fat cockhead into my mouth and closing my eyes tight. He spills salty-soapy cum into my mouth, spurting into my throat. I gulp, I gag a little. I keep stroking, trying to swallow and he’s making sounds like I’m killing him. I start to bob my head again and the torrent of cum ebbs. I’ve let most of it spill out of my lips and over my fist and swallowed a little. I sit up, coughing lightly, wiping my chin. I smile weakly at him.

“Thank you, Moll. Thank you so much. I owe you.”

I nod, get up, and get a drink. I didn’t hate it, I was just afraid that I was going to puke on his cock. I have a nasty story about that from college that I won’t share. My husband is beyond grateful and treats me like some kind of slut queen for the rest of the day. What an incredible power, the blowjob!

It’s day three, and I blow him at night this time. To make it a little extra fun, we turn off the lights and he stands in front of the window in the dark, with me kneeling. There’s not really much chance of getting caught, but the passing lights of cars still make it feel like a public act. I try to do better, determined to improve. It’s that competitive streak in me, and it even applies to blowjobs.

It’s faster this time. He grabs my head and gently pulls me toward him, making me go deeper. I let him, doing my best to maintain it. A little deeper, maybe. He loves it. The sounds he makes are incredible. I let him spill his cum into my mouth again, and after the last time it seems more manageable. I mostly swallow his cream, sliding down my throat like oysters, and I try not to let that thought gross me out because I hate oysters. A little dribbles down my chin, but when he’s finished he pulls me to my feet and kisses me on my cummy lips. I love that he does it.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” he says, squeezing my crotch.

I do. I want something. I’m aching for an orgasm and wet with need. But I resist.

“Nope,” I say. “Those are the rules.”

And we go get cookies and milk and watch a show.

Several more days are similar. I blow him in our bed, in the bathroom, in the spare bedroom. I let him come in my mouth, getting more confident each time and satisfied by the pleasure it gives him and the power it gives me. I’m horny as hell at this point, but I’m not going to do anything about it. I even read an erotic novel (Playing by Melanie Abrams, you should try it) just to tease myself further. I admit that I do a little extra washing between my legs in the shower but I promise I never let myself orgasm.

On Christmas Day, he wants to come on my face, something I don’t often allow but I’m feeling more generous this month. I blow him like I’ve practiced each day, sucking and jerking his cock until he’s right at the edge. He takes over and wanks fast, right at my face. I close my eyes and he lets out a guttural moan and his hot cum spills onto my cheek, splashes across my forehead, gets into my coppery hair.

Over the final days in December I suck him off each day and each day I get hornier. He wants to come on my tits one day, but otherwise I mostly finish him in my mouth. I’m used to it now. It excites me. I feel a sense of accomplishing something, and I like how grateful he is. On December 31st, we go twice: once in the morning and once in the evening. I’m proud of my morning performance, because he spills in three minutes or so, certainly less than five. All the practice has made me better at sensing what my man needs from my mouth. At night, when I suck him a second time, I let it drag out as a final hoorah.

He finishes in my mouth and I swallow, wipe my lips, and go take a shower. I’ve finished my almost-month of servicing him orally, and I’m glad to be done. I’m glad to have done it as well.

On the 1st, my husband asks if I want to have sex. I have been waiting for this moment. Instead of answering him, I unbutton my jeans, unzip, and pull them off. Next my panties are on the floor.

I lay down on the bed and spread my legs, baring my pussy. I’m already wet.

“I’ve decided that January is my turn,” I say, guiding his head between my thighs.

5 thoughts on “December Service

  1. So…I lost track of your writing around the time of your Pussy Worship post from several years ago. That was a breath-taking and panty-moistening read!

    And now this!?! Such fantastic bookends to frame my Sexscribbler experience. I now have the privilege and pleasure of catching up on your work! You are a gift 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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