a page from my night
written after he left the taste of me on his mouth
Ass eating was the first thing I promised him, and the last thing he was allowed to think about. He was older, silver at the temples, the kind of man who thought money and a hotel key meant he could skip the kneeling. I let him look. I did not let him rush.
He kept staring at the curve of me like it was a prize he had already won. I turned, braced my palms on the dresser, and told him if he wanted anything else tonight he would start with ass worship. Not a kiss on the cheek. Not a polite squeeze. Full, messy, grateful ass worship until I said he could stop.
He dropped so fast I almost laughed. His hands shook on my hips. I reached back, spread myself, and fed him the order again: slower. Wetter. Ass eating like he meant it. I wanted to feel his tongue flatten, then point, then lose all technique because he was too hungry to be clever.
Ass worship changed him. The cocky little comments died. All that was left was breath and the wet sound of a man who had waited too many years to be this close. I rolled my hips against his mouth and made him follow. When he tried to sneak a finger toward my clit I caught his wrist. Tonight the altar was my ass. He could earn the rest.
I talked while he worked. I told him how pretty he looked on his knees, how I would remember this the next time I took a phone sex call and some lonely man asked me what I tasted like. I described the exact pressure I wanted, the way ass eating should feel when it is done for me and not for his ego. He moaned into me like that sentence alone was enough.
Only when my thighs started to tremble did I let him stand. I bent him over the same dresser he had planned to bend me over and took him the way I wanted—slow at first, then greedy, my hand in his hair so he could still smell me on his face. He came first. I made him stay inside me until I finished, still talking about ass worship like it was a prayer he had finally learned.
Later, after he left, I sat on the edge of the bed with my phone and thought about the men who never get the hotel room. Phone sex is how I keep the night going. I can walk someone through ass eating in a parked car, make them describe the pillow they would bury their face in, make them say ass worship out loud until their voice cracks. Some of them only ever get my voice. That does not make it smaller. It makes it sharper.
If you are the kind of man who drools before he asks, I already know how this ends. You kneel. You use your mouth. You wait until I decide you have earned more. And if you cannot be in the room, you call, and I will put the same story in your ear until you cannot think about anything except ass eating and the sound of me deciding you are allowed to come.
— Aspen
Find me here:
https://thesincenter.com/aspen/