I met him in a hotel bar that smelled like citrus and bad decisions. He had that quiet look men get when they already know they are packing something rude. Ten minutes of small talk later we were upstairs, and cocksucking stopped being a rumor in my mouth and turned into work I wanted.

He dropped his pants and that thing hung there heavy, hot, already shiny at the tip. Huge. Vein-mapped. The kind of dick that makes your jaw calculate. Cock worship started before I even touched him. I stared. I told him I was going to ruin my lipstick for it. Then I got on my knees on the hotel carpet and put both hands around the base because one hand looked stupid.

Cocksucking a cock that size is not cute. It is spit and patience and the wet sound of me failing on purpose so I can try again deeper. I licked a slow stripe from his balls to the head, then opened and took what I could. My lips stretched. My eyes watered. I hummed when the head punched the back of my throat and a thick string of spit fell onto my tits. He swore. I kept going. That is cock worship: treating a huge dick like it paid rent in my mouth.

I pulled off just long enough to breathe and stroke him sloppy, spit-shiny, then dove back in. Cocksucking got nastier when I let him hold my hair and use my face. Not gentle. Not boyfriend-soft. He fucked my throat in short greedy strokes while I held his thighs and took it. Drool hit the floor. Mascara went south. I gagged, laughed, and put him back in because a mouth that empty felt wrong.

When my jaw ached I worshipped lower. I sucked one ball into my mouth while I stroked that fat shaft, then the other, messy and devoted. Cock worship is the part where I look up with a ruined face and tell him how good he tastes, how heavy he feels on my tongue, how I want him to use my mouth until he cannot talk. He throbbed against my cheek. I painted my lips with the leak at his slit and went back to cocksucking like I had a shift to finish.

He came the first time down my throat. I swallowed what I could and let the rest stripe my tongue so he could see it. Then I stayed there, licking him clean, because cock worship does not clock out at the first load. He hardened again while I was still tasting him. I took him slower the second time, deeper, wetter, the kind of cocksucking that sounds filthy even with the TV on mute.

Later, alone in the hallway with my voice still rough, I got on a call. Phone sex is how I keep a night like that from ending. I told the man on the line exactly how that huge dick stretched my mouth, how cocksucking made my jaw shake, how cock worship left my chin shiny. Phone sex let me walk someone else through the same kneeling, the same gag, the same swallow, until he was panting like he had been in the room.

I can still feel the weight of it. That is the whole story. A stranger. A heavy cock. My knees. Cocksucking until my voice changed. Cock worship until he emptied. Phone sex after, because some men only get the replay, and I tell it dirty enough that it counts.