(A little mouthy midnight ramble from your favorite throat queen)
Hey darlings, it’s Emilee. Just me, sprawled across silk sheets at 2 a.m., hair a dark messy halo on the pillow, lips still glossy from earlier, tasting faintly of salt and sin. My throat’s a little raw tonight—deliciously so—and I can’t stop thinking about how good it felt to ruin another marriage with nothing but my mouth.
You know I have a thing for married men. Not just any— the ones who come to me pretending they’re “just curious,” the ones who swear they love their wives, the ones whose rings glint under the hotel lamp while their cock throbs against my tongue. Last week it was Ryan. Sweet, stressed, suit-wearing Ryan whose wife thinks he’s at “late meetings” three nights a week. He started with nervous small talk in DMs. By the third message, he was sending me pictures of his wedding band next to his hard dick. That’s when I knew—he was already mine.
I called him from the bathtub, water lapping at my breasts, voice low and syrupy. “Tell me about her,” I whispered, fingers trailing lazy circles over my clit. “Tell me how long it’s been since she sucked you properly.” He groaned, already stroking. I described it all in filthy detail: how I’d crawl under his desk at work, unzip him slow, take him deep until my nose pressed against his pelvis. No gag, no hesitation—just warm, wet throat swallowing every inch like I was born for it. I told him how I’d hum around him so the vibrations would make his knees buckle, how I’d let spit drip down his balls while I worked him, messy and shameless.
He begged me to keep going. So I did. I told him I’d kneel in his driveway while she slept upstairs, headlights off, car running, his cock sliding past my lips in the dark. I’d suck him until his thighs shook, until he forgot his own name, until the only word he could say was my name. I described the way I’d edge him—slow, torturous licks along the underside, tongue flicking that sensitive spot right under the head, then pulling off just as he started to buck. Over and over. Until tears pricked his eyes and he was whimpering like a desperate boy.
When he finally came on the call, I made him hold the phone close so I could hear every broken moan, every wet spurt hitting his stomach. I came too—hard—rubbing myself raw while imagining his cum sliding down my throat instead.
Two days later, his wife found the screenshots. I didn’t even try to hide them. I’d left them open on his phone on purpose—little breadcrumbs of our filth. She called me. Screaming at first. Then quiet. Then… breathing heavy. I invited her to listen next time. She did. She listened while I sucked him off again, wet slurps and moans filling the line. I described how I’d deepthroat him while she watched from the doorway, how I’d look up at her with his cock buried in my throat, eyes watering, mascara running, daring her to hate me. She didn’t leave. She touched herself instead.
Now they’re separated. And Ryan still calls me every Thursday night, voice hoarse, begging for my mouth like it’s oxygen. I never say no.
Because that’s the thing about oral fixation, loves— once someone discovers how good it feels to be completely, utterly devoured… they never really go back.
Sweet dreams, Emilee xoxo (Your throat’s favorite homewrecker)