I Am Getting a Blowjob Under My Desk As I Type This

Two hours ago, I received a text from a contact saved as “My HRC,” aka Human Cum Rag, how they first referred to themselves when we first began messaging. I don’t remember HRC’s real name. He/she/they—their gender defies labels—must have said it when we first met, seven years ago, but I forgot. I didn’t expect I’d see them again, but like my actual cum rags over the years, they’ve come with me from one apartment to the next.

There have been times when they have come over to my home every month, servicing me, being my submissive, my pet. There have been times when a year has gone by since we last sent each other more than a “Hey,” but time doesn’t matter with them. It could be a decade, and I could receive a text that read, “Hey, you free?” and I’d invite them over to whatever apartment I lived in then. They would come and know what to do. My door would be unlocked. I would be naked, somewhere in my apartment. They would strip for me, until they’re wearing just their thong and fishnets. Watching them would get me hard, and once hard, they would begin to suck.

Right now, as I type this, they are in an Uber on the way over. They have a remote control butt plug-in, and I’m struggling to figure out the app. I just texted them, sharing that once they’re here, they can multitask, sucking my dick from underneath my desk while getting the app configured on my phone.

I also told them I may acknowledge them when they enter my apartment. I may not. They responded, “Yes, sir.”

He texts me, “Coming up sir.” I hear my apartment door opening, and I don’t look to see who it is. Instead, I keep typing, this and that, this and that. I’m making sure my keyboard is clacking. I want to make it look like I’m working on something that isn’t contingent upon him.

He has entered my apartment. His loud keys jangle, and accidentally, he let my front door slam. I have not looked at him, which is taking immense willpower. It is hard not to confirm that he is, in fact, who he’s supposed to be. But who else could it be?

He is taking off his shoes and moving to my bathroom. He had asked, not three minutes ago, if he could pee when he comes up, then strip into his thong and fishnets in the bathroom, coming out ready for me. I had replied yes.

I hear the flush. I look down underneath my desk as I wait. Yes, the large pillow I put there, so he could be somewhat comfortable while on his knees, is still there. My foot massager, which I use for my plantar fasciitis, is still in the corner. (Where else could these things have gone?) But I need to keep typing; I probably have another minute until he comes out of the bathroom.

This and that. This and that.

I hear Velcro. Undoubtedly, it is the sound of his cock and ball ring attachment that has a little leash connected to it. He said I could move him from the living room to the bedroom by the leash, if I so choose.

He’s left my bathroom, and still, without looking, I have moved, scooting my desk chair back, making space so that he can kneel underneath my desk.

She is out now. Underneath my desk. Not using the pillow I provided for her. Rude. I have to sit up straight to use my keyboard. To be hard and typing, and not have her face hit the bottom of my desk. I have found the position. And I am hard now. I type slowly with one hand as I’m using the other to guide her down on my cock.

I’m fully erect and moaning. She’s tugging on my balls slightly as she spits on my dick. Sucking. She’s now sniffing my balls. I can’t remember if that’s new. But she’s moaning and loves the smell, I wonder if I shouldn’t have showered beforehand. If she likes it musky. I can’t remember.

I just took a moment from typing to enjoy the sensation. Then to briefly facefuck her. I looked her in the eyes and said, “All the way,” then guided her down. Then back up. Then back down.

“Stay there,” I now say, holding their head down. Their hair is longer than it was when I last saw them, halfway down their back. They wear a pink scrunchy. I’m grateful they’re tugging on my balls.

I realize I forgot to give them my phone to set up the app so that I could control the dildo in their ass. They’re stroking me with one hand as they set it up with the other. They’re resending the link from their phone so I can use it.

I am making this harder for them as I hold their head down on my dick. They can’t connect the app and suck at the same time, and I know they’re worried about it. Is it fucked up that I like them a little worried over something so trivial?

“Keep sucking,” I say, adding to the stress. They’re getting better at multitasking.

“I love your cock,” they say.

They replied, “Thank you sir.”

I’ve let them come out from under my desk, so they have more space, but they’re still sucking, and I’m still typing.

“I love your cock,” they say again. I don’t respond. I’m too focused on not cumming and trying to type.

Fuck it.

“Stop tugging my balls because I want to cum,” I say. “Now suck hard and fast.”

They do. I move their hand from the base of my dick so I can gag them. Cum down their throat.

I’m typing with one hand now.

“Thank you, sir,” they say. They’re stroking me now with one hand. I’m back to typing with two. I was too slow writing with just one.

They’re sucking my head and stroking my base, “Keep doing that,” I say. “I’m getting close.”

“When was your last load?” they ask.

“Three days ago.” It’s a lie, but one I’m okay with. I don’t want to say I came last night, jacking off. No one likes to hear that.

I just took three minutes off to focus on cumming. I looked into his eyes as he stroked and licked my head. “Please, I need it,” he said.

“Keep begging.” I grabbed the hair at the back of his head, his long, yellow hair, holding his neck in place.

“Please,” he said.