His Weekly Reward Blowjob

Terrence stared at the spreadsheet until the columns blurred into gray bars and the numbers stopped meaning anything at all. He was twenty-four, and on any other Thursday he could have powered through the quarterly sheet before five. Today the cursor blinked and he did not type. It was his lucky day. The one day every week his girlfriend made entirely about him, and he could not stop imagining it.

Harriet was twenty-two, and she loved giving him his reward. Not a quick one squeezed in before sleep. A long, slow blowjob, all about his pleasure, the kind where she moaned like she was the one being spoiled and kept going until he finished in her mouth. He had been thinking about it since he poured his morning coffee. By lunch he had given up pretending the work mattered. Now, with the office thinning around him, the fantasy sat in his lap like a live thing.

He shifted in his chair and tried to look at a cell formula. What he saw was Harriet on her knees in their apartment, blouse open, eyes bright, mouth wet. He heard the little sound she made when she first took him in, that eager hum that traveled straight up his spine. His cock thickened against his pants. He pressed his thighs together under the desk and exhaled through his nose, hoping nobody walked by.

Coworker Owen from the next row of cubicles leaned over the partition and asked whether the totals were ready. Terrence said he was close. His voice came out rough. Owen nodded and left, and the second he was gone Terrence's mind slid right back to her tongue, her hands, the way she looked up while she sucked him like worship was a hobby she took seriously. He checked the clock. Twenty-eight minutes. He opened a tab, closed it, and typed the same number twice before he gave up and watched the minutes crawl.

By the time he logged out, his pulse was already in the parking lot. He drove home faster than he should have, one hand tight on the wheel, the other restless on his thigh, every red light an insult. The apartment building rose ahead of him and his stomach flipped the way it always did on Thursdays, half hunger and half need. He took the stairs two at a time.

Harriet opened the door before his key finished turning. She stood glowing in a soft blouse, and the smile she gave him was pure Thursday, flirty and knowing. "Hi," she said, already reaching. She pulled him in by his tie and kissed him deep, slow, warm, her mouth sweet from the iced tea she'd been sipping while she waited. Terrence groaned and dropped his bag. His hands found her waist. Hers slid up his chest and stayed there, affectionate and teasing, starting nothing and stopping nothing.

"Hungry?" she asked against his lips.

"Starving," he said. They both heard what he meant.

She laughed, low and pleased, and led him to the table. Pasta steamed between them, simple and good, and they sat close enough that her knee kept brushing his under the cloth. They ate. They talked. He told her the spreadsheet had beaten him and she told him about a long line at the clinic desk where she worked, ordinary complaints traded across plates, and under every sentence ran a current he could feel in his teeth. She stole a bite from his fork. He caught her wrist and kissed the inside of it, and her breath hitched.

"Be good," she murmured, eyes bright. "Dinner first. That was the deal."

"I'm being good." He let her go and took another bite he barely tasted. "You're the one looking at me like that."

"I've been looking at you like that since noon." She smiled over the rim of her glass, unhurried, enjoying the wait as much as he was suffering through it. Her foot slid along his calf. He nearly dropped his fork. She did it again, slower, and watched his jaw tighten with open delight. Color rose in her cheeks, pretty and pleased. She liked making him wait almost as much as he liked being made to, even when it bordered on cruelty. They finished every bite anyway. The ritual mattered. The wanting was part of the gift.

When the plates were clear she didn't drag him to the bedroom. She took his hand and pulled him to the couch, and they cuddled the way Thursdays always began after food, her back to his chest, his arms around her middle, the television murmuring something neither of them watched. He kissed her hair. She turned in his hold and kissed his jaw, then his mouth, softer, lingering, her fingers playing at his collar. His palm rested just under the swell of her breast. She didn't move it. The tension thickened until the room felt smaller than it was.

Harriet sat up. Her fingers found the buttons of her blouse. One, then another, slow enough that he watched every new inch of skin. She shrugged the fabric open and bared her tits for him, full and warm, nipples already tight in the lamplight. She watched his mouth go slack and her own smile turned hungry.

"I want your cock in my mouth," she whispered.

Terrence stood. He didn't have to be asked twice. Harriet slid off the couch and dropped to her knees on the rug between his feet, looking up at him with eager, filthy sweetness. Her blouse hung open. Her tits rose and fell with her breath. She reached for his belt with both hands and took her time, leather whispering through the buckle, the button of his pants giving under her thumb, the zipper coming down tooth by tooth while she watched his face.

"All week," she said softly, "I've been thinking about this." She tugged his pants and briefs down together, just far enough, and his cock sprang free, already hard, already aching from an afternoon of not being allowed to touch it. She made a small, delighted sound. Her fingers wrapped around the base, warm and sure, and she stroked him once, slow, from root to tip, thumb smearing the bead of wetness there. "Look at you. So ready for me."

She didn't take him in her mouth yet. That was the tease, and she was good at it. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the head, soft, then another along the underside, then a slow lick from base to crown that made his knees threaten to buckle. Her tongue was hot. She did it again, flatter, wetter, moaning quietly against his skin like the taste of him was something she had missed. Terrence's hand found her hair, not pushing, just resting there, and she hummed her approval.

"God, Harriet."

"I know." She looked up, lips shiny, eyes dark with pleasure. "You don't have to do anything. This is yours. Just feel it."

She licked him again, circling the head, dipping into the slit, then trailed open-mouthed kisses down one side and up the other. Her free hand cupped him gently, rolling, while the other kept that lazy stroke going. Every time he twitched she smiled. Every time a drop welled up she caught it with her tongue and moaned, low and honest, like she was eating something sweet. The sound went through him. He loved that she loved it. He loved how she took her time.

When she finally opened her lips and sank down, she did it slowly. The heat of her mouth closed over the head, then an inch, then another, her tongue working underneath the whole way. She moaned around him, and the vibration made his hips jerk. She pulled off with a wet sound, stroked him, and went down again, a little deeper, cheeks hollowing, eyes lifted so she could watch what she did to him. Spit shone on her lips. She let it. She wanted it messy. She wanted him to see how much she was enjoying herself.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You feel incredible."

She moaned again in answer, the sound muffled and eager, and bobbed in a rhythm that was deliberately unhurried. Down, hold, a slow suck on the way up, tongue swirling, then her hand taking over what her mouth left behind so he was never without touch. She swallowed him until her nose brushed his stomach and stayed there, throat fluttering, moaning like the fullness pleased her. Terrence cursed and petted her hair. She came up gasping, grinned, and went right back to licking the head while she caught her breath.

"You taste so good," she said, voice rough already. "I could do this for an hour."

"You might kill me."

"Not before you come in my mouth." She kissed the tip. "That's the rule. All of it. Mine."

She took him in again, deeper, still slow, still teasing, hollowing her cheeks and looking up so he could see the pleasure on her face. Her tits swayed with the motion. One of his hands drifted down and cupped one, thumb brushing her nipple, and she moaned so hard around his cock that his vision blurred. She liked that. She pushed into his palm and sucked harder, then eased off because she wasn't ready to let him finish. She wanted the long part. She wanted him shaking.

Terrence stood there and took it, groaning, thighs tight, watching her work. Long licks. Soft kisses. She mouthed at him gentle and hungry by turns, then swallowed him again with a sound that dropped straight through his stomach. She was flushed. She was wet-mouthed and happy. Every moan was real. His fingers tightened in her hair. She nodded against him, encouraging, and took him deeper.

The build was slow and then it wasn't. Heat coiled low in his gut. His breaths went short. She felt it, the way his cock throbbed on her tongue, and she moaned like she'd been waiting for that exact moment. Her pace stayed steady. No rush. Just suction and tongue and the wet glide of her hand, eyes locked on his, telling him without words to let go.

"Harriet— I'm—"

She didn't pull off. She sank down and held him, sucking, moaning, one hand stroking what she couldn't swallow, the other spread warm on his thigh. Terrence came hard. The first pulse hit the back of her throat and she swallowed around him, eager, taking it, then the next, and the next, groaning as he spilled in her mouth. He held her hair and shook through it, cursing her name, hips twitching, and she stayed with him until the last weak spurt coated her tongue. She didn't spill a drop. She worked him through it with soft sucks and a pleased little hum, milking every bit he had, loving the way he fell apart for her.

When he finally eased, she pulled off slowly, licked him clean, and swallowed what remained with her eyes still on his. Her lips were swollen. Her smile was wrecked and satisfied.

Harriet swallowed every drop with a satisfied smile, then licked her lips like she was proud of the mess she'd made of him. She pressed a soft kiss to his hip and helped him settle his pants before she let him pull her up. Terrence dropped onto the couch, wrecked and grinning, and gathered her against his chest. She curled in, blouse still open, and rested her head on his chest, one hand spread warm on his stomach. His arm came around her shoulders. He kissed her hair. For a long minute they just breathed, relaxed and affectionate, the weekly reward humming quiet between them.

His hand stroked her bare back, and he realized, smiling into her hair, that he was already counting the days.

"Same time next Thursday?" he murmured.

She traced a slow circle on his shirt. He could feel her thinking, already scheming. "Next Thursday," she said, voice lazy and sure, "I'm going to make you wait even longer. Dinner, cuddling, and then I'll kneel and take my time until you beg." She tipped her face up, eyes bright with the plan. "You'll love it. I already know exactly how I want to start."