He asked for a blow job. That's all he wanted, right? Yeah, right. But his definition of "blow job" wasn't terribly comparable with mine. He didn't let me suck him, wouldn't let me voluntarily use my tongue (and its piercing) to please him. What he did was fuck my mouth, pound his large prick into my throat, forcing me to swallow his size. I wasn't prepared. I didn't think I had much of a gag reflex, but what I did have he found. I threw up. On his prick, all over myself, all over everything. Did he stop? No, he just fucked all the harder. My discomfort did nothing but turn him on more. Then he came. In my mouth, on my face, all over me. Satiated, he stood up and turned towards the bathroom-and the shower. I still couldn't talk, and wouldn't have dared even if I could have. I just laid there in my own vomit, in his cum. What else could I do? I was still bound.
My fantasies are getting more bizarre lately. Can't imagine why. But I might have heard a rumor...

Anyway, there's a convention this weekend. A tattoo convention, in my area. And there's one contest I'm going to win hands down. Most realistic portrait. The one of Amethyst on my arm is amazing. I'm excited, it'll be fun. I just wish I didn't have to do it (and everything else, really) alone.
Laters