When you’re a collared and/or owned submissive, or a submissive in a long-term dynamic, there’s often talk about training. The training can range from a basic set of assumptions like “you will text me good morning and goodnight every day” to complex and formal protocols regarding anything from kneeling when the Dominant enters the room or setting the table a certain way for every meal. Although we call it training, it’s a lot like learning your partner’s preferences in any relationship. One difference is that in our dynamic, we have punishments established for when I fail to meet the rules. Because I can be damn cheeky on occasion.
One of the items on our training list was learning to deep throat. When sir first broached the topic, I thought he was exaggerating. He had a tendency to voice his fantasies out loud, which I adored, but hearing him describe me as a “sword swallower” made me pause. Up until that point I had never really been confident with my blowjob skills in general, so imagining myself with his cock past my tonsils and down my throat seemed beyond the realm of possibility. Plus, I have the most sensitive gag reflex in the universe! (not hyperbole) I was well into my twenties before I could manage swallowing pills. Yes, my mama crushed them up in grape jelly for me so hush. Instead of voicing my incredulity that I thought sir had me confused with a carnival performer, I replied “thy will be done” in the most un-sarcastic tone I could muster. (Yes, I really said that.)
The next day I woke up to an email with a list of links regarding deep throat techniques from sir. He’s very thoughtful like that. I read that there was a numbing spray popular with the porn industry, but I was more interested in managing my gag reflex naturally. This meant that every day I brushed my tongue with a toothbrush, moving side to side and further and further back along the muscle, to deaden the physical reflex. Did I gag? Oh yeah. But I kept doing it.
When sir visited, he’d test my progress by crowding his fingers in my mouth or pulling my tongue. He began giving me my vitamins, his thick fingers pushing the pills back along my tongue as I tried to relax and breathe and not bite him. I started having flashbacks to my life growing up on my grandparents’ farm. Have you ever seen livestock de-wormed? Well, pilling your slave kind of looks like that. You hold their head, there’s a struggle, eyes roll, and water and spit goes everywhere. At least I didn’t stamp my pointy hooves all over sir’s bare feet. I mean, I was mostly domesticated after all.
The other trick of deep throating was figuring out when to breathe. When the tip of his penis reached the back of my throat, my nasal passages immediately closed up. It was a natural part to my gag reflex. If sir was moving rapidly in and out of my mouth (face fucking me) then I could manage to breathe through my mouth with the movement of his cock. Going slow and deep was a different matter. Inhaling as I went down on his cock, opened up my throat. I could stay like that with him down my throat, but eventually I needed air.
The worst part was gagging. I learned not to eat for several hours before I saw him, and then came the day where he was ready to put me to the test. Into the shower we went. Well, he stood in the shower and I knelt outside the tub and leaned forward. He gave me a warning, and then he pushed into the back of my throat with his cock. One stroke, two strokes, and then I gagged. The first couple times weren’t bad, like when your cat is warming up a hairball–it’s more movement than actual product. But the fifth time… I vomited. Actual barf on his actual penis.
One of the things that I adored about this man was that early on in our relationship, he told me that we were going to get messy together. He told me that he had every expectation of reaching past my sense of modesty to see all the pieces of me. Our bodies weren’t sterile machines. We sweated, we smelled of sex and other things and our bodies produced fluids. Through it all, sir encouraged me and relished the fact that I couldn’t hide myself from him.
Coming from a long marriage where I was expected to not smell of anything but soap and pure thoughts, this part of our dynamic was refreshing and nerve wracking at the same time. When I puked on sir’s cock, I was horrified. I realized that there were people that had a fetish for that, but I wasn’t that person. Tears leaked out the corners of my eyes from throwing up as I stammered another apology.
“The only thing I feel sorry about is that you lost your vitamins,” he said.
I looked down in confusion and saw the mostly dissolved remnants of my daily pills. I started to laugh, amazed that I had just vomited and was feeling good about the experience. Sir said he wanted to work on deep throating a little longer, so I resumed my position and went back to it. (I puked twice more.)
I’m happy to report that I’m even better at deep throating now. Sir and I are going to take a trip to the toy store to buy a long flexible dildo so I can work on going even further. That sounds really weird, doesn’t it? Sometimes I peek at myself from the outside and wonder, what kind of freak wants to deep throat a ten inch dildo? This freak does, my darlings. I’m going to be a great party favor.
(Oh, if you’re trying this at home, make certain that you establish a noise or hand signal or smack on the thigh for when you’re in distress. This will come in handy if you’re restrained and deep throating in the shower and water goes up your nose. Trust me on this.)
