Page 41 of Dr. Sexypants

When I’d gotten the fabric to just above his knees, he put his hand on my shoulder, so I paused.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Positive.”

He leaned back on his elbows and with a cocky grin, said, “Then please proceed with my birthday blowjob.”

I chuckled as I pulled his sleep pants past his knees until the metal was exposed. I thought his prosthetics were cool as fuck—like he was part cyborg. As much as I wanted to study his legs and how they worked, I didn’t want to make him feel like a science exhibit, so I finished tugging his pajamas off and dropped them on the floor next to his slippers he’d taken off.

With no hesitation, I ran my hands along his inner thighs while I positioned myself on the floor between his legs.

His cock jutted out proudly, and I cooed my approval while I stroked his shaft from base to tip and back down.

“Your cock is so perfect. I wonder if it will all fit in my mouth?”

He looked down at me with a lopsided grin. “Only one way to find out.”

I kept my gaze locked with his as I circled my tongue along the ridge of his crown a few times, then licked down his length. Once his shaft was nice and slick, I pulled the tip between my lips, then sucked until it was in the back of my throat.

“Holy fuuuuuck…” he groaned, then closed his eyes and dropped his head and shoulders onto the bed.

I moaned, “Mmm,” knowing the vibrato would add another level of sensation to his cock. Then I worked my hand up his shaft as I gently pulled my lips off.

Precum leaked from his tip, and I licked it off like a popsicle.

“Yummy,” I whispered before taking him deep again.

My eyes watered as his tip bobbed in my throat, then I found a rhythm where my hand and mouth worked in unison and met in the middle along his slippery shaft.

After a few minutes, he reached down to touch my cheek. “You need to stop, baby, or I’m going to come.”

I took my mouth off him and stroked him slower, but quipped, “That’s kind of the goal, isn’t it?”

“Sure, eventually. But I don’t want it to end yet. Besides, my pride won’t let me come before you do.”

“Sorry, birthday boy. I’m going to have to overrule you, this time.”

He sat up, and before I knew what had happened, I found myself flat on my back on his bed while he hovered over me.

“I’m afraid you’ve been overruled, beautiful.”

I was sure my pajama shorts were a mess—I knew I was freaking soaked.

That was confirmed a second later when he pulled my shorts to the side and ran a finger down my seam.

“You’re so wet, baby.”

“What can I say? I like giving blowjobs.”

“Good to know.” He chuckled. “But I think you liked being overruled more.”

I could deny it, but why bother? He was right, and I wanted him to keep doing it.

Did that make me a bad feminist?

I’d just read an article that said choosing to be submissive didn’t negate my beliefs and was actually empowering. Not exploring my fantasies because of shame or worrying what other people thought would be doing a disservice to women.

So really, acting out my desire to be dominated was for women everywhere.