Sophia's Special Service

Sophia Sterling rapped twice on Clarke Kent’s front door, clipboard in hand, smile ready. Need your lawn mowed, rooms cleaned, kids sat? Any mix and match worked for her. Clarke said thanks but no thanks and tried to close the door, but Sophia leaned forward. “Be straight with me,” she said, voice low and conspiratorial. “You ever sucked your own dick?” Clarke coughed, face turning pink. He admitted he’d tried—only a few times, and only got the head past his lips once before his back staged a revolt. Sophia’s grin widened. “Then let me take it from here.” She slipped inside, pushed him onto the couch, and dropped to her knees. Clarke still had his slacks on when she popped the button, dragged the zipper, and fished his cock free. Already half-hard, the shaft twitched in the cool air. Sophia licked a broad stripe from root to tip, tasting salt, then pursed her lips over the crown and slid down until her nose brushed the neat thatch at his groin. Her throat flexed once, twice; she swallowed around him without a hint of a gag. Spit dripped to his balls. Clarke groaned. She pulled off, long strings connecting her lips to his glistening shaft, then went right back down, bobbing fast enough that his balls slapped softly against her chin. Every few strokes she twisted her wrist, rubbing the slick skin with her thumb, working the spot just beneath the head. Clarke’s hips bucked, furniture creaked under the strain, and Sophia’s eyes never left his—sparkling with the thrill of being better at it than he ever could be himself.