Blindfolded and strapped, you lose all temporal awareness while Tyson’s 8.5" girth remains lodged in your throat. Silent. Heavy. Never warning.
The ball-slap is your only clock—and it lies. He floods your sinuses with surprise coconut ribbons at minute twenty, minute thirty-four, and minute sixty, each endless stream making you question whether time exists outside of his hydration.
Dildo play.
