Letters from a Heartbroken Pervert: Trick

Our venture into ass-to-mouth started as a trick, you know. What had happened was that I had fucked you in the ass the night before, not showered, gone to bed, woken up, not showered, gone to work, not showered, came home, not showered, and had you blow me. I didn’t say anything beforehand, and you didn’t say or imply that anything was out of the ordinary while you sucked me off. It felt fucking amazing. I couldn’t believe I’d finally reached that point. I remember holding your throat and the back of your head as I thrust deeper into your mouth when I came. I was worried that at the last second, you’d realize something was amiss, pull away, and ruin everything.

I told you later that night during round two. I was fingering you and choking you out and I decided to tell you what had happened; or rather, what I had managed. You liked it, and I could tell. I think you weren’t sure if that was really what had happened or if I was just kinking up our dirty talk. I left it at that for about a month.

Then one day after an embattled weekend, you nonchalantly plucked my cock out of your ass, saying it was just too much, and plopped it in your mouth. I said, “If you’re doing this in an attempt to try and keep us together… it’s working.” God, that was fucking hot. In a way, how casually you did it was hotter than the act itself. What’s weird is that I can’t remember how we got from there to where we ended up.

Do you? When and how did we fall into the norm of me fingering your ass while you jerked off, and having me periodically pull out, demand that you ask to be fed your own shit, and then having you suck the finger before putting it back up your asshole? I really wish I could recall the moment I decided to take it there, and what frame of mind I was in. I think the first step had been my longstanding practice of me stuffing your panties in your mouth. Then I started rubbing those panties into your crotch so they’d soak up more of your wetness before feeding them to you. At some point, did the dirty talk evolve into me asking you if you could taste your own shit on those panties as well? I feel like that must have been it, and when you dutifully nodded your head, I must have instinctively said, “and you like it, don’t you,” and you, submissive as ever, must have nodded again.

My dick literally hurts right now from how hard I get writing this. Every night, for months, I got to open up your cute little asshole with a finger and thrust over and over. Then I got to pull it out, hear you say, “Please feed me my shit, Daddy, pleeeaaassse,” and put it in your mouth. I would always look at you with such intensity as I felt your mouth suck deeply on my finger. Your cheeks would hollow inward, I’d feel your tongue run against my nail bed, and I could hear you touching yourself with such vigor. Then I’d pull out, you’d say, “Thank you, Daddy,” and as I started fingering your ass again I’d say, “Thank you for what?” and you’d say, “Thank you for feeding me my shit.”

Yeah, I know, you were there. You were there the whole time every time. But it’s a memory I have of you that means a lot. Most people wouldn’t get it. Most people would think the loss of something perverted like that would be mourned differently from the mourning of a loving relationship. But you know better. I know that you, too, have intertwined mournings. The end of us is a multifaceted end. It means not swapping books of cultural criticism. It means not going to see French New Wave films together. It means not finishing unpacking all that happened to us in high school as one. It means not going out to eat at our favorite restaurants as best friends. And it means no more ass-to-mouth. They’re all distinct memories because they’re distinct events, but it’s one big thing, really. Breakups are harder for perverts, because there’s only so many of us out there. We both know it.