She had to have him. It wasn’t a desire
or a yearning, it was a desperate and urgent need – the sort a
drowning person feels for air. At that moment not a single thing
mattered other than his cock. It was her whole world and her sole
focus. She reached out with shaking fingers and wrapped them
around him with a groan, her whole body clenching in expectation

He’d brought her down to this level. It
was his fault.

The first time she’d done it just to
get something she’d wanted. The second time because they’d got drunk
together. The third time just because he’d asked nicely and she’d
secretly enjoyed herself the second time. After that, things got
fuzzy. She remembered stumbling into his room in the mornings just to
crawl under the covers so she could see the look on his face when he
woke up and realised. She remembered ducking out of lectures to meet
up with him in the toilets and going back with him resting in her
mouth – he said she could only swallow once it was over and she’d
done as she was told.

Now she was addicted, and it was his
fault. But she couldn’t fight it, and as he sunk to the back of her
throat and he practically came right there she realised she couldn’t
care either. It was good to be addicted to him, good to be so
helpless around his cock. It just felt right. She wanted to see if
she could sink any deeper into it, and she knew he would help her.