The air was thick with tension, not the romantic kind, but the raw, unapologetic kind that smells like sweat and power. He stood over me, his dick already out—a thick, veiny cock that curved slightly upward, the head glistening with a mix of pre-cum and something else. Smegma. That musky, pungent scent hit my nostrils, a blend of unwashed manhood and pure dominance. He didn’t ask; he never did. His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head forward until my lips were inches from his shaft.

“Lick it clean, slut,” he growled, his voice a low rumble. I could see the white, cheesy buildup under his foreskin, a testament to days of neglect. It wasn’t about hygiene; it was about humiliation, about forcing me to taste his rawest self. My heart pounded as I hesitated, but his grip tightened, pulling me closer. The first touch of my tongue was tentative, tracing the ridge of his glans. The smegma was salty, tangy, with a bitter edge that made my stomach flip. He moaned, a deep, satisfied sound, and pushed deeper into my mouth.

I could feel every inch of him—the rough texture of his skin, the throbbing pulse against my tongue. He started fucking my face, slow at first, then harder, his balls slapping against my chin. Each thrust forced more of that flavor down my throat, a mix of precum and smegma that I had no choice but to swallow. Spit dripped from the corners of my mouth, mixing with the mess