He put the palm of his hand right up against my forehead and pushed, hard. My mouth slid off his wet dick with a ‘pop’; I slid back on my haunches with a whine. I didn’t know why we were stopping, so I just stared up at him, pawing at myself like the desperate fuck I was.
His eyes darted off to the side—I knew what he was looking at, and I knew what he was thinking.
"No way," I said preemptively.
"Put it on," he said.
"But I’m not really into…" I trailed off; he was stroking his cock right above me, giving me a look that made it clear that "no" wasn’t an acceptable answer.
"Put it on," he said again.
"Please," I said, as if that’d be what convinced him. He just smirked and flicked his cock in his hand; a trail of precum hit my face.
Two minutes later he had me back on my knees, but this time situated so I could see myself in the mirror, see what I was wearing. My face was red—from flushing, from blushing?—but my dick was hard as ever.
His, as he pushed it in and out of my mouth, as he looked from my face to the mirror and back, was harder than ever.