Charlie has gotten that feedback before, though not, as far as he knows, from a god in mortal form. It has never gotten old. He grins and hums and very deliberately swallows, the first of many to come.*

The claws in his hair are really doing something. So is the bizarre squirming of tentacles below his chin and about his wrist. They could do anything there, hurt him, tear his night-clothes, wrap round his neck and pull him flush to John's torso. Force him down so far on John's cock that they can touch its shape through his throat. Anything. John is so, so fucking gentle and careful, and Charlie knows first-hand that he is also so, so fucking strong. He could. He wouldn't. He could. Fucking hell Charlie's turned on.

John's also so so still, so if Charlie wants to get his throat bruised he's going to have to do it himself: down he goes, as far as he's able, rolling his tongue and swallowing and lifting slowly up to the head again, breathing through his nose with careful timing. He's missed several things from New York, and this was one of them, anonymous and intimate -- it's the weird things that keep you sane sometimes.


*Yes, he swallows the shimmering alien void cum**. Podcast guys are nothing if not begging to be a Darwin Award.

**For those wondering, it tastes spritzy.