Is it presumptuous of me to imagine what happens next?
To imagine that, as I walk toward you, unbuckling my belt, our eyes locked on one another, you would lick your lips involuntarily?
To imagine that, as I approached you, the bulge in my jeans, already painful, would become excruciating?
To imagine that, as I stopped in front of you, your neck would crane your head toward my crotch?
To imagine that, as you did so, I would pull your head against that bulge, hard? And that I would rub your cheek against my cock?
To imagine that you would look up at me with pleading eyes?
To imagine I would stop, and pull your head back, firmly, angling your eyes up toward mine once again?
To imagine a pause, as I wait to hear you ask, no beg, for what would come next?
To imagine that you would say, unbidden, “Please, please, may I suck your cock?”
To imagine that I would say, “Are you asking?”
That you would say, “No. I’m begging. Please? Please? Please?”
That I would nod, unbuckle my jeans, and lower them, slowly, to my knees?
That you would breathe hotly on my boxer briefs?
That I would press your face against me once again, before pulling you back, and lowering my boxer briefs as well?
That I would hold your head inches – no, an inch – no, less than an inch – from my cock? Hot? Hard?
That you would be licking your lips, repeatedly? Straining against my hand, holding you back?
That you would, once more, desperately say, “P-l-e-a-s-e?”
That I would bring your mouth millimeters closer, until it would press against my now bare cock?
That your tongue would encircle the tip? That you would kiss it? And lick it?
Before I shoved it deep into your mouth, until my balls were pressing against your face?
Is that (too) presumptuous?