The Hot Neomi Velvet Throat

In the dim glow of the city’s underbelly, where neon lights flickered like forbidden promises, Neomi wandered into the Velvet Lounge. It was a place whispered about in shadowed corners—a haven for those whose desires danced on the edge of decency. She wasn’t sure why she’d come tonight; perhaps it was the ache in her chest, the unquenchable thirst for something raw, something that would consume her whole. At 28, with her raven hair cascading like midnight silk and her emerald eyes holding secrets even she hadn’t unraveled, Neomi was no stranger to passion. But tonight, she sought the ultimate surrender: the deepthroat fetish that had haunted her dreams, a tantalizing blend of power, vulnerability, and unbridled lust.

The lounge pulsed with a low, throbbing bass, the air thick with the scent of leather and musk. Bodies swayed on the dance floor, but Neomi’s gaze was drawn to the VIP alcove, shrouded in crimson curtains. There, lounging like a predator in repose, was Marcus. He was a enigma wrapped in tailored darkness—broad shoulders straining against a black shirt, his jaw chiseled as if by a sculptor’s fevered hand, and eyes that burned with an intensity that made her knees weaken. Rumors swirled about him: a man who commanded desires, who specialized in the art of throatfucking, turning willing participants into vessels of ecstasy.

Their eyes met across the room, a spark igniting in the haze. He crooked a finger, and she obeyed, her heels clicking like a countdown to oblivion. As she slipped behind the curtain, the world outside faded. “You’ve been watching me,” he murmured, his voice a velvet rumble that sent shivers down her spine. “What is it you crave, Neomi?”

She swallowed hard, her throat already tingling with anticipation. “I… I want to feel it. The depth. The control. Make me yours.”

A slow, wicked smile curved his lips. He stood, towering over her, and guided her to a plush chaise longue. “Then kneel,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. Neomi’s heart raced as she sank to her knees, the carpet soft against her skin. She looked up at him, her lips parting slightly, already imagining the invasion. Marcus unzipped his pants with deliberate slowness, revealing his hardening cock—thick, veined, a monument to masculine dominance. It throbbed in the low light, pre-cum glistening at the tip like a pearl of temptation.

“Open wide,” he growled, tangling his fingers in her hair. Neomi obeyed, her mouth watering as she leaned forward. The first touch was electric—his head brushing her lips, warm and insistent. She took him in slowly, savoring the salty tang, her tongue swirling around the shaft. But Marcus wasn’t one for patience. With a firm grip, he pushed deeper, inch by inch, until he hit the back of her throat. She gagged softly, a reflexive spasm that only fueled his desire. “That’s it, relax for me,” he whispered, his voice laced with dark encouragement. “Let me fuck that pretty throat.”

The sensation was overwhelming—a mix of fullness and helplessness that made her pussy clench with need. Tears pricked her eyes as he thrust deeper, her throat stretching to accommodate him. The deepthroat was no mere act; it was a symphony of submission, her gurgles and slurps echoing in the alcove like a private serenade. Saliva dripped from her chin, coating his balls as they slapped rhythmically against her. Marcus groaned, his hips bucking with controlled ferocity, each plunge pushing her limits. “You’re mine now,” he rasped, holding her head steady as he buried himself to the hilt. Her nose pressed against his pelvis, the musky scent of him filling her senses, her airway constricted in a delicious torment.

Neomia reveled in it—the way her body betrayed her, her nipples hardening beneath her silk dress, her thighs slick with arousal. This was the fetish she’d craved: not just oral pleasure, but the raw, boundary-pushing throatfucking that turned her into an object of desire. She reached between her legs, fingers circling her clit, but Marcus pulled her hand away. “No,” he commanded. “Your pleasure comes from serving me.” The denial only heightened her frenzy, her muffled moans vibrating around his cock.

Time blurred as he used her throat like a personal toy, alternating between slow, teasing slides and brutal, relentless thrusts. Her makeup smeared, tears streaming down her cheeks, but the fire in her eyes begged for more. Finally, with a guttural roar, Marcus came, flooding her throat with hot, thick spurts. She swallowed greedily, every drop a testament to her devotion. As he pulled out, she gasped for air, her lips swollen and glistening. “Good girl,” he praised, helping her to her feet. But the night was young, and Neomi knew this was only the beginning.

They left the lounge together, the city lights blurring into a haze of possibility. Marcus’s penthouse overlooked the skyline, a glass-walled sanctuary of luxury and sin. He poured them champagne, the bubbles tickling her tongue like a prelude to further indulgence. “Tell me your fantasies,” he said, his hand tracing the curve of her neck. Neomi confessed everything—the dreams of being throatfucked in public, the craving for multiple partners overwhelming her mouth, the desire to be trained until she could take any length without gagging.

His eyes darkened with approval. “Then let’s begin your education.” He led her to the bedroom, where silk sheets awaited like an altar. Stripping her slowly, he revealed her body—curves that begged to be worshipped, skin flushed with anticipation. On the bed, he positioned her on all fours, her head hanging over the edge. “This angle is perfect for deepthroat,” he explained, his cock already stirring back to life. Neomi opened wide, eager for the lesson.

He entered her mouth again, but this time from above, gravity aiding his descent. The throatfucking was deeper, more invasive, her throat bulging visibly with each thrust. She choked and sputtered, saliva pooling on the sheets, but the sensuality was intoxicating—the way his hands roamed her back, pinching her nipples, slapping her ass lightly to heighten the rhythm. “Feel how your body opens for me,” he murmured, his voice a hypnotic lure. Neomi did; her gag reflex weakened with each push, replaced by a throbbing need that spread from her throat to her core.

Hours passed in a blur of positions. He had her on her back, head tilted back, throat aligned for maximum penetration. The deepthroat here was almost effortless, his cock sliding down like a key into a lock. She moaned around him, her hands clutching the sheets as he facefucked her with abandon. Then, standing, he held her head against the wall, pinning her in place for a standing throatfuck that left her dizzy with desire. The sounds were obscene—wet slurps, her desperate gasps, his primal grunts—building a crescendo of lust.

But Marcus wanted to push further. He introduced toys: a sleek dildo, vibrating and curved, to train her throat. “Practice on this,” he said, watching as she deepthroated it, her lips stretching wide. The vibration sent waves through her, making her pussy drip. Satisfied, he replaced it with his cock, the real thing far more satisfying. “Now, imagine more,” he teased, blindfolding her. In the darkness, every sensation amplified—the slide of his shaft, the taste of him, the way her throat convulsed in pleasure.

As dawn crept in, they collapsed, bodies entwined. But Neomi’s fetish was awakened, a fire that wouldn’t be quenched. Days turned into weeks, their encounters escalating. One evening, Marcus invited her to a private gathering—a circle of like-minded souls where deepthroat was an art form. The room was opulent, filled with men and women in masks, the air charged with anticipation.

Neomi, dressed in a sheer negligee, was the center of attention. “Show them what you’ve learned,” Marcus commanded. She knelt in the middle, surrounded by eager participants. The first man approached, his cock thick and ready. She took him deep, her throatfucking skills on full display—slow builds to frantic thrusts, her gags turning into moans. The audience watched, aroused, as she swallowed his load.

Next came a woman with a strap-on, the silicone smooth and unyielding. Neomi deepthroated it with fervor, the novelty adding a layer of taboo sensuality. Her tongue worked the base, imagining it as flesh, her body arching in response. Then two at once—alternating between cocks, her mouth a whirlwind of pleasure. The throatfucking was relentless, saliva coating her chest, her eyes watering with exquisite torment.

Marcus joined last, claiming her throat as his own. “You’re perfect,” he groaned, pounding deep until she saw stars. The group applauded as he came, marking her as his. Exhausted but exhilarated, Neomi realized this was her world now—the deepthroat fetish a gateway to endless desire.

Yet, boundaries begged to be pushed. Marcus took her to a secluded cabin, where nature amplified their games. Tied to a tree, blindfolded, she awaited his approach. The wind whispered against her skin as he throatfucked her outdoors, the risk of discovery adding spice. Her gurgles mixed with bird calls, her body trembling in the chill.

Back in the city, they explored public thrills—a quick deepthroat in a shadowed alley, her on her knees amid the urban hum. The danger made it electric, his cock thrusting fast and hard, her throat clenching in fear and lust.

One night, he introduced breath play—holding her head down longer, controlling her air. The deepthroat became a dance with edges, her vision blurring as ecstasy built. She came without touch, her body surrendering completely.

Their story deepened, love intertwining with fetish. Marcus confessed his own vulnerabilities, how her willingness empowered him. Together, they wrote new chapters—roleplays of master and slave, where throatfucking was punishment and reward.

In a lavish hotel, they filmed it—a private video of her deepthroat prowess, his cock disappearing down her throat in slow motion. Watching it later, they reenacted, pushing harder, dirtier.

Neomi’s transformation was complete. From curious wanderer to deepthroat devotee, she embraced the sensuality, the desire that pulsed through every encounter. And as Marcus thrust one final time, filling her throat with his essence, she knew this was eternal—a fetish that bound them in velvet chains.

But the tale doesn’t end there. Neomi’s hunger grew, leading her to seek new horizons. She attended underground workshops on throat training, learning techniques to suppress her gag reflex completely. Instructors demonstrated with models, throats opening like flowers in bloom. Neomi practiced diligently, using progressively larger dildos, her mirror reflecting a woman in command of her desires.

One session stood out: a group exercise where participants paired up. Neomi was matched with a stranger, his cock unfamiliar yet thrilling. She deepthroated him under watchful eyes, feedback sharpening her skills. “Deeper,” the instructor urged, and she complied, her throat accommodating every inch. The throatfucking that followed was instructional yet erotic, his hands gentle but firm.

Inspired, she brought these lessons home to Marcus. “Watch me,” she said, kneeling before him with newfound confidence. She took him balls-deep without a hitch, her tongue extending to lick his sack while he was fully embedded. Marcus’s eyes widened in awe, his thrusts turning frantic as she milked him with throat contractions—a technique she’d mastered.

Their play evolved into marathons, hours of continuous throatfucking interspersed with teasing denials. He’d edge himself in her mouth, pulling out just before climax, leaving her throat aching for more. The buildup was torturous, her body a live wire of need. When he finally released, it was explosive, cum overflowing from her lips in a messy display of passion.

They experimented with flavors—coating his cock in chocolate or honey before deepthroat sessions, turning it into a sensory feast. The sweetness mingled with his saltiness, her swallows eager and indulgent. Or ice play: chilling his shaft before plunging in, the cold contrast making her throat spasm deliciously.

Public escapades became bolder. At a gala, she slipped under the tablecloth during dinner, deepthroating him amid clinking glasses and polite conversation. The thrill of secrecy, his composed face above while she worked below, was intoxicating. He came silently, her throat the silent recipient…

Back home, they hosted private parties, Neomi the star. Guests watched as she demonstrated advanced techniques—throatfucking while upside down, her head hanging off the bed for straight-line access. Or multi-tasking: deepthroating one while fingering herself, her moans vibrating around the shaft.

One guest, a dominant woman named Lila, joined in. Strap-on in hand, she alternated with Marcus,Neomi’s throat a shared playground. The dual throatfucking was intense, her mouth stretched and used in tandem, saliva dripping like rain.

Pushing boundaries further, they delved into light BDSM. Collared and leashed, Neomi was led on all fours, deepthroating on command. Whips cracked lightly on her back during thrusts, pain mingling with pleasure in a heady cocktail.

Yet, amid the filth, tenderness bloomed. After sessions, Marcus would cradle her, massaging her throat, whispering affirmations. “You’re my goddess,” he’d say, kissing her swollen lips.

Neomi’s journal filled with entries: vivid descriptions of each encounter, the feel of cock sliding down her esophagus, the rush of surrender. It became her bible, a testament to her fetish’s power.

As months passed, she mentored others, sharing her journey. At a fetish convention, she led a panel on deepthroat safety and pleasure, demonstrating (clothed) techniques that left the audience breathless.

But always, she returned to Marcus, their bond unbreakable. In a candlelit ritual, they renewed vows—not of marriage, but of desire. He throatfucked her slowly, sensually, each thrust a promise.

The story of Neomi’s deepthroat fetish was one of evolution—from curiosity to obsession, boundaries shattered in waves of ecstasy. And as she knelt once more, mouth open, ready for the next plunge, she knew this was her truth: a world where throat was canvas, cock the brush, painting masterpieces of lust.