Suck me until I forget about my wife

It was 2:17 in the morning when he sent me the message. Simple, direct, no unnecessary introductions:
"Come on. Apartment 2803. Suck me until I forget about my wife." 
I smiled in the elevator mirror as I went up. I knew this type of client. A man in his 50s, married for 20+, with kids in college and a wife who probably sleeps peacefully in a villa up north. By day he's a respected professional. By night... he wants to disappear completely.
When I entered, he was already naked on the living room couch, with the city lights pulsing through the huge windows. Next to him, on the glass table, was a nearly empty glass of whiskey and a look full of hunger that had been suppressed for years.
I said nothing. I approached slowly, dropped to my knees on the thick carpet and looked him straight in the eyes as I already took the hard-on in his hand. It was heavy, throbbing, with veins protruding from so much accumulated tension. I smiled gently and whispered only this:
"Tonight there is no wife. There is only my mouth."
I started slowly. Soft lips sliding over his head, tongue rolling patiently, savoring every inch. He sighed deeply, his head falling back. I continued to take him deeper and deeper, unhurriedly, with a technique I had perfected over the years. Gentle suction, then stronger. Tongue dancing on the underside, fingers gently caressing the balls, then squeezing just enough.
"God..." he moaned, his hand digging into my hair.
I picked up the pace. My head rose and fell with precision, taking him almost to his neck, then coming out almost completely only to provoke him with the tip of my tongue. Saliva flowed abundantly, making everything slippery, dirty and perfect. Every time I felt he was too close, I would deliberately slow down, pull him out of my mouth, and give him a few long, wet licks, watching him tremble with frustration.
“Harder… please…” he murmured hoarsely.
Then I went into ruthless mode.
I took him deep, to the limit, and began to suck hard, his head moving quickly, rhythmically. My mouth had become an instrument of sweet torture. He swore, moaned, whispered my name, then cursed, then begged again. His hands were holding my head tightly, but I was in control. I could feel him pulsing harder and harder, approaching the point of no return.
“Forget about her,” I whispered shortly, before I swallowed him whole again.
And he forgot.
He let out a long, animalistic moan, holding me down as I continued to suck, swallow, and squeeze every drop out of him. His body was shaking violently, his knees were shaking, his breathing was chaotic. I stayed there until he was completely finished, until the last spasm had passed.
When I got up, he was sitting with his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as if he had run a marathon. A deep, almost guilty relief was visible on his face.
“Thank you…” he whispered, without opening his eyes.
I smiled, wiped the corner of my lips lightly, and picked up the black card from the table.
“You can forget again anytime.”
I left the apartment, leaving him there, naked, exhausted, and, for a few hours, completely free from the weight of the wedding ring on his finger.
Because sometimes even an expert's mouth is the only thing that can erase, at least for a night, the reality of a perfect life on paper.