My Life as a Cum Vessel

I never planned to become this kind of woman.
The kind who wakes up with the ghost of yesterday’s load still coating the back of her tongue.
The kind who checks her reflection in the bathroom mirror and smiles because she can still smell it—faint, bleachy, male—lingering in her hair even after two showers.
But here I am, thirty-one now, and cum eating isn’t something I do anymore.
It’s who I’ve become.

It started small, the way most addictions do.
A boyfriend named Viktor who came like he was trying to drown me the first time I let him finish in my mouth.
I remember freezing—mouth suddenly heavy, cheeks puffed, tongue swimming in warm, thick sperm that tasted like salt and metal and something dangerously alive.
Most girls would have swallowed fast and coughed.
I didn’t.
I held it.
I let it sit there while my heart hammered and my clit throbbed so hard I thought I might cum just from the weight of it.
When I finally swallowed—slow, deliberate, feeling every viscous inch slide down my throat—something inside me cracked open.
A door.
A hunger.
A filthy little truth I hadn’t known was living in me.

After Viktor I couldn’t go back to polite blowjobs.
I needed more.
I needed ritual.
I needed to taste the difference between men, between days, between moods.
Morning cum is thinner, almost sweet.
Evening cum—after a long day, after the gym—is heavier, muskier, almost bitter.
Post-argument cum tastes angry and metallic.
Make-up sex cum is the sweetest, thickest, like warm cream laced with relief.

I started keeping notes in a private journal.
Not names—never names—but descriptions.
“Tuesday stranger from the bar: voluminous, slightly sweet, clung to my molars for twenty minutes.”
“Friday coworker after drinks: short sharp blasts, very salty, made my eyes water.”
“Saturday regular: always saves the biggest load for my face first, then feeds me the rest from his fingers.”

I became a collector.
A connoisseur.
A depraved little sommelier of sperm.

Then came Daniel.

Daniel wasn’t like the others.
He didn’t laugh when I asked him to cum on my dinner.
He didn’t look shocked when I begged him to hold my head still and unload straight down my throat until I gagged around the flood.
He understood.
He fed the monster instead of running from it.

Our first real scene happened in his kitchen at three in the morning.
He’d fucked me against the fridge until my thighs were shaking and my pussy was leaking down my legs.
When he pulled out he didn’t cum inside me.
He turned me around, pushed me to my knees on the cold tiles, and told me to open wide and keep my hands behind my back.

He stroked himself slowly—agonizingly slowly—while I knelt there dripping, panting, mouth stretched wide like an offering.
When he finally came it was biblical.
Long, ropy strands that hit the roof of my mouth, the back of my tongue, the insides of my cheeks.
So much that it overflowed immediately—thick white rivers running down my chin, dripping onto my bare tits, splattering the tiles between my knees.

“Don’t move,” he growled.
“Don’t swallow.
Don’t even breathe too hard.”

I obeyed.
I sat there on my heels with a mouthful of his fresh sperm, cheeks bulging, eyes watering, pussy clenching around nothing.
He watched me for what felt like forever.
Then he crouched down, gripped my jaw gently, and tilted my head back further.

“Show me how full you are.”

I opened wider.
Let him see the creamy white pool, the way it coated my tongue, the way bubbles formed when I tried to breathe through my nose.
He smiled—slow, dark, proud.

“Now gargle it for me, baby.
Let me hear how much I gave you.”

The sound was obscene.
Wet.
Sloppy.
Bubbling.
Three different thicknesses swirling together—some still hot, some already cooling and thickening.
I could feel strands catching on my uvula, sliding toward my throat on their own.
I fought the swallow reflex like my life depended on it.

“Good girl,” he whispered.
“Now swallow half.
Slowly.
Let me watch your throat work.”

I did.
One thick, audible gulp.
Then another.
The warmth coated every inch of my esophagus like liquid sin.
When I opened again there was still so much left—enough to fill half my mouth.

He scooped what had dripped onto my chin with two fingers and pushed them between my lips.
I sucked greedily, moaning around his knuckles, tasting myself mixed with him.

That night he made me cum three more times just by feeding me back every drop that had escaped.
First from my tits—lifting each one to my mouth so I could lick the drying streaks clean.
Then from the floor—on all fours, tongue dragging across cold tile while he stroked himself hard again above me.
Finally from between my legs—his cum mixed with my own cream, scooped out with his fingers and fed to me until I was shaking and crying from overstimulation.

After Daniel I stopped pretending this was occasional.
I started craving it daily.
Multiple times a day.

I found groups.
Private Telegram channels.
Discreet meetups in hotel rooms on the outskirts of the city.
Men who understood the assignment: no small talk, no kissing, no fucking unless it ended with their load in my mouth or on my face for me to clean.

One Saturday I did six men in four hours.
I kept count by the taste.
Number one: young, thin, almost citrusy.
Number two: older, heavy, very bleachy.
Number three: thick and creamy, like melted ice cream.
Number four: short powerful spurts that tasted angry.
Number five: slow, luxurious ropes that kept coming until I thought he’d never stop.
Number six: Daniel again—he always saved the best for last.

By the end my jaw ached, my throat was raw, my stomach felt strangely full, and my cunt was so swollen I could barely close my thighs.
I lay on the hotel bed surrounded by empty water bottles and used condoms, covered in drying flakes, smiling like an idiot.
They left one by one.
Each one thanked me—like I was the one doing them a favor.
Maybe I was.

Daniel started bringing toys into it.
A small funnel he’d hold above my open mouth while he jerked off.
“Let it drip slow,” he’d say.
“Let it coat your tongue layer by layer.”

He’d make me hold loads for minutes—sometimes ten, sometimes fifteen—while I played with my clit.
The longer I held it, the more my mouth watered, turning the sperm into a warm, slippery soup.
When he finally gave permission to swallow I’d cum just from the slide of it down my throat.

He loved the aftermath too.
The way my voice would get hoarse and raspy.
The way my lips would stay swollen and glossy.
The faint white crust at the corners of my mouth hours later.
He’d kiss me then—deep, possessive kisses—tasting himself on my tongue and groaning like it turned him on more than the act itself.

Sometimes we did it in public.
Not obvious.
Never reckless.
But close enough to make my pulse race.

A quiet café on a Tuesday afternoon.
He’d finger me under the table until I was dripping, then pull out and discreetly stroke himself under his jacket until he came into an empty espresso cup.
I’d wait until the waitress walked away, then bring the cup to my lips like it was the last sip of coffee.
Tilt it back.
Let the thick white pool slide onto my tongue.
Swallow while looking straight into his eyes.

Another time—in the back row of a nearly empty movie theater.
He came in my mouth during the quietest scene.
I held it the entire film.
Swallowed only when the credits rolled.
My pussy was soaked through my panties by then.
He made me walk home with his taste still coating my mouth and his cum drying between my thighs.

The dirtiest night happened last winter.

He invited four friends.
No names.
Just hungry cocks and the understanding that I existed to be filled that night.

They lined up.
I knelt in the middle of the living room wearing nothing but black thigh-highs and a thin silver choker.
One after another they stepped forward.
Some came fast—quick, sharp blasts that splashed across my tongue.
Others took their time—long, luxurious ropes that filled my mouth until it overflowed.

I didn’t swallow until the last man finished.
By then my mouth was a warm, overflowing lake of five different men’s sperm.
Different textures.
Different temperatures.
Different flavors.
I could feel it shifting behind my teeth, strands catching on my lips, dripping down my chin in slow obscene strings.

Daniel stepped in front of me last.

“Gargle it all, baby.
Mix them together for me.”

The sound was pornographic—wet, bubbling, sloppy.
I tilted my head back so they could all watch the white tide swirling behind my teeth.
Bubbles formed at the corners of my mouth.
Some escaped and ran down my neck onto my tits.

“Swallow half,” he commanded.

I did.
One long, thick gulp.
Then another.
The warmth coated my throat in layers—hot, heavy, claiming.

What remained was still massive.
For the next fifteen minutes I played with it.
Blowing bubbles.
Letting it drool in long sticky strands.
Scooping it with my fingers and sucking them clean.
Rubbing the overflow into my nipples until they shone.

When I finally swallowed the last mouthful I was shaking.
Cunt dripping onto the hardwood.
Clit so swollen it hurt.
Eyes glassy.
Voice gone.

They left me like that—kneeling, covered, blissed out, stomach full of strangers.

Daniel stayed.
He kissed my forehead.
“My perfect little cum vessel,” he whispered.

And I am.

There are days I don’t even want to be fucked anymore.
I just want to be fed.
I dream of glory holes that never end.
Of funnels held above my face for hours.
Of being tied to a chair with my mouth forced open while man after man uses me as his personal cum dump.
Of waking up to a glass on the nightstand filled overnight—thick, cold, congealed sperm from the night before that I drink first thing in the morning like coffee.

I crave the moment the first rope hits my tongue.
The moment my mouth fills.
The moment I realize there’s too much and it’s going to overflow and I still want more.

Because this hunger doesn’t fade.
It grows.
It deepens.
It rewrites me.

I used to be ashamed.
Now I’m proud.

I used to hide it.
Now I live for it.

Every thick, warm, salty drop reminds me exactly what I am:

A mouth made for sperm.A throat built to swallow.
A belly that stays hungry.
A woman whose dirtiest story is written in the cum she begs for, savors, and never quite gets enough of.

And the story?
It’s nowhere near finished.
It’s only getting wetter. Thicker. Hungrier.