My Filthy Cum Eating Addiction

I’ve always been a greedy, shameless cum slut, but the real descent—the moment I stopped pretending this was just a kink and admitted it was my entire fucking identity—happened in the sticky heat of late summer when I was twenty-six. That was the summer I learned that hunger isn’t satisfied by swallowing once.

Hunger like mine needs ritual, repetition, worship. It needs to be fed until the belly feels heavy with it, until every breath tastes faintly of bleach and salt and male.

Marko was the first to glimpse the monster inside me. Broad-shouldered, perpetually hard, with balls that seemed to refill faster than I could empty them. The first time he came in my mouth I wasn’t prepared for the volume. Thick ropes kept pulsing long after I thought he’d finished, flooding my tongue until I had to gulp or choke. I chose to gulp.

The taste hit like a drug—bitter, warm, alive. Something primal clicked in my brain. This wasn’t just sex. This was nourishment.

After that I started asking. No—begging. “Baby, please feed me again. I need it in my mouth. I want to taste how much you made for me.” He laughed at first, thought I was playing the good little cocksucker. He didn’t understand yet that I was already ruined for anything less.

One sticky August night we didn’t even make it to the bedroom. He fucked me raw on the living-room rug until the carpet burned my knees and back. When he was close he pulled out, straddled my chest, and stroked himself with the same hand that had just been knuckle-deep in my cunt. “Open that slut mouth,” he growled.

I obeyed instantly—jaw wide, tongue flat, eyes watering with anticipation. The first jet was heavy, landing across my lower lip and chin like warm honey. The second hit the center of my tongue, thick and slow. The third, fourth, fifth—each one added weight until my mouth felt full to bursting.

I moaned around the load, the vibration making more leak from his slit. Some dripped down my throat on its own; the rest I held, letting it pool, letting my cheeks bulge like a greedy chipmunk.

He watched, transfixed. “Don’t swallow yet.”

I didn’t. I played. I pushed it from one cheek to the other with my tongue, feeling the texture change as it mixed with my spit—going from viscous to silky. I let a little drool out the corner of my mouth, watched it slide down my neck toward my tits, then scooped it back up with two fingers and sucked them clean while staring into his eyes. Only when he nodded did I swallow—slow, theatrical, letting him hear the thick gulp.

That night changed everything. I realized I didn’t just want to swallow cum. I wanted to savor it. To wear it. To let it dry on my skin and then peel it off with my teeth. To rub it into my clit like the world’s most expensive lube and cum while tasting the man who made it.

The next week I pushed further. We were eating late-night pasta—cheap tomato sauce, nothing special. I knelt beside the table in nothing but a soaked black thong. Marko stood over my plate, stroking. When he came he aimed carefully, painting long white ribbons across the red sauce. The contrast was obscene.

I stirred slowly with my fork, watching his sperm swirl and melt into the warmth, turning the dish into something profane. I ate every bite like it was communion. Each forkful sat on my tongue long enough for me to taste the alchemy—tomato acidity, garlic, and the heavy musk of fresh seed.

My cunt throbbed so violently I had to press my thighs together to keep from dripping on the floor. When the plate was clean I licked it like a cat, tongue dragging across ceramic until nothing remained but my spit.

Marko fucked my throat after that until tears ran black with mascara. When he pulled out he wiped the last leaking drop across my swollen lips. “Say thank you.”

“Thank you for feeding your cum slut,” I whispered, voice wrecked. He smiled. “Good girl.”

But Marko wasn’t enough forever. When we split I went feral. Tinder dates, bar pickups, anonymous glory holes in the back rooms of sleazy clubs on the edge of town. I became a collector.

Some men came in pathetic dribbles that barely coated my tongue. Others unloaded like firehoses—thick, endless ropes that made my eyes water and my pussy clench. None of them understood the reverence. They wanted quick relief. I wanted sacrament.

Then came Luka.

Luka was older, calmer, with the kind of quiet dominance that made my knees buckle before he even touched me. On our second date he didn’t fuck me. He sat me on his leather couch, spread my thighs wide, and told me to play with my cunt while he watched.

When I was dripping, shaking, right on the edge, he stood, unzipped, and started stroking right above my open mouth. “Catch every drop,” he said. “And don’t you dare swallow until I tell you.”

He came in long, luxurious pulses—five, six, seven heavy ropes that filled my mouth until my cheeks were puffed and my tongue was drowning. The taste was stronger than anything I’d experienced before—darker, more bitter, almost metallic, like blood and bleach and fertile earth.

I whimpered around the load, fighting the instinct to swallow. My clit pulsed in time with my heartbeat. “Show me,” he commanded.

I tilted my head back slightly and opened wide, letting him see the creamy white lake on my tongue. He smiled—slow, filthy, proud.

“Now swirl it. Taste every part. Feel the texture.”

I obeyed. I rolled that warm sperm around like the finest vintage, feeling it coat my teeth, slide between my lips, gather in the corners of my mouth. My own juices were running down my ass crack onto his couch.

Only when he gave the word did I swallow—slowly, in three deliberate gulps, savoring the thick slide down my throat.

From that night Luka began my real training.

Rules were established quickly:

• No swallowing without permission.
• Every load must be played with first—on tongue, between fingers, smeared across nipples, rubbed into clit, pushed inside my cunt only to be scooped out and fed back to me.
• If any drop hits the floor, I lick it up like a dog.
• I must thank him after every swallow, no exceptions.

He loved making me wait. Sometimes he’d cum in my mouth, make me hold it for ten full minutes while I fingered myself, then tell me to gargle it—wet, sloppy, bubbling sounds filling the room as three different consistencies mixed together behind my teeth.

One weekend he forbade me from showering. We fucked nonstop—pussy, ass, mouth, tits, hands. Every orgasm ended with him pulling out and painting me. By Sunday morning I was a living canvas: dried white flakes on my cheeks, sticky ropes still clinging to the insides of my thighs, crusty patches between and under my breasts, even a few dried pearls in my hair.

When he finally gave the command, I spent nearly an hour cleaning myself. I started with my fingers—sucking each one until they shone. Then my wrists where he’d shot thick loads. My tits—I lifted each heavy globe and dragged my tongue across the skin, collecting every crusty flake. My stomach. My thighs. And finally the filthiest part—between my legs.

There was so much accumulated mess. Old cum, fresh cum, my own cream, sweat, the faint metallic tang of ass. I spread my lips with two fingers and watched it drip in slow, obscene strings onto the sheets. Then I lowered my face and lapped like a starved animal.

The taste was overwhelming—hours-old sperm gone slightly sour, mixed with tangy cunt and the dark musk of my own asshole. I buried my tongue inside myself, trying to reach the deepest deposits, moaning into my own pussy while Luka filmed from above, narrating quietly.

“You’re disgusting, you know that? Perfectly, beautifully disgusting.”

Sometimes he brings friends. Not frequently, but when he does it feels like a holiday for a cum-starved whore like me. Last month he invited two gym buddies over—no names, no small talk, just hard cocks and the understanding that I existed in that moment to be fed.

They took turns while I knelt naked in the center of the living room, silver chain around my neck the only thing I wore.

First guy was younger, eager—short, powerful spurts that tasted sharp and almost sweet. I held it on my tongue. Second man was older, thicker—his load was heavier, creamier, landing in the existing pool and nearly overflowing my lips. I moaned at the weight of it.

Luka went last, as always. His cum is my favorite—thickest, hottest, most voluminous. When he finished I had a true mouthful, cheeks puffed, eyes watering from the effort not to spill.

“Gargle,” he ordered.

The sound was obscene—wet, sloppy bubbling as three strangers’ sperm swirled together in my mouth. Bubbles formed at the corners of my lips. I tilted my head back so they could watch the white tide moving behind my teeth.

“Now swallow half. Keep the rest.”

I gulped down a thick portion, feeling the warmth coat every inch of my throat in layers. What remained was still massive. For the next ten minutes I played—blowing bubbles, letting it drool in long strings down my chin onto my tits, scooping it back up with fingers and sucking them clean.

By the time I swallowed the final mouthful I was trembling, cunt dripping onto the hardwood, clit so swollen it hurt to touch.

They left me like that—covered, stuffed, euphoric. Luka kissed my forehead. “My perfect cum eater.”

And I am.

There are mornings I wake up wet before I even open my eyes, already fantasizing about the next load. I imagine strangers cumming across café tables while I eat dessert, glory-hole booths where I kneel for hours collecting anonymous gifts in a plastic cup I’ll drink from later, being strapped to a breeding bench while men line up to unload directly down a funnel into my waiting throat until my stomach bloats.

I dream of cum baths—sitting in a tub while man after man paints me until the water turns milky white. I picture myself dipping my face beneath the surface, opening my mouth, drinking it like soup.

I imagine being tied spread-eagle, legs wide, while someone scoops fresh loads from my wrecked asshole with two fingers and feeds them to me, one sticky dollop at a time.

It stopped being just about the taste years ago. It’s about meaning. Every swallow is surrender. Every drop I beg for is worship. Every time a man groans and unloads because of me, I feel claimed, useful, correct.

Yesterday Luka came home from the gym smelling of sweat and iron. He didn’t speak. Just pushed me to my knees, pulled down his shorts, and started stroking. His balls were heavy, drawn tight against his body. I opened wide like muscle memory.

When he erupted it was volcanic—long, ropy blasts that painted the roof of my mouth, the back of my throat, my tongue. I held it. Swirled it. Let it sit until my jaw ached and tears pricked my eyes. Only then did I swallow—slow, grateful, eyes locked on his the entire time.

“Thank you for feeding your cum slut,” I whispered, voice thick with his taste.

He stroked my hair. “You’re welcome, baby. Now clean me up so I can fill you again.”

I did. Tongue tracing every sticky inch, sucking gently at the sensitive head until he started to harden again.

Because this is who I am now.

A mouth that never closes.

A throat that stays hungry.

A belly made for sperm.

A woman whose dirtiest, most honest story is written in every thick, warm load she’s ever begged to receive.

And the story isn’t ending.

It’s only getting hungrier.