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.

The post My Life as a Cum Vessel first appeared on Fetish Stories.

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.

The post My Filthy Cum Eating Addiction first appeared on Fetish Stories.

her name is Veronica but we all called her mrs v
the ultimate neighborhood milf
mom of my best friend luke
i hadnt seen her in years until last summer when i came home from college

luke was in europe banging his girlfriend so the house was empty
except for her

mrs v is 42 now but looks 33 on a bad day
long black hair always in a messy bun
olive skin green eyes that stare right into your soul
and those fucking tits
natural double ds maybe bigger
always spilling out of tiny tops
and an ass so thick and round you wanna bury your face in it

i walked into their kitchen unannounced like old times
side door unlocked
and there she was
white tank top no bra nipples poking like diamonds
black yoga shorts so tight and short half her ass cheeks hanging out
sipping coffee scrolling on her phone

she looked up smiled slow and dirty
well well look whos all grown up
hugged me hard those massive milf tits crushing into my chest
i felt my dick twitch immediately

we started talking she poured coffee leaned over the counter on purpose
full view down her tank top
heavy tits hanging nipples thick and dark
she knew exactly what she was doing
this wasnt some innocent housewife
this was a horny married milf who hadnt been properly fucked in months

she said her husband was in asia for three weeks
she was bored out of her fucking mind
the way she said bored meant please destroy my pussy

we moved to the living room
she brought wine at 11 am
sat right next to me thigh on thigh
kept brushing my leg pouring more wine
every laugh those tits bounced threatening to pop out completely

when she bent over over to refill glasses her shorts rode up
fat camel toe outlined wet spot right in the middle
she was already soaking

she sat back down basically in my lap
hand on my thigh inches from my rock hard cock
looked down smirked
someone missed me huh

i lost it
grabbed her face kissed her hard and sloppy
she moaned loud tongue down my throat instantly
yanked my shirt off nails raking my chest

then she ripped her tank top off
those perfect milf tits bounced free
dark nipples hard as fuck
i attacked them sucked bit mauled them like a madman
she was grinding her wet pussy on my thigh leaving a trail on my jeans

fuck youre so big now baby
let mama see that young cock

i stood up jeans gone
dick sprang out thick veiny leaking
she actually whimpered
jesus its twice my husbands
dropped to her knees and swallowed me balls deep
no teasing straight throat fucking herself on it
gagging spitting drooling all over those perfect tits
looking up at me with running mascara like a total whore

i grabbed her hair and fucked her face hard
she loved it tears streaming pushing deeper
after a few minutes i pulled out i wasnt done destroying this milf yet

threw her on the couch ripped those soaked shorts off
pussy completely shaved fat lips dripping
perfect swollen clit begging
i spread her wide and just stared
the milf ive jerked off to for years now spread eagle dripping for me

i ate her like a starving animal
sloppy loud sucking that clit fingering her hard
she grabbed my head screamed
yes eat mommys pussy baby
came in under two minutes squirting on my face

then she begged me to fuck her
i flipped her doggy that perfect ass up
slammed in raw
she screamed yes wreck me use your friends mom like a cheap whore

i pounded her like an animal
ass cheeks rippling tits swinging
reached around rubbed her clit
she came again harder pussy clamping so tight i almost blew

pulled out shoved it in her mouth
taste yourself you dirty married slut
she sucked it clean moaning

then missionary so i could watch those big tits bounce
fucked her deep kissing sloppy
told her how i used to jerk off thinking about her
now im balls deep in her married cunt
she lost it
yes baby cum inside me breed me i want your load dripping out of me when my husband comes home

i exploded rope after thick rope straight into her womb
she wrapped her legs pulled me deeper milking every drop

we didnt stop
she started grinding again
fuck me again im not done with you

round two she rode me like a pornstar
tits in my face slapping me
then kitchen counter bent over same spot i first saw her
fucked her till she squirted on the floor

shower she sucked me hard again
then pressed against the glass taking it from behind

finally her marital bed
fucked in every position for hours
left bite marks hickeys handprints all over her
came three times that day
once deep in her pussy twice down her throat
she swallowed the last load like it was nectar

whole weekend we barely left the bed
fucked on every surface
even the backyard at 3 am under the stars
she was insatiable riding me begging for more young cock

shes texting me right now
husband still gone
luke still in europe
says her pussy aches for me again
needs to be stretched and filled

this milf turned me into her personal fucktoy
and im completely addicted
best sex story of my life and its still going.

The post Fucked my friend’s 42yo MILF mom raw & creampied her 3x first appeared on Fetish Stories.