Over Cum Addiction

This fictional tale is based on true events. Although it's not necessary to read another of my stories prior to this one, "What I Did For Love" will provide more insight into the central character, a woman struggling with sex addiction.

Notes: (1) All the characters in this story are 21 years of age or older. (2) This story is intended for adults only. (3) Unlike the real world where it's important to know who your sexual partner is and to practice safe sex, in all of my fictional tales, no one has any sexually transmitted diseases. (4) In the world of fantasy your proclivities are just that: yours. In the real world, mutual respect for your partner and yourself are essential.

- = [ O ] = -

Relationships suck.

And not in a good way. Your emotions, in an effort to do the most natural human thing, cause you to be attracted to another person, maybe connect with him. If all goes well, this may lead to commitment, marriage and a family. But, in my experience, those emotions led to relationships only to cause pain.

Relationships manipulate you such that you have warm, happy and content feelings simply at the thought of sharing your life with the man of your dreams, another soul, the perfect mate. Just like you'd always hoped. Then, sometimes with absolutely no warning, something changes. And that selfsame perfect man with whom you are in that perfect relationship rips your heart right out of your chest, like a scene in an Indiana Jones film. Those good feelings of hope (in actuality, probably just dopamine receptors), the caring, the selflessness, the love itself get sucked right out of your body. Once the pain finally departs, you're left feeling empty, dull and numb.

It did for me, at least.

A year ago I began a healthy and rewarding relationship with a man named Harold. Six months later his company decided that he was needed in London and after a week of tearful goodbyes he moved there. I missed him so. Emotionally, I was a mess. I had just started getting my roiling brain on the path to possibly opening up my deepest feelings, thoughts and desires to a man with whom I "had a relationship." Now that was just a footnote in the story of my sordid life.

I was still going to my SA (Sexaholics Anonymous) meetings and they were helping, at least to some degree. After Harry left, though, things became so difficult that I returned to seeing my former therapist. I was slowly learning things about myself, which was good. But I remember the pain and crying in almost every session, which was not so good.

Over time, though, I was able to mourn the loss of my relationship with Harry and to face my sexual deviance. That was perhaps the hardest thing I'd ever done. I realized how I'd been objectifying sex and in turn had been turned into a sex object by the men I was with. The men, that is, whose cocks I'd had in my mouth, whose hard-ons had given me the biggest and most intense orgasms I'd ever known, whose semen I'd begged to swallow. All of it was finally a thing of the past.

I'd tried to understand what had happened to me to even want to become a sex object. Being an object, I learned, was in many ways the polar opposite of love for one person.

But after a lot of work, I felt it was time for me to move on. It was time for me to reboot my libido, to focus on having a healthy, happy and loving relationship.

Though I missed Harry, the emotional bonds that had tied us together weakened over time. Now it was truly the moment for me to focus on connecting with a man again, getting into a new, healthy relationship. In fact, although I was loath to admit it, there was even a generally unacknowledged part of me that was hearing my biological clock ticking softly.

Regardless, I was feeling good and had a sense of optimism about my future.

But there's an old, a very old joke that comes to mind: A guy is out in the wilderness, it's cold and snowing. He's run out of food. He's cold. No one is around for miles. Then he hears a voice. The voice says to him, "Cheer up. Things could get worse." So he cheers up. And things get worse.

OK. I didn't say it was a good joke, just an old one. But it comes to mind when I think about my current contented emotional state and my ability to maintain it.

6:00-7:00 Jack Frosting

So it was inevitable. Because then it happened. Something I'd hoped would never happen. On a cold, wet, blustery late autumn evening at a coffee shop a few blocks from my therapist's office, I bumped into Steven.

Suddenly, all of the good, difficult psychotherapeutic work I'd done over the past few years since I'd broken up with him was put in jeopardy.

"Patrice, hi. How are you?" Steven said.

He smiled and I felt a profound shift deep inside of me.

"Steven, uh, hi. I'm good. In fact, I'm doing really well. There've been quite a few layoffs at my firm, but it looks like my job is secure, so I'm really happy about that. Especially around the holidays."

"Well, that's good to hear. You look as lovely as ever," he said. Then eyeing me a little closer he added, "I'd forgotten how big your - "

"Don't start, Steven. It's been a long time and I don't want to bring up the past."

"Fine, fine. I understand. Do you have time for a coffee? With this storm, maybe something sweet like a latte? How about something to eat? A little

amuse-bouche

before dinner? You always liked those double chocolate brownies. Would you like to split one?"

Until that moment I was still feeling pretty good about myself. I'd had a good session. All of that sex addiction was in my past. I was feeling strong.

"Are you kidding me?

Amuse-bouche

? When did you get so continental or alimental?"

"Actually, I just started taking a French class, trying to see if I remember anything from college. Plus, you know me, always concerned with your happiness."

That was it! I didn't need his crap.

"OK, bye. I'm leaving."

"No, Patrice. I'm sorry, really. Old habits and all that. Please sit with me. I'll order a brownie with the drinks and if you don't want any, that's fine."

One part of me was yelling: Run away. Run away. But another part was somehow glad to see him. I should have listened to the first part.

"Alright, Steven. Sure, a latte and a bite of a brownie sound good," I told him. "So, brushing up on your French?"

We got our order. The place was pretty empty. We sat at a corner table and chatted about the more recent events in our lives. We got caught up.

He had come into some inheritance and it was enough for him to cut back to part-time at his office. A distant aunt, whom I'd actually met once - which might have been one of the two or three times Steven had even seen her - passed away. Yet she left him a house in the city as well as some income-producing property in a ski area an hour or so northwest of Green Bay. Both properties were his, free and clear, their mortgages paid off decades ago. Sweet deal.

I was still somewhat uncomfortable seeing him and had only a sip or two of my caffè latte.

Steven noticed and asked if anything was wrong.

He looked at me so sweetly and with such concern that it surprised and even frightened me. Our perverted history was just that: history. But the look in his eyes disarmed me, reminding me of the Steven I met first, the man I'd fallen in love with several years ago, at the beginning.

It was then that I flashed on the insane fetishistic part of the relationship that ensued. The slow disintegration from a normal, loving couple reciprocating in their sexual behavior to a unilateral focus on oral sex: blowjobs, deep throating, and semen, a focus which I learned to accept and eventually embrace. A relationship in which I gave Steven blowjobs once, twice or more times every day. A relationship that on more occasions than I care to remember, involved my mouth and dozens of men's cocks and cum.

In that instant I felt myself get hot. My skin tingled. I got goose bumps and my pussy was suddenly wet.

How could this be? I'd worked so hard at putting this behind me. My previous relationship, the one with Harry, now in London, had been a healthy one. It had been a normal, monogamous one.

Then suddenly here with Steven, I

needed

that intense sexual release, a need which I'd hoped was ancient history.

Damn it! In my head I suddenly heard Dolly Parton singing, "Here you come again." Shit!

"You haven't touched your latte or even had a bite of the brownie. Are you OK?"

I was suddenly some other woman, not the healthy, strong one I'd worked so hard to become. I was the slut, "engineered in Illinois by Steven-the-Seducer." This was evidenced by my next statement.

"Remember that time you were on your way home and texted me from a coffee place. I asked you to bring me something sweet and you brought one these brownies. It looked so good and then I asked you to jerk off all over it?"

His look of concern in a flash became one of lust.

"I do, yeah. That was hot."

"I was disappointed that you couldn't completely cover it with cum."

"In my defense, I think I'd let you give me two blowjobs already that afternoon."

"Excuses, excuses," I was surprised at how I was enjoying this sex talk. "Do you know that when we were in San Diego and you had all those guys, uh, you know, I flashed on what it would look like if I had taken some of the cum that I'd collected in one of those glasses and poured it over a chocolate chip cookie, what it would taste like?"

"You never told me that."

"Well, it was kind of kinky," I said. "Even for me!"

Then I remembered the discovery of the even more sordid part of our "relationship," the part when I discovered that he'd been collecting money from all those guys - each time I did those little group sessions. He'd never told me. When I look back, though, I had actually gone from girlfriend to slut to whore.

I couldn't deal with it just then and managed to put it out of my mind. I tried to switch subjects but with no success.

"You really hurt me, you know. I can't believe that you used me that way."

"Patrice, you're right. I still feel badly that I never told you. I should have from the beginning. I should have given you the choice. I knew you wanted to suck all those guys, but it was so wrong of me to pimp you out. I am so sorry."

That sentence "I knew you wanted to suck all those guys" hurt me to my core. I was sure that was not what I wanted, not truly. I wanted it because he wanted me to.

I looked at him, closely. He had that same sincere look on his face that had first attracted me and that melted my heart just a few minutes ago.

"Well, it's in the past. Let's leave it there." I thought about the whole thing and wanted to discuss it. But I realized there was no point. Still, I added, "And even though I was able to learn to get pleasure from it, I would never have done all those things with any other guy. You're the one who wanted me to just give you blowjobs and then to have me suck off your buddies. And eventually god-knows-who else."

Unfortunately for me, at that moment I hadn't had any sex in months, not since Harold had left - and the idea of just watching him jerk off suddenly had my head spinning. I could picture his hard cock, with me licking at the dripping head, while his hand moved rapidly up and down the shaft. The picture in my mind practically caused me to orgasm right there in the café.

One of the things I'd learned about myself during our time together was that I was a very oral person. My therapist, Dr. Garrelson (DMFT, LCSW, LMFT), even said that "it wasn't inherently psychologically harmful" to have a relationship that focused on my giving him oral sex as long as it honestly satisfied me. Of course, it wasn't something he necessarily endorsed, but at least I didn't get the idea that it was a sickness.

On the other hand, having evenings where I was giving blowjobs to men, sometimes a large group of them... Well, that was not the way to get to a healthy, loving place.

It was all very confusing and depressing. Since my time with Steven, I'd worked so hard to put all of that behind me.

But I remember that I had discovered that I loved the feeling of a cock in my mouth. It was so exciting, a real turn-on, to feel it squirt its male juice into my mouth, on my tongue. I enjoyed its smooth texture as the cock slid in and out of my mouth and over my lips.

And when a cock would come I'd almost always have a climax myself. Sometimes they were small, sometimes they were enormous and mind-shattering.

But I know I got carried away with the cum and all the strange stuff Steven liked me to do with it.

"Yeah, OK, Patrice. Again, I'm sorry for hurting you."

I picked up my latte and licked the frothy milk. I made a point of playing with the froth on my lips and tongue as though it were cum, like I used to do with him. Through it all I was smiling at him.

"The way you do that is so sexy. I was remembering all the times you played with my cum."

"I hate to admit it, but I was too."

I briefly flashed on some of the hundreds - or probably thousands - of times I'd sucked him and played with his cum. He could not have remembered them all. I know I couldn't. It seemed that I'd spent so much of our time staring very closely and directly at his cock and shortly thereafter at his lower abdomen or his balls, his cock deeply embedded in my mouth.

And I'd enjoyed every moment of it! Often it was followed by his cum winding up someplace where I could see it, play with it and lick it before swallowing it.

"So, do you think you could cover this brownie now?"

He shook his head. "Seriously I doubt it, I jerked off earlier this afternoon. You know, I found some new porn. There's this woman who can - "

"Steven, I really don't want to hear about your afternoon's adventures in porn."

"OK, you're right. Anyway, so my load won't be that big. But if you used a knife to spread it around... Or maybe you'd want to give me a..."

I gave him a look and shook my head. Still, the mental picture of having a load of cum in front of me with its strong aroma was suddenly compelling. I really wanted to see his cock come. Even with his caveat, I imagined a lot of cum, at least enough to spread it around the brownie with a spatula, like frosting.

On the other hand, Steven was my Lothario, my Don Juan. I needed a compromise. I said, "What if we eat a few bites and, say, make it about half the size? Do you think you could then?"

"Right now, Patrice? Here?"

"You don't live too far away now that you're in your aunt's old house, right? My car's parked around the corner. What about you?"

"No, I was walking, on my way home."

I sucked up some more of the milk froth and played with it some more, letting some of it drool down my chin, then slurping it back up. I remembered the taste and texture when I used to do that with the real thing.

"Oh, yeah. Let me have a couple of bites of that thing now and let's go."

"Sounds good. I'm ready. Then maybe I'll eat the rest with your personal 'frosting' back at your place."

Steven cut some bites with a fork and wrapped the rest of the brownie in a napkin. A few moments later we were in my car and I was stroking the crotch of his jeans. I really wanted to grab his cock, pull it out and suck it. But that would surely cause an accident and no doubt get me arrested. I could wait - with difficulty.

His new place was not bad. It could have used some updated furniture and kitchen appliances, but it was clean and didn't reek of "old aunt."

We threw our coats on a coat rack. After a quick tour, given the storm that had only intensified since we left the café, he lit a fire in the fireplace in the open living-dining room. We then moved to the dining table. Steven was still standing as I sat down, leaned over, pulled his zipper down, shoved down his jeans and pulled out his really beautiful cock.

I mean that. Steven had a really nice cock. With all of the cocks I'd seen and tasted during the year or so that we were together - and I probably saw more than most of the women I knew and most I didn't - I have enough authority to say that Steven's was a keeper: nice big head, slender enough body to fit in snugly but comfortably. It was longer than most, but not huge. It was glad to see me every time it came out to play and I enjoyed it inside me in all of my orifices (with enough lubricant). Of course, after the beginning of the relationship, "inside me" always meant my mouth, but that's a story in itself. Empirically, Steven's cock was a beauty.

So the moment I pulled it out my physical memory naturally went to lick it, but I stopped myself. I just wanted to admire it. I picked it up to see his ball sack, I looked over the top and then saw the head with a bead of pre-seminal fluid just waiting there, tempting me to give it a flick with my tongue.

But that wasn't why I was here, I had to tell myself. I was here to watch him ejaculate all over the top of the brownie. I wanted so much just to see it come.

Just the thought of that sent a tingle down my spine and caused an involuntary shiver of my shoulders.

I looked up at him and smiled.

"Well, you gonna frost this brownie or what?"

He stepped back to pull off his jeans, but I maintained my grip on his hard-on the whole time.

"Patty, are you sure you don't want to give me a blowjob? You know, like the old days when I'd get home late from work and you'd be on the sofa reading. I'd come up and you'd pull it out and suck it until I came for you? You always loved that. And I loved watching you get off from each of my spurts."

"Of course I remember, but that was then and this is now. I don't want to give you a blowjob. I just want to watch you shoot all over this brownie. Remember you said you could cover it?"

"OK, but I know that after I come you're going to miss the cum in your mouth."

"I'll deal with it. Just come."

And with that admonition, I started to move my hand slowly up and down his shaft to get him focused. Then I pulled my hand off him and just looked at it.

Seeing that I was serious, he grabbed it the way he always did and began stroking himself.

It was so cool to watch his hand going back and forth, up and down. Slowly at first. And after a little while I could see some more wetness at the slit. Unconsciously, I licked my lips. Seeing him doing this was making my mouth water.

I could tell he was getting ready to come soon.

"Are you sure you don't want to at least taste it? Maybe let me fuck your throat just a couple of times."

"No, Steven. I just want to watch you come." I looked up at him briefly and then returned my eyes to where the action was. "I want to see if you can aim that thing so it all goes on top of the brownie. You always liked it when you'd jerk off on something and I'd lick it up. Well, now let's see if you can completely cover it with your cum. That's what I want. And that's all that I want."

While I was essentially giving him a piece of my mind, he'd kept on playing with his cock and even though he'd made it clear what he wanted, I wasn't going to give in to his fantasies. I'd done that enough. This was just for me.

Even before I became an addict I always liked watching guys ejaculate. Every time when they came it seemed so random. Sometimes it would rocket out like a missile fired from a warship in the movies. Other times it was like slowly pressing on a tube of toothpaste. Always the same, but different.

"OK. Patty, I'm getting close," he warned.

He needn't have said anything. I was focused on just two things: the currently chocolate topped brownie and his hard cock, seemingly being rubbed raw by his hand. I also noticed that I'd begun making little moaning noises that were getting louder as he neared his climax.

"I know you well enough to know when that's happening. No need for the running commentary."