My Steamy Story: How does the kissing line change after t...

My Story Time:

Okay, so I’m sitting across from this guy in his boujee-ass hotel suite, trying to land this gig for his 35-man party. My agency said to be ‘articulate’ about my process, so I’m spilling the tea, no cap, even though talking about this shit is low-key humiliating. I can see him getting hard just listening. It’s sus, but I’m used to it. So I lean forward, letting my cheap latex top gape, and I’m like, “You like whores, don’t you? You’re getting hard ‘cause you just realized I’m a total slut, right?” I see his dick twitch in his pants. Iconic.

I break it down for him. Stage one is all about that main character energy. I arrive looking extra AF in my pink latex, my SLUT tattoo peeking out, and just… vibe. I let the tension build. I’ll sit with my legs just open enough for them to see the outline of my pussy through my hotpants, fake-laughing at their dumb jokes. Then I ask if they want to see the splits. By then, they’re all staring.

Stage two is the lipstick. I go around with this bright pink gloss and let them paint my lips. It’s a whole thing. Each ‘thank you’ kiss gets longer, wetter, more tongue. Guys start grabbing my ass, and I don’t stop them. That’s when the first line for my mouth forms. The vibe shifts, big time.

Then the games. I’ll play ‘guess my body count.’ They shout numbers, I just say ‘higher.’ The number gets insane, they’re calling me every name, but I can see their dicks straining in their jeans. It’s degrading, but it gets me wet, okay? I can’t help it. Sometimes we do a gag reflex competition. They slide shit down my throat and cheer when I choke. It’s a lot.

Before the real fucking starts, I pass out condoms and glasses. I tell them, straight up, they can finish in my ass or in the glass, and I’ll drink it. Per load pricing, period. The glasses start to fill up around the room. Between every two or three cocks, I’ll stand up on wobbly knees, pick up a glass, hold it up like a toast with a wink, and down it. The taste is… overwhelming. Salty, bitter, thick. Sometimes I have to fight not to gag right there. I smile through it. “Yummy,” I lie. They cheer. They’re thinking, She’s a machine. A perfect, filthy machine. I’m thinking, Four down. Thirty-one to go. Don’t puke yet.

When it’s the final guy, or if they want a show, yeah… the bowl work. They’ll pour all the leftover cum from the glasses into one big bowl. They film me as I try to slurp the whole thing. The smell alone makes my eyes water. I get on my knees, my throat already sore, and I just… go for it. I’m gulping, trying not to breathe through my nose, feeling that cold, slimy load hit the back of my throat. I’m thinking, This is so fucked up. I’m so fucked up. They’re thinking, This is the GOAT whore. Sometimes I puke. If I do, I have to get it back in the bowl, or try to swallow it again. For the money. It’s the worst and the best part, because then it’s over. And sometimes, for a real finale, they’ll shake up a champagne bottle and spray me down with it, laughing as it mixes with the cum dripping off my chin and my ruined makeup. I just smile, spread my legs, and tell them to book me again. So… do I get the job?