My Steamy Story: (She takes a deep breath, smoothing her ...

My Story Time:

Okay, so spill the tea, bestie. You wanna know the exact moment the party goes from 'oh, she's just a vibe' to 'oh, she's the vibe'? It's after the lipstick game, when my DSLs are a smeared, pink mess and their jeans are getting tight. My head is pure logistics: Blue shirt is at half-mast, fridge guy is a simmering volcano, need to diffuse him first.

I stand up, feeling all their eyes on the ‘SLUT’ tattoo above my ass. I pull out the bag of condoms and glasses. I walk straight to Fridge Guy—his eyes are totally glazed over, like I’m just a wet hole. I get right in his space, my cheap perfume and the faint, salty smell of the last guy’s load on my skin kinda mixing. I slide a condom into his hand and my lips brush his ear. “Just in case you wanna finish in my ass later,” I whisper, low and breathy. Then I pull back, loud for the room: “I get paid per load, boys! So if you’re in line and you can’t hold on… cum in the glass. I’ll gulp it between rounds, no cap.”

The energy shifts. Hands are suddenly all over me, grabbing my hips, slapping my ass. I let out this fake, high giggle and let them push me to my knees in front of Fridge Guy. I’m thinking, Get this one off, he’ll be my guard dog. He’s thinking, Holy shit, I’m first.

I look up at him, then down at his zipper. I lean in and undo his jeans with my teeth—the riiiip sound is iconic. I take him in my mouth, deep, making myself gag a little on purpose. The sound—uh-huh, gag—echoes in the quiet room. I can feel the other guys crowding in, a circle of heat. Someone’s hand lands on my head, claiming me. I bob my head, my hand working the base of his cock, my mouth making obscene, wet noises. I pop off, a string of spit breaking on my chin. “You’re next, baby,” I gasp to the guy beside him, before diving back down.

I work him until his hips stutter and he groans, “Fuck, I’m gonna—” and I swallow it all, making a show of licking my lips clean. “Mmm, thank you,” I purr, already turning to the next hard dick in the circle. It’s a factory line. Between every few guys, I stand on shaky legs, grab a half-full glass from the table, and down it like a shot. The taste is salty-bitter, thick AF. I force a smile. “Yummy,” I lie, and they all cheer. They’re thinking I’m a perfect, filthy machine. I’m thinking, Five down. Thirty to go. Don’t you dare puke. It’s humiliating, it’s exhilarating, and it’s the only way to keep a mob of 35 thirsty men from turning feral. You feed the hungriest wolves first, and suddenly, they’re eating out of your hand.