A cumslut awakes

Written 31 December, and blogged today due to being offline for a while.

I never used to really care about cum at all. True, there was a certain satisfaction in having a warm puddle of it sprayed onto my body from time to time, but the lust and joy in it was very much played up for the benefit of the guy involved. I would say all the "Mmmm"s and lick my lips, and moan at the idea of someone cumming on or in me, but my mind was usually elsewhere at that point, and all this acting was designed only to hasten the process and help the guy get off selfishly.

It amuses me now to notice how much a little semen can mean to me. I first noticed my attitude to it had changed during a threesome when Master chose to cum inside the other woman we were with. I felt unexpected, childish envy and a stubborn voice inside my head said "But I wanted it!" Fortunately, I was immediately told to "clean up", and so I was allowed Master’s cum after all, once I lapped up the drips and slurped it out of her.

That was the first time I realised how much of a privilege I regarded it to receive his body fluids. It actually makes me laugh to think it, but strangely, the same sticky mess that I’ve always pretended to admire from other men (while secretly thinking they glorify it much more themselves), really does provoke strong feelings in me when it is his. Master is the only man who can cum inside me, and each time he does, I feel a genuine thrill of pride and gratitude. After a night with him, I want to defer my shower, reluctant to wash away the last traces of it from between my lips. When he occasionally fucks me choosing not to cum, my joy and appreciation is tainted by slight disappointment, having been deprived of his satisfaction, and the proof of it dribbling out of me.

Traditionally, Taoists believed that a man’s semen contained his life force, and that when he came inside a woman, she could absorb that energy, sucking it from him. Is that why I crave my Master’s cum? Does some primitive part of me long to soak up small portions of his power? When I hear him gasp and know he is filling me with cum, if I focus on that thought, I do have a strange fantasy sense that I’m receiving something with magical properties. But my joy is not the perverse pleasure of having taken something from him, rather a feeling that it is an honour for him to have left a part of himself in my body. I thank him, meaning I am grateful for my own pleasure, but even more so for being part of his.