I Learned to Desire What I Spat Out for Years

I’m writing again because there are things I need to get out of me, put into words to understand just how much I’ve changed. I don’t mean to be repetitive, but the fascination I’ve developed for a practice that once disgusted me deserves to be told in full detail. I’m talking about my play partner’s semen, Adrián’s, and how I went from rejecting it to demanding it like someone demanding air.

Writing it now has to do with how new everything has been. New and, above all, exciting. It isn’t semen in the abstract that obsesses me, it’s his. Specifically his, with his particular smell and his particular taste, the only ones that matter to me.

Over the course of my life I’ve sucked quite a few cocks. And for a long time I let them come in my mouth simply because that was what was expected of me, a formality to satisfy the person in front of me. I wasn’t remotely thrilled by it. Almost always I ended up spitting it out as soon as he looked away, because I couldn’t bear to keep it inside and much less swallow it.

That’s why what’s happening to me with Adrián is so bewildering. I need to be explicit so the scale of the change is understood. I’ve gone from turning my face away to opening my mouth before he even asks. And that has taught me something I didn’t expect: in sex there are no limits other than the ones you invent for yourself. When such an old barrier falls all at once, you’re left staring at it on the floor, wondering why you ever built it up.

I remember my first relationships. The guys would jerk off after fucking me with the clear intention of finishing on my face, as if that were the only possible way to close the deal. I, not wanting to spoil the moment, went along with it. The taste almost never appealed to me: a greasy, thick liquid, with a note that reminded me of bleach. But it was hot, I wanted to please, and I resigned myself. Afterwards, I spat it out. Only a few preferred to come inside me, and then yes, then the pleasure was something completely different.

***

With Adrián everything got scrambled. Not only is my cunt wet most of the day thinking about him, he’s also taught me to cross borders I believed were up forever. Before, I never spat into a man’s mouth, nor let any man spit into mine. It seemed dirty, degrading, out of place. Now it’s something we do when things get intense, and I actively seek it out. I used to be absurdly finicky, and he, with calm patience, turned me into someone much dirtier. I like being that way. I like how he looks at me when I am.

There’s one afternoon that sums it all up. It was a little before he left on a trip. I was finishing peeling some mandarins at the kitchen table when he came up behind me without saying a word. When he pulled down his underwear and I had his cock in front of me, the normal thing for me would have been to ask him to wash it, to demand it be spotless the way he usually had it for me.

I didn’t. I took it into my mouth without thinking, and I didn’t give the slightest fuck that he hadn’t just showered. I surprised myself murmuring, with it between my lips:

—It isn’t completely clean, but since I’m a filthy slut I’ll suck it anyway.

Adrián let out a low laugh and held my nape, and I understood in that moment that kicking my own limits to the curb had become my favorite drug. With him only. Only like that.

***

As for semen, I have to tell the whole process, because it was a conversion in stages, not a single blow. It’s the territory where I’ve come closest to feeling like a real whore, in the best possible sense of the word.

The first time happened after a long fuck on his bed. He straddled my chest, ready to finish in my mouth, and I, once again, let him do it out of habit, not expecting my opinion on the matter to change forever in a matter of seconds. He rested the head of his cock on my tongue and the first spurts started to come out.

The first impulse was rejection, the same as always. But as it flooded me, something switched off in my head and I started to taste it for real, with curiosity, almost with hunger. I spat part of it onto my tits, yes, out of habit more than disgust, and what remained inside I swallowed slowly, savoring it. The taste, the smell, the texture: everything felt new to me and, most incredibly, I loved it. I couldn’t believe it. I liked it. I really liked it. It was the first of many.

On another encounter, also one of the first, after three quarters of an hour of nonstop fucking, I asked him to come inside me, which is what I liked most in the world. But he wanted to surprise me. Without entirely ignoring my wish, he pulled his cock out at the last second and asked me to open my cunt wide with both hands.

I didn’t understand what he was after, but he’d already given me so many orgasms in a row that my only concern was to keep obeying. He shot over my sex spread wide open, soaking my lips, my fingers, my clit, all the way to the rim of my ass. His hot semen fell over me like balm over a volcano, and the simple touch of the two mixed fluids, his and mine, made me come again. You know I go crazy sticking my fingers in to taste myself, so I couldn’t resist the temptation to taste that mixture too. And once again I found myself savoring with delight everything that session had wrung from our bodies.

***

From that day on I started to live it as an addiction that keeps me tense for hours. I’d catch myself mid-morning, at work, squeezing my thighs under the desk with the smell still clinging to my memory. I’d send him messages I would once have been ashamed to write, telling him exactly what I wanted him to do to me next time. And he’d answer with a single sentence that would make me useless for the rest of the day. But the best was still to come.

Adrián gifted me that way of finishing several more times, over my open cunt, until the day came when my body started asking for his semen not only down there, but also in my mouth. On my own initiative. On another of our encounters I surprised myself asking him for it, remembering that first time when I had liked having it on my tongue. I wanted to do it again, I wanted more.

I stuck out my tongue as far as I could, a gesture that drives him wild, and he emptied everything onto it. What a delight. What an explosion. What a way to enjoy something I’d spent years pushing away in disgust. There was so much of it, almost transparent, with a scent that made me even dirtier and a sweet, syrupy taste unlike anything I’d ever tried. And I knew at that instant that my hunger had no way back.

In the fucks that followed he alternated: sometimes he fed me his cream in my mouth, other times he filled my cunt as I’ve already told you. Both things make me equally filthy. We even started taking photos at the exact moment he came, images I go back to when he isn’t around, waiting for the next reward.

***

And then we arrived at a pact that benefits us both equally. Adrián doesn’t jerk off a single time if I’m not in front of him. All his cream is for me, no exceptions, no waste. You’ll think I’m naive, that anyone says that. But I’ll stick to the facts: the amount he builds up and the frequency with which he gives it to me, sometimes twice in very short intervals, give me a quiet certainty. He says it himself: giving it to someone else, or throwing it away, would be an absurd waste of something that gives me so much pleasure.

The strangest thing of all is how much I like the control part. It isn’t just the taste or the texture; it’s knowing that his pleasure passes through my hands, my mouth, my permission. When we’re alone and he’s touching himself, I decide the pace, I tell him when to stop and when to keep going, I leave him on the edge and keep him there just to see him suffer a little before rewarding him. That small dose of power, inside my total surrender, is what finally drives me insane. He rules my hunger and I rule his urgency, and we both lose at once.

I want his cream at all hours. I need it. It has become a supplement to my diet that makes me feel alive, desired, a little drugged. An elixir I don’t intend to give up even a drop of. And the word that best describes it is obedience: his to my hunger, mine to his desire. We’ve tied ourselves to something neither of us knows how to name entirely, but which works.

So, dear readers, that is how what we both call my liquid fascination was born. A finicky slut who learned to ask for what she used to spit out. Maybe now you understand better where my username comes from.

We await, as always, your comments.