I Love Cum
Story by MintAero
So hi! This is my first piece of creative writing in... Oh my gosh, years! But I want to practice, and I figured, why not practice with something I enjoy? So here I am!
This is just a taste for now, but I'm (definitely!) going to add more. Right now, there's just a great big love of cum, but when I get to nastier things, I'll be sure to mark 'em. :)
0 --- Cum!
I love cum
More than that, I adore it.
The smell, so bestial, so strong, is an aroma like nothing else.
Mmm, and I love the salty-sweet aftertaste it leaves on my tongue, a lasting reminder of passionate indulgent.
I love the sight of runny, thin spunk just as much as I love the thick, gooey jizz and the viscous baby-batter with the consistency of caramel.
I love the sound of the small pitter-patters of frantic spurts, and the loud, gushing, violent eruptions.
Most of all, I love how it feels against my skin. So sticky, so slimy. I love to smear it all over my smooth, hairless hide.
I love to drown in it.
I love to bathe in it, relaxing in my ornate pool, up to my pointed ears in the sweet, sweet nectar.
It’s alive, and it exists only for my enjoyment.
My pleasure.
There are people who exist only to fill my bath, and there are people who exist only to help them do so.
Cum.
Cum is my nectar. It is my ambrosia. It is everything to me. It is all that I desire, and all that I need. It is my world.
Cum.
Jizz, spunk, baby-batter, man-chowder, nut-butter, seed, jism, scum, splooge, cream, custard, ointment, medicine, salve, semen, sperm.
Cum.
It is my world, and so it is my people’s world.
I love cum, and so must my people.
Besides, I’ve heard it’s good for my skin.
We cannot get out. I can hear the drums pounding to the beat of my heart. Or perhaps it’s the other way around.
The danger.
The fear.
Feelings are stirring, emotions burning deep within me that I haven’t endured in a hundred years. It’s new. It’s exciting. I cry out, thighs clenching around the young man rutting me.
The sheer ecstasy at losing control, the passion blazing within me, within my men, is enough to send me over the edge. I cry my father’s name and dig long, shallow furrows in my lover’s back.
He doesn’t care.
He just grunts, with his small, beady eyes squeezed tight. His muscles – large and toned, built to what I consider perfection yet ultimately useless – ripple, his huge hands clawing at the marble floors as I expertly, mercilessly drag it on. I don’t let him finish.
No, he doesn’t need to.
I consider briefly that, out of desperation, he might force himself upon me. Indeed, if this is to be their last stand, every man in this room might choose to have one last fuck at my expense.
The thought excites me, but it won’t happen.
I am their queen, their goddess, their spirit. If they neither fight nor live for me, then