Nympho: I was a Cum Dumpster

My favorite day of the year has always been Valentine's Day. When I was a little kid, my Dad would bring me a special doll and a bouquet of roses for my Mom. My brother would be dressed in his Sunday finest, and the four of us would go to the Horn and Hardart Automatic restaurant. It was such an exciting time. Dad had a sack of small change, and we could look through the silver windows in the Automat and choose any meal or dessert we wanted.

Dad was a policeman, and we always felt safe with him. Then, the unexpected happened. Dad was assigned to the honor guard that protected his honor, the Mayor of New York. A crazy man with a machete leaped forward at the conclusion of a ceremony, hoping to kill the Mayor. Dad pushed his boss out of the way, but the machete came down on Dad's neck, severing the carotid artery. He never made it home that night. My shrink feels this childhood trauma is the reason for my rampant promiscuity. I'm embarrassed to say; my shrink says I am a nymphomaniac; men who used me called me a 'cum dumpster.'

Most readers would call me crazy, a sexed-up crazy, a certifiable nymphomaniac. Well, folks, I've had a turbulent life, mostly accommodating the whims of sex-crazed men who used and abused me, fucked me, filled me with their goo, and cast me off like trash. My virginity, don't remind me; I lost that years back to a Schwinn bicycle. I've had enough therapy to think maybe I am cured, at least until I slip up again.

I've lived most of my life in or around New York City. I've spent a lot of time walking, riding the subway, and on my back or bent over a chair while some guy I'd just met shoved his dingus inside me. Sometimes, they see me walking late at night in the theater district when I went down to the corner bodega for a soda, pulling over in their car, saying, "Hello Dolly," like I was some theater marquee, and inviting me inside their auto. Did the gentleman get out and open the door for me? No, he'd pushed the passenger door open, almost knocking me off my feet. "Git in here!" They'd shout.

We'd end up in an empty parking lot where some guy would get his fingers on my tits or in my pussy, and seeing he was getting no argument, the stranger would proceed to the next base, under my skirt, and plowing the field quickly like a farmer worried he'd miss the harvest deadline. In reality, the guy hoped to finish the job before a cop caught him with his pants down. Once, a cop started knocking on the window, and this guy just pushed me out the door, shouting to the cop,

"You can have her next."

And the officer did just that, grabbing me by the arm and walking me to the back of the lot. My bare ass nearly froze as the cop lifted my skirt high and fucked me against the cold metal door behind the parking lot attendant's locked booth. That cop was large, and he fucked me so hard I was sore for a week.

I'm sure some of my readers may wonder what effects all this frequent sex has on a woman's body. Men, when they come, curse or shout; some say, "Thank you," and others make funny noises and silly faces. If they could see how stupid they look, they might consider giving up sex altogether. I suppose some women make noises, too. I'm told that a noisy woman excites a man, and they cum faster if the gal is a sounding board. I never made noise. If it was pleasurable, I might smile, but most of the sex was not enjoyable; it was a duty I felt I was required to perform.

Did it hurt? Sometimes it hurt a little, sometimes a lot, especially if I was dry and the guy's knob was large. Occasionally the guy would spit on his dodit, but that didn't help much. Maybe I was blessed with a reasonably large pussy. One black guy looked at my slit and said, "Jesus, you got one of the biggest cunts I ever saw. If I crawled inside, I'm sure I'd end up right in the middle of hell."

Being large down there is a defense against pain, if a guy is hung under six or seven inches. A five-inch dick is as easy as chewing bubble gum. That is an easy ride. The thick ones and extra long ones can be problematic. I've had guys complain that with some women, "their prick hits the back wall." I don't recall that happening to me, although a very long dick poke can be painful. Width is worse than length in a cock, but if you have to take it in the ass, just about any cock will fit. If he has a huge penis, relax and tell him to take it slow.

Sometimes, I'd have sex with friendly guys, and I might even have enjoyed it. I was too embarrassed to answer if they asked me if I had come (orgasmed.) When the sex was finished, they'd ask for my phone number, but I'd act like I didn't understand; sometimes the older guys would press a twenty-dollar bill on my tits, and other times a nasty guy, one who often could complete the act, would call me a whore and literally boot me out the car door.

After a man gets off, his true nature becomes very apparent. One time, a very short dude punched me in the face after he missed my bejeezus and came all over my leg, but I forgave him; it isn't easy being a dwarf, and he was pretty well hung. He must have felt bad as he came around a few times after that and apologized and just asked for a blow job.

My name is Janet Pilgram. No, not really, but that will do for this story. I'm five foot two, a white girl with brown-blond hair, two B-plus breasts, and a curvy medium-sized tush. Black guys like my curvy ass. They say it reminds them of their mama. I always thought that was a strange comment, but I think if they loved their mother, it's not so strange.

I hate pubic hair and always shave myself, sometimes several times a week. It's an obsession. Most girls think I use mascaras, but my eyebrows are dark and full, and my curled eyelashes are not fake but natural. Back in school, we weren't allowed to wear makeup. Teachers have tried to pull them off, but they stay put.

Yesterday was my birthday; I'm thirty-five years old. Maybe the time is ripe to move on, find a nice guy, and settle down. Perhaps move to Miami, where it's always warm, and find a little Cuban hotel with a few musicians who entertain. I would go there once or twice a week with a loved one and relax, breaking away from my addictive, destructive behavior.

My problem is I've always done what men told me to do. You might say I've made a lot of men happy. My shrink says my obedience to men is related to my father being a cop. When I give in to strangers' sexual desires, I am trying to find my Dad. Could that be true?

I was twenty when I finished secretarial school. I looked like a virgin, but I wasn't, not for a while. The school placement officer gave me a card that Friday after graduation with the address and name of a possible job. I took a subway to the midtown office, whose address was written on the card. It turned out to be a modern high-rise building on Park Avenue.

I took the elevator and pushed the button for the nineteenth, where the firm took up the entire floor. I waited at the desk outside the elevator to be cleared by the office manager, who took my placement card and walked me into Mr. Kenneth Drake's Office, telling me my boss would conduct the interview. He added, "Remember, Miss, if you are hired, proper office attire is a knee-length skirt and high-heeled shoes, no tight sweaters."

After a few minutes of small talk, Mr. Drake handed me a small yellow cushion and ordered me to "get on my knees." I thought maybe we would pray together, so I did what he asked. When I looked up, I saw he'd dropped his pants, and his erect cock was staring me in the face. I realized why some men called their dick "Old one eye."

"What are you waiting for," he shouted at me, "Suck it."

I was surprised, but it wasn't the first time I'd found myself in this position.

"Open wide; a big missile is headed your way," said Mr. Drake, and he wasn't kidding." He had a huge dick for an older guy.

I don't know if my recommendation for this job was courtesy of Dr. Groman, whose dick was a crucial part of our sucky-student-teacher relationship. Still, I opened my mouth like the Doc had taught me, and my boss sank his prick between my lips like he was scoring a hole-in-one.

"Now close your eyes," and Mr.Drake stood there for a few minutes clutching his balls with both hands until he shot his slimy sperm into my mouth.

"Close your mouth and swallow it," he ordered. To be sure, he reached down, pinching my nose. I did as directed.

"You get it all down?"

I nodded, then he let go of my nose.

I said, "Thank you, sir. I hope my performance was satisfactory."

I didn't mention I could feel a few loose grey pubic hairs caught between my front teeth.

"Yes, dear, you'll do just fine."

Mr.Drake handed me a Kleenex and said, "Wipe your front teeth before you leave the office."

Mr. Drake made it clear that he was hiring me for my skill as a cock sucker, a talent he said was more important to him than a good typist. I could hit sixty words a minute on the keyboard, but that afternoon, I never got a chance to prove my computer skills;

I started work on Monday and quickly fell into the office routine. I thought I was doing a decent job, and I accepted that on Friday, before the end of the work day, Mr. Drake would call me into his Office, and there he'd be with his feet on the desk and his pants down below his knees.

"Lock the door behind you, Honey. I've got only a few minutes to get to the 5:45 train to White Plains, so Deary, time to get to work."

Of course, my boss, Mr. Kenneth Drake, wasn't the first man I'd given a blow job; I'd serviced several guys in junior college in the men's bathroom during college dances and a few of the teachers, even Mr. Lobo, who was the school maintenance man, at the insistence of Dr. Groman, my math teacher who promised he'd score he'd up my letter grade if I'd service his buddy.

My boss, Mr. Kenneth Drake, ran 'The Ramrod Aeronautics' sales office, a midsized company that produces high-pressure fuel valves for jet planes. The factory was somewhere out in Texas. I'd never been there, but large photos of the plant were spread across the office walls. We had a frequent run of military men in uniform who'd wet their lips when I'd escort them into the boss' Office. After a few months of lowering Mr. Drake's blood pressure for his run to Grand Central, Drake confessed his back injury from his short career as a footballer had made missionary-style sex an impossibility.

Because of his feeling of guilt over not sexually satisfying me, he found a position that allowed him to finger me as I blew him. That experiment got a little kinkier when his third finger was substituted with a six-inch vasoline-lubed dildo that he'd pull out of his top desk drawer. It got me greased up, which wasn't my preference, but I thought it best not to roil the waters.

This penetration was unnecessary. To me, a dick suck was just a dick suck, and there was no requirement that I receive sexual satisfaction, but it was nice consideration by the old guy. Once more, let me emphasize that I've always done what men told me to do.

After I'd swallow his load, he'd ask me if I came; I couldn't answer because my mouth was filled with cum, I'd nod up and down, and as he ran out the door. I'd use his private bathroom to rinse out my mouth. No, I didn't cum from the dildo prodding, but to deny it would be to impugn my boss's masculinity. Some men have cum juice that tastes just fine, but Mr. Drakes was not very pleasant, maybe due to his cigar smoking and frequent lunch at the Italian restaurant where garlic was the flavor of the day.

Our blow job send-off was almost always on Friday at the close of the work day. He had told me more than once that his marriage was sexless, and the relief I provided made his married life acceptable. The extra overtime pay for work not rendered was an additional compensation that I appreciated.

My service at his desk came to a sudden end one evening when evening, after a spirited blow job, he came pretty heavily, smiled, and his head fell back on his padded chair.

"Mr. Drake, Sir, are you okay?

He did not respond. His face looked blue, and his eyes were wide open.

The paramedics were called and entered just after I got his pants zipped, although one orderly questioned the presence of Kenney's formidable erection.

Murphy, the head man medic, explained, "A lot of stiffs get a hard-on after they croak something dealing with blood flow. The ticker stops pumping, and the blood pools there."

"Yeah," said his assistant, "But this stiff's got jizz leaking out the end of his dick."

I was glad I'd swallowed that afternoon and licked the boss' cock clean.

Mrs. Mary Drake arrived the next week, went through his desk, and called me into his Office. "What is this?" she said and pulled the yellow rubber dildo out of his small top drawer.

"I have no idea," I answered.

"I'm sure you do, and besides the vasoline, it smells like pussy, is it your pussy?"

And she threw the rubber dong at me. It hit me in the breast and bounced across the room. Then the bitch handed me my walking papers. It seemed she knew of my 'overtime efforts' and was not pleased.

"Kenny said he got all the sex he needed at the Office. I take it you were the provider. Well, his is the last cock you'll get to suck around here. You're lucky I don't have you charged with murder. I'm sure you knew he had a weak heart."

"He never said he had a weak heart, Maam."

"I'm sure you also knew he wasn't supposed to take Viagra."

And at that, she scooped up a bunch of blue pills from the desk drawer and threw them at me.

I wanted to say, "Maybe you should have sucked your husband's cock?" But I held my tongue.

Rather than firing me cold turkey, the office manager handled my case more diplomatically. He explained that in return for my signing a release that would prohibit me from taking any legal action against the firm or Mr. Drake's estate, I would receive my salary for the next six months, and my medical care would be provided. My suspension meant I did not have to report to work.

My medical plan provided psychological care as well; it was in fine print right on the back of the shiny credit-sized card. Coming out of this sexual-servant situation, I thought some therapy might be of use, and the office manager suggested I take advantage of that perk. I guess everyone in the Office knew what my job requirements entailed, so I asked him if he was aware.

"You probably never noticed a tiny hidden camera in Drake's bookcase. He always turned it on, on Friday afternoons, and a bunch of us would gather in the mail room to watch you do your stuff. When he stuffed that dildo in you some of the guy had to jerk off.

"I turned red and stammered, "That's disgusting," and got out of there as fast as my legs would carry me in the high heels I was required to wear.

Several days later, I phoned the medical plan to inquire, and a letter arrived after that with the names of three psychiatrists. I chose Dr. Funk, the one whose specialty covered sexual harassment. Little did I know that my sexual history would become a part of my psychiatrist's best-seller book, 'Growing Up with a Hard-On.'

I had recounted a bit of my family history to my shrink, not knowing the papers I signed gave the shrink the right to use my history in his scholarly articles. At the time, I did not realize how he would detail my actions in his case study. He never mentioned my name but identified me with a series of numbers. Still, he described me as accurately as a photograph. He included my admission to actions in caring for my disabled brother that I did not realize could be construed as consensual incest.

I innocently recounted that a second family tragedy struck when I was enrolled in the community college. My older brother was a pilot who became a local hero when he crashed his disabled plane into a field to avoid the church where hundreds of worshippers were congregated. It left him as a disabled cripple with severe brain damage. He'd wake up in the middle of the night and start screaming. The only way to calm him down, said Mom, a nurse, was to give him a hand job.

When Mom worked nights in the hospital, my brother's care fell on me. I tried my best to give him his 'nerve treatment,' as Mom called it. But as time passed, he became more challenging to pacify. When both my arms were worn out jerking him off, I asked Mom what to do, and she suggested sucking his cock. This was a more practical solution, he ejaculated much quicker, and he'd fall asleep, and I'd get to sleep as well once I'd get his thick cum out from between my teeth.

"Maybe that is why you felt giving strangers a blow job was therapeutic since a nurse had recommended it," said my shrink, who whipped out his pink-medium-sized cock and asked me to demonstrate at the close of each learning session. He was one of those shrinks who thought having sex with their patients was a form of therapy. The Doc's book delt with a lot of different people's sex problems, but my story was the most detailed. Of course the interactions between my mouth and the Doc's cock were never mentioned.

I had my doubts sucking his cock, but did as I was told. I did not know how this activity was supposed to help me, but it certainly helped the Doc; the shrink's eye tic disappeared, and afterward, it seemed to stop his trembling leg. My therapy sessions continued for the entire six months and each week ended with me giving him a blowey. In the end, he attempted to hypnotize me to implant a subconscious suggestion that I stop doing what most men requested, mainly a blow job, and it seemed to work.

On the last day of my treatment, when the medical plan was a few days from being expired, Dr. Funk asked me to blow him, and I refused.

"Ah-ha, now you are cured! I cured you!" He shouted across the desk as he pushed his stiff hard-on back inside his tan tweed pants, knowing his fun times were over.

"I'm gonna miss you as a patient," said Dr. Funk, and added quietly pointing at his cock, "him too."

I was proud I'd refused him a blowjob that day and now I refrained from oral sex with men I'd often meet on the subway to the clinic; on the other hand, I began to have more serious sexual activities, with these strangers, including vaginal and anal sex without protection.

One of the subway policemen had his eye on me and caught me having sex with a guy standing up in the back of an empty subway car. The police officer put me in handcuffs but let the guy go. The cop, with his name badge that said 'Santiago,' escorted me to the ticket seller's booth at the next station.

A very short, older, balding guy looking like that actor on 'Taxi.' with his thick glasses on his forehead greeted Santiago with,

'What you got this time?"

"Oh, you're gonna like this," my escort said.

Then he turned to me, handcuffed with my hands behind my back,

"Little lady, you got a choice here, seeing as your pussy is already wet, you can entertain Mr. Grif here, pointing at the gnome and me, or we can go down to the station, and I'll book you for indecent exposure, sex in a public place etcetera and while you wait in the holding cell, you'll probably be raped by numerous guys."

"You don't separate women from men in the holding cell? I asked.

"Not at the moment; the lady's cell is flooded. So what will it be?

So I agreed that both he and the short, older guy could have sex with me. The little guy stood up on a stool to fuck my vagigi while the cop two timed me anally. I never argued. I was dripping cum all over the subway seat on the way home, but I figured the cop and the old guy were a safer bet than the homeless guys I'd serviced on earlier trips.

I'm embarrassed to admit that I once humiliated myself by getting off the train with a strange, filthy, homeless guy who walked me to his tent, ordered me to strip naked in the cold, and sodomized me on a cold blanket. Luckily, I did not contract any illnesses from this hazardous activity.