Does anyone else feel the need to be a cumdump all the time?

[Guest BritBottom]

It’s interesting that in the “Accepting incest like a positive thing” thread there was reference to the potential effects of Psychochemical bonding and similarly in this to chemical and psychological factors.  Whatever combination of factors is involved, they are undeniably strong. My own experience is certainly one akin to a growing addiction, even if no more than to sensation and pleasure. 

ErosWired his final paragraph clearly expresses the sensation of need eloquently, even though I might, as yet, take slightly longer for the fire to go out.

I have to admit that for me the urge and anticipation of the next fuck is also a perverse form of pleasure, like a kid waiting for his Christmas present checking out for potential presents that culminates in the reward of that next fuck feeding the addiction.

Reading this back, I’m beginning to worry about me …………….

[ErosWired]

3 hours ago, BritBottom said:

I have to admit that for me the urge and anticipation of the next fuck is also a perverse form of pleasure, like a kid waiting for his Christmas present checking out for potential presents that culminates in the reward of that next fuck feeding the addiction.

This resonates with me. When I’m hotel hosting, lying on the bed naked and cunt-wet for a Man who has confirmed that he’s coming to fuck me, I’ll find myself thinking, “He’s coming. A man I have never met is on his way here to penetrate me with his cock and fuck me until he releases his semen inside my body. I just agreed to this, and he’s coming right now. I can’t stop this from happening now - he’s going to fuck me.”

Then I’ll get a text from the Top saying something like “Here” or “Getting out of the car” and I feel a flush over my skin, and I think, “He’s about to touch me there all he wants and then be inside me...”

And then the door opens, and it all actually happens, reinforcing my anticipation for the next time.

 I’m pretty sure something not so good is happening or has happened to my reward pathways in my brain to make me willingly and gratefully accept my cunting by scores of men - and I’ve reached a stage where I don’t care. That sounds something like addiction to me. Maybe I’ll hit some kind of bottom eventually where I realize that no amount of rutting in my fevered slit can meet my need, but until such time, I’m a slave to the moment.