Reconciliation Day Slut

The Craving Returns

Marty Dreyer woke up in the bland gray light of her boring suburban bedroom, the bed beside her empty and cold without Dylan’s body to fill it. She stretched, lips parting, and immediately felt that old, gnawing ache in her throat—the one that never really went away, no matter how many therapists she lied to about it. Marty’s tongue flicked over her teeth, desperate for the weight of a fat, veiny cock stuffing her mouth, stretching her lips, jamming against her tonsils, drowning her in that salty, bitter taste she needed more than oxygen.

She checked the clock. Dylan would be gone for a week, off to some pointless conference, leaving her alone with her hunger. The thought made her shiver, her body already betraying her. Thirty-four, dark hair, big hazel eyes, and lips made for cock—Marty looked like the kind of woman who should be on her knees. Her tits strained against her tank top, hips wide, ass round and jiggling as she peeled herself out of bed. She walked naked to the bathroom, feet cold on the tile, already wet between her thighs just thinking about what she wouldn’t get.

In the shower, Marty slapped her suction-cup dildo onto the wall. It was thick, veiny, and even shot out fake cum, but it was still just a hunk of rubber. She dropped to her knees, water pouring over her, and stuffed the toy into her mouth, moaning like the cock-starved slut she was. Her lips stretched, tongue working, but it was all pointless. No hand in her hair, no rough voice calling her a whore, just her own desperate face-fucking. She gagged herself, spit running down her chin, fingers rubbing her clit as she tried to cum. When she finally did, it was weak, barely a twitch. She hit the fake cum button and swallowed, grimacing at the plastic taste. Not even close.

By the time she’d dried off and thrown on a blouse and skirt, the ache in her throat was already back, sharper than before.

Dylan was in the kitchen, sipping coffee, looking like every other boring husband in his business casual. He smiled, but Marty saw the tension. He knew exactly what she was—he’d known since their first date, when she’d dropped to her knees in his car and sucked him dry like a desperate whore. She’d kept it up through dating and marriage, worshipping his cock every day, sometimes twice, sometimes three times, gagging and drooling while he used her mouth like the cum-dump she was. It kept him loyal, kept his balls empty, but it also made things complicated.

Dylan wanted to fuck her pussy like a normal husband. Marty tried to care, but unless her throat was stuffed full of cock, she barely felt anything. She’d lie there, legs open, letting him pump away, but all she could think about was getting her mouth stretched by something thick and hard. Dylan always finished feeling guilty, like he was doing something wrong, while Marty just licked him clean and jerked herself off with his limp dick still drooling on her tongue.

This morning, as he prepared to leave, Dylan pulled her close. “One last one before I go, baby?”

Marty’s eyes went wide and hungry. She dropped to her knees on the kitchen floor, yanking down his zipper with shaking hands. His cock popped out, already half-hard, and she swallowed him with a moan, lips tight, tongue greedy. Dylan grabbed her hair and started fucking her face, the way they both liked it—wet, messy, and loud. Spit ran down her chin, soaking her blouse, as she stared up at him, begging for more. When he finally unloaded down her throat, Marty came too, pussy clenching around nothing, just happy to be used.

Dylan kissed her forehead afterward, tasting himself on her lips. “I love you, Marty. Try to behave while I’m gone.”

But she was a liar, and they both knew it.

The first three days without Dylan were hell. Marty fucked herself with the toy four, five, six times a day—shower, bed, even in her car at lunch—but every time she finished, she just felt emptier. The fake cock couldn’t yank her hair, couldn’t call her a filthy cocksucker, couldn’t slap her face or choke her out. She tried audio porn, blindfolds, anything, but it was all bullshit. At work, she hid in the bathroom, watching brutal blowjob clips, fingers stuffed in her cunt while girls gagged and sobbed on screen. She never really came, just edged herself into a worse frenzy.

By day four, she was snapping at coworkers and barely pretending to work. That night, she called Dylan, voice raw and desperate.

“I yelled at you about the lawn last night. I’m sorry. I just… I need to suck cock so bad, Dylan. It’s eating me alive.”

He sighed on the other end, but there was that familiar undercurrent of arousal in his voice. “I know, baby. Just three more days. I miss your mouth too.”

The next morning, September 30, Marty bailed on work, faking sick. Her hands shook as she drove past the Passion Palace—the sleazy porn shop with blacked-out windows and a tacky sign. She’d been there before, during another one of Dylan’s trips, but today she couldn’t resist. She parked and sat there for almost an hour, watching men go in and out, panties soaked just from imagining it. Finally, she gave up and went inside.

Down the back hall were the gloryhole booths. A line of guys waited at one door, listening to the wet, sloppy sounds of someone getting their brains fucked out. An old woman with sagging tits stumbled out, face glazed and eyes cockdrunk, and gave Marty a nod. "All yours, honey."

The men turned to Marty expectantly. One at the back, bold, asked bluntly, “You here to suck cock?”

Marty stammered, face burning, but she couldn’t stop staring at the fat bulge in the guy’s pants. He grinned, whipped it out—long, veiny, already drooling—and her mouth watered so hard she almost drooled herself. "Go on in, baby. Just a little slut head, right?"

She stood there shaking, wedding ring flashing, then bolted for her car, tears running down her face while the men laughed and called after her.

In the car, she called Dylan, voice wrecked. "I’m outside the porn shop. There’s a gloryhole. I can’t fucking take it anymore."

After a long silence, Dylan’s voice came low. “You really need to suck cock, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

“Honey… I love you. If you need this while I’m gone, go for it. Record it for me. Show me what a good cocksucker you are. We’ll talk about a real plan when I get home.”

Relief flooded Marty so hard her pussy gushed. She nearly ran back inside.

This time, she didn’t even hesitate. She left the booth door wide open, set her phone to record, and dropped to her knees. The first guy walked in, cock out, and Marty stared up at him, eyes wild. "Please... feed me."He shoved his cock in her mouth and Marty moaned like she’d finally come home. Her lips stretched, throat opened, and she begged him to grab her hair. He fucked her face harder and harder, and Marty soaked her panties, cumming as the first load blasted her tongue. She swallowed every drop, eyes rolling back.k.

The next guy was rougher, yanking her hair and ramming his cock down her throat like he owned it. "That’s it, slut. Take the dick." Marty gurgled, tears streaming, cumming again as he dumped his load straight into her gut.

By the fourth guy, Marty was a disaster—face glazed with spit and cum, blouse ruined, voice wrecked from moaning and choking. Every load, every rough fuck, scraped away the week’s insanity until she almost felt normal. She stumbled out, got a few approving slaps on the ass, cum still dripping from her chin, and sent Dylan the video while fingering herself to another messy orgasm in the parking lot.

His reply came quickly: “Good girl.”

Marty giggled, licking cum off her lips. She’d definitely married the right guy.

But as she drove home, still tasting strange cum, her eyes caught a bright flyer taped to a lamppost near the community center:

National Day for Truth and Reconciliation

September 30 – Cultural Event & Talking Circle

Sharing Stories. Honoring History. Finding Healing.

All welcome.

Something about the words got under her skin—truth, reconciliation, all that crap about secrets. Her throat still ached from being used, but now there was a different itch. She pulled over, staring at the flyer, fingers running over her swollen lips.

Tomorrow was September 30. Maybe there was another way to get her fix.

She drove home with the taste of four strangers still on her tongue, the flyer burning in her purse, already wondering what kind of stories a real man could drag out of her with his cock buried in her throat.