[F4A] A half-starved cum addict reaches her breaking point

I can’t take it anymore.

The cramps twist through my stomach like knives, sharp and hot, radiating up into my chest until even breathing hurts. Weeks, weeks without a single drop. No thick warmth sliding down my throat, no heavy salty taste coating my tongue, no relief. My owner has been so cruel about it, fucking me, making me suck, making me beg until my voice cracked, then dumping their load down the drain and walking away laughing. They said I had to “earn it back.” I don’t know what I did wrong anymore. I just know I’m starving.

It’s 3:17 a.m. according to the faint blue glow of their computer screen. The house is dead quiet except for the low hum of the tower fan and my own ragged breathing. I crawl on hands and knees across the hardwood, naked, shivering, trying not to whimper too loud. The office door was left cracked, careless, or maybe a test. I don’t care which. I just need something.

The wastebasket sits under the desk like it always does. I can smell it before I even get close: that unmistakable sour-sweet musk, stale but still alive with traces of them. My mouth floods instantly. My cunt clenches so hard it hurts worse than the withdrawal cramps.

I tip the basket toward me with trembling fingers. Used tissues, crumpled, some still damp in the center. I don’t hesitate. I pluck the first one out, unfold it like it’s precious tissue paper, and press it to my lips. The taste explodes across my tongue, faint, diluted, cold, but it’s there. I suck at the crusty patches, tongue digging into the fibers, chasing every molecule. A broken little moan slips out before I can stop it. I shove more into my mouth, chewing the damp paper, swallowing the tiny shreds that come loose. It’s disgusting. It’s heaven. Tears are running down my face and I don’t even care.

Then the desk chair creaks. The overhead light snaps on. I freeze, tissue still hanging from my lips, eyes wide, caught like a raccoon in a trash can. They’re standing in the doorway in nothing but an old T-shirt, hair mussed from sleep, expression moving from groggy confusion to cold, disgusted fury in about half a second.

They don’t yell. They just stride across the room, rip the wastebasket out of my hands so fast the metal scrapes my knuckles, and march toward the bathroom. I scramble after them on all fours, the soggy paper falling from my mouth as I start babbling.

“Please, no, please don’t flush them, please, I’m begging you,” I sob, voice cracking, forehead almost touching the floor behind them. “I’ll do anything, I’ll be good, I swear, just don’t flush them, please let me have them, I need them so bad, it hurts, it hurts so much, don’t take them away, please, owner, please…”

They ignore me. The toilet lid bangs open. One after another, the tissues drop in with wet plops. I lunge forward on my knees, hands reaching uselessly toward the bowl, still pleading. “No no no please don’t flush, I’ll eat them right now, I’ll lick the bowl clean, anything, just don’t flush, please, I’m dying without it, please please please…”

They finish dropping the last one. Then the sound of their stream hits the pile, strong, steady, deliberately loud. The sharp ammonia scent mixes with everything else and my stomach lurches with a sick, desperate hunger. They don’t flush. The water stays yellow and full of soggy tissues.

They turn, plant one hand on their hip, and look down at me where I’m kneeling just inside the bathroom doorway, shaking, tears and drool streaking my face, still whispering broken little please for them not to flush, even though the sound never came.

“There,” they say, voice flat and venomous. “Eat that if you’re so fucking hungry.” My whole body locks up. The pain in my gut spikes so hard I almost double over. But my mouth is already watering again.