Chapter 1

I mean, it wasn’t the sort of story he’d normally go for. His usual diet was more straightforward–your stereotypical “school nerd finds himself awkwardly alone with closeted jock, who then fucks him into the ground while either A) declaring his previously-unconfessed, previously-closeted love for him or B) calling him a dirty fag” story. You know, normal Nifty Archive shit. His browsing didn’t stray far from ‘College’ or 'Authoritarian’ or–if he was feeling really sappy–'Relationships,’ but it’d been one of those lazy Mondays with nothing to do but put off reading for his classes by reading more and more porn.

At first, it seemed gimmicky, the idea that cum was addictive. Once you got past that, though, it was a hot enough story, the idea of all that need and all that release being so intense, being like a drug. But even though it was written well–damn sure hot enough to get him off, which it did–he didn’t give it a second thought. Went, washed up, and didn’t study some more. and certainly didn’t eat his load.

There was another chapter the next week.

Afterward, as he was breathing hard and coming down from his–well, from his high, he looked down and saw his seed cooling on his stomach, on his chest, and he ran a finger through it on impulse, brought it up to his lips. It wasn’t the first time, sure–he’d swallowed often enough with other guys, thought about as a point of pride–but he didn’t really taste his own much when he jerked, and there wasn’t anything special about this time, either, at least not from his point of view. “Yep,” he thought, “that’s cum,” and went to clean up.

While he was reading the next week’s chapter–he was expecting it this time, or maybe even waiting for it, expectantly–he ate his own precum. It was just so fucking hot, the thought of all those strung out boys yearning for a fix, and he wondered what that’d be like, so as he was working his dick slowly with one hand–you know, like you do, so you can scroll down the page with the other hand and last until the end–he’d stop every few minutes to slide his fingers–slick, shiny, tacky–into his mouth. It was his, he knew, but there was so much of it–he really had been looking forward to the story going up all day–that it seemed like someone else’s, that it seemed like no matter how much he got, how much he tasted, he never reached the end. He just kept up the steady stream of it, dripping it out, licking it up, dripping it out, licking it up. When he finally did cum, shuddering and from the balls of his feet, he ate all of it, every last pearly, milky, lucent drop.

That was two and a half months ago, and the stories keep posting once a week, but it seems like the weeks get longer and longer, like it’s harder and harder to go from one Monday to the next, so today he rushed home. He’d worked out two loads already this morning, eaten them just like he should, but it wasn’t the same, and he needed it again, bad. So he spent each of his lectures looking at the clock, looking at his watch, looking at his phone, looking at his laptop, and then looking at the clock again, waiting for the time to pass. He kept bouncing his leg up and down, twirling his pen nervously, too keyed up to take notes–he just drew blobs (well, puddles) in the margins of his empty notebook and licked his dry lips. He’s barely in the door before his clothes come off, before he strips himself naked, brings his briefs–damp, damp all fuckin’ day–up to his mouth. There’s a new story, but he’s so focused, on working his dick slowly, on eating his precum as fast as he can make it, on waiting for that moment when he’ll bliss out, spilling himself, and then bliss out, feeding himself, that he barely even reads it.

That’s fine, though.

He knows what it says.