It Was A Strange Fixation To Be Sure. How It Started, Angela Couldn't Say: All She Knew Was That It Grew

It was a strange fixation to be sure. How it started, Angela couldn't say: all she knew was that it grew day after day, and that the nights were the worst. By day she could keep it somewhat under control, even get some work done. But by night? It consumed her.

She would have liked the ability to focus, to remember exactly how everything had begun. Instead, every time she tried to recall, images flooded her brain.

Cock. She was obsessed with cock.

Not men, she quickly realized. Cock. Big, beautiful, conquering cock. Seeing one was enough to make her drool and feel warm, fuzzy, eager to please. She started going to cam chat sites, the kind of sites every woman knew to avoid for the same reason Angela couldn't stay away: over half the people there were men, cameras pointed right at their cocks. That suited her just fine. She didn't give a fuck what the men looked like, or who they were as a person. They were simply there to give her that blissful feeling of making a cock grow harder, watching the veins swell, watching it in spasms as it came all over its owner. That was all that mattered.

Sometimes she half remembered chatting with someone, before her obsession began. Maybe that person had done something to her. She couldn't really tell.

It didn't take long for her to realize another simple fact: she couldn't cum. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Making a cock cum sent her into mind melting orgasms, making her shake and whimper and babble. And no matter how many times she did it in one night, she never felt sore, or tired, or any less thrilled by the waybher pussy rewarded her service of cock.

Sleep became secondary, then a vague, distant concern. She missed meetings. She overslept. She skipped meals just to rub and see cock after cock, putting her all in the simple, perfect task of making it cum. That was all she needed. All she was.

She felt free. No fetters or dignity held her back from her one true purpose. If calling herself a dumb cunt made cock happy, she did it. If bouncing with a large toy shaped like a tentacle inside her ass made a cock cum, she did it. If showing her face, her tits, her ass brought her closer to her one purpose, she did it. If showing sexy pictures of her friends, of every girl that had once trusted her and begging the man to tell her exactly how he'd fuck each of them got him to cum all over himself, she did it.

She got fired at some point. She didn't care.

When the man broke into her house, she panicked until he let his trousers down. Then, entranced, she went to her knees. Cock. All she needed. All that mattered.

She knew, deep inside, that the man was whoring her out, charging the men that came, one after the other, to use every hole, to make her fulfill every fantasy. She didn't care.

They had cocks. That was all she needed. And in a state of constant, horny haze, she was, for the first time, happy with her life.

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