He shoved his ten-inch cock into my throat the second the door clicked shut behind him, no hello, no name, just my lipstick smearing down his shaft while I gagged and drooled like the greedy slut I came here to be.
That was Night 1.
By Night 100 I’ve had every hole ruined in every city on the map.
I’ve been bent over marble balconies while strangers pounded my dripping cunt so hard the champagne glasses rattled. I’ve woken up with dried cum crusting my eyelashes after letting five men take turns painting my face until I couldn’t open my eyes. I’ve had women tongue-fuck my ass while their husbands slammed into me from behind, my screams muffled by a pillow soaked in someone else’s perfume. I’ve been tied spread-eagle to hotel headboards, dripping wax and welts blooming across my tits while I begged for more. I’ve ridden faces until they nearly suffocated, come so hard I blacked out, and still opened my legs again the moment the next keycard slid into the lock.
One woman. One hundred nights. One hundred strangers who never learned my name and never will.
They only know the taste of my cunt, the sound of my moans when I’m stuffed airtight, the way my back arches when a thick cock splits me open and another one forces its way down my throat at the same time.
I booked every room, left every door unlocked, and took every filthy thing they gave me, harder, deeper, rougher each night, until my body became nothing but a dripping, trembling, insatiable hole for pleasure.
This is the diary of those hundred nights.
Read it if you dare.
I already lived it, and I’m still wet just remembering.
