Ever wonder who’s on the other end of the phone line? Shoving a mouthful of shame down someone else’s throat and keeping your fantasy slowing?

That would be me. I’m the voice in your Bluetooth earbuds. I’m the cruel, sweet, sadistic fairy godmother of a hundred husbands with marriages on autopilot and a thousand single men in lonely apartments who can’t stop thinking about the sticky parts. I’m the phone sex operator and I specialize in cum eating. CEI for short.

So you see, I am not one of you. I am only your professional proxy, your verbal domme, the conjuror of all your pathetic, twisted wishes. My job is to make you eat it. Not because you want to—though you do, obviously—but because you want to be made to want it. That’s the difference, and it’s everything.

I’m writing this because I think there’s a fundamental misunderstanding about the nature of cum eating. I get emails—hundreds a month, sometimes more—asking what it means, why it’s so hot, if it’s normal, if it’s healthy, if it’s dangerous, if it’s okay to tell your girlfriend about it, if it’s okay to keep it a secret. I have become, by accident, the confessor for a whole underclass of cum eaters, a priestess in a very sticky little chapel. So here’s my sermon.

Most guys who want to eat their own cum are not degenerate perverts. (Some of you are, and I love you for it.) Most are simply very, very tired. They are tired of pretending that sex is a matter of dominance and performance, that they’re supposed to be the pounding engine and the final destination is always someone else’s mouth or thigh or face. It gets old, believe me. And after a decade or three of being told how you’re supposed to be—a provider, a protector, a paragon of sexual power—the idea of flipping that script is not just hot, it’s holy. It’s subversive in a way you can only appreciate if you’ve spent a lifetime on top, metaphorically or otherwise.

The call usually starts with a soft hello. You can always tell a CEI guy by the first thirty seconds. Some are quick about it, launching into the scenario like it’s an elevator pitch: “Hi, I want you to humiliate me and make me cum in my hand and make me eat it, please.” Others dance around the subject for minutes, even hours. They want you to discover it, coax it out of them, make them say it out loud. These are the true believers, the penitent ones.

Once, a guy called me from a hotel bathroom in Phoenix. His wife was asleep in the other room. He was supposed to be at a sales conference, but he’d left early to call me, because “it was the only time I could really be myself.” I asked what being himself meant. He started crying, so softly I thought the line was breaking up. “I just want to feel something I’m not allowed to feel,” he said. “Can you do that?” I said yes, and when it was over, and he was spent and panting, he said thank you in the same tone you’d use if someone caught you falling off a ladder. He called again three months later. I remembered his voice immediately.

Here’s another secret: nobody likes the taste. Not at first. Not the guys, not the girls, not the phone sex operator who’s roleplaying as your cruel stepmom and has to describe, in lurid detail, the texture, the warmth, the “little flecks of sperm like tapioca in a Jell-O cup” (actual phrase I was once requested to use). They all want it to be about the taste, but the taste is not the point. The point is the humbling. The point is being seen—really seen, not just as a dick with a credit card, but as a needy little boy in an adult body, desperate for approval and punishment at the same time.

This is why I’m so good at my job. I see you. I see all of you, every last trembling inch of you. When you cum for me, it’s not just a transaction. It’s a confession. It’s a little death and a little resurrection. And when I make you eat it, when I call you a good boy or a worthless bitch or whatever gets your inner engine revving, I am giving you the rarest thing in the world: the permission to want what you want. Even if you think it’s disgusting. Especially if you think it’s disgusting.

You would not believe how many of my regulars are married. You would not believe how many are successful, handsome, athletic, absolutely normal in every respect except for this one secret shame they nurse like a bottle of vintage port. I had a client for two years who was a federal judge. I had another who was a pediatrician. There are guys who call from their cars during their lunch breaks, jerking off in the driver’s seat with the Bluetooth set to max volume. There are college kids who call from the library bathroom, whispering so quietly I have to guess what they’re saying and then repeat it back to them, louder, dirtier, more real.

You might be wondering what a typical cum eating phone sex call sounds like. Let me lay it out for you.

– You set the scene. Usually, you’re in the client’s home, or in some borrowed space—a dorm room, a hotel, the backseat of a car in a strip-mall parking lot.

– You ramp up the humiliation. “You like that, don’t you? You fucking love it. You want to see how far you can go for me, don’t you, little piggy?”

– You choreograph the orgasm. Sometimes you instruct them to cum in their own mouth, sometimes into a cup or onto a plate, sometimes onto a slice of bread (don’t ask). The logistics are surprisingly important.

– You make them eat it. Slowly, methodically, narrating every second, every little whimper, every attempt to back out or “accidentally” spill it on the carpet.

– You close with affirmation depending on the caller’s taste: “Good boy, I’m proud of you,” or “You’re such a fucking pathetic loser, I hope you choke on it.” Both can be equally effective.

If you’re reading this because you’re thinking of calling a CEI sex line, let me offer some guidance:

– It’s normal. Maybe not dinner-party normal, but certainly within the grand tradition of sexual deviance that makes the world interesting.

– If you call me, I will not judge you. I will, however, charge you $2.99 a minute. 

So here’s my advice, for cum eaters: Don’t be afraid of what you want. Don’t apologize for needing more than you’re allowed to ask for. If you have to, call me. I’ll be here, headset on, ready to help you swallow whatever you need to swallow. The taste will get easier. I promise.

Click the button below to check out my services and which payment methods I accept… Or just pick up the phone and call or text Me at 484-483-5162