She is his eager cum vessel, lips parting in a soft, perpetual O of invitation, tongue flicking out to trace the air as if savoring the ghost of salty precum already. Her throat hums with need, relaxing into a greedy sheath that swallows inch after throbbing inch, gagging just enough to send shivers up his spine while her pussy clenches rhythmically below, jealous and dripping in sympathy. She'll worship with sloppy, devoted slurps, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed, until his groans build to a crescendo and he erupts in thick, flooding spurts that coat her tongue and slide warm down her throat. She'll milk it all with tender, eager pulses of suction, relishing the taste, texture, and weight of a meal as vital and nourishing as air. This programming rewires her every swallow into a spark of bliss, turning breakfasts into cravings for his load, lusting after lunchtime treats that only he can give her. By dinner, she'll be so worked up, so ravenous with hunger, she'll skip straight to the main dish. He will cum inside you—inside all of your slutty fuckholes—over and over again, shooting hot thick gushers of cum into every warm wet inch of your hungry body. And when he's done using your body, filling you with his hot thick cock and flooding you full of cum... he will leave your body dripping and drooling and soaking and wet with cum—hot white thick cum oozing from every hot wet crevice, trickling down your thighs in sticky rivers that mark you as claimed, as owned, as his perfect, leaking sissy toy. Your pussy will clench around the memory of his girth, fluttering empty and aching, a pink, swollen echo of the pounding that made your whole world shudder and quake, while your ass gapes just a little, whispering promises of next time, and the next time, and the next time. And when he fills you again—because oh yes, you'll be so good, so very very good that you'll make sure there will be a next time—then there will be a moment where time holds still and he is so very deep inside, throbbing and spurting and coating your inner walls with warm, creamy jets, that you'll forget that you've ever been empty at all, or why you'd ever want to be anything but full.