The throat destruction was an exquisite inferno, a visceral siege on my most vulnerable passage that turned my esophagus into a ravaged conduit of ecstasy and agony. It unfolded during the blowbang, as those six towering Black men encircled me on my knees in that lavish hotel suite, their uncircumcised cocks—thick, veiny behemoths, each pulsing with heat and precum—slapping against my porcelain cheeks like demands I couldn’t refuse. My brunette hair was already gripped in one fist, yanking my head back to expose my throat, my glasses slipping down my nose from the sweat and tears.

     The onslaught began with the first deep-throat: the stranger’s 13-inch monster, foreskin retracting as he fed it past my lips, over my tongue, and straight into my gullet. The stretch was immediate and merciless—the glans, bulbous and slick, wedging against my tonsils before forcing them apart, the veins like knotted ropes scraping the soft, mucous membranes of my pharynx. I gagged instantly, a violent heave that convulsed my diaphragm, bile surging up in acidic waves, but he didn’t relent. Thrusting deeper, he breached my esophagus proper, the tight tube dilating painfully around his girth, muscle rings spasming in futile resistance. I felt the precise tear: micro-fissures in the esophageal lining, warm blood trickling internally, mixing with saliva and vomit as I retched explosively, chunks of half-digested food spewing from the corners of my mouth, coating his shaft in gritty, foul slurry.

     They rotated, each cock more brutal than the last. One rammed with short, jackhammer jabs, bruising my vocal cords until my screams turned hoarse, raspy whispers—laryngeal cartilage creaking under the pressure, my voice box swelling like a battered fruit. Another went slow and deep, twisting his hips to grind those prominent veins against the walls, abrading the delicate epithelium raw, leaving it inflamed and weeping. Vomit came in torrents now, my stomach contracting violently with each intrusion, expelling hot, bitter floods that bubbled around their lengths, dripping down my chin onto my heaving breasts. The destruction mounted: my uvula battered flat, dangling uselessly; the epiglottis folded unnaturally, choking my airway until stars danced in my vision from oxygen deprivation.

     Then came the one with the 14-inch serpent—the true annihilator. He positioned himself deliberately, the head slipping past my teeth, gliding down my throat in a relentless descent that felt like swallowing a sword. Inch after inch invaded, stretching my esophagus to its anatomical limit, the tube ballooning outward visibly under my neck’s skin, a grotesque bulge snaking downward like a swallowed python. Deeper still, past the sternum, curving into my mediastinum, until the tip plunged through the lower esophageal sphincter and dipped into my stomach proper. The sensation was unholy: his cockhead swirling in my gastric juices, enzymes tingling and fizzing against his sensitive foreskin, the acid burning faintly on any micro-abrasions. My stomach roiled in protest, vomiting up more bile that frothed around him, but he stirred deliberately, churning my insides like a blender, the veins pulsing against my esophageal walls in a feedback loop of torment.

     The mayhem was complete—my throat a wrecked tunnel, lining shredded and bleeding, muscles fatigued to paralysis, gag reflex obliterated into nonexistence. Each withdrawal dragged mucus and blood in strings, my neck throbbing with deep bruises, the cartilage rings potentially cracked from the repeated battering. I could feel permanent changes: a looseness in my swallow, a raw scrape with every breath, my voice reduced to a croak from vocal fold edema.

     Yet, despite the carnage—or precisely because of it—the throat orgasms erupted like geysers from hell, transforming the destruction into a depraved symphony of bliss.

The first hit during a particularly savage face-fuck: as a cock bottomed out in my esophagus, the pressure triggered a cervical-esophageal climax—a deep, throbbing pulse originating from the ravaged nerves in my pharynx. It wasn’t genital; it was oropharyngeal ecstasy, waves radiating from my tonsils downward, making my clit throb untouched and my pussy clench in sympathy. I squirted messily onto the marble floor, the orgasm so intense it blacked out my edges, tears streaming as I gurgled around him, the pleasure a violent counterpoint to the pain.

     Deeper ones followed—the esophageal kind, born from the intestinal-like stretch of my gullet. With the long cock in my stomach, stirring my acids, a hollow, sucking implosion built from the cardia upward. My esophagus spasmed around him, milking involuntarily, each contraction amplifying the friction on those abraded walls. The peak was cataclysmic: a full-throat convulsion that sent ecstasy lancing through my core, squirting in explosive bursts as I wept, the uncanny bliss making me crave more invasion. Vomiting mid-orgasm only heightened it—the heave syncing with the waves, turning regurgitation into rhythmic rapture.

     They cascaded relentlessly—throat aftershocks chaining into stomach-tingling tsunamis—leaving me a sobbing, quivering mess. Even as my gullet gaped loosely, raw and ruined, the orgasms persisted, each one more unhinged, binding agony to euphoria eternally. By the end, when they finally released my head—my throat a swollen, bloodied wreck, stomach enzymes still bubbling up—I collapsed gasping, forever hooked on the destruction that birthed such forbidden highs.