An unhappy husband loses it for a moment with another guy at a sports club – jizz soup

“Garlic flavors your cum,” she answered, when I asked
later why she was saut’ing the entire three heads, now
finely minced, in olive oil. Then she added stock,
chicken I think, and brewed the concoction for a while,
filling the house with the smell of garlic and warmth.
I sat on the Windsor chair in the dining room looking
into the kitchen to watch her watch the pot softly
bubble.

She added cream, and then pulled from under the stove
her Braun hand blender. She plugged it into the outlet
on the stovetop and lowered the blade into the pot.
Turning her head to look at me, she pushed the trigger.
It whirred; she turned it, gripping it with both hands
which rubbed her breasts in the circling.

My penis grew semi-hard, popping through the hole in my
boxers and pressing against the zipper of my Gap
denims. I quickly had to adjust. I dug my hand into my
left pocket, now embarrassed because she knew she
excited me. I unfolded my cock, and pressed it out
under my jeans so the head nestled under the top
button.

She added salt, I think some nutmeg and white pepper
(the better pepper, she always says) to the brew,
tasting by dipping her middle finger quickly in the
soup and then wrapping her tongue around it. I didn’t
know what she was doing, but the tip of my cock cleared
the top edge of my blues.

She ladled a large sample into a mug, and brought it to
me. “Drink it,” she directed, “I want all of your cum
to taste of it.” I took the mug.

“Don’t you want my cum now?” I said, like a pimply high
school junior on a third Friday night date. I pulled up
my T-shirt over my stomach, showing the leading edge of
my swollen penis. I looked down at it, and thought of
salmon heading up stream. I was almost silver in the
afternoon light, and a stream of cum flowed out the top
and down the side.

“Drink it,” she said more emphatically, but, thinking
with my cock, I misunderstood. I swabbed the small
amount of cum off my cock with a finger and sucked it
off with my tongue.

“No, drink the fucking soup, you shithead.”

“Mmmm. It’s good,” I said feebly, licking the excess
off my lips. “It’s not too garlicky, but kind of
sweet.”

She shook her head and walked into the bathroom. I
heard the shower start. I gulped the rest of the soup –
– it was delicious — and thought seriously of
masturbation. I still had a significant hard on. I laid
the mug on the table, unbuttoned and unzipped.

My penis pointed to the ceiling. It was beautiful in
Renoir’s light — long, hard, dappled with the low sun
through the fichus tree in dining room window. I knew I
was close, and only a few hearty strokes would leave me
limp and gooey in the dining room chair. But the shower
stopped, and I didn’t want her to catch me. I stood and
stuffed myself back in, buttoning and zipping. It hurt
a little when my cock shrunk back against the zipper.

I wanted to save my cum for her anyway. In fact, I had
been saving it. She always insisted on tasting and
swallowing my, my — what do the kids call it? My wad.

Each night, when we made love, I would start by
straddling her stomach, my balls on her belly button.
She puts pillows behind her head, curving her neck and
face up over her breasts so she could stare right into
the eye of my penis. I begin usually by rubbing the
head over her nipples, which are brown and wide, wider
than my cock. Her nipple comes up stiff, tickling the
little fold of skin where head becomes shaft.

From time to time, she makes me masturbate for her, but
usually she pulls her head closer, like she’s doing a
stomach crunch at the gym. I put my hands through her
arm pits and grab her shoulder blades and pull her
farther. Her breasts crunch into my balls and the base
of my penis, surrounding the shaft.

It gets wet in there quickly. Her mouth spills spit and
I push myself into her mouth and pull it out like a
drill searching for payload. It
doesn’t take me long this way, and she sucks my wad out
of me like a kid sucks the last remnants of a shake out
of a soda glass through the straw.

When I have a big wad, if I haven’t shot it in five
days or so, she likes me to come out of her mouth in
the payoff moment. She falls back on the pillow, and
she watches as I spew and squirt. The first blast
usually hits her hair, the second her lips, and the
third, fourth and fifth (six if I am really loaded and
the gods are with me) coat her breasts.

It sometimes makes me a little uncomfortable, like it’s
a seedy cum shot from a porn video. (I heard a video
actress on Donahue denounce these as the worst part of
the business.) She loves it. She lies still, feeling it
drip down her skin, licking the semen that comes in
reach of her tongue. She rubs the glob in her hair deep
into her scalp.

She remained pretty cool to me that night she made the
soup; I drank two more mugfull’s to prove my sincerity.
It didn’t help. “Blow yourself, tell me what you
taste,” was her line when we climbed into bed that
night.

“But it’s been eight days,” I pleaded. I had just
returned from a Midwest recruiting trip, and had
refrained from masturbation, very rare for me. “I want
to see if I can get seven squirts,” now sounding like a
college freshman beating off with his suitemates for
the first time.

**

I woke up at 2 a.m. I had to pee bad. I was erect, the
sort of middle-of-the-night merciless boner which hurts
with a full bladder. I lumbered into the bathroom and
pointed at the wall behind the toilet for a few minutes
until soft enough to get the stream into the bowl. I
peed for two minutes — garlic soup now yellow water. I
smiled. “Where did the white stuff end up?”

I hopped back in bed, her back still to me. I spooned
in. My soft cock against her white panties. She moved
just a little when I put my lips on her neck. I reached
my right hand around and cupped her breast, lifting the
right from the left, holding her heaviness in one hand.
Her nipple came up.

“You are such a shit,” she whispered. “You think I live
here to give you blow jobs.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Like hell you are. You make me feel like a whore.” She
cried a little. “I don’t need it.”

I rolled on my back, dropping her breast and freeing my
cock from the fabric protected crack of her ass. I
could make out the texture of the cottage cheese
ceiling, but I had nothing to say.

**

In the morning, she was gone when I awoke. She left no
note. Her bicycle was gone. I figured she went out for
a long hammer.

I went back to bed and smeared lube on my limp cock. I
pumped, but only got to half steam. I stopped, went to
the bathroom and washed my hands. “Fuck her,” I said.

So I went to the gym to play squash.

Afterwards, in the locker room, I stripped and walked
to the sauna. As I passed through the room with sinks,
there was a beautiful man shaving. Entirely naked, he
was tall and lean. His butt was round and firm, his
back broad and shoulders defined. In the mirror, he had
a beautiful chest hairless like a Calvin Klein model,
captivating lips and eyes and a strong chin under the
shaving cream.

I glimpsed down in the mirror, a reflex?, to check out
his penis. Pure limpness, it was large and thick,
though “fat” seems the better adjective. It hung a long
way down his thigh and the tip rested on the Formica.
It swung with his shaving motion. His eyes flashed and
caught me looking. I kept walking, embarrassed and a
little jealous at his good looks, and turned into
sauna, pushing up the temp as I went.

With my eyes closed, I heard the door open a minute
later. I listened to the boards creek as a man — I
feared it was him — sat down across from me. There
were no other sounds but our breathing; no showers ran,
the place being pretty quiet two days after
Thanksgiving.

I opened my eyes. His eyes where glued to my crotch. I
had my penis well hidden, squeezed between my legs. He
sat with knees far a part, then he lifted his eyes to
mine.

“When I grow up, I want to be able to put aftershave
lotion on my face and not have it burn,” he said
slowly.

“Yeah,” I replied, realizing he was trying to break the
ice, “it’s that thin stuff, you know cheap stuff.” God,
I thought, what a slip, I hope he didn’t catch it.

I walked out and got in a shower, pulling the curtain
carefully across the front, though it didn’t quite
cover all the way. A minute later, I heard the shower
across and over from me begin. As I rinsed the soap
from my hair, and opened my eyes. I could see him
clearly in his shower through the opening in my
curtain. He hadn’t pulled his shut.

He was doing what large-dicked men often do; he was
showing off. I was his only audience. He soaped his
pecs, his round brown nipples between his fingers. He
soaped his stomach. He soaped his pubic hair. He soaped
his penis. Then he put two huge balls in his hands and
soaped them.

I turned off my water and quickly wrapped my towel
around my waist. I stopped in the sink room to comb my
hair, and as I turned to my locker I saw him, in the
mirror, step out of the shower. I didn’t peek.

Fate had his locker near mine, and as I sat on a stool
in my boxer shorts, buttoning my shirt, he walked
toward me, naked and swinging, beautiful and godlike,
even in the corner of my eye.

“So, did you have a good Thanksgiving?” he asked.

I turned my head to answer. He was standing. My eyes
went to his eyes, but his cock, about two feet away,
was right at my eye level. He planned it, I know, and
it worked. Even though I eventually found his eyes, I
had another good look. Was this Mapplethorpe’s model?
Could this be the man without his polyester suit? This
man was bigger soft than I am hard. And he looked, in
his penis, so heavy, but he was so lean.

I wanted to reach out and touch him there. I wanted to
cradle him and feel him grow in my hand. Better, I
wanted to put him soft in my mouth and see if I could
still breath when he was hard. What was I thinking?

He knew my thoughts, even as I muttered, “Thanksgiving
was great, but cold. We had a picnic.”

“We?” he asked.

“My wife and I,” I said.

“Yeah, it was cold,” he said.

We didn’t speak again. I could breathe, but at times I
couldn’t help but scrape him with my teeth. My jaw
ached. With the huge cockhead in my mouth, I gripped
him like a baseball bat with two hands and pumped with
a vengeance. I knew that his cum was welling up when I
heard him groan softly. He shot and shot, and I
swallowed and swallowed. His cum was salty and tasted
of garlic.

**

She sat on the couch watching TV when I walked in. She
was in bike tights and a Lycra jersey. She was spent
and beautiful.

“I know now,” I said softly.

“What?”

“I know what it feels like,” I said turning off the TV.

“You lost me. What are you talking about?”

“I know what a whore feels like.” I cried a little. We
stared at each other, saying nothing.

“I don’t understand you,” she said.

“I have never, never treated you like that,” I said.

She came up to me, hugged me. “Okay. I don’t know what
we’re talking about, but I love you.”

“I love you so much.”

She kissed me, sticking her tongue in my mouth.

“Huh,” she grunted. “I can still taste a little of that
soup.”