Cooking Lessons

I didn’t know how I got there, lying in pools of cum. I vaguely remembered cocks, so many cocks. Hands moving, balls, hollering, clapping, laughing. When I thought about it, I could sort of recall the feel of lukewarm cum as it rained down upon me from above. It just kept flying through the air, seemingly for hours. I fell asleep. When I woke, I was lying on the linoleum floor in the kitchen, my hands tied over my head. I moved my legs and they slid in cum. Slick and cool, the cum pooled beneath my ass and behind my neck. I looked at my naked body and it was streaked in dried and crusted jism. I was marinated in the juices of men. Sunlight was just warming the walls of the kitchen. The soft twitter of morning birds accentuated the silence.

He walked out and smiled at me. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary to see me bathed and naked on his kitchen floor. I shook my head affirmatively. He was still naked and I watched his legs and ass as he walked around me, filling the coffee maker with water and scooping the grounds into the filter. He turned the maker on, then knelt down beside me and kissed my encrusted lips. His hands ran over my body, spreading the last of the pooled cum all over me. It felt silky and smooth, a thick viscous icing. My nostrils flared like a mare in heat as the pungent, clover-sweet, smell of mingled sperm wafted through the air. I was confused, but dizzy with desire.

The memories of the evening slowly came back to me. He had asked me to be the waitress at his annual stag party. I was the only woman. I was to remain naked at all times, and serve the men drinks and hors d’oeuvres, while they played pool, smoked cigars and drank whiskey. There were, at least, ten of them, but I couldn’t remember the exact number. By the end of the evening, it seemed as though more men had showed up. All I really knew for sure is that I was now lying tied up and naked on his floor, covered with dried and drying cum, and loving every minute of it.

When the coffee was done, he untied me and helped me off the floor. We sat across from each other, at the table, and sipped on the strong black elixir. I ran my fingers through my hair; tried to, anyway. It was wadded and caked in dried cum. I ran my hands over my body and felt the talcum softness of millions and millions of dehydrated cells packed into the pores of my skin. It was like the feel of baby powder on a soft baby’s butt. We didn’t talk; didn’t need to. I smiled a lot; so did he. Finally, he spoke.

“Let’s pack up and head to the spot,” he said, a devilish grin flashing across his face. My stomach immediately tightened and the Kegel’s I’d been practicing involuntarily kicked into action.

“OK,” I mumbled, “but I’d better go take a shower.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” he said, rather adamantly. “You’re going just like THAT. You’ve been marinating, all night. It’s time we cooked you up for dinner.”

I sat and drank my coffee, while he gathered up towels and toys and the cooler. After arranging all of the goods for our outing, he cooked me breakfast, all the time keeping my coffee cup filled. He treated me, as he had always treated me, with love and respect and warmth. I so loved this man.

After breakfast, we put on enough clothing to get to the car, then took it off. The day was going to be a hot one. By 10:00 am, the mercury was already hitting 75 degrees. And where we were headed, it would be a skillet by noon. The windows were down, and we’d traded our cups of coffee in and replaced them with cups of chilled white wine. The warming summer air that swirled through the car, blew the scent of my marinated body around us like incense.




“You were awesome, baby,” he finally said, about 50 miles into our journey.

“Oh, really?” I asked, coyly. “How so?” (I really did not remember much)

“You must have had about 20 orgasms,” he stated, rather matter-of-factly, an approving grin lighting up his face.

“I did not!” I blurted, not quite believing it, and certainly not remembering it.

“Don’t you remember the kitchen counter?” he asked, incredulously.

“Nope.”

“Oh my god! You were fucking amazing!” he crowed

I didn’t know how to respond. My mind was racing. What the fuck had I done? I decided to not ask; at least, not just then. Instead, I bent over and took his excited cock in my mouth and tasted him, lazily, while he drove. Between the musk of his crotch and the intoxication perfume of my sperm-coated skin, I was going a bit crazy with desire. Whatever it was I had done, the night before, I wanted more of it.

The miles seemed to pass, quickly. Before long, we pulled into our usual parking spot and threw on our skimpy clothing. He picked up the cooler and the duffel bag, I picked up the towels, and we were off. We walked to our secret spot in the sun, a delightful precipice that overlooks the Columbia River Gorge. Nestled in the craggy, volcanic, hoodoos is a flat bed. That is where I unfurled our towels.




We stripped and settled onto our towels, under the blazing sun. He reached into his duffel and brought out a bottle of olive oil (extra virgin, of course). He poured the oil, liberally, over my splayed and welcoming body. The mingling aroma of high desert dust and sage, olive oil and cum made me tingle to the core. The liquid of my desire pooled inside of me, waiting for his entry. The entry didn’t happen. He teased me, incessantly, there in the baking sun. My nipples sizzled in the sun, my pussy fried. I had marinated, all night, and now I was cooking. I was his meal, the thing he ate over and over and over, until there was nothing but bone and marrow, quivering like a naked nerve in the searing sun. When he was sated, had filled his stomach with the succulent juices of my meaty crotch, he stood over me and hollered into the open-air kitchen, as his cum spewed out in long spicy streams and coated me, once again.




Suddenly, the preceding evening all came back to me.