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.
“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.
Her breathing slowed, her legs relaxed, her eyelids slowly opened and she stared at the ceiling while the rigid extension of his passion slid in, then out of her, in strong rhythm. When she regained her composure and the authority that she wanted, she pulled away from him, leaving his glistening tool waving and thrusting into the air. She rolled off of the table and stood beside him. She grabbed his cock and squeezed it, tightly. “Get on the table,” she ordered. “I’m gonna make you squirt big time.”
He sat on the edge of the table; she took her place in his chair. “Don’t eat that last scallop until I tell you,” she said, as she licked the head of his cum-soaked tool. He leaned back and watched. She looked into his eyes as she played her tongue around the ridged helmet and stabbed into his tiny hole. She circled his ball sac with her small fingers and pulled his balls down until he almost felt pain, then gulped the length of him into her throat. He threw his head back and groaned. The muscles in his stomach and inner thighs tightened. He felt the tension of building liquid in the labyrinthine tubules that carried his offering into the base of his cannon.
She popped his straining cock and held it in her hand. Pumping it, slowly, she licked the middle finger of her other hand and placed it, firmly, against the opening of his tight rectum. She smiled up into his face and slid inside of him. Feeling the small bulge against the soft, smooth, skin of this interior of him, she rubbed it in small circles, coaxing it, making it bigger. He was filling; she could feel it. Keeping up the maddeningly lazy stroke of her hands, she took the tip of him, again, into her lips and sucked. She squirmed in the chair as she tasted the beginning of his slow seeping juice. It tasted soft and sweet and a little musky. It coated her tongue and lips. She lapped at it like a kitten before a bowl of warm milk.
Suddenly, she pulled back and gazed at the rise and fall of her lover’s strong chest. She took that bone hard pecker in her hand and started a strong, tight-fisted, pistoning. Still massaging his inner gland, she watched and listened as he approached the delicious end of her torture. His eyes started to roll, and his neck muscles strained, as he felt the burning cum rise inside of him in a fierce stream.
Licking the end of his engorged head, she commanded, “Eat and watch!” He put the last scallop in his mouth and started to chew, while bellowing, as streams of white jizz blasted across her face and into her hair and down across her breasts. She was laughing and licking and drinking and rubbing him all over her cheeks and chin as he took his last, choking, swallow, then fell back onto the table.
She took the plate and placed it behind her, then moved toward him, to the edge of the table. “Now, fuck me,” she ordered, spreading her legs further.
She reached behind her and grabbed a scallop and handed it to him. He untied his pajama bottoms and let them fall to the floor as he stood and placed the helmet of his cock against the opening that pulsed and smacked and licked him in. He placed the ball of white meat against his lips and eased into her.
“Don’t finish, until I do,” she purred.
She watched him, watched each tiny nibble and the flexing of his jaws as he savored the tender flesh. With each grinding, tearing, shearing movement of his teeth, he thrust into her. Small bite, after small bite, after small bite. He measured his meal with the rhythm of her breathing and the meeting push of her hips. She watched, her eyes open. She watched the flex of his stomach, the smirk on his lips, the oceanic depth of his gaze. She watched the length of him withdraw, then disappear into her. He ate and she sucked him into her, then released him until she could take it no more.
Suddenly, the tension inside of her released like the tectonic plates of the earth. One edge slid under another and the waves of energy exploded, flooding the coastlines of her pussy in one huge deluge. She threw her head back, violently, and threw her breasts into the air as he took one last gulp of seafood and rammed into her body with full force.
What is with you, on this hike Is what you will see: Bullet holes of autumn leaves Lifeless heads of oak galls Broken bones of ancient trees. Unleash the grip and enter Open-palmed, unsheltered eyed And naked hope unfolds Rebirthing in the scattered flesh Multiplied and Gorgon-like Spreading like noxiousness In fields of the damned to take Over the path you chose Not to take, the red flowers Being simply what they are.
It was not until he said to search That she did, without the labor Of doubting what he’d said Thinking that the coldness In the rooms was expected Of the servitude of her marriage That the unwashed dish bore Testament, the folded shirt A shameful story forever told.
In a sudden breath, after The punch of daily worry Was swept into the blast She stood on the remainder Of life’s edge, outstretched In the flooding warmth her feet Barely touching earth Heart barely touching.
He chewed that last bite, savoring all that she had offered. “Take a drink,” she said. “Then, lick my clit.”
He sipped the champagne, eyeing the feast that was, literally, spread before him. The tender light of the candle glowed off her naked crotch. He was led toward the light, like a moth. His lips and tongue touched the fire and came back for more. She was ambrosia, addiction, lust, greed. Her body was his.
She wanted torture. She wanted to be led down a long path of discovery, to burst out of a deep mountain tunnel into the light of a secret valley. When the muscles of her inner thighs tightened, she directed him to take a bite of the second scallop. He did as he was told, tasting her as he tasted the sweet meat of the ocean. She watched the muscles of his jaw as he chewed, watched the dimples in his cheeks, the movement of his lips, the piercing gaze of his dark eyes. When he swallowed that first bite, she moved a little closer toward him. “Make me cum,” she ordered.
Her clit stood rigid against its hood, engorged with senses. When his tongue made contact, she moaned and threw her head back. She thought of water and sun and touch. She fantasized of hard cocks surrounding her, brushing up against her like fish. She felt the rain of cum upon her opened body, and heard the pulsing cries of man after man. His tongue on her was even, relentless, insistent. It forced the air in her lungs out of her. It forced the gripping spasms of her vagina to push and suck and push and suck and push and suck, until she erupted.
There were bruises on the inside of her knees when she stopped flailing. Her stomach lurked with every post-coital slurp across the head of her shameless clit. He backed off to allow her to breathe, and marveled at her beauty; all the sensuous curves and angles of her nakedness, made him hard against the silk. He rubbed the head of his cock, gently. His balls were moving, positioning, getting ready.
The round, plump, oval offerings of flesh sat before him. Lightly seared on the outside, but tender and sweet on the inside, they rested in a pool of lemon and clarified butter, a single sprig of watercress inviting his mouth. To the side, a tall glass of champagne, dry and bubbly, fizzing about the contours of a single strawberry. She had given him four scallops, one for each orgasm to come. He sat there in silk pajama bottoms, a plate of delicacy before him, a single candle lighting the room, waiting. She entered naked and walked behind him. Bending down, she whispered in his ear, “I have waited fifteen years for this. Please do what I say.”
She circled around and crawled up onto the table top. The flickering light of the candle licked her auburn skin, reflecting off her like dusky mountain light in a pan of gold flakes. She draped her legs over opposite sides of the table, opening her sex to him like another seafood entrée. “Take a sip of your drink, my love,” she ordered in a voice sultry, yet insistent. He did, as he watched her lean back and start rubbing her olive-oiled clit. His impulse was to follow the champagne with a nice bite of scallop, but she had other plans. When he reached for his fork, she stopped him.
“Rub my pussy with one of those,” she purred. “I want to add some special sauce.”
He did as he was directed, picking up a mound of buttery flesh and rubbing its warmth across her swelling clit and down into the opening into her well. He coated his meal with her offering. She threw her head back, her hair falling nearly to the table behind her. Her smooth belly rose and fell in the candlelight; her nipples pointed toward the ceiling. He withdrew the morsel from her and was about to pop it into his mouth when she looked into his eyes and directed, “Take a small bite.”
He did. She ran her fingers across her butter, lemon, garlic coated labia and masturbated in front of him as he chewed the soft meat of the scallop, tasting her. “Please, do that again,” she said, leaning back. He did as he was told. “Take another bite,” she commanded, as her breathing became more ragged and her hand wanted to travel across her pussy more insistently. He took another bite. The scallop was slathered with her. Her fingers dove into her body, emerging and diving, emerging and thrusting, emerging and pounding. “Do it again,” she commanded.
She arched back onto her elbows. He rubbed her clit with what remained of the first quarter of his supper. Her knees clenched the edges of the table and her toes curled as she yelled out in orgasm, washing his food with her cum.
“You can eat that, now,” she said, after the waves of her pleasure subsided. He did.