textfiles/sex/EROTICA/G/garlic.txt

Archive-name: garlic

TBSinLA

On the day after Thanksgiving, she bought garlic.  At first I thought
it strange.  She fondled garlics in the market, looking for heavy
heads with tight skins.  "I like the purplish ones," she said with a
sexy look, dropping three heads into a plastic bag.

"Garlic flavors your cum," she answered, when I asked later why she
was sauteeing 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 of 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 ficus 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 mugfuls 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.  She just started to snore.

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 stared into my crotch.  I had my penis
well hidden, squeezed between my legs.  He sat with knees far a part.
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 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 did not 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 for his eyes, but his cock,
about two feet away, was right at 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.

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."

We didn't speak again.  I could breath, but at times I couldn't keep
my teeth out of his cock.  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.  His cum welled up.  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."

"I have never, never treated you like that."  I cried more.

She came up to me, hugged me.  "Okay.  I don't know what we're talking
about, but okay.  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."