My Lover Hated One Taste Until That Morning

Hello again, readers. Today I want to tell you something that happened to me a while back with a woman I was seeing for several months. We didn’t have anything serious, and there was no need to. We slept together, laughed, slept over when we felt like it, and each of us went on with our own life. We were both comfortable that way, without promises or drama. Why complicate something that worked?

Her name was Marisa, though almost everyone called her Mari. She was a little younger than me, just turned thirty, but she looked younger. People who knew her would have guessed twenty-five without hesitation. She wasn’t very tall, about five foot three, with a few extra pounds that drove me wild. She had a round, sweet face, natural blonde hair down to her shoulders, big eyes the color of impossible blue, very fair skin, and full lips that were asking for trouble.

Those extra pounds gave her curves you just don’t see anymore. Her ass was a work of art, round and firm, the kind that keeps you staring even when she doesn’t realize it. And her chest, my God, her chest was another story. Big, generous, the kind that fills both hands and still leaves more. Because of their size they sagged a little, but I didn’t care. To me they were perfect exactly as they were.

Anyway, I don’t want to go on describing her all afternoon. We saw each other a couple of days a week, sometimes three, and had a great time. We fucked until we were wrecked, trying everything. She had no objections to almost anything, and that’s something you really appreciate when there’s trust. What we had was comfortable, fun, and free of taboos. Almost free of taboos, rather. Because there was one thing.

***

When she stayed the night, in the morning we’d have breakfast together before she went back to her place to shower and change. I always had something ready for her: orange juice and her chocolate cereal, which was what she liked best. I made do with coffee and toast, because orange juice on an empty stomach gives me acid reflux. Little routines we had built without even realizing it.

And here comes the detail that gives all this its title. Marisa hated the taste of milk. And when I say milk, I mean it in every possible sense. Cow’s milk made her gag; she never even tasted it. And mine, the other kind, she couldn’t stand either. It was literally the only thing I had never managed to get her to do.

On a very rare occasion she would let me finish in her mouth, but she did it for me, not because she wanted to. And it always ended the same way: she’d run to the bathroom to spit it out, rinsing again and again until the taste was completely gone. Watching her go off with that disgusted face, holding back nausea, killed the mood for me immediately. I hated knowing she was having a bad time just to indulge me.

So I decided not to ask her again. I love having them swallow, I’m not going to lie, but I like them to enjoy it, not suffer through it. What is pleasure for one person can’t be torture for the other. The rest between us was so good that giving that up cost me next to nothing. I could come wherever I wanted: on her back, on her ass, on her stomach, on her chest, even on her face. Everything except that.

—Honestly, I don’t mind —I told her one of those nights, holding her from behind—. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.

—I know —she answered—. But I know you’d like it. And that pisses me off.

I didn’t push it. I didn’t want her to feel forced into anything.

***

The problem is that the mind is treacherous. No matter how much I’d decided to move on, the image kept coming back on its own. I started fantasizing about her in a way I couldn’t control: Marisa opening her mouth, showing me it full, and then swallowing with a smile, really enjoying it. It wasn’t the act itself, it was the idea that she wanted it as much as I did.

I must have spaced out too many times, because she noticed. Marisa was sharp, she read every one of my silences.

—Is something wrong? —she asked one afternoon while we were getting dressed—. You’ve been weird for a few days.

—No, I’m fine.

—Don’t lie to me, we know each other.

I brushed it off a couple of times, but by the third I was tired of dodging her and told her. I didn’t dramatize it, made it clear I wasn’t blaming her for anything, that it was all my head and my imagination. I thought she’d get angry or feel pressured. But she did the exact opposite.

—You know I’ve been thinking about it too? —she confessed, sitting on the edge of the bed—. I really tried to get myself used to the idea. But just imagining it makes me gag. It’s not because of you, it’s that taste. It’s too much for me.

—You don’t have to force yourself —I repeated.

—The thing is I want to. That’s the point. I want to be able to, and I can’t. It drives me crazy that something so stupid gets stuck in my throat.

I hugged her and told her not to worry, that sooner or later we’d find a way. I didn’t know what it would be yet, but I’d come up with something. I said it to comfort her, without imagining I’d end up making it happen.

***

A few weeks went by without us bringing it up again. We carried on as always, seeing each other, laughing, wearing the sheets out. Until one morning, while we were having breakfast together in the kitchen, it hit me. I was looking at her bowl of chocolate cereal floating in milk, and all of a sudden all the pieces fell into place on their own.

The idea was so simple and so twisted at the same time that it almost made me laugh. If what disgusted her was the taste, all I had to do was disguise it. Hide it inside something she did like. Something sweet, strong, that would cover up any other nuance.

—Hey —I said, setting my coffee cup down on the table—. Do you still want to try?

She looked up from her spoon, understood what I meant, and bit her lip. She nodded slowly, first with a little fear and then with curiosity.

—Trust me —I added—. This time it’ll be different. If you don’t like it, we stop and that’s the end of it.

I stood up, held out my hand, and helped her to her feet. I turned her gently and lowered her shoulders a little, showing her where I wanted her. No more words were needed. Marisa understood my body almost better than I did.

***

She knelt in front of me, still in her pajamas, with that nervous half-smile I knew so well. She pulled my pants down and started sucking me with her usual skill, taking her time, looking up at me now and then to watch my reaction. She knew exactly what she was doing and enjoyed having me at her mercy.

I was already at the edge before we even started. I had spent weeks imagining that moment, and having her there, on her knees and willing, had me ready to explode. She noticed the first spasms, those little warnings that say there isn’t much left, and picked up the pace, thinking I was going to finish in her mouth like the other times.

—Wait —I told her, holding myself back with all my strength—. Stop for a second.

She looked at me, confused, not understanding the change of plans. I reached toward the table and grabbed her bowl of cereal, the chocolate one, which was still half full. She kept glancing at me, bewildered, but I gestured for her to keep going and she obeyed, still not catching my move.

I held on a few minutes longer, just enough to make sure there was no turning back. When I knew I couldn’t stop anymore, I pulled my cock out of her mouth and finished with my hand, aiming straight into the bowl. I spilled everything I’d been holding back from the night before over the chocolate cereal, mixing it well with the milk until there wasn’t a trace left to tell them apart.

Marisa watched the scene with her eyes wide open, stunned by the amount and, above all, still unable to believe what was in front of her. I took a spoon from the drawer, sank it into the bowl, and scooped up a few well-soaked pieces of cereal.

—I promise you —I told her, bringing the spoon to her lips—. Mixed like this, you won’t notice a thing. If it disgusts you, spit it out and that’s that.

***

She hesitated. The spoon trembled a little in front of her mouth and she stared at it like someone looking over a cliff. An eternity passed in a few seconds. Then, slowly, she parted her lips and accepted the bite.

She chewed calmly, focused, searching for that taste she feared so much. I watched her without breathing, ready to yank the bowl away at the first grimace. But the grimace never came. She closed her eyes for an instant, swallowed, and fell thoughtful.

—Well? —I asked.

—Well… —she began, surprised by herself— it’s good. I don’t notice anything weird. It tastes just as good as always.

She took the spoon from my hand with a mischievous smile and kept eating on her own, as if nothing had happened. Spoonful after spoonful, she emptied the whole bowl. I stood there, still catching my breath, hardly believing what I was seeing. She even scraped the bottom and licked it clean so as not to leave a single drop.

—It wasn’t so bad, see? —she said when she finished, wiping the corner of her mouth with her finger—. Maybe the problem was the way you were giving it to me.

I burst out laughing. Not because it was funny, but because of the relief. We had crossed that line without her suffering the slightest bit, which was exactly what I wanted. And, let’s not kid ourselves, also because I had just fulfilled a fantasy that had been haunting me for months.

***

From that morning on, everything changed a little between us. Not all at once or in any dramatic way, but with the naturalness of people who discover a new game. We started trying the trick with other things: hot chocolate, jam, anything with a strong enough flavor to serve as cover. Every breakfast became a little shared mischief, a secret only the two of us knew.

The funny thing is that, over time, she stopped needing the disguise. What had begun as an affectionate trick to dodge her rejection turned into something she could do without hesitation. I suppose the disgust had never really been on the tongue, but in the head. And once the head gives in, the rest follows on its own.

Of those months, I keep a wonderful memory. We never looked for anything serious and we never had it, but we gave each other exactly what each of us needed at that moment. Sometimes I think about her and wonder whether she still eats chocolate cereal and whether she remembers why she likes it so much.

There were more stories like this, other experiments in that kitchen that deserve their own telling. But I’ll leave those for another day. If you liked this one, tell me in the comments and I’ll tell you how we kept playing. Until next time.