Love Stinks (M/F, Musk, cock worship, natural body, body worship, traditional gender roles)

His large truck pulled into their driveway, and Sophie was immediately alerted; this time was often spent in the kitchen looking out into the driveway and yard. She’d busy herself with the menial tasks of dishes and preparing dinner. Jeff often would be hungry shortly after his wind down from work, and the ever-dutiful Sophie was eager to satiate. Sophie was eager to show just how well she knew her husband and his needs.

She’d spent the better part of her afternoon absently musing, thoughtful, and analytic in nature; it was not unfamiliar territory for Sophie. The roast needed trimming and marinade; she cut little holes in it and stuffed it with cloves of garlic and sprigs. She carefully cut the autumn root vegetables and surrounded the slab of meat while she thought about her trip to gather all the ingredients.

It wasn’t uncommon that on her trips into town she interacted with people, at least at arm's length, or sometimes in her other endeavors. She was far from antisocial, but a big part of her love and, more importantly, her dedication to Jeff came from the freedom she was allowed, her philanthropy, and her homemaking. Today she reflected on a particular man, a large man. He was rounder than Jeff and more odious. His clothing was stained, and while she assembled her groceries on the conveyor, she found it offensive to stand next to him.

She wasn’t sure what the difference was between Jeff and the slob in the market—maybe the fact that Jeff worked up his sweat providing for them, for her. Maybe it was her strong feelings toward him. Maybe it was conditioning; she’d spent time working toward who and how she was today. Sophie gulped and knew she’d crossed a line somewhere down the row. Somewhere along her process of thought, the comparison and musing turned to fantasy and wishful thinking.

Somehow, she lost herself in the contrast, and suddenly the memory of her husband’s particular scent, a scent that she’d learned to melt for, a scent that, despite her body’s knee-jerk responses to, had nearly been conditioned free of, Jeff’s feet, his underarms, his testicles—these were not scents for the faint of heart. She was steel; in the crucible of domestic service to Jeff, she’d been forged and fired and came out stronger for it—however addicted.

Sophie blinked back to task, setting the roast to broil as heavy foot falls and a grumbling of relief came through her cracked window. The truck’s rumble ceased, and their main entrance, the front door, swung open. Jeff was home.

“Honey buns, I’m home!” His gruff call to her made her insides churn like butter, melting from the inside out. She literally felt herself weak already; she felt herself compelled to the door, but she remained in the kitchen, the heat of the oven barely compared to the heat in her loins as she closed it with the roast inside.
Her nostrils were flaring before he even got into the room, but it wasn’t long before she was rewarded for her efforts.

Jeff clomped into her kitchen with his messy boots on, and she croaked with dismay, “I just mopped, yuh big lug!” They both knew it was more of a show than genuine disappointment in him; she’d just mop again tomorrow.

“Awh hell,” he responded, “I’m sorry, m’love!” Chuckling, just sorry, not shameful, or guilty. They both knew better than to sweat the small stuff; that was their love. Day in, day out, their own domestic bliss came free of stress or conflict, and that was exactly why she loved him so desperately; she could just shut off.

She crossed toward him in a pair of comfy, tight leggings that cupped her rear just right—but not as perfectly as his mitt could. Jeff took hold of Sophie’s cheek, and she spilled over him. Jeff sat in a chair larger than the others, his chair, the one that went at the head of their kitchen table, the chair big enough to keep both off the ground with only a little whine or creak of knotted hardwood joints.

Leaning over him, she took a moment to adjust his collar, tugging at it with a little violence to shake his head. Sophie looked him in the eye as she did, grinning wildly, excited, and aroused. Her weight was of no consequence to him; Jeff lifted her to make the process of straddling his lap in the grand seat that much easier. Her toes wriggled in her socks, hanging over the edge of the chair. She put all her weight into his torso and spilled over him, arms haloing broad shoulders.

"Alright, daddy bear, gim’me some sugar, would y’ah?” She purred, and their lips met with the same spark they’d captured from the start. It wasn’t just the kiss that brought her from warmth to hot-hot-heat, that boiled in her belly and bubbled below the surface from. . . “Uhnngg,” a lusting groan and a “Smmfff!” deep inward inhale of his malt musk and the salt on his skin, of the stains on his clothes, and indeed everything that revolted her about some, was divine from one, from him. The heavy scent of her Jeff rushed up into her nostrils, and she broke the kiss with her forehead, then pressed to his. The gentle perspiration on each of their brows mixing. “Hard day, huh?” She could tell, and he grumbled in agreement.

"Y'ah. . . sore. Hrmph.” Letting her slide back, she began to kiss over facial hair and stubble both, down toward his collar, which she’d only just adjusted and the hard and hairy line of the very same bone. She could feel another, though, growing between his legs, feeling more strain than just that of him stretching out his tense shoulders and neck.

“Awh, hon.” A simmering sympathy for Jeff, “Mmph, smch. . . smck. Sssth,” she smacked her lips and smooched his skin, hissing when she reached the first button of his flannel, plaid work shirt, her nose flattened against the rough, sweaty hair poking up out of it. Nearly cursing herself, a whiff from under his arm spurred her downward. She slid off his lap and onto her knees, kneeling between his legs—her face barely just inches from the most prized position in their relationship, from a most prized possession of hers. She’d never been so territorial before meeting Jeff; she was someone, something changed with him—something more animal, more honest.

He did that to her, giving her the freedom to be whatever she wanted—something she didn’t quite know how to describe at this juncture. As freeing as it was to bury her face between his muscly, denim-clad thighs and the bulge between them, to rub her face into his crotch and breathe deep the scent of his manhood, she was also jailed by it. She couldn’t give him up, not anymore.

Her cheek smooshed into his crotch for a moment, but her hands were elsewhere, not yet committing to his belt loops and buckle but rather working her lips along his inner thigh with a few more sensual smooches. Her fingers found his cuffs and rolled them up over boots and high-hem socks, a faint whiff of something called work finding her nostrils and tickling the space between follicles.

She leaned her face to the side and kissed his leg, a solid trunk covered in dark wires, a huff of pent-up need and relief if one could feel both at the same time. Setting herself to the task, she kneeled there between Jeff's legs, looked up at him, and he smiled down on her to say, “Careful down there,” as if she were working with dangerous materials, he wasn’t fragile either.

Something more coy than a smirk crossed her lips; she’d be careful. “Always, big daddy.” Indulging him as she untied the knots in his boot strings and fought the left off with both hands, dramatizing the process a little for him, avoiding the dirty spots and pressing her chest into his pillar of a leg, tit flesh close to him till she managed it off. The odor of his soaked insoles and wet sock were not lost on her, and while she taught herself to enjoy them, the initial shock was always unavoidable. She slowly rolled his sock down his leg, ankle, and off his toes.

She didn’t toss the damp article aside; she placed it on her lap as if it were anointed by his sweat, not ruined, as if it were a religious article in the service—the worship of her lover’s body, and soul, of his essence.

The scent of his feet came with more than just the arousal of the act; she was conditioned to remember every last beautiful detail of their lovemaking, the scent a loving reminder of all the lust he’d imparted upon her—the love, the safety, the earth-shattering orgasms without care to count they’d mounted so high.

Sophie shivered, gulped, and carried on just for a moment before placing the boot to her side and bending over. She paused mid-journey, his toes splaying under her massaging fingers. “Ouh, smmmf, these dogs are really barkin’ today!” she announced with a husky tone in her throat projecting into the statement to avoid signaling the revolted feeling she always had to chase down initially. She pretended there was no catch or desire to gag in the back of her mind, and her nostrils flared with yet another long snort of his foot and the sweat between his toes, between wrinkles on his callous soles.

“Told’yuh, sore.” Echoing the word, it always came with the territory: sore meant exhausted, exhausted meant long day, long day meant he wanted to wind down, and winding down usually meant Sophie’s mouth put to work. She knew that as well, and with that very task in mind, she murmured and massaged. She kissed and smiled up at him when he added, “Dang, you really are something down there."

“You know it, boss.” She finally smirked for him, getting a little cocky before closing her eyes and submitting to the intense flavor and indeed scent of his foot, her nose pressed to it, just below his ankle, and she kissed. She kissed along the side of his foot and over the bridges; they were pale; he rarely went barefoot; she was sure if she didn’t tease him, he’d wear socks on the beach; she always made her smile to herself—her big bear. That chuckle carried her to the next task: a dip of her tongue between his toes that made him groan and hiss loudly made his body jerk with a slight tickle and some relief.

“Oauh, that’s right.” He encouraged her happily, shifting in his seat before offering the second boot for her to remove. She untied and loosened the laces before removing the boot with some difficulty—no stranger to the floor, no stranger to working from her knees, especially for him. She avoided any dirt or mud in the process, though her floor was not spared, nor were the knees of her pants, but she didn’t mind any.

“Where else would I be. . . but down here, enjoying myself with you?” The smirk is still smarmy on her lips. She lifted his second foot, the right, and inspected it briefly; the sock was still damp and wrinkled and needed to be removed. She found her lap like the other anointed article. With his heel up at eye level, she closed her eyes and pressed his foot to her face. It was as tall, if not taller than her angled features—certainly warmer and moist. She licked from the calloused ball of his heel up his wrinkled soul to his wiggling toes, the hollows, ridges, and valleys, the softer balls. They all tasted equally foul, the thick leavings of sweat melting on her tongue and rolling over it, melting her mind and senses with arousal she still didn’t entirely understand but very much appreciated.

She felt a wet spot form on her own, but Jeff came first. “Hff,” he huffed with approval, trying to form compliments with reason and wit, but all he could really tell her was combinations of “Ugh, good" and “That’s right.” She didn’t mind; she wasn’t with him for his wit, charming as he could be. He didn’t apologize; he knew this was a reward as much as a duty itself for Sophie.

“Goodness,” she huffed, slowly lowering his foot. Lost between his knees, she asked him to “help me with these,” her dainty, fair fingers finding the buckle of his belt. Sophie pulled his shirt out and unbuckled, pulled out, slid a button, and with the same surgical precision and obvious intention, she unzipped. "C'mon, Stud!” she grunted as she started to pull his pants off with his help.

As large as he was, "Oouf, be careful.” He repeated endearingly, of course she’d be. It wasn’t that he was obese but rather offensively large, a slab of muscle. With some difficulty she managed them down his trunk legs into a puddle around his ankles, boxer briefs and maybe more than just a pound of flesh behind, a lump, no, bulge on his crotch. He kicked the jeans just a bit to his side, the buckle scraping the floor and clacking before they settled, and deep breaths drowned out any other sound.

“Smmmmff, oooauh!” Her initial deep breath from his crotch came with a low, throaty moan. It was the supreme example of manhood, of musk, of delicious deliverance toward where she wanted to be and where she needed to be. Could she even get off without snorting one of his shirts anymore? She didn’t try but always left plenty of dirty laundry for when he went away on trips, just for something to sample in sumptuous moments under the sheets of their spacious mattress.

His underwear were peeled away with the same care, and while he was not fragile, she still treated him like a prize. The third and final article of his holy regalia came off, revealing a barely tamed collection of hair and, more importantly: the most impressive cock she’d come to know flopping free.
It was heavy in her hand. “You need a bath, big guy." She may or may not have been talking directly to Jeff, but she didn’t mean in the toilet or even with a sponge; she meant a very specific sort of' bath only lucky bears like him got. She groaned softly as she sized up his cock with her face. She lifted it from the underbelly and gave him a long, cursory stroke, letting him swell harder than before.

“So bih-hig,” He dwarfed her dainty digits, she liked telling him and he liked hearing it. Her fingers struggled to wrap around it and stroke with dexterity but she found if her wrist twisted in time, a skill that came from practice, she could get him there anyway “How does that feel, daddy?” a grunt was the only signal she needed, “--how about a taste. . ?” Yet another grunt, she could work around his size, she could make her husband feel the same security and trust she’d earned, the same affirmation.
Her tongue slowly dipped from lips toward a veined underbelly, toward the first taste of something a bit more sour, a bit more acrid than the rest. Sophie pressed her face into his cock and her chin into his testicles and licked the space between, plucking his frenulum with her tongue tip, guiding his girth against her features with one hand. Her arm draped over his lap, and her other hung low so she could cradle his satchel in her delicate palm. “Omgph,” a sound of difficulty accepting the taste and feel of his sweat melting away on her lips and printing her face with a heat that had staying power, she knew he’d bathed, she knew he was wearing clean underpants, and yet “Hot day, Mph,” she knew, she lived it too.
She sweat herself, she felt a certain amount of need, a catch in her throat she could only get over by expressing further “These lil’things. . .'' They always got in the mix, his stray hairs stuck on her cheek, her lips, her tongue. . . not that she minded. “He-heh, flavour savers.” something of an inside joke, nobody else would think of them so lewdly. “I really outta shave these sweaty suckers some day.” She admitted, but the reality was she adored their hairy state, the rough brush against her tongue and face, the way they held his scent for days.

"I-'er.” murmuring, not quite embarrassed, but he was sympathetic to her cause; he knew he was not easy to clean; still, she made it look that way. She made it look easy, gargling on a hairy nut while she absently stroked him with her hand, just a few gentle jerking motions moment by moment, nothing particularly tasking yet. “You’re too good to me, babe,” he winced, feeling a particularly sensitive burst of sensation, a skittering starburst of pleasure that rippled from where she pulled at his wrinkled, dewy sack and popped back, pulling the flesh with her lips alone.

a few stray hairs plastered to her face by sweat or otherwise found a new home, printed there till she plucked them off with a little mewl of pleasure, she’d learned not to mind, learned to enjoy his wiry pubic region and the presents it provided. Judging by how red his face was getting and how heavy his breath was, “Pent up, big daddy?"

He grimaced down at his love, not wanting to debase her. He simply nodded, “Y’ah, guh’gotta go,” a certain urgency in his voice letting her know to proceed with the task. She could practically taste his arrival by the time she preened upward and lined her lips with his cock.

“Smch,” she kissed it gently, a small smudge of salty on her lips. “Divine,” she promised before opening wide and “Omph,” sinking down, his root held firmly in her hand, though it always dwarfed her slender fingers in a pleasing way for him. Her lips stopped at his ridge, and her tongue circled his tip, eyes up, under her bangs, piercing into his whenever he gave her so much of a look. She wanted his contact; she wanted to gaze into his lust, but he couldn’t keep that focus forever. With his eyes closing and his head thrown back, he made a low, rumbling sort of roar.

"Ouh, that’s right, you big stud!" She encouraged him, slurping on the flavor of his manhood. She wanted him to cum; she wanted him to burst in her mouth, but she knew that it took work, time, effort, and doing “You’re throbbing, daddy.” And he was like, “Do you have something for me?” Her voice was not airy or whoring; she was calculated, dedicating her purrs to weaker places in the strongman’s armor and to the divots that she knew would cave if she pressed enough.

Saliva and sweat mixed together in her stroking motions, ran down her chin, and bubbled about the corners of her lips in a needy froth, but she lapped it up—no muss, no fuss, no mess to speak of except for that now lubricating her stroking motions. She speeds her hand and purrs into his cockhead, lips blowing bubbles about him with spit, a thrill in knowing she’s brought him to heel, in knowing he has no ability to stop her or himself.

Jeff reaches out and takes her by the head. “Fuck’n’hnff, cummin’!” He grunts almost shamefully, and she feels him in her hand, feels him throb, and with a jolt of pleasure, a literal shocking swell rushes up from his trunk to tip, passing her synched fingers, palm, and thumb before reaching her mouth and lips.

Alarm bells, not because she’d hit white gold either.

The fire alarm—not just the fire alarm, but a new and far less pleasant sting to her nostrils as she backed off of him, off his spitting organ, a small mess, a hot patter on her cheek rolling down to her chin. She didn’t mind one bit, but the burning roast was another thing. In her distraction, she’d forgotten to set an alarm, forgotten to check, forgotten about anything and everything that wasn’t pleasing her man.

Jeff looked down at Sophie with an endearing grin, patting her shoulder and breathing deep. “I do have that effect on you, don’t I?” the smart ass. He wasn’t wrong, though. The relief of his arrival beat the pleased feeling of a well-cooked meal.

It wasn’t the only sacrifice she made for Jeff. “You do.” She smiled up at him before she stood, rolling her eyes, ultimately endeared, cleaning the corner of her mouth with her finger then thumb, her senses invaded by the burning roast. She was reminded of something she cherished; a lesson Jeff taught her –love stinks.