In the dim glow of their bedroom lamp, Elena stared at the ceiling, her heart pounding with a mix of resignation and revulsion. It had started as a drunken dare years ago, a twisted joke that Mark had latched onto like a lifeline in their fading marriage. Now, it was his "thing," the one demand he made every Friday night after a long week at the office.
"Come on, babe," Mark murmured, reclining on the bed, his arms raised casually behind his head. The musky scent hit her first, sharp, salty, a day's worth of sweat clinging to the coarse hairs under his arms. Elena's stomach churned. She was 35, a professional accountant with a life of spreadsheets and sensible shoes, not this.
“Won't you please take a shower, honey?” She looked at him with hopeful eyes.
“You know that ruins the fun, babe. Don’t be a buzzkill,” he said, displeased.
He was completely naked, his dick showing the first signs of an erection. He was only one year older than her, but while she had kept her figure from when they’d met in their college days, he had let himself go. He had a belly and thick legs, and while he wasn’t yet fat, he was fast on his way. His reddish hair was already thinning, and although he had no chest hair, he had a thick bush that nestled his cock.
She knelt beside him on the bed, her face inches from his left armpit. The skin was pale, dotted with stubble, and she could see the faint sheen of perspiration. She was bare-chested, her full breasts sagging a bit since she’d given birth to their son, eight years ago. She had small pink areolas and large nipples, which Mark loved to nibble while he squished her tits with his big meaty hands. She was still wearing the black skirt and panties from work, and she had on red high heels he always wanted her to wear in these occasions when she was to please and service him.
Shame burned in her cheeks as she leaned in, her tongue darting out hesitantly. The taste was bitter, acrid, like old leather mixed with soap residue. She gagged inwardly, forcing herself to lick in slow, deliberate strokes, her mind screaming for escape.
"Why do I do this?" she thought, disgust rising like bile.
As Mark's breathing deepened, a low groan escaping his lips, Elena pulled back slightly, her tongue recoiling from the onslaught of flavors, tangy sweat laced with the faint chemical aftertaste of his deodorant. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, trying to erase the sensation, but it lingered like a bad memory. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, suffocating her with the weight of unspoken regrets.
The scent hit her anew: musky, primal, a blend of sweat and faint cologne that clung to the wiry strands. Revulsion warred with a twisted curiosity, the ritual's familiarity pulling her in despite everything. Leaning in, she pressed her lips to the edge of his left armpit, her tongue tentatively flicking out to trace the salty seam where skin met hair. The texture was rough against her soft mouth, the hairs tickling her lips like tiny brushes, some damp and matted from perspiration, others dry and springy. She lapped slowly, deliberately, the taste exploding on her tongue: bitter and tangy, like sea salt mixed with the earthy undertone of his body, a faint metallic edge from the day's stress.
As she worked her way deeper, her tongue delving into the crease, parting the hairs with each stroke, Mark let out a soft moan. The strands clung to her tongue briefly before releasing, leaving a slick trail of saliva that glistened in the low light. She could feel the warmth of his skin, the subtle pulse of blood beneath, and the way his body arched slightly toward her touch. Her cheeks flushed with a mix of shame and something darker, her mind racing as she switched to the right pit, hairier here, the curls thicker and more unruly, catching on her teeth as she sucked lightly, drawing out more of that acrid flavor that made her stomach twist yet kept her going.
While she licked, Mark's free hand found hers, his fingers intertwining before he guided it downward with gentle but firm pressure. He placed her palm against his thick cock. "Jerk me off, babe," he murmured, his voice husky. She felt the hard length twitching under her fingers. It stood erect, veined and throbbing, the skin smooth and warm as he wrapped her hand around the base.
He began to move her hand for her at first, slow, rhythmic strokes up and down the shaft, his grip over hers teaching the pace he craved. The motion was deliberate, her fingers sliding over the silky skin, feeling the ridges and the slight curve, the tip already beading with pre-cum that smeared slickly under her thumb. As she jerked him, her tongue never stopped its assault on his armpit, lapping broader now, flattening against the hairy expanse to cover more ground, the hairs matting further with her saliva. The dual sensations overwhelmed her: the bitter taste filling her mouth, the repetitive pump of her hand on his cock, his hips bucking slightly to meet her strokes. With his free hand a pushed her head deeper into his armpit, firmly, controlling, demanding.
Mark's breaths came faster, ragged, his other arm still raised to give her full access. "Deeper," he groaned, and she obliged, burying her face into the pit, her breasts crushed against his chest, her nose brushing the damp hairs as her tongue swirled in circles, tasting every inch, the saltiness intensifying near the center, where sweat pooled most. Her hand quickened on his cock, twisting slightly at the head on each upstroke, feeling it swell and pulse in her grasp. The room filled with the wet sounds of her licking and the slick friction of her jerking, his moans mingling with her muffled breaths.
As Elena's tongue continued its relentless path through the dense forest of Mark's armpit hair, each wiry strand now slick and matted with her saliva, the taste growing more intense, a pungent mix of sweat-soaked salt and the faint, lingering bitterness of his skin, she felt his cock throb harder in her grip. Her hand pumped steadily, fingers wrapped tight around the veined shaft, sliding up and down with increasing urgency. The pre-cum had made everything slippery, her palm gliding effortlessly over the swollen head, twisting just enough to elicit deeper groans from him. The hairs in his pit tickled her nose as she buried deeper, lapping at the crease where the flavor was strongest, her cheeks hollowing slightly as she sucked lightly on a clump of damp curls.
Mark's hips bucked involuntarily, his breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. "Fuck, Elena... don't stop, oh shit, you fucking whore, lick it all," he gasped, his free hand still tangling in her hair to hold her face against his pit. The musky scent enveloped her completely now, overwhelming, as her tongue swirled in frantic circles, parting the hairs to reach every inch of warm, salty skin. Her hand quickened, stroking from base to tip with firm pressure, feeling the pulse accelerate, the length hardening to its limit in her grasp.
Suddenly, his body went rigid, a low, guttural moan escaping his lips. Hot spurts erupted into her hand, thick, sticky ropes of cum coating her palm and fingers, dripping down her knuckles in warm, viscous trails. She kept jerking through it, milking every last drop as his cock twitched and softened slightly, the release leaving a messy pool in her cupped hand. The scent of it mingled with the armpit musk still on her breath, salty, slightly bitter, a raw reminder of the act.
Elena pulled her face from Mark's armpit, the coarse hairs still clinging to her lips like unwelcome reminders, her tongue coated in the lingering bitterness of his sweat and stared at the glistening mess on her hand, her heart pounding with a cocktail of disgust and finality. Mark, still catching his breath, looked at her with a satisfied, hazy grin. "Lick it clean, babe, eat the cum," he murmured, his voice commanding yet lazy in the afterglow. "Every drop. Show me how much you want it."
Her stomach twisted, but she complied. Revulsion surged through her like a wave, twisting her insides, but she surrendered anyway, always surrendering, because fighting felt harder in the quiet of their bedroom, where habits had worn grooves too deep to escape. With a shuddering breath, she lifted her hand to her mouth, her eyes closing against the sight. Her tongue flicked out, tentatively at first, lapping at the edge of her palm where the cum pooled. The taste hit her immediately: warm and viscous, tangy with a faint bleach-like sharpness, mingling horribly with the residue of his armpit sweat still fresh on her tongue. It was a vile cocktail—salty sweat blending into the bitter semen, creating something thicker, more pungent, that coated her mouth like an oily film. Strands of cum clung to her lips briefly before she swallowed, the sensation lingering like an unwelcome echo. She gagged softly, the flavor intensifying as she licked deeper, sucking her fingers one by one, the sticky fluid stretching before breaking, leaving her lips glossy.
Self-loathing bloomed in her chest, hot and unrelenting, as she swallowed the mess down. "What am I doing?" she thought, the words looping in her mind like a curse. At 35, she was supposed to be the put-together mom, the reliable accountant who balanced ledgers with precision and attended PTA meetings with fresh-baked cookies in hand. What would her son's teachers think if they knew? Mrs. Harlan, with her kind smile and endless patience, picturing Elena on her knees like this, debasing herself for a man who barely saw her anymore? Or the PTA board, those polished women in their yoga pants and perfect highlights who chatted about fundraisers and school plays; they'd whisper behind her back, their eyes wide with disgust, labeling her as some desperate, twisted housewife.
And her colleagues at the office? The thought made her cheeks burn even as she licked the last traces from her knuckles, the combined taste now a persistent afterglow on her palate, salty and sour, refusing to fade. David from finance, with his sharp suits and professional nods in the hallway, or Sarah in HR, always so composed, would they see her as competent, as one of them, if they glimpsed this? No, they'd recoil, their respect shattering like glass, reducing her to a punchline in the break room: "Did you hear about Elena? Yeah, the one who licks her husband's pits and swallows like a good little slut." The shame of it all pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating, yet she finished the task, her tongue swirling over her skin until it was clean, the act complete.
Elena sat back on her heels, the taste still thick in her mouth, a nauseating blend of sweat, deodorant residue, and semen that refused to wash away no matter how many times she swallowed. Her hand glistened faintly under the lamp’s yellow light, the last smears of cum wiped clean but the memory clinging like damp fabric. Mark lay there, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smirk curling his lips as he watched her with that familiar post-orgasm haze, like she was entertainment he’d paid for.
“Good girl,” he murmured, reaching out to pat her cheek with the same hand that had shoved her face into his pit minutes ago. His fingers smelled faintly of his own musk, and she fought the urge to flinch. “You always do it so well when you stop pretending you don’t like it.”
