PERUVIAN NOVEL MOTE by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - Chapter 01

 

If I don't know something,

I'll look into it.

Louis Pasteur

 

How much cum do I shoot in one go?

That question had started circling in his head since that time, back when he was still living in Peru, when he covered Jacky's whole face in cum—Jacky, one of the two women he was secretly seeing behind his wife’s back. Her sharp-featured face had disappeared beneath a dense, milky, bubbling layer. With his right index finger, Mote scraped the surface of the cum dripping down one of Jacky’s cheeks. He sniffed it, thought about tasting it, but held back; instead, he directed the finger towards her mouth.

Bloody hell! the woman exclaimed; her vision blurred by the gooey clumps streaming down over her eyelids. How long have you been holding that in?

Jacky wiped the cum from her eyes and noticed Mote’s right index finger hovering a centimetre from her mouth, waiting to enter.

You want me to drink it too? she laughed.

Open up, will ya; drink your husband’s milk, Mote ordered, dead serious, like a cop finding out his bribe was about to be snatched away. Jacky opened her mouth and sucked her partner’s finger. Mote watched her swallow the load.

What does it taste like?

Nothing, she said, standing up from the floor. She grabbed a towel, tied it around her waist, and left the room. Mote was left pondering.

Are you going for a shower? he shouted.

Yeah, his partner shouted back too, her voice muffled by the distance (the bathroom was at the back of the house) and the closed door.

Mote didn’t want her to shower. He wanted the cum to stay on her face, to seep into her skin. He’d heard that semen had rejuvenating properties when applied to human skin.

Oh well, he said to himself. She’s not going to agree to the experiment, the bloody idiot, he thought.

About eight years had passed since that day, and just as sudden memories tend to arise, his scientific curiosity had reawakened, and he now wanted to know exactly how much semen he had in his balls.

This time, the setting was different. Mote lived in Milan, Italy, in a little room tangled up in the suburbs of a working-class neighbourhood. He’d had a late-night kickabout with some of his workmates, and now, freshly showered, he was lying on his bed, ready to rest up and regain the strength he’d need for the next day’s work.

And so, the question that had been lingering for more than eight years returned with force: How much cum do I shoot in one go?

This time, the question demanded an urgent answer.

Mote jerked off every day, or almost every day. Even if he’d had sex with someone, he’d still wank afterwards, replaying the scenes he liked best from the act. Tonight would be no exception, especially since there was now a scientific mission at hand.

He got up from bed and went to grab one of the little bags he used to wrap the apples he ate during breaks at work.

He lay back down, the bag beside him, within reach of his left hand—the non-wanking one. The fewer accessories involved, the better; that’s why he decided not to grab his phone, the device he sometimes used to stimulate himself with porn videos. His mental capacity to vividly recall his favourite sexual scenes was astounding.

He started masturbating. It hadn’t even been three minutes when he felt the load building up. He grabbed the bag and placed it over the tip of his cock. It caught the entire load. After closing his eyes for a moment and letting his soul wander around the room, he snapped back to reality. The experiment had to continue.

He switched on the light in his room. He was surprised. He’d almost filled the entire bag. Now how do I measure this bloody thing? he asked himself. He looked around. He scanned the room for something that might help him quantify his cum. A spoon, he thought, as his eyes landed on the little corner that served as his kitchen. He rushed to the plastic container where he kept his cutlery: a couple of knives, three forks, three spoons, and two teaspoons. He grabbed a spoon.

Now how the hell do I spoon this thing? he thought.

In Italy, Mote had worked as an aiutante del panettiere (baker’s assistant), one of the many jobs he’d taken up as soon as he got off the plane that had brought him to this European country, the country he’d chosen to rise from the ashes, to redeem himself from the fall that had been his nearly year-long stay in a cramped cell at Huamancaca prison in his hometown of Huancayo.

When he decorated cakes, he prepared the piping bags: he’d take a medium-sized bag, fill it with the chosen whipped cream, and with his teeth, bite off a tiny piece from one of the corners at the base of the bag. He’d tie up the top and, through the little hole he’d created with his tiny bite, the cream would come out in a controlled, linear flow, ready to decorate the cake to the artisan’s liking.

That’s it, he thought excitedly, just like at the bakery.

With his teeth, he opened a little hole at one end of the bag. He couldn’t help but accidentally taste some of the semen that came out of the hole (it tasted bloody bitter, he thought, grimacing), which he quickly plugged with two fingers.

In that way, he filled the spoon. He was about to dump the contents into the sink (so he could keep measuring the rest of the cum) when he stopped: If I dump this, I won’t be able to do the next experiment. He grabbed the cup he usually enjoyed his coffee in after a night of boozing and poured the first spoonful into it.

Seven spoonfuls, he said, pleasantly surprised and satisfied, after emptying the bag.

He washed the spoon and put it back in its place. His mum had taught him the importance of order and cleanliness, habits Mote hadn’t forgotten.

He returned to bed and, beside him, on the nightstand, placed the cup of semen. Illuminated only by the soft white light of the Milanese moon, he spread the cum over his face. He left no spot dry. His skin was completely moisturised.

We’ll see the results tomorrow, he thought before closing his eyes and falling into a deep sleep.