tagLoving WivesPotent Paul White

Potent Paul White


I, Paul White, have what might be called a "superpower." No, I can't move faster than the eye can see like The Flash; I can't swing on webs from building to building like Spiderman; I can't leap tall buildings in a single bound like Superman; I can't even change my six foot five inch frame to insect size like Ant Man. In fact I didn't even know about my "superpower" until as an eighteen year old (in my third year of college – I am clever, but no genius) after my second girlfriend on birth control got pregnant. Even though I was willing to support the babies (it would have required sacrifice but I was ultimately responsible) my girlfriends each made the decision completely on her own to get an abortion – traumatic for both them and me. At that time my six foot seven 280 pound ex-NFL football player father gave me the options of consulting a medical professional to see what the fuck was going on and find a solution, get castrated, get disowned, or have the shit beat out of me. I chose the first option.

I went to researchers in fertility at the science-oriented university that I attended on scholarship (I was in a hybrid mechanical-electrical engineering course of study). They had reputations as well regarded experts. They ran about every test imaginable on me, including (much to my embarrassment) having me jack off into a vial every other day for a fortnight. What they found "gobsmacked" them (the term used by Dr. Beaney, the cultured Brit who was the department head). This is what they told me:

–Average sperm motility (sperm count) is 120-350 million per cubic cm. Mine is over 800. My semen viscosity is much lower than normal, and semen volume much higher than normal, both of which provide enhanced opportunities for impregnation. Instead of a normal volume of semen per ejaculation of 2-3 ml with 10% sperm, my normal ejaculation is 10-12 ml and 25% sperm, with about half the normal viscosity. Also, my semen pH averages about 8.3 which is usually considered too basic so that it has an adverse effect on sperm motility or can indicate possible infection. However in my case neither exists, but the basic nature of my semen gives optimal protection to the sperm in the normally acidic conditions of a vagina. Finally, there are certain components of my semen that the researchers that I have consulted have never recognized in semen before, including as much maltose (not seen in semen before) as fructose (normally one of the most common components of semen), and others which seem to vary and which are unheard of before in semen, and their effects not understood.

–Their conclusion: Somehow my sperm had the ability to defeat a number of different forms of birth control, and that to be safe in the future I should "double bag" since my volume of semen was sufficient to leak out of some single condoms even if they didn't break. Fun, huh?

–In other words I was a freak (to maintain my dignity I referred to myself as one having a superpower rather than what I really was).

They wanted to study me further – like a lab rat. I declined.


After my diagnosis, for a long while I avoided relationships but looked for short term flings with already pregnant single women, or single older women past child-bearing age. I did find a fifty two year old divorced professor who was very well preserved that was a more-than-acceptable friend with benefits for times while finishing my undergraduate education and while in law school. Also, at the suggestion of one of the researchers, during the roughly three and one half years after my diagnosis before I found a committed relationship I became a favorite of a fertility clinic specializing in artificial insemination.

Thirty eight year old single Dr. Wilson, who wasn't beautiful but did have big tits and a big ass attached to an otherwise sleek body, ran the clinic. When I saw her on my first visit to the clinic diabolical thoughts crossed my mind. I let her look over a report from the researchers about my "condition." She was anxious to give my sperm a try with some of her previously hopeless patients. I went into another room, jacked off (something that by now I was very familiar with), but only gave her one quarter of the semen that I produced. I gave her my phone number to call if she had success and wanted a professional relationship.

About a month later on a Monday I got a call from Dr. Wilson. "My most difficult patient is now pregnant with just one procedure. Your sperm was as advertised."

"Great," was my stellar reply.

"Can you come in to discuss a relationship?"

"Sure – how about Wednesday at 8 a. m.?"

"See you then," she replied in a sing-song voice.

I wanted to meet at eight because the clinic didn't open until nine. After she offered me $300 per insemination I had another proposition.

"Actually, I like helping people so I don't feel that I should charge. However, I hate jacking off. If you are willing to provide hand jobs once a week whatever you collect is yours," I flatly stated.

"I beg your pardon – do you think I'm a whore?" she snapped.

"Absolutely not; I know that you're in this business to help people too. What I'm asking for is a simple accommodation. Using my semen you will be able to 'guarantee' – just think about that, what other clinic could do that – 'guarantee' pregnancy. You couldn't guarantee a baby since other issues may arise, but you could absolutely guarantee a pregnancy for anyone who wasn't put off by my physical and mental characteristics for half of her baby's DNA. Think about it. Give me a call if you change your mind."

With that I got up and walked out.

Another month went by before I got another call from Dr. Wilson. "I don't like it, but as you say I'm in the business to help people, and I have several desperate clients and more on the horizon. I accept your terms – once a week."

"Great – how about 7 a. m. this Thursday?"

"OK – come to the back door."

The first two times Dr. Wilson did me with lubricated gloves on. I had no problem spunking when viewing those marvelous tits bouncing up and down as she stroked. I could tell the second time that she might actually have enjoyed it – I know that I sure did. The third time I asked her to use just her hand and some lube since the gloves hurt. The sixth time I pretended not to get turned on and asked her to take off her top and bra – which she did – resulting in an all-time volume from me. By the eighth time she was always topless and started getting me hard with her mouth before hand-jacking me off. After the sixteenth time she said that she wanted a baby herself so I met her at her house and fucked her for a week straight. After that she just used some excess semen after we fucked once a week until a month before her due date. After the baby was born we parted ways.

Dr. Wilson made a lot of money (and I believe thoroughly enjoyed herself; I know that I did).

While the professor and the doctor did keep me sexually satisfied for a while, I started longing for a real relationship – someone who could put up with double bagging until we got married, because I really did eventually want kids.

I met Cheryl when I was twenty two and in my second year of law school – I wanted to be a patent attorney. She was a senior at the same University, a year older than I was. She was pretty good-looking, friendly, and presumably stable; plus she really seemed to be into me and me her. I opened up to her about my "situation." To say that she didn't like double bagging is the understatement of the decade, however she put up with it because I provided her enough oral and anal to keep her satisfied; that is until a wild night two months before she graduated.

We were at a party where the punch tasted like lemonade, but was laced with grain alcohol. We both got drunk, me for the first time in my life. When we went back to my apartment we were feeling no pain, and were as hot for each other as we ever were. My memory is hazy, but it is more than likely that we fucked bareback twice. Cheryl took Plan B the next day – she already was on birth control – but regardless a few weeks later there was no doubt that she was pregnant.

I didn't want a third child aborted because I lost control one night – plus Cheryl had real objections to abortion. Even though I didn't know her well enough to get married, I felt that was best for her, the kid, and me – so I proposed. I exaggerated a little about whether I was going to ask her to marry me anyway, but she obviously wanted to believe that, so we got engaged.

I expedited my law school education and we got married and I graduated by the time that our first baby, Amanda, was born. I got a good job with a patent law firm and Cheryl did some part time work until our second girl, Beth, was born a year later (Cheryl refused to double bag after we were married), at which time she became a stay-at-home mom. Our son Zach was born a year after Beth, at which time Cheryl had her tubes tied, so it didn't make any difference how potent my semen was she wasn't getting pregnant again.

Since I really didn't know Cheryl all that well at the time that we got married, I should not have been surprised by issues with her personality that came up after a few years of marriage, especially since dealing with three young children wasn't the easiest thing in the world for either of us. She became alternately moody, mercurial, passive, and controlling (as much as I would let her). Although the sex was always good – what sex isn't? – it wasn't passionate, despite the fact that Cheryl looked as good as she ever had, and I believe that the same could be said for me. After about six years of marriage I wondered whether I really did love her or her me. However, I never even seriously thought about bailing on three kids, or cheating.

At that point of time I had gone out on my own, had only a secretary for staff who – like me – usually worked from home, and had restricted my practice to prosecuting patent, trademark, and copyright applications – no litigation – so I could keep whatever hours I wanted. My financial situation was the best of my life.


When I had just turned thirty seven and Amanda, Beth and Zach were 15, 14, and 13, respectively, things went to shit. I was certain that Cheryl had recently started an affair, and there was no way that I would put up with it. I confronted her, she vehemently denied it, and after a cooling off period of about two weeks when I knew that she would be careful, I hired a private investigator.

My P. I. Tammy W (never did get her last name, only her first and the name of the agency that I wrote the checks to) was good – really good. Tammy had all the information that I needed within three weeks after I hired her. Cheryl was having twice weekly trysts with a wealthy (he had inherited the money, hadn't worked for it) jackass by the name of Winston Chalmers (his name alone tells you that he was an effete snob) who had a way over-inflated opinion of his physical prowess because he played rugby at an Ivy League School. Despite my size and my father's athletic acumen, in part because I was always 2-4 years ahead in school, I never progressed to proficientcyin any team sport, certainly not enough to compete in college. However, I did regularly weightlift and cross-train, and I took up various forms of martial arts. I had lost only one real fight in my life, so I was supremely confident – and motivated. I really wanted to goad Winston into a fight that he started before I dumped Cheryl.

Winston normally picked Cheryl up at a mall, and then they drove to his mini-mansion, while the kids were in school. After three or four hours he returned her to the mall and her car. On a day that I was supposedly 1000 miles away on business I watched as Winston left his house to pick up the slut, then threw four roach bombs into his house, three through open windows, one breaking the glass of the fourth. That meant that they would have to find a motel or use our house – I was planning on the latter.

They didn't disappoint. After determining that Winston's mini-mansion was unsuitable for habitation for at least the next six hours, they drove to my house. I waited until Winston was banging Cheryl doggy in our bed before I walked in with a high resolution camera in my left hand. I filmed unnoticed for about a minute and then while continuing to film loudly announced my presence with "I think that even a dickless guy could do better than that Winston. Jesus, Cheryl, you must really be hard up if this wimp is the only guy you could get to fuck you."

Cheryl screamed and flattened out; a startled Winston removed his hands from Cheryl's hips and looked at me; the combination of the two caused his dick to pop out of her cunt.

"I take it back, Cheryl – he's not dickless. He does have a micro penis, but I wonder if you can even feel that thing."

Cheryl whimpered, Winston growled "You bastard," and started to get up.

"Don't let me spoil your fun, kids – I need some good porno if I expect to sell it to a website featuring cheating sluts," I chuckled.

Winston did as I hoped. He charged the camera while growling "I'll kick your ass, you pussy."

I side-stepped his wild swing – caught on camera – and before he regained his balance kicked him in the balls with my boot (worn specially for the occasion) and as he bent over broke his nose with my right elbow. For the coup de grace, as he was falling down I backhanded my right fist into his solar plexus. When he hit the floor he was still conscious, but not "with it."

Cheryl continued whimpering and looked scared shitless. I turned off the camera. "Get dressed, slut, and get your creepy boyfriend out of here. I'll pick the kids up after school or sports. Don't come back until tomorrow otherwise I'll show them the video of their slut Mom fucking."

I had no intention of showing the kids the video, but I calculatedly had a wide-eyed crazed look, so Cheryl didn't know that. I left the room and five minutes later she and her groaning and wobbly lover boy came downstairs half-dressed, and they exited the front door.

Despite the end of my marriage, I felt good. I had gotten legal proof and kicked ass while scaring Cheryl shitless. I would take a financial hit with the divorce, but it would otherwise be no problem – except, perhaps, for child custody issues. As a stay-at-home Mom, and better Mom than wife, she had a bond with the kids, especially Amanda and Zach, that surpassed mine.

I picked the kids up from their after-school sports activities, we went to their favorite restaurant to eat, and when we got home I told them that since their Mom was having an affair that we were getting divorced. I was surprised by the lack of tears, although there were some strong emotions. But they went to bed within a half hour of their normal times, and after another half hour I determined that they were all sound asleep. I slept in the guest room.

I got the kids ready for school, called Cheryl's cell after that, and told her to meet me at the house at noon. The previous week I had already hired the meanest shark divorce attorney in town and had the process service waiting with the divorce papers when Cheryl arrived a few minutes before twelve.

After she was served with the divorce papers citing adultery, which also named Winston as her paramour, she was not in a conciliatory mood – like I gave a shit. "I'll get a condo and you can keep the house, and we can divide everything 50-50 and have joint custody."

"Keep your fucking dump," she snarled.

"Our $1,500,000 house is a dump?" I asked myself.

"The kids and I will be moving in with Winston. I'll take half the value of the house in the division of assets, but I'm going for sole custody."

"Good luck, whore," I snarled back, then went into my home office and started working on a patent application.

The legal proceedings were contentious, and I had to get a court order to get to see the kids, one that allowed me to pick them up at Winston's house. About two months into the proceedings, I noticed that the kids were morose, and they expressed apprehension about continuing to live at Winston's. Cheryl not only refused to talk about it but tried to cut me off entirely from seeing the kids.

About the start of the third month of the proceedings I got a more specific court order allowing me to actually go to the door to pick the kids up at Winston's, and I called Beth – who I had the best relationship with – on her cellphone to make sure that the kids knew that I was coming. Being no fool, I was wearing a darn-near invisible HD micro-camera powered by a couple of nine volt batteries in my pocket that would record all video and sound for at least an hour.

When I got to the door Winston met me with a handgun – he apparently had learned his lesson after our previous confrontation.

"Get the fuck off my property dipshit," was his friendly greeting.

"The Court has already informed you and my slut wife that this court order," I said, waving the document, "gives me the right to pick up my kids here; so send them out and I'll leave."

"They're not going anywhere," he growled. Beth had approached the door and started walking toward me. Winston backhanded her as he snapped "You're not going anywhere, bitch," all video and audio caught with my camera.

Since he was distracted doing that, and in view of my judo courses on disarming a combatant, I had the perfect opportunity to disarm him. I did more than that.

As I removed the gun from Winston's hand I broke his thumb. Then my right elbow connected with his jaw, breaking it, and as he stumbled backwards I kicked him in the nuts – this time my boot was a cowboy boot with a sharp toe, purchased specifically for this occasion.

As soon as he hit the floor I kicked the gun outside, and as I comforted Beth I called 911.

The cops were there by the time that Winston groggily regained awareness. Of course he lied to the cops, telling them (as best he could with his broken jaw) that I had attacked him without provocation. Cheryl came to the door, but didn't support his statement – I thought that she might lie for him. At that point I informed the cops that I had video and audio of the entire encounter, and that Winston was obstructing justice with his lies, in addition to assaulting me with a gun and Beth with his fist.

Winston was put in the back of the police car, and Beth and I followed them to the police station in my car. Cheryl didn't want Beth to go, but the police insisted upon it – I didn't have to be the "bad guy." I encouraged Beth not to wipe the blood off her face until photos were taken at the police station.

At the police station as the cops downloaded the video I had taken, Beth and I talked to the Child Protective Services liaison. Beth related the most recent incident, and also said that her brother and sister too had on occasion been struck by Winston. By the end of the day Amanda and Zach were also at the police station.

To make a long story short, Winston ultimately got four years in jail with three suspended, Cheryl and the kids moved back into our house, and I bought a condo as the divorce progressed. A month before the divorce would be final a contrite Cheryl came to me, apologized, and suggested dropping the divorce and trying again.

I wasn't very accommodating. "Why would I possibly do that? Not only did you cheat on me with an asshole, but you exposed our kids to abuse."

"I'm really sorry...I screwed up. Winston is not a quarter the man that you are. I promise to do everything in my power to make it up to you," she sobbed.

"Not interested...I not only don't love you, but I don't like you. You make me sick," I snarled.

That ended the conversation, but not her attempt to get me to drop the divorce. A few days later, Amanda and Zach came to see me to plead the case about Cheryl and I getting back together. Both will be good attorneys if that is the profession they choose because they made all the arguments that supported their case; but I was completely unmoved. As a last resort Amanda said/asked "Mom made a big mistake, but why can't you reconcile with her; haven't you ever made a big mistake?"

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