I had just returned from a week-long fishing trip with three of my friends.  For the record, I despise fishing.  Fishing is for people who want to be in nature but who don’t know how simply to be in nature without purpose, goal, or utilitarian project.  I am not of their ilk.  The silver lining to this trip was that it was up in the mountains, on a lake, in a log cabin.  The downside to this trip was that there was absolutely no wi-fi within a twenty mile radius of where we were staying.  That meant no communication with Lo for a week!

I was nearly beside myself needing a fix of her lovely skin, her soft touch, her caress.  I didn’t even have her voice to sustain me.  No gradual withdrawal from her, my drug of choice.  No substitute for her intoxicant.  The closest I could get was a specially curated set of photos I had of her stored on my phone.  “Favorites.”

We did get radio and this classic rock song played, mocking my predicament:

 

I’m out a luck, out a love
Gotta photograph, picture of
Passion killer, you’re too much
You’re the only one I want to touch
I see your face every time I dream
On every page, every magazine
So wild and free so far from me
You’re all I want, my fantasy

 

Yes, I missed her.  I craved her.  I wanted to praise her.  And I did, telling my friends what I could about my little nymph, without revealing too much or our special dalliances that are reserved just for us – oh, and all of you, our lovely reading public.

At night, I set up her image on my phone and sat at my computer to write sexy, sensual stories to her, for her, about her.  I dreamt of the naughty things she was doing while I was away.  I would look at the photos as lyrics from a song filtered in from the other room:

 

Photograph I don’t want your
Photograph I don’t need your
Photograph all I’ve got is a photograph
But it’s not enough

 

My pals knew how devoted to Lo I was, but they were unaware of how free I allow her to be.  One of them walked in while I was writing.  Seeing my phone on the desk next to me with Lo’s image on it, he casually picked it up.  I made as if to protest, but I didn’t protest too much.  He looked at the photos I had of her – naughty photos – and shared his discovery with the others.  They ridiculed me, ribbed me, and teased me for my Playboy internet pornstar.

Even the radio mocked me with the lyrics:

 

You can’t imagine what your image means.
The pages come alive.
Your magic greets everyone who reads.
Heart-break in overdrive
Are you for real, it’s so hard to tell, from just a magazine.
Yeah, you just smile and the picture sells, look what that does to me.

 

One night, after many shots of whiskey, they eventually pried out of me a confession of her sins.  They sat, wide-eyed, hard-up, and enraptured by the stories I spun.  At first they doubted, then they shouted, and finally they pouted.  They wanted her.  Two of my three friends were married.  One had been dating for under a year.  They envied me as I felt pangs of guilt for revealing the innermost sanctum of our little mystery cult of two.

They say that all of us live three lives: a public; a private; and a secret life.  Where is my life with Lo?  It’s secret, on one level.  But not secret to each other.  It’s private, between the two of us.  But yet we publish it for all to see.  Our most intimate parts are literally on display for the world.

Revealing who we are to you, our dear readers, is one thing.  Saying it directly, face-to-face to close, and long-time friends of flesh-and-blood is another.  They know the public, curated portrait of our coupled relationship.  That image is professional, wholesome, vanilla.  We do little to ‘queer the space,’ as the saying goes.

Privately, we are a kinky couple who invite others to join in with our merry mischief.  We are content doing this and feel no shame, no guilt about healthy, non-monogamous trysts.  Lo simply acts on the fantasies that many women share, but rarely articulate, even to their lovers.

Secretly, we each find delight in her exhibitionist tendencies.  That’s no secret to you, dear reader, but, if you happen to know us IRL (‘in real life’), we’d appreciate your keeping it to yourself.  Thanks.

But now, three of my closest friends were in on it.  Not as in on it as you are, mind you, since I didn’t reveal to them anything about the blog.  But they were in the know about Lo’s sweet, sexy, slutty side.  To my surprise, they were not only envious, but desirous.  Each of them requested a night alone with my phone.  Since there was no wi-fi, I thought it would be fine.  They couldn’t email themselves Lo’s sexy pics.  They couldn’t text them to themselves.  What harm would there be in letting my three friends get their rocks off to my girlfriend’s nude selfies?

It turns out I was quite naïve.  At the time, I knew nothing of “AirDrop” and how it could work without wi-fi.  Needless to say, all three of my friends now have Lo’s sexy pics on their phones and who knows how many other friends of theirs as well!  (I only found this out much later.)

Fishing, drinking, and jacking off to Lola was how we spent the rest of the week.

On the ride home, as soon as I was reconnected to the invisible world that surrounds us, I texted Lo.  I let her know my ETA.  She responded with: “TCB.”  That is, “Taking Care of Business,” our code for her masturbating.  I couldn’t wait to see her.

The guys dropped me off at home and I eagerly entered the house.  I found Lo wearing my flannel shirt, unbuttoned to her navel, and nothing else.  What a welcome sight!

I followed her to the bedroom, telling her how wonderful she looked.  Eager to preserve the moment, I took out the camera and shot a few sexy pics of her lying on the bed looking like the perfect temptress.

“Tell me about your week, Daddio,” she asked.

“Later.  Let me have you first,” I said, impatiently.

“Oh, but Daddio, I haven’t heard from you all week.  Tell me about it.”

“Later, Lo,” I pleaded.  “I want you now.”

She was clearly enjoying the role reversal of Coy and Craving.

I started to grab at her.  “You know, I’m not fast food.  You can’t just order and have your meal.”

“Let me spread my mayonnaise on you,” I said.

“Oh Daddio, so crude!”

“Lo, you don’t understand.”

“I’m not really into it right now,” she said.  She was truly going to milk this for all she could, and not in a good way.

“But I’ll get you into it by getting into you!”

“No, no,” she said like a coquette.  “Tell me about your fishing trip.”

“Let me plunge my fishing rod deep in your C,” I responded.

Then it struck me with great irony that here I am, a writer of erotica, rushing to physical gratification when all Lo wanted was to be wooed by my words.  She wanted me to tell her a naughty story.  And fortuitously, I had a good story to tell.

I got up close next to her and told her about how much I missed her, how I longed for her, how I gazed at her photos while writing stories about her, and how I got found out by the guys.  I revealed that her seductive image was used not only by me but by the other three as well.  Though it clearly upset her to know that they had seen her, it also excited her to know that they used her photos to get off.  Cognitive dissonance.

“Do you think that they stole my photos and have them on their phones?” she asked.

“How could they?” I responded.  “There was no wi-fi.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed.  “If they did, do you think that they’d look at them at night while their wives were sleeping?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Do you think that when they see me, they’ll picture me naked?”

“Not only that, I bet they’ll picture you doing all sorts of naughty things.”

“Like what things?” she asked.

“Sucking cock.”

“Just one?”

“Sucking cocks,” I said, correcting myself.  “Fucking many guys.  Dogging strangers at truck rest stops.”

She was getting riled up now.

“Have me, Daddy,” she said.

Finally!  The words I longed to hear all week!

She spread her legs wide, but then she said, “Wait,” just as I was about to plunge in.

“What?”

“Wait,” she repeated.  “Do you have a condom?”

“A condom?  No.  Why?”

“I’m ovulating something fierce right now.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“No.  You’ve been on the wagon for a week.  You’re not to be trusted.”

“I haven’t slipped a puck passed the goalie yet.”

“Will you stop with that awful analogy.”

She had her hands behind her knees and her knees up to her ears.  She looked up at me.  She wanted me, desperately.  I wanted her even more desperately.  She moved one of her hands to grab my cock.  She bounced the tip of it off her clit a few times and let out a moan.

“Are we good?” I asked.

“Jack it,” she commanded.

“I could have jacked it all week.  I want you.”

“What do you mean you could have jacked it all week?  Not without permission you can’t,” she said, reminding me of the rules.

“But you gave me permission, remember?  You said I could jack it so long as I jacked it to your pics and only your pics.  That was the whole reason that we took those sexy pics that the guys found on my phone.”

“And you didn’t jack it?”

“No.”

“Not to me?  Not to my pics?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wanted you.  I looked to your pics for inspiration.  I wrote like three novels up there about you, just gazing at your sexy photos.”

“But they jacked it to my pics?”

“Yes.”

Just the thought of it caused her to squirt on my incredibly hard phallus.

“Jack it,” she said again.  I could see that the image in her mind of guys jacking off to her photos was playing on her interior screen.  “Jack it like a man,” she repeated.

I grabbed my cock with my left hand.  She watched me.  “Do you like my pussy, Daddy?”

“Yes, Lo.”

“Play with it.”

I didn’t know if she wanted me to play with my cock or her puss.  It was ambiguous.

I let go of my member and she continued to hold both her legs back with her hands.  I gently caressed her hips and slid my hands down from the back of her knees to her inner thigh.  With both hands I pulled and pushed her pussy lips – spreading them apart, squeezing them together.

“Yeah,” she moaned.  She squirted on my hands and the warm liquid dribbled down her ass.  I let my fingers strum her perineum and anus.  She moaned, indicating she liked what I was doing.  I let my right thumb run circles over her special spot.

“I missed you, Daddy,” she said.

“Did you jill it when I was away?”

“Yes,” she said.

“How many times?”

“I don’t know.  A lot.”

“To what?”

“I don’t know.  Anything.  Everything.  Sometimes I thought about you.  Sometimes I thought about other men.  Sometimes I thought about other women.  Videos, pics that people send me, stories that you wrote, stories that other people wrote.”

“Did you talk on the phone to anyone?”

“No Daddy.”

“Did you have anyone over?”

“No Daddy.”

“Did you want to?”

“I always want to, Daddy.”

She came again.  She slapped her right hand on her pussy to keep the ejaculation flowing.  Then she took her soaking hand and stroked my cock.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She reached down, up and under my cock, grabbing my balls from beneath.

“They’re so big, Daddy.  Are they full?”

“So full, Lo,” I said.

She cupped them and one of her fingers pushed its way further back until she was doing to me what I had been doing to her.

“Cum, Daddy.  I want you to cum.  Let it out.  That’s it.  Be a good dog and let it go.”

I could take it no longer.  I grabbed my throbbing rod and fired off a load that shot up past her shoulder onto the pillow.  Missed.  But the second spurt was more accurate.  It made a high arc and landed squarely on her face.  Seeing that, more followed until I was falling back on my haunches in a fit of ecstasy and exhaustion.

“I’m hit!  I’m hit!” she cried out.  “Don’t just lie there, do something!”

All I could do was let out a chuckle amid my heavy heaving breaths.

She got up from the bed, my cum dripping down onto her breasts, and got a washcloth from the bathroom to clean up.

“Feeling better?” she asked as she looked down at me from the side of the bed.

“You have no idea,” I said.