“Lily texted me,” I texted to Lola, “and she invited me to meet her at the bar to watch the World Series.”  It was the seventh game.  She was hoping to see her team win.  “Do you want to join?”

“Will Jim be there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nah,” Lola texted, “I’ll stay in.”

I walked into the crowded watering hole after a long day at work.  Lily, was sitting at the bar, close to the TV.  To my surprise, she had saved me a stool next to her.  She gave me a hug and turned toward me.  Despite the cold October air, she was wearing only a short skirt and a thin, loose fitting blouse.  Her legs were spread a bit as she talked to me.

“Where’s Jim?” I inquired.

“He’s with some of his friends watching at their house.”

“You didn’t want to join them?”

I could see that she hadn’t invited me there just to watch the game.  She was already on her second drink of the night.  What was on her mind?

After just a little prodding (it didn’t take much), she revealed her true design.  She was looking for some free legal advice and simultaneously looking for some special attention.

She had recently graduated and got her Master’s in Sexuality and Gender Studies.  Now she was looking to do something with that degree and was interested in becoming a “Sex and Spirit Guide” to individuals and couples.  The question on her mind was, “If my therapeutic techniques involve hands-on help and I accept money for it, what’s the legal distinction between that and prostitution?”

It was a real zinger of a query – one that they don’t ask you in law school!  And my first inclination was to say, “I’m not sure I follow.  Could we please go back to your place and you can provide me with a demonstration in order that I understand what you do a little better?”  But I wisely withheld that request, which was purely for the academic purpose of gaining clarity, and I asked instead, “So you envision digitally manipulating and stimulating your clients?”

“Well, not only that, but possibly role-playing, BDSM experimenting, discovering their inhibitions through play therapy – you know, taking them on a real sexual and spiritual journey to the seat of their soul.”

“Wow!” I said, “It sounds very Jungian.”  Once more the images of Sabina Spielrein and Carl Jung came to mind.

“Yeah, this morning I had a professional photographer come to take some risqué photos to advertise my services.”

I got lost in my imagination as I envisioned the scene, but she continued.  “And Jim even joined for some of them.”

“Oooh,” I cooed, “Boudoir photos?”

“Some were,” she replied alluringly.  She began to pull out her phone as if ready to show me the raw, unedited shots.  I wanted to look.  I wanted to tell her all about the blog.  I wanted to divulge everything.  But I knew better.  First, it’s Lo’s secret to reveal, not mine.  That has always been the rule.  Second, I’ve learned that letting on to the blog to people who are in the blog creates a Schrödinger’s Pussy situation – where the knowledge of being observed contaminates the observation.

Again I got lost in my thoughts.

She was clearly trying to attract my attention.  She regained it as she unlocked her phone.  I fumbled for my words a bit and said something stupid like the answer to her legal question would take some research.  “A deep dive,” I remember saying.

“If you could advise me,” she said, playing the role of the helpless dancer in need of a savior, “I’d appreciate it so much.  I want to heal people, not get arrested.”

Her allusion to consequences kept me in check and I soon paid my tab and said a friendly farewell to her, looking forward to going home to my sweet slutwife.

I got in late.  I found Lola in bed, almost asleep, Stoya on my pillow.

“What’s this?” I asked.  “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said.  “Come to bed.  I’ll explain.”

I removed my clothes, washed up, and got in bed.  She was on the verge of sleep.  I moved Stoya to the nightstand.

“I’m all ears. . . and a penis,” I said.

She rolled over toward me.  “I was bad,” she began.  I could have figured that.  “I was thinking of Heather and Erin and all the other women I’ve been with.  I was feeling like being with a woman tonight.”

“So you took out Stoya?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I tried a little experiment,” she said.

“Schrödinger’s Pussy,” I muttered under my breath, recalling my conversation of earlier in the evening.

“What?”

“Nothing.  Continue.”

“I fingered myself a bit, rubbed some of my girly juice on her lips, fingering her, and put her over my clit.  I fucked her pussy with my clit.”

“Did you cum?”

“Many times.  It really does feel pretty realistic.”

She hugged me and asked, “Are you mad?”

“No.  But I take it you didn’t wash her properly when done.”

“Sorry Daddy.”

I got out of bed and performed the recommended cleaning to Stoya’s pussy and then hung her out to airdry.

When I got back into bed, Lo was sound asleep on her tum.  I was on my back.  My right hand caressed her back.  Then her lower back.  Then the roundness of her rump.  Then between her legs.  I could feel how wet she was still.  My fingers circled around her pussy, becoming soaked.  I then slid one finger back and did circles around her other special spot.  Slowly, gently, furtively, I dipped in, just a bit.  No response.  Then a bit more.  Lo’s ass raised slightly.  A little more.  She either consciously or unconsciously elevated her hips.  She looked like an inchworm as my finger wormed its way into her bum.*

Then a moan.  Then a sigh.  Then a “Daddy, what are you doing?”

“Nothing, Lo.  Sleep.”

I was in up to my first knuckle.  I went deeper.  And deeper.  And then added a finger.  Her ass indicated it liked what it was getting.  It was completely relaxed and open to exploration.

And then, without warning, it seized up on my fingers.  It clenched like a vice and I heard Lo’s breathing accelerate.  After only a few seconds it was over.  I pulled my fingers out.  She was back to sleep.  I was hard-up.

“There’s always Stoya,” I thought.

 

* See the story, “Sin-esthesia” in which Lo gives her “blanket consent” to being fucked while asleep.