The perennial question: Does art imitate life or life imitate art?

“Daddy,” Lo said, as she was lying down in bed.  It was one of those rare mornings that she woke up before I and was already engaged in her favorite activity – pleasuring herself to something on her phone – “I’m reading ‘Paint me like one of your slutty girls,’ and I want you to know how much your writing turns me on.”

“That’s nice, Lo,” I said, slowly opening my eyes.

She was in her red top and matching red bottom satin pajamas, one hand down between her legs under the satin, the other holding her phone.

“You know,” I said further, “that story has nothing to do with me.”

“Yes, but you wrote it.”

“About you and your admirer and his obsession with you.”

“That’s what I love about it.”

She brought her hand out from under her satin shorts and licked her fingers before replacing her hand on her crotch.

I reached my left hand over and placed it between her legs so I could feel her fingers moving and her hand pumping up and down as she inserted her fingers to her hole.  I tried to slide my hand under her satin bottoms and she said, “Uh uh.  Only over.”

I relented and resigned myself to merely feeling her feeling herself.

She dropped her phone and pulled her tits up and over the V-cut of her top and said, “Suck them, Daddy,” which I did.

“Pull my nipples, Daddy.”  I did that as well.  She orgasms quite easily to the feeling of pain caused by pulling and pinching her nipples.

She moaned.

“What’s got your engine revving so this morning?”

“I told you,” she whispered in a breathy sigh, “I was reading. . . your story.”

“And?”

“And Al sent me a drawing of what he would like to do.”

“What is that?”

“It’s a drawing of him and his wife in bed, getting off to my photos on their TV.”

“Oh, I see.”

“He wishes he could tell his wife that he has been jackin’ off to me regularly for months now.  He wishes he could tell her what a slut I am – that I like to go A-to-M and A-to-P and P-to-M and P-to-A-to-M.”

Before speaking I thought that if the Secret Service ever needed a code name for Lo, it would be: MAP PAM

“Yes, you are a dirty slut.”

“Say it again, Daddy.”

“You are. . . ,” but before I could say it, she was back to Al.

“He wants to tell his wife about me, about how I’m a hotwife and sleep with men and women.  He wants to have her read the books and blog and get her to do the same.  He wants her to fuck other guys in the bed next to him.”

She came in a gush of good feeling.  I felt it wash over my hand.

As she was recovering, I looked at her phone.

“Lo, that’s not a painting,” I said.

She opened her eyes.  “Oh, that?  No.  That’s from Jane and Andrew.  I sent them Al’s art and, guess what?!  They reproduced it in real life!  And they improved upon it.  Look at Andrew!  He’s locked in his cage.  And look what else!”

She used her dry hand to enlarge the photo so I could see that Andrew and Jane had printed up art of Lola and framed it around their television.  “Isn’t that amazing!”

“You are a sexual celebrity.”

“A tempter for Andrew’s celibacy!”

“I sure hope he’s not celibate with a wife that sexy!”

“Maybe they both cum to you when she gives him permission.”

“I want him to look at my photos and lose control and cum even in his cock-cage.”

She saw my cock twitching under the sheets.  “Oh, Daddy, do you need to cum?”

“When I see you like that, I do,” I said, which wasn’t the whole truth.  I am actually even more turned on by her voice, her tone, her moan, and her dirty talk than by seeing her.  She could make me cum over the phone, which she has actually done many times.

“What do you need?” she asked.

“Stroke me.”

She grabbed the hand lotion next to her on the nightstand and put it in the palm of her left hand.  “Give me that cock,” she said.

She wrapped her hand around my hard rod and the cool cream made me even more hard than before.  She began sliding her cupped hand up and down my shaft.  She slid her palm down to my balls and cupped them before moving even further down.

“You like how life imitates art?”

I couldn’t answer.  She knew why.  “You’re going to cum,” she observed.  “Where do you want to cum?”

“You tell me,” was all I could say.

“My face.”

At those words, I pulled back and got up, straddling her torso, grabbing my throbbing organ and coaxed my creative juices to climax, baptizing the crown of her head in hot white spurts that dripped down her face.  She licked around her mouth and said, “I bet Al would like to show his wife how I do that too.”

“Maybe he’ll paint you like a Mona Lisa drenched under a dripping Jackson Pollock.”

“Classic, abstract, and pornographic all at once.  I like that!”

“You should, it describes you perfectly.”