Author Archives: Lola Down

About Lola Down

Just your everyday nymphomaniac next door.

Write the Wrongs

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Fleabag

There’s a curious phenomenon that occurs when an artist gives free reign to the phantom figures animating the psyche and allows them to speak.

Freud has famously said that “Dreams are the royal road to the unconscious.”  If that is so, then Art is a winding and convoluted path from it.

The phantoms that I have committed to the page as fantasy have come to life for me more than once.  Sometimes the crossover from fiction to fact has taken years, sometimes decades, but it has happened often enough that it is a truism for me that my life imitates my art, or rather, my art prefigures, unconsciously, my future life.

One could explain this in psychological terms as wish-fulfilment: the written word acts as a sort of map leading me toward the conjuring of my deepest desires.  A sort of vision board. Or one could understand it as the divine act of artists: literally calling into being that which previously never existed.

However you characterize it, it is something that I believe is not unique to me, but probably a common experience of artists.

As I recall, years ago, before her coup de grâce, Frankie Shaw had posted on Twitter or  Instagram a photo of her on the set of SMILF with a whiteboard sketching her greatest fear.  It was a chart of sorts, tracking her increasing success and then, in the future, it suddenly takes a precipitous drop into failure.  Sure, this is a common anxiety among folks who gain some success at whatever it is they do, but with her it became a self-fulfilling prophesy.  Not only that, but her fictional character on SMILF self-sabotaged just about as much as she self-pleasured.  So, perhaps it is no surprise that in life Frankie Shaw was her own undoing.

Frankie Shaw

Maybe this tragic trajectory is what I find so damn attractive about her, both in her art and in real life.

Always late to the party, recently Lo and I have discovered a television character no less flawed than Frankie Shaw, but whom Lo can embrace as a kindred spirit: Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag.

It became apparent early on that this deeply scarred character shared many of Lo’s kinky quirks: masturbating in bed while lying next to her sleeping boyfriend; interrupting coitus in order to finish herself off solo; sleeping with every man who is deemed off-limits to her.  Not to mention that Fleabag has a wicked sense of humor.  The further we binged on the all-too-brief series, the more that was revealed about Fleabag’s traumatic history, the more Lo saw herself in the character.

Suffice it to say that between you, my dear reader, and me, I have kept you at arm’s length from Lo’s dark depths, but that does not mean they do not exist.  The job of art is to transform the expletives of existence into sublime poetry in order that we might live in an uneasy tension with our demons.  To whatever extent possible, I try to do that for you – painting a faithful portrait, but one that necessarily leaves much darkness just outside the frame.

Recently I was in an old church for a funeral.  I know that sounds like a non sequitur, but stick with me.  As I sat there, a bit bored and distracted, I looked up and saw the old, exposed, solid wood beams of the vaulted ceiling.  They all met in the middle where the wood was at its thickest and it directed one’s view upward.  I thought, “That wood, this architecture, is symbolic.  It’s meaningful and is saying something in its silent language.”  I think that Lo is with me because I’m like the center of those beams: I provide stability support to the rest of the structure, while simultaneously holding things together.  For the most part, I do it silently and without anyone noticing.  But Lo knows it on a deep level.

However, even having said that, I know that Lo also thinks that there must be something in my distant past, something buried, something beyond my conscious awareness that has scarred me as well.  First, almost no one gets through this life without some sort of trauma.  Second, she knows me better than anyone – perhaps even better than I know myself, in some ways.  And though I’ve never identified it, she is quite confident that there is something lurking there, deep beneath the surface, far below the vaulted ceiling of my silent security that is buried in my past.  Maybe she’s right.

Writers work out deep problems in the soul.  That’s why they circle back again and again.  And we all know that here, in these pages, I circle back again and again to certain themes, vignettes, and motifs.  I’m sure there are many men who live with nymphomaniacs like Lo, but do not feel the compulsion to write about the repeated sexploits they get up to together.  Yet I do – so much!  What does that say about me, I wonder?  Is Lo a symptom of my wounded soul or is she the balm that I need to heal?  The same could be asked about my compulsive writing.  Perhaps they are both.  I don’t know, but in time the work that needs to be done will unfold.  Trust in the process.  Be open to the process.  Give reign to the process and the wrongs will write themselves.

Writing the Wrongs

Public Figure Exposé

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Katie Hill

 

This blog is about love, sex, relationships, psychology, and sex.  Yeah, I said sex twice because, if the name of the blog is “mysexlifewithlola.com,” then an expectation is created that there will be a lot of sex.  So, there you have it.

This blog is decidedly not about politics.  In fact, many of you dear readers may have noticed that through all the topsy-turvy turbulent times in which we are living, this blog has delicately navigated a course far from politics.  There is a good reason for that.  If you are reading this, it’s because it is a fun escape from whatever else is going on in your life.  No need to bring all that baggage here as well.

But right now sex and politics have mingled in a way that make it appropriate for us to discuss.

You may have heard about Congresswoman Katie Hill recently.  If not, allow me to summarize her story.  She was, until last week, a Democratic representative from California.  She’s only 32 and she got elected after being the executive director of the non-profit People Assisting the Homeless (PATH).  Apparently, she also has a “kinky” side.  She came out as bisexual after high school and it is alleged that she and her now estranged husband were involved with another woman in a consensual relationship.

These facts became a problem for Hill when allegations swirled that she had an inappropriate relationship with a male staffer – a violation of House ethics rules that were put in place to prevent exploitation of power differentials in the wake of #MeToo.

But the thing that sunk Hill’s ship was the release of nude photos of her, allegedly by her estranged husband in an act of revenge porn.

It seems to me that in this day and age we need to begin taking seriously the fact that people can be more than one thing.  Katie Hill can be a successful, sincere, hard-working, do-gooder striving to help the homeless, represent her constituency, and bring equity and justice into the lives of many.  And she can be married to a man, have relationships with women, and not be limited by traditional notions of monogamy.  And she can be into taking nudie pics of herself and her lovers.  All of this can be true of the same person.  “Kink” does not mean bad or selfish or untrustworthy.  “Public Figure” does not necessarily mean missionary position for the rest of your life with the same partner of the opposite sex.  Aren’t we beyond that yet?

Further, though once upon a time it was the height of scandal for a woman to be exposed – think Phryne being exposed by her lawyer in ancient Athens, Lady Godiva,  A Night in Paris, or The Great Celebrity Photo Leak of 2014 – today it seems as if everyone and their mother is eager to have their racy photos on the internet and trending!  So what is the big deal?  Andy Warhol spoke of everyone having 15 minutes of fame in the future.  I think now that everyone will soon have their top 15 nude photos on the internet.

As optimistic as that may be, we also need to be realistic.  There are still many backward-thinking, bigoted, misogynist, mean-spirited, spiteful, and opportunistic people out there who are not above using a woman’s nude images against her.

Lo and I were pondering all of this when, just the other night, one of her female friends from the NFWITSFW part of the internet (that stands for “no fucking way is this safe for work”) told her that she wants to be “exposed.”

“What do you mean, ‘exposed’?” asked Lo.

“You know, like, I want the pics of me nude and pregnant to be the first image result when someone searches for that.”

Lo said that if I wrote a story about her friend and posted it, she probably would be.  Though Lo is a “sinfluencer,” I think she overestimates our power of “product placement.”

Our friend, Karla, or KB HotWife, as she likes to be known, said, “Use my real name.”

“What?!” asked Lo.

“Yeah,” said Karla.

“You’re sure to get all the attention you crave if we do that, but be careful what you wish for,” cautioned Lo.

Luckily for Karla, I’m not a speed writer.  The next day she told Lo she changed her mind.

Both Lo and I were relieved.  It’s one thing if she wants to use her own name, but we didn’t want to be the ones to expose her.  Who knows, she might want to run for public office some day!

[Below, enjoy some photos Karla has sent us for you to enjoy.]

Schrödinger’s Pussy

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“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.

Open Auditions

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Littlegem of PurplesGem reads about Lola Down

 

As I have mentioned in the past, we receive a lot of fan mail.  Most of it is for Lo, of course, but, on occasion, I receive a kind epistle from an adoring fan.  Sometimes, the cursory reader gets confused.  Like the time a guy wrote to Lo saying, “You’re an incredible writer.”

She wrote back, “No, no.  Not me.  My man, HH.  He does the writing, I do the fucking.”

Lo and HH – much younger.

Recently, one fan of my writing wrote in asking if Lo ever gets enough pleasure and, “Do you ever get tired of writing about sex or is it always fresh for you?”

Lo was sitting on the couch reading the email, her bare legs spread as one hand held her phone and the other pleasured herself (she never gets enough pleasure – there’s the answer to your first questions), when she looked up at me, sitting at the other end of the couch, to read to me the fan’s email.

I pondered for a moment, we discussed it a bit, and she responded, “We have these amazing adventures that we just want to share with other people.  I guess it’s like a travel blog, but for sex.  We like to take you on our journeys with us.”

“How about we make it more like a food blog?” I asked Lo.  “I eat you out and then I can write about the four-course meal later.”

“Four courses?”

“Yeah: pussy, ass, mouth, and then you lick my popsicle for dessert.”

“As much fun as that sounds, slide over here and look at this,” she said.

She spread her legs wider and I sat between them.  One of her legs was up on my lap and the other behind my back.  “I like this,” I said, looking at her delectable body.

“You might like this even more because it appeals to your insatiable ego.”

“Oh yeah?  Well, you have my attention now!”

“I didn’t before?”

“Before you had my erection.”

“Let me see,” she demanded.

“No.  First you show me whatever it is that’s going to aggrandize my ego.”

“I said ‘appeal to your ego.’  It’s impossible aggrandize.  I don’t think it could get any bigger.”

“Are we still talking about my ego?”

“Take a look at this,” she said, turning her phone so I could see the photo.

It showed a beautiful naked woman reading, Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume: III, Writing Under Cover.

“Oh my!  Who is that?!”

“Littlegem,” she said, referring to one of our blogging community friends across the pond.

“Really?”

“You like?”

“Yes,” I said emphatically.  It’s one thing to be told that my writing turns people on, but to see it happening is quite thrilling.

“And that’s not all,” said Lo, swiping the photo to reveal another.  The second photo was in black-and-white.

“Wow!”

“OK,” said Lo, “I was wrong.  Apparently there was room for your ego to grow.”

“Something’s growing alright.”

“Then I shouldn’t tell you what else Littlegem said.”

“Tell, tell!”

“Well. . . she said she wants to do a recording of her reading your writing while having her clit teased.”

“Like Stoya did for ‘Hysterical Literature’?”

Stoya Reading MySexLifeWithLola

“Don’t mention her.”

“Oh, right.  Still, that’s amazing!”

“I think it would be great because I got an email from another fan who is blind.”

“Blind?!”

“Yes, blind.”

“How the hell did he find our blog?”

“Apparently, he has someone read the stories for him.”

“Oh my God!  That is one of the hottest things I’ve ever heard!!!”

“Yeah,” said Lo, “and it got me thinking.  We should totally do an audio book since I’m sure there are lots of long-distance haulers who would like to have me as their companion across the lonely stretches of highway.”

“I’m sure they would.”

“And people who want to hear about my sexcapades on their way to work.”

“The morning drive will never be the same.”

“And insomniacs who could use a good bedtime story.”

“Nothing like a good wank at the end of a long day to induce sleep.”

“So you see, it’s really necessary for everyone’s well-being that we do this.”

“Indubitably.  And are you going to be the one to record the stories?”

“Oh no!” said Lo.  “I’m no actor.  All my orgasms are real.”

“Of course.  Then who?”

“I’ll put out a call for open auditions.”

[Note to reader, if you haven’t checked out PurplesGem yet, you really should. They’re a great BDSM/kink couple. Great writing and photos. Below are some of our favorite photos from them, with permission, of course.]

[p.s.  – If YOU want to audition for our audiobook, then go to ACX.com and look for “Match, Cinder & Spark.”  If you can’t find it, email us: downloladown@gmail.com]

Thigh Gap

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Because of her trysts with Robert, Lola stopped fucking me for a while.  I turned to my right-hand woman: Stoya.  But Lola found out.  Don’t ask me how.  A woman’s sixth sense, I suppose.  Lola told me I can have whatever I want, so long as I ask for it.  But I’m too proud to ask.  I’m used to being asked by her.

I went into the bedroom and I texted to Lo, who was in the living room, “Hello Stoya, It’s just you and me now.”

She texted back, “If you want something, ask for it.”

I responded, “Come here and jack me off.”

She entered the bedroom and said, “I’ll jack you off, on one condition.”

I didn’t say anything or even move.

“Do you hear me?”

“I’m all ears. . . and a dick.”

“After I jack you off, you will write that story about me and Robert.”

“You expect me to write on commission?!  I’ve never been more insulted in my life!  I’m an artist, a poet, a philosophical. . .”

“A pompous ass and a purveyor of pornographic smut.”

“Now that’s just redundant.”

“No, it would be smut writing even without the pornographic images of me.  The pornography just makes it fun to look at as well.”

“Fair enough, but still unfair to my artistic sensibilities.”

“You’re not sensible at all!  You’re the furthest from sensible.  You’re immersed in your senses.  That’s why you’re such a great writer of erotica.”

“Well, now you’re pandering to my vanity.”

“Your vanity is six-fifths of your ego.”

“And?”

“Never mind.  Are you going to write the story or what?”

“Of course I’m going to write the story, but not because you’re going to give me a hand-job.  I’m going to write for art!  Art!  Do you hear me?”

“Who’s this fella Art?  Have I fucked him?”

“Droll, dear, very droll.”

We both got naked and I placed my cock in a prominent position above her naked body.  Her legs were spread and her pussy lips were wet and partially parted.

“Why do you only want me to jack you off when you have your cock poised right between my pussy lips?”

“Because,” I retorted snidely, “if you want something, you have to ask for it.”

She reached between her legs and began slowly stroking me.  Then she got an idea.  She grabbed Stoya from the nightstand and applied her wetness to Stoya’s pussy.  She then bent over the side of the bed and put the entire contraption between her legs; the imitation pussy just below her actual pussy.

“Fuck the pussy you want,” she said.

Just to get her goat, I fucked Stoya.

She turned her head over her shoulder and said, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No, I’m fucking Stoya.  No kidding,” I said.

I liked being able to see her hole as I filled the insentient being held in place by her thigh gap.

I continued like that, as she grew bored and impatient.  As I felt myself leading up to a climax, I pulled out of Stoya and flipped Lo on her back in order that she would feel the heat of my love on every part of her body except between her legs.  (Also, cleaning my cum out of Stoya is a pain in the ass.)  After mopping up the cum on her face, neck, and tits, she pulled out her Hitachi.

“Are you just going to sit there?” she asked me as she placed the vibrating toy between her legs.

“That’s exactly what I was planning on doing,” I said, “so you can ejaculate on me and we can call it even.”

“As fun as that sounds,” she said, “you have work to do.  Go get writing while I get myself off.”

Absolution

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[Continued from “Holding on Comes Easy“]

Last I remembered, Lo had engaged in a lengthy session of self-service before falling asleep between Robert and me.  When I woke in the morning, she was sound asleep, her back toward me, and Robert had his hands around her waist.  I was turned toward them, my arm drooped over her side, my hand fondling her breast, and my cock rigid and eager for more attention.

I carefully extricated myself from the bed, found a robe and quietly went to the kitchen to make some coffee.

As I sat down to take my first sip, Lo suddenly appeared in the kitchen wearing one of Roberts t-shirts and nothing else.  She was carrying a bundle of clothes.

“Here,” she said, passing the clothes off to me.

“And a good morning to you too,” I said sarcastically.

“Get dressed.”  They were my clothes.

“What?”

“Get dressed.  You have to get out of here.”

I was perplexed.  “What do you mean I. . .”

“Imogen is still sleeping.  When she wakes up, she can’t find you here.  Remember, she thinks I’m Robert’s girlfriend and you’re just Robert’s friend.  You have to go home.”

“Are we still putting on that little ruse?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, if that’s the case, why don’t I just crawl into bed with Imogen?”

Lo gave me an angry look.

“Ok, Ok,” I said.  “I’ll get dressed and go.”

She gave me a quick peck on the cheek to show her appreciation.  “Don’t worry, Daddy,” she said, “I will make it up to you.”

My cock must have liked her tone because it immediately popped up like a little puppy who just heard the treats bag open.

“Nope, none of that now,” said Lo curtly, before turning tail and returning to the bedroom with Robert.

I dutifully got dressed and went home to shower, have more coffee, and nurse my hangover.

Sometime later I got a call from Lo.  She sounded out of breath.

“Lo?”

Pause.  “Yeah?”

“Are you ok?”

Pause.  “Yeah.”

“Are you at Robert’s?”

Pause.  “Yeah.”

“Are you fucking?”

“Yes, Daddy, he’s behind me, fucking my ass now.  What would you like us to do next?”

 

 

 

I won’t deny that I was titillated by the call, but I was also furious.  I was home, hard-up and hungover, while she was being banged by her backdoor man.

“I want you to tell me you love me.”

Long pause.  “I – I – I love you, Daddy,” I heard.

I put the phone down for a moment and hurriedly grabbed my Stoya Fleshlight, some lube, and picked up the phone again.  Lo was screaming.  I could hear Robert smacking her ass.

“Daddy, I love you,” she repeated.

I slid the prosthetic vagina down on my cock.  I held the phone with my left hand and slid the contraption up and down with my right.  I listened to Lo getting fucked.  She was calling out, “Harder.  Harder.  Deeper.  Cum in my ass.  Cum deep in my ass.”  As she was saying that, I thought of how Robert came in her mouth after fucking her ass yesterday.

“Daddy,” she said into the phone, “I want him to cum in my ass.  Do you want him to cum in my ass too?”

My eyes were shut.  I was vividly imagining her bent over his dresser, Robert behind her, looking at her tits swinging in the mirror as he fucked her from behind.  I pictured her left hand holding the phone to her ear and her right hand moving back to her ass, pulling her right cheek to spread as wide as she could go for him to bury his long dick in her bum.  Maybe she was fingering her hole as well.

I heard her ramping up, going into the overture to her orgasm.

I slid Stoya’s cunt up and down more vigorously and I could feel my cuckolded cum rising to the surface.  Lo launched into her operatic aria and I could hold out no longer.  I came and came deep inside Stoya as Robert came deep inside Lola.

A perfect triple play!

After we all were able to bask in the beauty of the trifecta, Lo stayed on the phone with me as Robert went to clean up.

“Did you like that, Daddy?” she asked.

“You.  Are.  Amazing,” was all I could say.

“Do you like seeing him make me cum, Daddy?”

“I didn’t see you,” I said, confused.

“I meant yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said.  “You’re a dirty, dirty girl.”

“Am I bad?”

I changed the topic, fearing she’d get all riled up again.  “Is Imogen still there?” I asked.

“Oh her?  No.  She woke up, I think a little embarrassed and very hungover, and we called her a cab.  She only had fragments of memory from last night, but she asked me to say something nice to you.”

“Oh, and what was that?”

“She really just said, ‘Say something nice to him.’”

I laughed and she did too.  Apparently all was forgiven.  Nothing absolves me of my transgressions like Lola’s seducing men to sodomize her.

Holding On Comes Easy

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[Continued from “Lusting for Infidelity“]

Lola and Imogen had gone to bed together, leaving Robert and me alone in the kitchen.  He looked over to me quizzically and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Oh well.  May the best man win – and this time it was a woman.”

I looked back at him, smirked, and said, “Join me for a drink?”

He put down the towel with which he was drying the dishes, pulled out two tumblers from the cupboard, got some ice and pulled out a bottle of scotch.  He poured a glass for me and one for him.  A heavy pour.  I looked at the bottle and said to him, “Eighteen-years-old.  Old for a whisky, young for a woman.”

He laughed and we went outside by the fire.  Not without irony, we both got under the heavy wool blanket and were side-by-side on the outdoor couch, our feet warmed by the flames in front of us.  We were cozy next to each other, slowly sipping our drinks, laughing, and chatting as we gazed into the flickering light.

As I have mentioned, dear reader, prior to the whole ménage à trois with Lo, Robert and I were actually good friends and closely collaborating colleagues.  But ever since Lo literally and metaphorically came between us, we have grown apart.  It was good to share a drink, share a laugh, share a blanket, and share a bed with him without sharing Lo’s body for a change.

We got to talking about philosophy, art, and poetry.  In a reflective voice, I said to Robert: “We need, in love, to practice only this: letting each other go.  For holding on comes easily; we do not need to learn it.”

“What’s that from?” he asked.

“Rilke’s ‘Requiem.’  One of his most beautiful poems,” I said.

We both pondered the words in silence when, out of the darkness, who should appear but Lo, bare-assed as the day she was born.  She was tiptoeing toward us.

“Isn’t this cute,” she said, looking at the two of us, “two penises in a pod.”

“That’s not the expression,” I said.

“Shut up and make room for me,” she said, “it’s freezing out.”

Robert and I each moved to our respective sides and Lo nestled her naked body between the two of us.  “What are you two up to?” she asked, suggestively.

“Just reciting poetry,” said Robert.

“Really?!”

“Yes,” I said  “And what have you and Imogen been up to?”

“Nothing,” she said with a pout.  “She just fell right to sleep.  That’s why I’m here now.”

“Because you’re interested in reciting poetry by firelight under the stars?” I asked.

“What a romantic,” said Lo, rubbing my leg under the blanket.  “No, because I’m interested in seeing which one of you is going to cum first.  My money is on HH since he didn’t cum earlier.”

As she said this, she was reaching down my pants with her right hand and reaching down Robert’s pants with her left, fumbling for our firewood.

“My hands are so cold,” she said.  “Warm them up.”

Each of us loosened our belts and undid our pants so she could have an easier time creating friction for her chilly palms.  Her tits were exposed to the cool air and her nipples were hard.  She turned to Robert first and kissed him for a bit and then she turned to me and entwined her tongue with mine, never letting go of her twin possessions.

Soon both Robert and I were turned toward her, our rods pointing at her as she stroked them masterfully.  Robert was fondling her breasts and I was reaching down to her puss.  I could feel how wet she was.  She could feel how hard I was.  I know she felt my cock throbbing in her hand, ready to explode.  She held even more tightly.  Soon I was ejaculating in rhythmic spurts all over her hips.  When I was done, I stood up and let her lick me clean, allowing Robert to see my flaccid manhood in her mouth.  Then it was his turn and he covered her in his own icing as she gave him the attention he needed at the moment.  He imitated my actions by standing up to allow her lick the very last drops from his cock.

When she was done, she said, “I’m going to take a shower.  You two get naked and I’ll meet you in bed.”

Both Robert and I did as we were told and Lo arrived in bed soon thereafter.  Robert, who had cum twice that evening, was depleted.  I was no better.  Lo engaged in a lengthy session of self-service before falling asleep between the two of us.

Lusting for Infidelity

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Lusting for Infidelity

[Continued from “A Little Side-Hustle“]

Luckily for me, Lo came to my rescue.  Just as Imogen was leaning in, her eyes locked with mine and her lips lusting for infidelity, her cleavage consciously hoisted to my attention, Lo suddenly appeared between us and said, “I could use your help now.”

Taken aback by the interruption, Imogen recoiled and looked bewildered at Lo who was crouching in front of the two of us.

“We’re moving the party outside,” said Lo, “Could you please help me with taking out some blankets and the desserts?”

Robert had a fireplace outside, the center of an alcove where he had set up an exterior living room with lounge chairs and couches.  Robert was getting the fire lit as Lo and Imogen carried the sweets outside along with warm coffee and strong drinks.

I was helping and at one point, as Lo and I were passing each other, her eyes stopped me in my tracks.  She looked wicked, wilily, and wanton.  What could that look mean?  I had no idea, but my guilty conscience led me to believe I was in deep trouble with her already.

When we were all outside, sitting around the fire, chatting, I deliberately tried to make conversation with anyone but Imogen.  But, pretty soon my small-talk options were reduced to one, for soon after dessert, the Aussie guests thanked their hosts – Robert and Lola – and departed.  All except Imogen.  What to do about Imogen?

Lo and Robert were lying down under a heavy blanket on one of the couches as Imogen and I were next to each other in two chairs.  I had one eye on Lo and one on Imogen, carefully treading and dreading my next move.  I could see Lo whisper something to Robert.  Then Robert asked me to help him clean up, saying, “Lo has done quite enough, the least we could do is chip in on the easy part.”  I welcomed his invitation and then he and I went inside to collect the dishes, glasses, serving trays, etc.  We were in the kitchen making some forced chit-chat while the ladies were outside.

The next thing I knew, the two of them came in and said they were going to bed in the master bedroom, leaving the two of us out in the cold.

A Little Side Hustle

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[Continued from “The Dinner Party“]

Soon the guests had arrived.  Because they were an international contingent traveling together, they all arrived together rather than in drips and drabs.  There were eight of them; two women and four men.

Thank goodness it was buffet style and not a sit-down dinner because with those numbers and pairings I would have been the odd-man-out.  Or, at least that was my first thought.  But then, as the guests were introduced to me, I had a follow-up thought: If Lola is Robert’s partner, then that means, for all intents and purposes to these folks, I am single, available, and, I hope, an attractive American catch!  Ah-ha!  Two can play at Lola’s little game!

Yes, each of the Aussies were introduced to me, but I’m horrible at names.  The only name I remembered was Imogen.  Of the two female guests, she was the older, more mysterious, more attractive, and more married.  It also helped that she was named after a Shakespearian character.  She looked like she was thrilled to be so far away from home where what happens here stays here.  I was very pleased to make her acquaintance.

Imogen had sandy blonde hair and hazel eyes.  She had a very casual, relaxed attitude and was dressed in tight jeans with heels and a very sheer, sleeveless white top.  When she drank, it was with her left hand and that gesture displayed her very large, prominent wedding ring.  I’ll admit, I was also taken in by her accent and foreign phrases.

The guests mingled and made small-talk and Lo played her part to a tee.  She kept her left hand in the nook of Robert’s right arm and positively glowed as he introduced her to each of his colleagues as his partner.  Her eyes sparkled and her mouth was inviting.

Small dishes and appetizers were served.  Wine was poured.  Eventually we all found our way to the living room where there was ample seating.  Lo brought out a tray of cheese and crackers and other little bites and placed it on the low coffee table in the center.  As she bent over to carefully set it down, I could see up her short black skirt.  So could others, I’m sure.  She looked so dainty in full hospitality mode.  Little would anyone suspect that Robert had been ramming his rod up her beautiful Betty Boop just a little while ago.

She took her “proper” place next to Robert on the couch.  Her right hand was gently, maybe unconsciously, stroking up and down his pantleg as she would normally do to me when we had company at our house.  It was a surreal feeling, as if we had broken up and now I was viewing her with her new man at a soiree that we both, coincidentally, happened to attend.  However, every now and again she would glance my way and give me a knowing look, as if to say, “This is all just show.  I’m going to jump your bones tonight ’cause this is making me so horny.”

I positioned myself next to Imogen and made some small talk with her.  I expressed exaggerated interest in her, looking deep into her eyes and feigning a strong connection to whatever she said.  Occasionally I gave a sidelong glance at Lo to insure that she was seeing my Academy-worthy performance as much as I was a witness to hers.  Maybe I overplayed my hand.  Soon Imogen was actually making the moves on me!  I mean, I liked her and found her attractive, but I certainly wasn’t looking for anything other than a counterpoint to Lo’s cruel counterfeit.

I got up and made my way to the kitchen.  Lo followed, excusing herself in order to get some of the entrée.  She stomped right up to me and in a hushed voice she threatened, “You stop your little flirtation or you will be sorry.  You hear me?”

“Lo,” I stammered.  “I was hardly flirting.”

“Oh, that’s so interesting,” she mocked my voice.  “Keep it up and. . .”

“And what?” I taunted.  “You’ll sleep with Robert?”

She stomped her foot, but quietly.  She abruptly turned and opened the oven to get the fish.  As she was bending over to take it out using oven mitts, who should appear next to me but Imogen!  “Can I help you with that?” she asked, her lovely accent making the question sound almost like a lilting melody.

“Oh no,” said Lo, “I’ve got it.  It’s just hot, but nothing I can’t handle.”  She was being as pleasant as pie, but I knew her too well and thus was aware that this was her “I’ll kill you with kindness” voice.

Lo brought out all the food and we all ate and drank to excess.  Imogen was uncomfortably cordial toward me.  But the more drinks I got in me, the less concerned about Lo’s feelings I was.

Lo, for her part, was playing the dutiful girlfriend and hanging on Robert’s arm, laughing at his every banal witticism.  Her sparkle, I must admit, brought real life and charm to the party.

After a good deal of indulging, Lo brought out the dessert tray and cozied up next to Robert on the couch again.  In the position she was sitting, I could see her cute tum rolls and it drove me wild!  I watched intently as she ate one delicacy after another, picking up the confections with her fingers and popping them into her mouth.  I thought of how I was feeding her before the guests arrived.  She must have seen me dreaming, because she looked right at me as she seductively put a chocolate truffle into her mouth.

After that, for me, the night wore on.  I just wanted to be alone with Lo, to feed her in both literal and metaphoric ways.  But there still was the problem of Imogen.  She became more and more flirtatious, placing her hand on my knee and occasionally moving close enough to me on the couch that her shoulder and mine were touching.

I felt that I was at an inflection point.  I could take one more drink and throw caution to the wind, indulging Imogen’s interests while ignoring Lo’s warnings.  Or I could cut myself off and take control of the situation.  The former prospect was fraught with problems and so was the latter, especially since I had very knowingly led my Australian married friend to believe that I was truly interested in her.  I knew which was the right choice, but neither was an easy choice.

The Dinner Party

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[Continued from, “Feed it to Me.”]

“Daddy,” asked Lo, “if it’s ok with you, when the guests arrive, I’d like to pretend for the night that I’m Robert’s girlfriend.”

I raised my eyebrows as a confused bunch of emotions swirled in my mind.  Of course one of those emotions was arousal.  But there was also intrigue, surprise, befuddlement, and a twinge of hurt and even a sliver of jealousy.  Why wouldn’t she be ok with introducing me as her partner?  Why the rouse?  All of these thoughts flooded my mind, but then, at the flash of her pearly whites and her sexy red tongue gliding over them seductively, I could see that the real reason for the roleplay was because it excited her.

She liked the thought of taunting me, making me jealous, leaving me in the cold – the third-wheel as she got to be the center of attention.  So, what was I to do?  I capitulated and she gave me a devoted little peck on the cheek as a reward.

She practically danced back to Robert to give him the good news and I saw his face light up.  I imagine he has felt a bit awkward as a middle-aged single guy in a mostly coupled world.  And that awkwardness couldn’t have been diminished at all by coming to our house at all hours of the night for a booty call with Lola.  So, her little charade for the evening’s entertainment must have boosted his confidence.

“You know,” I said to Lo at one point before the guests arrived, “there’s a job for what you do.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, clearly delighted by her acting role.

“It’s called ‘girlfriend rental,’ or something like that.  I saw an article about it a while ago.  Men who don’t have girlfriends can hire a woman to be their date for a company function or even for Thanksgiving!”

“Hmmmmm, interesting,” she pondered, “a little side-hustle.”