We saw that Mike & Molly over at Molly’s Daily Kiss had published their annual Top 100 Sex Bloggers awards for 2018 and we had no expectation of being on it. We didn’t ask anyone to vote for us and we are very aware that our publishing is less than regular or frequent! But, nonetheless, there we were, pulling in just under the wire at #97!!!
We are thrilled! Thanks to Mike & Molly and all of you!!!
See the complete list with many of our friends on it here:
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.
It’s almost 9:00 a.m. and Lo hasn’t emerged from the bedroom yet. I walk into the bedroom and as I open the door I find her lying on the bed, tum down, ass up, in her left hand she holds her phone and she is staring at it intently as her right hand manipulates a dildo in her puss and another in her ass. She looks up briefly, caught in the act.
“I would join you, but I see you’re full up,” I say snidely.
“You can be next. Just give me about ten more minutes.”
“You realize, it’s a quarter-to-nine, right?”
She waves me off, resentful of the interruption, concerned about the distraction.
When I walk in again at five-to-nine, she’s already in her tight pants, her pumps, and blouse, ready to go to work.
“What happened to my turn?” I inquire.
“Sorry Daddio, but I only had room for three this morning.”
“What do you mean, room for three?”
“I mean, three orgasms.”
“I didn’t even hear you.”
She shrugs her shoulders and walks into the bathroom to fix her hair. When she does, I take a surreptitious glance at her phone. I see that she had made a phone call at 8:47 to Brian. I guess that’s why she was so quiet.
“You know,” I call to her from the bed, “you’re an inveterate masturbator.”
“What’s ‘inveterate’ mean, Daddy?” she asks in her little-girl voice.
“Chronic, confirmed, hardened, incurable, incorrigible, habitual, unrepentant.”
“Yep, that sounds like me. I like it: Inveterate Masturbator. It could be my superhero name.”
“And your superpower would be. . . making yourself cum?”
“That and the power to make others cum. You want to cum, Daddio?” she asks teasingly.
“Yes, yes I do!”
“Tell me more.”
“I want to cum. Isn’t that enough?”
“Tell me how you want to cum,” she says, walking over to me and putting her hand on my crotch.
“I want to cum in you, on you, for you, under you – choose your preposition.”
“Do you want me to tug your cock and jack you off or do you want me to suck it or do you want to fuck my puss or do you want to fuck my ass?”
“Preferably, a little of each, you know, like tapas.”
“Hmmm,” she hums, “I like that.” Then, abruptly, she turns and walks out of the bedroom. “Too bad I have to go to work,” she calls over her shoulder. “I guess you’ll just have to be hard-up for me all day.”
That is too much. All niceties are off. “What about your friend?” I call back to her.
“My friend?” she asks as she slips into her heels.
“Yeah, Brian, who you had phone sex with this morning.”
“Daddy,” she says, stopping in her tracks, “you were snooping.”
“Yeah, so. It doesn’t change the fact.”
“Well, I guess you’ll just have to be really hard-up all day until I get home and have the time to tell you about it. Kisses,” she says as she puckers up. I am in no mood to kiss her after that torture. She waits with her eyes closed. When she feels nothing on her lips, she opens one eye and then the other. “Fine,” she says, “if you don’t want to kiss me, I’ll find someone who does.”
With that she walks out the door.
I write erotica. No. Scratch that. What I really write is love poems to Lola. Really, really, really long love poems. So long that, to the untrained eye, they read like prose.
Niel Gaiman once said, “If you’re only going to write when you’re inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet, but you will never be a novelist — because you’re going to have to make your word count today, and those words aren’t going to wait for you, whether you’re inspired or not. So you have to write when you’re not inspired.” I don’t have a problem with this advice in general, but part of the problem is that when I’m not inspired, a certain detached, disinterested, distant feeling comes over me with regard to my writing. I hesitate to say “objective,” because that implies a truth to the judgment and, for the life of me, I pray that that cold view of my writing is not true.
I struggle to capture exactly the feeling I get at these moments of disenchantment, but there are a few readily available examples of how I feel about my work that I can offer. If you’ve ever seen The Big Lebowski, then you may recall the “modern interpretive dance” scene where The Dude watches his landlord, Marty, perform. It is painful and comic to watch. But it means so much to Marty. That’s certainly part of it – if Marty was an author and not a dancer.
Another analogy is thinking thoughts when very stoned as compared to reading those thoughts when sober; some crucial élan vital is missing. A third analogy is that of being naked. One can be nude with one’s lover and that can be magnificent, or one can get caught naked in public, as often happens in humiliation dreams. The difference between nude and naked is as great as the difference between consent and coercion.
Being nude is easy. Writing is not.
But then there are also times like now. Last night Lola and I went out to a party with some friends. She wore her jack-pot top that prominently displays her cleavage and she wore her tight jeans with heels. She looked good and I wasn’t the only one to notice. Most of the evening her eyes sparkled and her teeth twinkled as she chatted and laughed, throwing back her long hair and touching the arms of those she liked. She flirts. And I love seeing it. I watched her from afar and occasionally I sidled up next to her sliding my right hand over her round butt. I wanted her all evening and the longer we stayed the more I wanted her. But I’m not as young as I used to be. The witching hour approached and my energy for performance and social settings dwindled. I felt fatigued on the ride home. Lo and I were traveling in the back of a cab and she was clearly not ready for the night to end. She kissed me and reached down between my legs. She reached between her legs and she enjoyed the thrill of being just out of sight from the driver as she made small-talk with him.
We got home and I got in bed, loving her, but needing sleep. She joined me, naked, and feeling dejected by my drowsiness, pulled out her Hitachi, phone, dildo, and began her nightly bedtime ritual of self-pleasure.
In the morning I awoke before she. She was curled in the fetal position facing away from me. I was wrapped around her, holding her tightly for it was a chilly morning and we needed each other for warmth. My hand roamed over her soft skin from her shoulder down to her breast, feeling the flesh of her tum and over her round hips. I wanted her. My rod was stiff between my legs, protruding into her. She was down for the count.
Desirous of her, but respectful of her sleep, I snuck out of bed, washed up, made my coffee, and set up my little writing nest on the couch and began to compose this lustful literary tribute to her, my muse. I know that when she wakes she will be full of passion for me as I will be for her. And when I read these words to her, she will find them flattering, beautiful, and inspired. That will make up for all the disenchanted moments when I look upon this massive encomium to Lola as if written by someone else. My love, my longing, my lusty imaginings and my self-critical eye will all be aligned. All shall be well, at least until the next wave of despair, alienation, and disenchantment plumes within me. But, until then, I’ll take what I can get – of Lo and of writing.
Our day at the beach for a vacation fantasy cum true didn’t quite pan out the way Lola had envisioned it. We didn’t make it to the nude beach, but we did find a lovely stretch of semi-private secluded sand where we could lay out and enjoy the sun and sea. But, much to Lo’s consternation, soon after we had parked our payload of the day’s provisions and set up camp, a gaggle of girls moved in on our unofficial quadrant of beach and set up their site immediately adjacent to ours. This wouldn’t have been unwelcome if it were a handful of hunky men that Lo could tease and tempt all day, but that was not the case. It was five college age women in the skimpiest of thongs, showing off their bubble-butts for each other, and, I can only assume, since I was the only male on the strand, for my viewing pleasure. This latter fact perturbed Lo to no end.
Not only did these women have the nerve to spread out (in every sense of the term) in our line of vision, but they spent a good deal of the time taking selfies, posing for each other’s pics, doing ridiculous stretches for the camera, and slapping each other’s butts. The height of indiscretion came when, as Lo and I were walking past them to take a dip, one of them stopped me and asked if I would take a photo of their entire crew lined up by the water so that they could have a group photo. I knew that acquiescing to this polite request would put me in Lo’s bad graces, but proper etiquette demanded that I oblige. So I took a few snaps of the ladies and then ran to catch up with Lo who was ankle deep in the water.
“Having fun?” she asked in her sarcastic tone.
“Lo, I didn’t invite them to join us here. This wasn’t my plan. I didn’t ask to take their photo. They approached me.” All of this was true and she knew it, yet I sounded as guilty as if I were a five-year-old caught with my hand in the cookie jar trying to say, “It wasn’t me.”
Despite all the facts being on my side, that was no alibi in the eyes of the law; that is, in Lo’s very green eyes with which she judged me. The true crime, as she saw it, had nothing to do with those facts, but with her perception, right or wrong, that I enjoyed the facts as they were. For that, there was no excuse and no punishment harsh enough.
The water was a little cold, but that was nothing as compared to the cold shoulder Lo was showing me. I didn’t know how I was going to get out of such a predicament.
“Look,” she said to me, “if you want me to wear a dental floss thong bikini, I will. Just say the word.”
“Word.”
“I hate you,” she said, kicking the water and splashing me.
“You said to. . .”
It didn’t matter. I realized that we were no longer in the realm of reason. This was pure emotion and trying to explain anything was futile.
“Let’s go for a walk,” I suggested. I took her hand, which she reluctantly allowed, and we strolled through the small waves.
We got about a quarter mile down the beach in silence and then I said, “Lo, you’re the only one for me. You and you alone.”
“Then why do you look at those floozies?”
I could have explained that sitting on the beach, looking out at the horizon, only to have that vista invaded by almost bare bottomed, big breasted bimbos was not “looking” at them, but something much more passive. However, again, that would be an appeal to reason, logic, and facts, none of which were going to aid me in this argument.
“I’m looking at you. I’m with you. I want you.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Trick question. Why usually evokes a causal explanation. Not here. Not now.
“I love you, Lo. You’re the only woman I love. No one else is you. You are the only you I know and that’s the person I love.” I was sincere.
Hearing those words, she leaned in for me to hug her. I gave her what she wanted. I held her tight. It was a tender moment, but it also aroused me. Feeling her flesh on mine, holding her body close to me as the water curled around our feet, I was eager to have her. I could feel she was eager to have me too. I pulled at the string of her bikini top. I untied it. It fell to the ground between us. I slid her out of her bikini bottoms. She willingly lifted her legs out of them. I grabbed the top and the bottoms in my hand so they wouldn’t float away.
We were alone on the beach and I kissed her and held her. My mouth slid down her neck to her breasts. I dropped to my knees. I kissed her soft belly. I kissed my way down to her smooth, supple pussy as my arms wrapped around her and held her ass. The waves washed up on my hips and torso. I kissed her gentle kisses around her pale, white triangle.
She just kept saying, “Daddy, daddy, daddy.”
She then slid down onto her knees and motioned for me to stand. The waves were washing up between her legs, splashing on her pink pussy lips. She pulled down my bathing suit and pulled out my hard rod. She kissed it and caressed it, licked it and devoured it with her open mouth. In and out she bobbed it as one hand held it firm and the other rubbed her pussy. She continued until I came on her, raining down white froth like the white foam of the sea that was between her legs. On her face, lips, tongue, tits, tum, and legs it poured forth. She loved it.
“Come here,” she said. I crouched down next to her. “Kiss me,” she commanded.
I leaned in and kissed her with an open mouth. As our tongues twirled, she pulled my naked body close to hers, pulling us both down into the water.
Then she released me. Her hands were between her legs and she was fondling herself. She quickly diddled and fingered herself until she came, squirting into the churning sea.
The two of us took a quick swim in the ocean to wash off. She held me close as we swam and she said, “I’m your slut, Daddio, and don’t you forget it.”
“Lo, you’re the only slut for me and don’t you forget it.”
When we walked back to the beach blanket and chair we had set up, the group of gals saw us walking hand-in-hand. Had they seen what had transpired not long ago? Who knows. But they looked on Lo admiringly and with jealousy. She was dismissive of their gaze. I had my right hand down her bikini bottoms, holding her ass as we passed the gaggle of girls. I could practically hear their judgments, “What an old perv. What a little slut. Why the hell is she with him? He’s old enough to be her father.” Never mind that they all were vying for my attention only a little while earlier.
The girls pulled out their Kindles and other devices and were reading quietly as I sat there reading my book, looking over at them every once-in-a-while. Lo drifted off to sleep. The girls had all gone down to the water for a dip. Lo woke up and said she was famished and wanted to get lunch. I was all for that. We packed up our stuff and we were about to walk back to the car when I said, “Wait just a minute,” to Lo. I put the chair and blankets I was carrying down and ran over to the girls’ abandoned camp. I found one of the devices. No password. Great!
After a moment or two, I returned to Lo.
“What did you do?” she asked suspiciously.
“I’ll tell you later.”
At lunch, she said to me, “OK, it’s later. What did you do?”
“You might be mad.”
“I’ll definitely be mad if you don’t tell me.”
“Well, in that case,” I said, enjoying the suspense.
“Out with it!”
“It wasn’t anything too bad. I simply went on her iPad and directed it to a certain website.”
“Which website?” Lo asked, already knowing the answer.
“One that will teach them what love is.”
“Which one would that be?”
“One that will show them what true beauty is.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Just a good erotic read.”
“Let me guess: mysexlifewithlola.com.”
I put my index finger to the tip of my nose.
“You didn’t!”
“I most certainly did. Are you upset?”
“Yes.”
“I knew you would be.”
“I’m upset because I wish we could have been there to see the look on their faces when they scroll through all that smut.”
“You wicked vixen!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re coming after us right now.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they were cumming to us right now.”
“You’re probably right.”
“No!” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“You know very well why,” she said, turning around, standing on her tiptoes and pushing out her naked bum. “If you want this,” she added, slapping her ass for emphasis, “then you’re going to have to earn it.”
A little backstory here is in order. We were in a fight. Lo was upset with me. She was more than upset with me. She was furious with me. I had recently hired a red-headed, buxom, bombshell of a woman to do Public Relations for my business. The fact that she was a red-headed buxom bombshell was most certainly not the reason I had hired her. She had an impressive résumé, impeccable credentials, and stellar recommendations. She had found me via LinkedIn and had offered her services to me at just the time when I was thinking of expanding my business into a new market. In short, there were very good and eminently rational reasons to hire this woman, none of which had to do with her looks. But Lo couldn’t get beyond the surface appearance.
“A ruby red Jessica Rabbit?! Really? You just had to have a complete set, didn’t you?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, genuinely perplexed.
“Your secretary is a blonde bimbo.”
“She’s not a bimbo.”
“Your PR person is a ginger. And I’m brunette. You’ve got all your bases covered.”
“Lo, that has nothing to do with it. Sheer coincidence.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I’m not even attracted to redheads.”
“All three of your previous girlfriends were redheads.”
“Exactly my point.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“All my ex’s are redheads. I broke up with them. Clearly red is not my color.”
“Well, no sex for you until you fire her.”
“I can’t just fire her. That would be a violation of her rights.”
“What about my rights?” she said, thumbing her chest.
“What about them?”
“Don’t I have the right to peace of mind, quiet enjoyment, not to mention, my conjugal rights?”
“Lo, I’m ready to conjugate right now,” I said, pulling out my hard cock.
“Phhhht,” she replied, “Not until Jessica Rabbit is gone.”
Just to be clear, dear reader, the new PR person was not named Jessica, but for the purposes of this story, we’ll stick with Lo’s derogatory name for her.
“I know you’re a jealous woman but. . .” I began, trying to restate my defense.
“What sort of PR professional posts pics of herself in a thong bikini on the beach on her Instagram page?”
“You looked up her Instagram page?”
“Of course I did. And I know you did too!”
“I most certainly did not. But can I see?”
That little attempt at humor was definitely ill timed. Lo put on her panties and work clothes and walked out of the room in her heels as she lifted her right hand to flip me the bird as she slammed the door behind her and called out, “NO SEX FOR YOU!”
I know that Lola wasn’t thinking rationally because what sense does it make for a nymphomaniac to go on a sex strike in order to get her way? Nonetheless, she was upset. Very upset. And somehow I had to make things right. But I didn’t know how. Would she eventually come around? Would I have to dismiss Jessica? Would they have a knock down drag out cat fight? Who knows.
One thing I was confident about was that Lo wouldn’t last long with this protest of hers. How could she? Unless she was going to go out there and find someone else to bang, which was always a distinct possibility.
Two, then three, then four days (and nights!) went by and she stuck to her guns. I wasn’t even allowed to sleep in the same bed with her, but I was subjected to her moans and groans of self-pleasure. A tantalizing torture.
After the fifth day of this cruel and very unusual punishment, I could take no more. I had come up with a strategy for winning the war. I put things into place and two days later, Monday afternoon, my secret weapon arrived by mail in a non-descript cardboard box, about the size of a shoebox. It had my name on it and I purposefully left it out on the dining room table for Lo to ponder like Pandora’s box.
Like clockwork, when Lo got home and saw it she asked, “What’s that?”
“Oh, just something for me that I ordered on-line,” I replied nonchalantly.
“What is it?” she asked again, picking up the box and shaking it.
“Don’t shake it!” I warned.
“Is it fragile? Is it for me?”
“It’s really none of your concern,” I said, knowing how much that would piss her off.
“What the fuck is it?! You’d better tell me right now.”
“Calm down,” I said. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
“I’ll find out this instant!” she said, stomping her little foot.
“It’s just. . . just something to help me out.”
“Help you out? How? Is it a lifetime supply of Viagra?”
“Darling, I certainly don’t need any E.D. medicines.”
“That’s what you think.”
“But you are on the right track.”
“That’s it, I’m opening it up,” she said, making for the kitchen to get scissors.
She returned and violated the sacred law of the postal service – opening another’s mail. And when she saw what was inside, she flipped out! All going to plan.
“Stoya the Destroya Signature Fleshlight!”
“Yes,” I said calmly, talking the box from her hands. “If you’re going on a sex-strike, then I’ll just have to take matters into my own hands,” I said.
“A surrogate pussy?! You throw that thing out right now! I will not stand for it!”
“Then get on your back and spread your legs for me.”
“No.”
“OK then,” I said, turning to leave with my pussy in hand.
“Where are you going?”
“To get laid.”
“The hell you are!”
I walked into the bedroom, removed my clothes, took Stoya’s pussy out of the box, read the extensive instructions and warnings, and began to follow the directions. I was pleased to see that it came with its own small bottle of lube.
Lo walked in. (I hadn’t locked the door.)
“You’re really going to fuck that thing?” she asked.
“Care to watch?” (I knew that she wouldn’t or couldn’t resist.)
She sat on the side of the bed as I stroked lube all over my hard cock. I then put lube on my fingers and began fingering Stoya.
“What are you doing?” she asked, perplexed.
“The instructions clearly say to lubricate the inside before use.”
“Wouldn’t you rather something that’s naturally wet?” she asked as she removed her panties. She still had on her heels from work and her black dress. She spread her legs on the bed and pulled at her pussy lips.
“Of course I would,” I said, “but Stoya is primed and ready for me.” (I was purposefully being an asshole.)
“I’ve been primed and ready. Wouldn’t you rather pump this,” she asked as she slipped in a couple of fingers.
“Are you really offering?”
“No. You can’t have it. I’m mad at you.”
“OK then,” I said as I penetrated Stoya’s soft and supple pussy. I had two hands on the casing of the Fleshlight and I was sliding it on and off my cock as Lo fingered her own puss with one hand and then really upped the ante by fingering her ass and saying, “Is Stoya tight?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“As tight as my little ass?”
“I doubt it.”
“Do you want my ass?” she asked, fingering both her holes in front of me as I looked on hungrily.
I continued fucking Stoya, imagining I was fucking Lola. “You know, there’s a Stoya anal Fleshlight as well,” I said.
“Then fuck that, because you can say goodbye to these!” she retorted as she turned around on the bed so she was lying on her tum, her head propped up by her hands. I could still see her ass as her dress was flapped up over her waist. I knew that something Lo loves is seeing guys masturbate. She frequently requested that I jack it for her and she can never get enough since she can’t both watch me and have me. That’s why she wants two men at the same time.
I did as she commanded and slid the pussy down and back on my rod. I could see her grow visibly jealous of the device.
“What?” I said at her displeasure, “You have your Hitachi, your double-ended-dildo, your Remus, your. . .”
“Shut up and cum already,” she said.
“And you’re jealous of me because once, ONCE, in however many years I get a sex toy for myself?!”
“What about your sheath? Your penis extender?”
“That was for you, not me.”
“Enough dialogue. Fuck that pussy and cum if you’re gonna cum.”
“If you really want me to cum,” I said, “then hold it for me.”
“You want me to hold Stoya’s pussy so you can fuck her instead of me?”
“Well, are you willing to give me your pussy?”
She reached out and held onto the thick trunk of the sleeve. I fucked more vigorously. Her mouth opened. At the crucial moment, I pulled out and, without warning, ejaculated the money shot all over her delighted face. She was dripping in my cum when she said, “That. Was. Amazing.”
[p.s. – This installment of mysexlifewithlola was not sponsored by Stoya or Fleshlight, nor are we affiliated with them. (Though we’d love to be! Hint hint.)
The latest book of the stories from mysexlifewithlola.com is now on sale. Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume III – Writing Under Cover is only $9.99 for the soft-cover. This book contains 35 chapters of the sexiest, naughtiest, funniest smut since, well, since Volume II was published.
It also is replete with original erotic artwork of Lola (and H.H.) by five renowned artists. Because this volume is itself a work of art and a collectors item, unlike past versions of Match, Cinder & Spark, this one will NOT be coming out in an e-book edition.
The cover art is by Jo Koss.
We hope you’ll buy this lovely little volume, the sales of which help to support the continuation of this blog.
Below you’ll find the chapters that can only be read in Writing Under Cover and will no longer be available on this blog.
Stay sexy everyone!
xoxoxoxo,
Lola & HH
Per-verse –
XXX-Mas Stocking Stuffer
An Intimate Encounter. . . With a Dirty Girl
Transformation
Lo’s Many Loves
The Insomniac & the Nymphomaniac
Beauty & the Beasts
Superheroes, Fairies, & Pixie-lust
Love That Body Image
Father Confessor
Nocturnal Commissions, Sins of Omission, and the Missionary Position
Private Tutor
Chicks & Dicks
Loose Lips Sink Ships
Rubbing Off
On the Edge of Glory
Portrait of H.H. as a Young Man
Sexhibitionism
Wet, Wild, and Wet
A Very Public Paddling
Good Dirty Fun in the Shower
Cumuppance
Cumming Together/Cumming Apart
Sausage, Strawberries, and Sex
Caught in a Cliché
Hardball
Obsession & Infatuation
The Kinks
Role Reversal – The Shock of Recognition
What is wet, a wild ride, and is never afraid of getting dirty?
Creative Juices
What if I told you?
A Hard Man is Good to Find
Every Morning
Lo Likes It Ruff
“Tell me about the hockey team,” I say.
“What hockey team?” she asks.
“Don’t be coy Roy,” I say.
“Oooohhhh, you mean the hockey team that I met on my trip.”
“Yeah, that hockey team. Why? Is there another I should know about?”
“There are a lot of hockey teams in the world.”
“And you’re just the gal for each of them, aren’t you?”
“If you say so,” she says, batting her eyelids.
“Just tell me about the hockey team you began telling me about the other night.”
She had begun telling me about it the night she returned from her business trip, but I was so primed and ready for our reunification that I didn’t last long enough to hear any more than the teasing preview. Now a few weeks had gone by of my living in ecstatic mystery wondering about her little hints and jibes and I felt ready to hear the full-length tale.
“First,” she says, “get naked and lie on your back.”
I follow instructions.
She pulls out the massage oil and drips it over my cock. She begins to rub as the starts up where she left off.
“I told you, I was on my way back up to my hotel room when I got in the elevator with a bunch of guys who had arrived in town for a hockey tournament. I think they positively could smell how horny I was. They began to make small talk with me and I flirted back. They told me that they had the entire ninth floor of the hotel. I told them I was on the eleventh floor and I asked if they were up for coming up.”
“Let me guess, they were all very hard-up.”
“Oh yeah,” she says, caressing my member with both hands. “Just like you. . . only bigger.”
“And?”
“Well, they invited me to their floor first and so I got off.”
“Off the elevator?”
“Well, I got off on my floor, went to my room, got myself off, freshened up, and then went to their floor. All the doors were open on their floor and everyone was coming and going like in a dorm room. I flitted here and there and some of them were changing or walking around with their shirts off and a few had just gotten out of the shower and had nothing on but a towel around the waist. They were all gorgeous.”
“I bet. I bet you didn’t even see their faces.”
“Oh, no. I saw their faces and their arms, their chests, their lovely sculpted legs. I saw just about everything.”
“But you wanted more.”
“More is my favorite amount. So I invited five of them down to my room.”
“You did what?”
“You heard me. A select five.”
“Oh, I’m glad to hear that. How did you select them?”
“I had the whole team stand at attention in a row naked and I selected the five longest cocks.”
“You did not!”
“No, but a lady can dream, can’t she?”
“Anyhow, I selected the five nicest guys and we went down to my room and I told them a bit more about me before slipping off my panties. I had my little black cocktail dress on and I bent over the side of the bed and let them take a look under it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And I encouraged them to pull out their cocks and jack off behind me, which they did willingly.”
“I bet.”
“And then I said, ‘Go on, slap it.’ And one of them gave me a good, solid whack.”
“They were so kind and considerate.”
“I thought so too! My fingers were down between my legs, caressing and pulling my long pussy lips. They could see as they took turns slapping my ass. First they were timid, but then they grew more confidant as I moaned and said ‘Yes.’ Then I asked who wanted to be first in. One of the guys immediately got behind me and began thrusting as hard and fast as he could. It was rough and manic like a jackhammer horizontally placed in my cunt.”
“And you loved it, I bet.”
“You wouldn’t be wrong. But he came so quickly, deep inside me. I crawled up on the bed and let the next guy in. He was slower, more loving.”
“Loving?”
“Well, more gentle. I turned over my shoulder and said, ‘You can do better than that,’ and his friends encouraged him. They each had their puds in their hands, except for the guy who had just cum in me. But guy number two couldn’t finish. I guess it was a lot of pressure. He pulled out and a lot of cum from the first guy dripped out of me. One of them snapped a photo of me from behind just before the third guy went in me. After that, I sort of lost track of who was where because then one of them got under me and entered me so that they were double penetrating my pussy just like I always wanted. And later one was fingering my ass and then he let himself in there, cumming deep inside while a different guy was under me in my puss. I have no idea who came where or how many times I came. One of them even got in front of me and came in my mouth and on my face. In the end, let’s just say that everyone had scored at least once.”
“Who says that hockey is a zero-sum game?”
“Right? Win-win!”
“Any chance I can get a shot on goal?”
“It’s wide open,” she says as she gets on top of me and slides her puss down my pole.
“How’s it feel,” she asks.
“Smoother than ice, and a whole hell of a lot warmer.”
Lola and I happened to be in the nation’s capital for Gay Pride Day. It was a perfect sunny June day and we had just had brunch in our little B&B in the center of the city. We looked over the events listed in the LGBTQ paper and had forged a rough plan for the day. We began at Dupont Circle watching the crowd of ebulliently self-proclaimed “fags,” “dykes,” and “traps” congregate. We wandered along with the flow of folks until the stream we were in grew to a mighty river of revelers. The party and parade were in full swing and we were cheering on the costumed and carousing throng.
After a while of this, we grew thirsty and hungry and we wondered off the main route to some smaller streets to find someplace to replenish our energy. As we walked about in a neighborhood we didn’t know, we saw two guys, obviously a couple, in their mid-forties or so and we asked them for a recommendation. They stopped just long enough for one of them to say, “If you turn right down this alleyway, there’s a small bar with good food and cold drinks at the very end. But,” he looked us over quickly and immediately concluded that we were a straight couple, “it probably isn’t for you.”
I took great offense at that, but Lo brushed it off or, more accurately, she took it as a personal challenge.
We followed his instructions and sure enough down a long alleyway, just wide enough for us to walk single file, we found a door. There was no name. There was nothing to announce that this was any sort of dining establishment. Just a door. There was nowhere else for us to go, so we went in.
On the other side of that mysterious door was a dark room full of men of all ages. There were no windows so not even a hint of the glorious day filtered into this shady hole in the wall. Guys were playing pool, others were sitting around the bar drinking beers, and some others, but very few, were at tables having lunch.
Instead of sports games on the various TVs in the bar as you would see elsewhere, there was a seemingly endless slideshow of naked and semi-naked men projected on every screen. Each man was buff, handsome, and totally gay. Lo was practically drooling looking at them.
“Hungry?” I asked her.
“You have no idea,” she said before snapping out of it and asking, “You mean, for lunch?”
“Lunch, or whatever,” I said back.
“I could do whatever.”
We sat at the bar and got a few odd looks from the patrons. She was the only women in there and the fact that I was with her made it even more of a spectacle.
We ordered some food and two cold beers. We were parched.
As we waited for the food to come, one affable fellow with less xenophobia than the rest started up a conversation with us. He asked us where we were from, what brought us to D.C., how we were liking it, and our experience of the Pride Parade. He was tall, about six feet, and easy going, as if from the south – or further south than D.C. He had a moustache and a chiseled jawline. He made us feel at ease and the fact that he was talking to us was a sign to the rest of the guys that it was ok.
After we ate and had about three beers, Lo was feeling like playing pool and so she challenged this gent to a game. He laughed, as if Lo couldn’t possibly beat him, and accepted her offer. Lo’s pride was at stake and she marched up to the table and racked up the balls. She picked up the cue ball and said, “Do you want to break or shall I?”
“You can,” he said with a chuckle.
“What?” asked Lo, “You think I don’t know how to handle some heavy balls and a long stick?”
“I didn’t say that,” he replied, amused.
Lo bent over the table, revealing a bit under her denim skirt, and took her shot. Nothing went in.
“You might be able to handle balls and a stick, but getting it in the pocket is the trick,” he said.
“Trust me,” said Lo, “I know how to get it in the hole.”
He laughed again as he took his shot. It was an easy shot but he did it with the cool and confidence of a pro. I was worried for Lo’s pride.
The game went on with his taking five shots to every one of Lo’s. He quickly vanquished her. But he was kind about it. He offered to buy us both a drink to show no hard feelings.
“No hard feelings,” said Lo, as she took a sip of her beer, cheersing him, “but is anything else hard?” she asked.
“You got yourself a woman who really likes a challenge,” he said to me with a playful wink of his eye. Then to her, “If you want to find out, follow me.”
He put down his drink and started to walk off toward an even darker corner of the bar. Lo looked at me as her tongue ran its way over her lips, and she followed him. They sat at a small, private round table in the shadows and from where I stood at the bar I could see them making out. His big hands found their way up her skirt and I could see her convulsing. She then repositioned herself, straddling her legs over his knee as she sat looking at him and kissing him, her right thigh rubbing up against his crotch. I saw her right hand reach down between his legs and rub his cock while he buried his face in her breasts.
Though the others in the bar could see it if they chose to look, they simply ignored it. Lo’s left hand was rubbing up and down the man’s right bicep. Knowing Lo, I was sure that she was squirting all over the guy’s jeans. Then there was a moment when they both froze, as if the movie was on pause. Then they moved really slowly. The guy went to the bathroom. Lo sauntered proudly back to me at the bar.
“Did you pay the tab?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good, let’s go.”
“But you didn’t say goodbye to your new friend.”
“That’s ok. He’s going to be a while cleaning up.”
And just like that we walked out, down the long alley, and back into the sunlit celebration of sexuality.
“Do you know what made me cum?” Lo asked.
“Rubbing his strong arms?”
“Well, yes, that, but also he said to me that he wished you would join in and he could suck your cock while I sucked his.”
“Did he now?”
“Yeah. How do you feel about that?”
“Well, it’s too bad you didn’t tell me earlier.”
“Would you do it?”
“I guess we’ll never know since you took care of him all by yourself.”
“Well, why didn’t you follow me to the table?”
“You looked like you had things well in hand.”
“But you could have joined.”
“I guess,” I said, “but I like to be asked. It’s a matter of personal pride.”
