Rogues Gallery
Here’s the first nine chapters of Rogue’s Gallery. I hope you enjoy it. Please leave a comment either way.
xoxoxoxo,
Lo & HH
The Beginning of Something Wonderful
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Category Archives: Art
Masochistic Humiliation
[Continued from Summertime: Dogs, Wieners, and Buns]
Knotty
“You left her there, like that, on the couch, mounted by her pup?”
“Yes,” said Lo, followed by, “Now have me, Daddy.”
“But wait,” I replied. She walked away down the hallway to the bedroom. By the time I got there, she was naked on the bed, lying on her tum, her bare feet dangling in the air above her, her legs spread wide.
“Daddy, come, play with my pussy,” she said.
I pulled off my clothes hastily and got on top of her. To my surprise, she was engrossed in some photos on her phone.
“What are you looking at?” I inquired as I slowly inserted my cock between her dripping wet pussy lips and slid it in right down to the shaft.
She moaned and said, “Is that your idea of foreplay? I said play with my pussy, not impale it.”
I pulled out.
“I didn’t say stop,” she grunted.
I slid in again.
“I thought your idea of foreplay,” said I, “was mounting my hard cock as I slept.”
“That’s only one idea. There are a lot of others.”
“What are you looking at?” I asked again, more demanding now since her hands were deliberately covering the screen of her phone.
“Nothing,” she said.
She was lying. I knew that. I thought, “OK, let her have her little secrets. I’ll find out later.”
“Why did you leave Scarlett?” I asked, trying to pump her for information.
“No talk. Fuck,” she instructed.
I gave up on my curiosity and simply explored her deepest recesses with my prick rather than with my pointed words.
“My ass!” she said, reaching both hands behind her and grabbing her ass cheeks to spread them and give me a clear target. “I want you to fuck my ass and then my puss and then my ass again – like a dog whose heat-seeking sensor keeps getting confused.”
It was an odd juxtaposition of simile and metaphor, but I was not going to nitpick at that moment. It was clear that her experience with Scarlett had left a lasting impression.
I gave her what she had requested, back-then-front and back again. In-out-in-out. Cunt-rump, cunt-rump, repeat. She was gushing.
The entire time she was looking down at her screen.
“Now,” she commanded, “ram it home up my ass. NOW!”
No time to think. Deep spelunking down her dark cavern.
“FUUUUUUCK!” was the response. This was the key to unlock the water works as her pussy gushed forth all at once in a deluge resembling the explosion of a water balloon.
Everything was drenched – me, the bed, her legs.
She finally rolled over on her back and, her breasts heaving with her deep breaths, she managed to smile a grin of relief and whisper between inhaling, “Thank you, Daddy.”
I crawled up next to her and, after she regained her equilibrium, she squirmed on the soaking wet bed and took my cock in her mouth. I was still hard. I had not cum. The pressure of performing outweighed the pleasure of putting it in her ass.
She began to lick and to insert my cock deep to the back of her throat as the fingers of her right hand tickled and cupped my testicles.
I took advantage of her preoccupation with insuring that I gain as much pleasure as she to grab her phone and discover what had her so enchanted while I fucked her.
The photos surprised me. She had found a cache of Irena Ionesco’s photographs of her daughter Eva. Apparently, the mother-daughter dynamic had appealed to her prurient imagination.
Eva
Eva
Eva
Eva and friend
Eva
Eva
Lola imitating Eva Ionesco’s photo
I wasn’t ready for my exquisite torture to be over just yet.
Reaching down and grabbing Lo’s thick mane – a move she usually loves because I’m usually holding her on my cock in the position that affords the most pleasure to me – I gently pulled her off of the bone she was so eager to fondle with her face.
“Lo, come here,” I whispered.
She looked up at me, disappointed. She is not satisfied until and unless her fornication friend is satisfied.
“Is everything ok?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I just want to talk with you. I want to hear your story.”
“I told you already.”
“No, I want to know more.”
She slid up from my crotch to lie on the pillow facing me as I was lying on my pillow.
“Like what?” she asked.
“Why did you leave Scarlett?”
“She was completely incapacitated. Reilly had mounted her and was riding her good. He had already cum – into the pillow – and he was going to take a while.”
“So? She could have licked your pussy while the dog had his way with her from behind. You could have been next in line, if Reilly was riled up enough. You’ve been aching for that again. Anything could have happened.”
“Is that what you want? Did I let you down, Daddy?”
“It’s not about me,” I said, a bit sorry that she was taking my comments that way. “I’m just surprised. You clearly like this woman. You’re attracted to her. And – to have a four-legged friend trained in the art of pleasing its mistress. . .”
I didn’t have to continue because we both knew what sorts of erotic fantasies she dreams up while masturbating; dreams and fantasies of past experiences reconfigured into imaginings of future fun.
“You don’t understand, Daddy. She looked so, well, the only word I can think of is incapacitated. She was impaled on his prick and he was like the puppet master, pulling her strings with it. She seemed so, so. . .” Lo struggled to find the right word, “pathetic.”
“Pathetic?”
“Yes. I mean, there she was, Collin’s right-hand woman, as she called herself. Older, sophisticated, sexy, all put-together, and that British accent! You have no idea what that does to me! She looks down at me with that haughty, superior look.”
“I’m sure that’s just in your mind,” I said, doubtful that Scarlett, whom I had yet to meet, was looking down at Lo. Looking at her as a piece of meat to be devoured, maybe, but not looking down at her.
“Maybe, but it doesn’t matter,” said Lo, “that’s how I felt around her. But when she was being fucked by her furry friend, when she was desperate to have me, when she was completely and utterly debased and degraded like that on the couch, her big breasts hanging down, rocking forward-and-back under the thin, transparent fabric of her blouse, and she was unable to do a thing about it – that’s when I knew I had to go.”
“But why?”
“Because it gave me the upper hand for once. If I had stayed and let her lap up my labia, let Reilly ram his red rocket down my ravenous vagina like he was doing to her, and be made his bitch as completely and helplessly as she was, well then, I’d have even less self-respect next time I see her than I did the first time.”
“But you wanted her?”
“When she was washing my legs in the bathtub,” she said, her eyes glazed over as the scene played out before her mind’s eye, “and she hopped in, completely clothed, and got between my legs to wash my inner thighs, I was nearly certain she was going to ask me to piss all over her – her beautiful hair, her beautiful face, her red red lips, on her flimsy, sexy blouse and tits.”
“You really think she was going to ask that or. . .”
“Maybe I was hoping she’d ask for that.”
“Because, again, you’d have the upper hand. You’d be demeaning her, humiliating her by pissing on her.”
“Yeah, probably. What could be more humiliating?”
“You like it,” I reminded her, though she needed no reminding, I’m sure.
“Yeah, because I’m a masochist.”
“Well, maybe she is too.”
“No doubt,” she said, “but, if she goes about all haughty and holier than thou professionally – like she’s the sadist, at least towards me – then I’m not about to let her soon forget who is in charge in the bedroom.”
“A little sadistic streak in you too, then.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I guess you have met your match.”
“Daddy,” she said, “you’re my match.”
“You’re too young to remember, but a standard matchbox would come with twenty or fifty matches.”
“That’s a lot of fire.”
“Looks like she lit a flame between your legs.”
“Fuck me again, Daddy. Like a doggy. In my ass,” she said. “And give me my phone back, you sneak!”
XXX-mas Party with an image of Lola and friend above the mantle.
Meet the Artist: Gale Maze
Gale Maze just painted this terrific portrait of me:
Lola Down by Gale Maze
Here are Gale Maze’s own words:
Gale Maze is the nom d’arte for my erotic artwork, which I adopted to hide the more explicit paintings from my sensitive friends and family members who might object. At 56, I’ve spent a lifetime drawing the human figure, attending nude-model drawing sessions since high school and, before that, sketching comic-book heroes in their skin-tight costumes.
Though I paint a wide range of subjects, I’ve always been most deeply engaged with portraiture and the human form. There’s a unique charge that comes from placing another person as the subject of an image, a built-in dialogue with the viewer. When the artist instills that imagery with eroticism, a whole new world is revealed and ready to explore.
Despite decades as a figure artist, I only began creating intentionally erotic work in 2024, during a period of personal upheaval that pushed me back into painting with renewed intensity. In that time, I began experimenting with digital tools, sharing my art more openly, and discovering a vibrant community of creators and supporters who encouraged me to lean into the erotic dimension of my practice.
I am enjoying this new creative outlet tremendously. I’ve found friendships I value deeply, a creative spark that feels both fresh and familiar, and I now have the honor and all too common distinction of having had my erotic art profile deleted by Instagram. A rite of passage that fills me with as much pride as frustration.
Gale Maze – Fine art portraits, boudoir, erotic
Patreon: patreon.com/GaleMaze
BlueSky: @galemazeart.bsky.social
Protected: Toppings
Summertime: Dogs, Wieners, and Buns
Woof!
“Hello?” Lo said, answering her phone after looking at it with a quizzical look. She didn’t recognize the number.
“Oh, Hi Scarlett!” said Lo into her phone, smiling and twirling her hair.
The rest is the one sided phone call I eavesdropped.
“No, that’s fine.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. Completely.”
“Got it. Yes. I will.”
“Thank you. See you then!”
Lo hung up the phone and I could see that she was twitterpated.
“What was that all about?” I asked, a tad disturbed to see her so visibly affected by someone else’s voice.
“That was my editor.”
“Editor?”
“You know, for Collin’s project.”
“Which project is that? He has so many, I get confused.”
“Oh right. The Wank-a-Way.”
She laughed. “It’s not a Wank-a-Way. It’s going to be a respectable museum.”
“Where men can go to wank off or be wanked off by a certified technician.”
“Well, yeah. Like that, but. . .”
“But Collin has a way of making it sound more sophisticated.”
“Yes.”
“You best not be caught in there – I have a feeling he’ll get busted for prostitution within days!”
“It’s not prostitution.”
“I know, I know,” I said, repeating her oft invoked claim that “It’s a sperm donation site with fine art and technical assistants on hand for, well, to lend a hand.”
“That’s better.”
“Anyhow, what did your editor want?”
“I gave her a few binders full of women last week. . .”
“There’s got to be a better way of saying that,” I interrupted.
“And she said she wants to do a room that is just about summertime.”
“OK,” I said.
“So, she wants me to come over today and show her what I have in order to examine the possibilities.”
“Is that how she phrased it?”
“Yeah, almost word-for-word. You know I have a quasi-photographic memory.”
“For certain things,” I said. She knew what I meant because I knew that she meant she can remember just about every image of porn she’s ever cum to and every word her lovers have spoken in the heat of passion. It’s really an uncanny skill.
“Why?”
“It sounds like she has ulterior motives.”
“I sure hope so. She is hot!”
“I’m so glad for you,” I said and I couldn’t help sounding bitter.
“Oh,” she immediately chimed in, “are you jealous? Jealous of my editor?” She was rubbing the back of my head and looking concerned, but her tone was one of teasing.
“No, I’m not jealous.”
“Good,” she said, just as quickly stopping her caresses and ending her concerned tone, “because I have to get ready.”
“Get ready? Ready for what?”
“To meet her, silly. What should I wear?”
“Today? Sunday? She ‘s working? You’re going to meet her?”
I followed her from the living room to the bedroom. She was already going through her panty drawer. It is extensive.
“Which ones should I wear? Or maybe none at all? No. That would look too desperate. Or slutty? It might look slutty. And she might like that. But what if it just looks like I want to fuck her? But I do want to fuck her.”
“Lola,” I interrupted her dialogue with herself, “are you telling me you’re going over there today?”
“Yes, of course today,” she said as she slipped into her pink lace thong.
“But weren’t we going to. . .”
“I’m sorry, I have to cancel.”
“Because your pussy is aching to kiss her pussy?”
“That’s a crude way of saying it,” she said. “But I like it and it is accurate.”
I sat down on the bed, dejected.
She noticed.
“Aw,” she said, “I’m sorry. I’d let you fuck me but I don’t want to be stretched out for her, nor do I want to be filled up with cum. I don’t know her that well yet. She might not like it.”
I wasn’t talking. I just watched her get dressed.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”
She was applying her makeup. She leaned over her bureau and looked carefully at her eyes as she penciled on the eyeliner. Her ass was protruding outward from under her short black skirt and her breasts were exposed on the bottom from under her pink cutoff top, no bra.
After she finished her mascara, she turned and asked me, “Do I look too slutty?”
“Too slutty for what?”
“You know, too slutty.”
“Darling,” I said to her, condescendingly, “can a person be too rich, too healthy, too good? No. Of course not. And similarly, Lola Down can never be too slutty.”
“Oh,” she said, “you’re no help. I should have known better than to ask a perv like you if I’m too slutty.” As she said this, she slipped out of the pink lace thong she had just put on and she held it to her nose and sniffed.
“What?” I inquired.
“Wet already. Ah well, I’ll just throw them in here in case.” And she stuffed the panties in her little bag.
She put on her strappy black leather heels and then gathered up some more binders. She piled them about five high in a stack.
“Summertime, eh?” I asked, fingering the binders.
“Yeah, you know: dogs, wieners, and buns.”
“Are you listing three foods or naming what you like to fuck you, what you like to put in your mouth, and what you like to see on the beach?”
“I don’t have to be subjected to such ridicule,” she said, haughtily as she picked up her binders.
“Well, tell Scarlett I say hello.”
“I most certainly will not!”
“Then be sure to. . .”
She didn’t let me finish. She was out the door and hopping in her car. She gave a “toot toot” from the street and waived with her fingers at me as she drove away.
She was driving to Scarlett’s house, not the office, since it was Sunday.
Lo arrived at Scarlett’s suburban house. It was quaint. Built in the fifties, it retained the façade of clean, wholesome, country living. As Lo pondered it, sitting in the driveway looking at the white house with red shutters, she thought that it was the sort of house you might see in Home & Garden. All the flowers were in bloom. Everything was perfectly placed to look just a little out of sorts, but by design rather than by chance.
Lo grabbed her binders and strutted to the front door. She rang the bell. Through an intercom, she heard Scarlett say, “Just come in. It’s open.”
Lo opened the front door that was, indeed, left ajar. She stepped into the entrance way and heard Scarlett’s voice ring out, “In here!”
Lo followed the sound of the sing-song voice to the kitchen where she found Scarlett sitting at a portable desk in her kitchen. Lo looked around and marveled at the incongruity between Scarlett’s sexy red lips, her disheveled hair that Lo just wanted to grab as she forced her to face fuck Lo’s clit, Scarlett’s seductive cleavage revealed by the strategically nonchalant blouse that was unbuttoned just enough, and the kitchen, which could have been right out of her grandparent’s house.
Scarlett was looking down at some notes she had scribbled next to the portfolio Lo had left with her last time. But what caught Lo’s eye was that Scarlett was drinking from one of the limited edition tea cups made with Lo’s naked hips in full color on it.
“Hi,” said Lo, bashfully.
“What did you bring for me today?” asked Scarlett, getting right down to business.
“Well, you asked for a spread of ‘Summertime,’ right?”
“Yes.”
“Here you go.”
Lo felt oddly like a religious supplicant bringing an offering to her goddess, placing it before her for the goddess to approve or disapprove.
Scarlett looked through the photos. As she turned the pages, she said, “You took my words literally.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dogs, wieners, and buns.”
Beach Babes
Wet and wild Bryana Sparks it up in the pool
Daizha Morgann
Daizha Morgann
Jennifer Battistoni Kincade
Jennifer Battistoni Kincade
Jennifer Battistoni Kincade
All Bodies are Beautiful
Beach Babes
Buns
“Well, I aim to please. Do you not like them?”
“Oh, I like them a lot. Especially this one,” she said, pointing to. . .
Just then, startling Lo, a large dog came bursting into the kitchen from the back door. He was wet and muddy, and he immediately stuck his cold, moist snout up and under Lo’s short skirt and began licking rapidly and with the enthusiasm that only a happy-go-lucky devil-may-care dog can have.
“Woe there!” exclaimed Lo in a high-pitched voice.
“Down Reilly! Down!”
The dog paid no heed to his mistress.
“Reilly!” commanded Scarlett once more. He just continued to lick and nudge at Lo’s bottom, pushing her forward into the kitchen island until she had to brace herself with her arms holding onto the granite countertop. He began to get up on his hind legs. Scarlett jumped to action and grabbed him by his collar, careful not to let his wet and muddy fur soil her cute dress. She pulled him down, off of Lo, who spied from the corner of her eye that the friendly furry fiend had a large, pink, wet erection.
“I’m so sorry,” said Scarlett in a rare display of contrition. “He goes wild for women.”
“Oh,” fluttered Lo, trying to be polite, but displaying her confused emotions in her voice, “it’s ok.”
“It’s just the two of us here. He’s the man of the house, if you will, and just loves to dominate any woman who walks in the door.”
“So, I’m nothing special.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Scarlett as she led Reilly out the back door and threw a tennis ball for him to fetch, before shutting the door and making sure it was securely shut. Lo could hear Reilly when he returned scratching at the door and whimpering pathetically to be let back in. “He shows unusual exuberance for you. He must detect something very special about you.”
“His name is Reilly?”
“Yeah,” laughed Scarlett. “He always reminded me of the actor, John C. Reilly, so I called him Reilly.”
“I can see the resemblance.”
“As a result, I have a mad crush on John C. Reilly,” added Scarlett enigmatically. Scarlett looked at Lo’s bare legs and her skirt. “Oh no! Look at you! You’re a mess!”
Lo’s legs were splattered in mud and she was dripping from her inner thighs. Dripping from the wet dog or from the wet pussy? Not clear. Probably both.
“It’s nothing,” said Lo politely and demurely. “I enjoy being a dirty girl.” Her turn to be enigmatic.
“No, no,” said Scarlett. “We must clean you up. Come.”
Scarlett led Lo to the large bathroom on the first floor. It too was white tile and looked very mid-century. It had a large, white porcelain, claw-foot tub in it.
“Here,” said Scarlett, “sit.” She patted the edge of the tub.
Lo removed her strappy heels and swung one leg then the other over the edge of the tub.
“Let me clean you up,” said Scarlett, running the water and testing to see if it was too hot or too cold. When it got to the temperature she approved of, she wet down a washcloth. “Here, give me that pretty foot of yours.”
Lo lifted her left leg and allowed Scarlett to hold it with one hand, cupping the ankle with her palm, and ever-so-gently wipe it down with the warm washcloth with the other hand.
Involuntarily, Lo let out a long moan.
She heard herself and caught herself and said, “Sorry. . . it feels so good.”
“No need to be sorry,” said Scarlett, staring deeply into Lo’s eyes a second too long.
She looked back down at Lo’s leg as if embarrassed, and then slowly wiped Lo’s shin, from the knee down. Then she rinsed out the washcloth and rung it out before daring to start again at the middle of Lo’s thigh. She ran the wet cloth all the way down, ever-so-slowly, down to Lo’s toes. Lo bit her lower lip and moaned again.
Rinse, repeat, but this time Scarlett dared to lift Lo’s dress up above her waist.
“No knickers,” observed Scarlett in a non-judgmental, flat tone.
Lo giggled. “That’s such a funny word – knickers,” said Lo.
“Panties,” corrected Scarlett.
“When I hear the word ‘knickers,’ I think of a sixty-year-old English woman who milks cows. I certainly don’t think about a pink lace thong.”
“So ‘panties’ is sexy and ‘knickers’ not?” asked Scarlett.
“For me, at least.”
“You know what is most sexy?”
Lo’s and Scarlett’s eyes locked as Scarlett asked this. Lo could only mouth the word “No.” The breath was not filling her vocal cords.
“No panties at all.” Scarlett then pushed Lo’s legs further apart and applied the warm washcloth to Lo’s aching pussy. “He loves to lick,” said Scarlett absentmindedly.
“Does he?” whispered Lo.
“Oh yes. Did I mention, it’s just the two of us here.”
“Yes.”
“He’s very good company.”
“I’m sure.”
“Fills up those otherwise empty, lonely nights with all sorts of silly games and furry fun.”
“I can just imagine,” said Lo.
Scarlett’s right hand held Lo’s thigh tightly as her left hand held the washcloth, but Lo now felt a finger graze her labia.
“So,” said Scarlett in a hushed tone, “when another woman comes. . .” she paused dramatically, “he thinks that she just wants to play too.”
Lo now distinctly felt Scarlett’s fingers slide over her pussy. The washcloth dropped into the tub.
“I love to play. . .” now Lola paused dramatically, “with dogs.”
“Animal lovers are so. . .”
Scarlett leaned over and her lovely, red, lush lips parted. Lo couldn’t resist. She leaned in and did what she wanted to do since the moment she laid eyes on Scarlett. She kissed her passionately.
Scarlett’s left hand no longer played coy. She slid two fingers up and into Lo’s slit and her right hand slid around Lo’s waist so that, with the pressure between her legs, Scarlett wouldn’t push Lo right off the side of the tub.
When their lips finally parted, Scarlett said, “Turn, so I can wash your right leg.”
Lola obediently followed Scarlett’s instruction and lifted her left leg out of the tub and, with a very unlady-like move, straddled the curved edge of the tub. The toe of her bare left foot just touching the white tile floor and her right leg steadying her in the tub as her crotch was fully exposed, resting on the white porcelain edge of the tub.
Scarlett didn’t look at Lo’s dark, hairy bush, but instead, rinsed out the washcloth with warm water again and rung it out before leaning over starting again down at Lo’s naked right foot and slowly moving her way up Lo’s calf to her knee to her inner thigh. Scarlett then said, “Maybe I could clean you better if I hopped in the tub.”
Lo didn’t object. Rather, her heart skipped a beat when she contemplated that Scarlett would have to get naked to do this task. But that’s not how it happened. Scarlett, to Lo’s surprise, climbed into the tub, fully clothed, but for her shoes, which she left on the bathmat. She then got down on her knees in the little puddle that was on the bottom of the tub. She ran the warm washcloth up and down Lo’s leg with the care and attention of an art connoisseur delicately dusting a priceless alabaster statue. Scarlett was staring intensely at Lo’s crotch as she slid the warm, wet washcloth from Lo’s knee to her inner thigh.
Lo’s head dropped back and she was just about to reach out in front of her, grab Scarlett’s head and pull her in for a good smooch of her lower lips when suddenly there was a CRASH! Both women froze and Scarlett looked up and said, “Reilly!”
Scarlett stood up from the tub and hopped out. Lo followed. They went into the living room and saw a lamp shattered on the floor.
“Bloody hell!” said Scarlett.
Poor Reilly was cowering in the corner.
“What happened?”
“Oh, he probably was humping a pillow on the couch – he does that when. . .” she didn’t complete her thought. “And then the movement caused the lamp to slide off the end table.”
“I thought you put him out?”
“When he’s determined, he finds a way. He must have used his snout to push the door open.”
Lo recalled how forceful his snout was up and under her skirt. He nearly pushed her over with it.
Scarlett disappeared for a moment and returned with a dustpan and a hand broom. She crouched down to clean up the shattered porcelain fragments. As she did this, Lo sat down on the couch and crossed her legs. She picked up a book from the coffee table. It was a large photo book. On the cover, the words “Irina and Eva: Lust for Innocence and Innocent Lust” were embossed in an Art Neuvo gold across the top and a black-and-white image of a little nude girl wearing a Jazz Era hat, furry white vest (covering her non-existent breasts), and a couple of bracelets stood below. The lighting of the image of the girl was such that a shadow from the brim of the hat concealed her eyes. From under the hat, beautiful flowing golden curls unraveled down the girl’s shoulders. Her face was that of a young girl, but she wore luscious red lipstick on her beautiful full mouth. But for the items already mentioned, she stood naked with her arms at her side. The light illuminated her torso, drawing the observer’s eye to the chest and down to her navel. Below the navel was a pale stripe that indicated the small bathing suit or panties that barely protected her swimsuit zone from tanning. And within that white stripe was the outline of a smooth, hairless triangle that tapered in darkness between her small legs that were pressed together. Her body leaned at an angle resembling the Leaning Tower of Pisa, but her head was cocked in the opposite direction. Her nails were manicured and painted and she gave off the aura of a mature courtesan waiting to be chosen by the young patron of the brothel.
Eva Ionesco
After disposing the remains of the lamp that had broken, Scarlett returned to the living room and sat on the couch, to Lola’s left.
“What’s this?” asked Lo as she leafed through the pages, each of which had a glossy photo of the same young girl who was on the cover.
“Oh, that’s a prized possession of mine.”
Lo had turned to a page that featured the young nude blonde girl in a black-and-white spread that covered both the left and right pages. She was lying on her tum, her head propped up by her hands, her blonde ringlets crowned by a garland of flowers, and her little legs in black, knee-high stockings and wearing black shoes. From her knees to her garland, she was naked and the center of the photo was her cute, curved, bare bottom.
Irina Ionesco’s photo of her daughter, Eva Ionesco
Lola’s version
As Scarlett told Lo about the book, her right hand slowly caressed the glossy page.
“It is a book of Irina Ionesco’s photos of her daughter Eva.”
“I’m sorry,” said Lo, “but I don’t know them.”
“It’s a story of love – dark love. You see, Irina, so the story goes, was conceived by the unholy union of her father and his daughter. But that’s just the mysterious and unconfirmed backdrop to this story. Irina became a circus performer and gave birth to her one and only child – Eva in 1965. She began photographing her when she was four years old, which would be fine, but she treated her just like any of her older nude models. These were the so-called “Lolita Photos.” In the seventies – the zeitgeist being what it was – she exhibited her photographs and instantly gained notoriety in the artsy professional photography world. She continued to photograph her daughter – and even lend her out to be the muse of other photographers as well! – until social services intervened and removed Eva from the artistic exploitation of her obsessed mother.”
Eva Ionesco
Lola’s mouth was gaping as she flipped the glossy pages, gawking at the scandalous photos.
“This,” added Scarlett proudly as she again rubbed the smooth pages with her open palm, “was a limited, private print.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Oh,” said Scarlett as if it was no big deal, “it was a gift of Collin’s.”
“Of course,” said Lola looking at Scarlett knowingly.
“You like what you see?” asked Scarlett.
“It’s terrible,” said Lo enigmatically, as her fingers turned the page to look at another photo.
Eva as a cover girl
“She reminds me of you,” whispered Scarlett as her eyes locked on Lo’s and together they put the book back on the coffee table. Lola’s and Scarlett’s lips locked again as Scarlett fell back towards the pillow on the couch. She was now horizontal with Lo on top of her.
Eva, on loan by her mother to the photographer Jacques Bourboulon
Eva in Playboy 1976
They were passionately making out and Lo was running her hand through Scarlett’s hair when suddenly Lo said, “Oh no!”
“What?” asked a concerned Scarlett.
Lo sat up and showed Scarlett her hand. It was wet.
Scarlett sniffed it and turned around. Looking at the pillow that was under her, she said, “Reilly!”
“He, he, he came on the pillow!” said a horrified Lo. “And now it’s all in your hair.”
Scarlett sat up too and the sticky liquid stretched from the pillow in gossamer threads to her hair.
“How did we not see that?” asked Lo.
“I guess we were just focused on other things,” replied Scarlett, trying to prevent the mood from souring and attempting to pull Lo back down onto the couch with her. Scarlett’s head fell back onto the K9-cum-covered pillow. She reached to pull Lo down with her. Lo hesitantly fell back into her arms.
Lo was lost in Scarlett’s wet, warm, red, lush lips as they kissed passionately. Lo’s legs were squeezed together between Scarlett’s which were spread wide to welcome her. Just as Lo was loosing herself in the lust she felt for this older woman, she suddenly felt that same cool, wet, insistent nudging pressing on her mons pubis from behind.
Lo immediately lifted her head and looked behind her. There was Reilly all riled up again, nudging his nose up and under Lo’s short skirt.
“He’s relentless,” said Lo.
“He’s horny,” replied Scarlett.
“He just came!” protested Lo.
“Oh, he usually is good for like three or four rounds.”
Indeed, it looked like Reilly was eagerly getting ready to mount Lo as he had mounted the pillow earlier.
“Let’s switch places,” said Scarlett as she nearly wrestled Lo on the couch and forced her into a submissive role under her on the couch. Scarlett through the soiled pillow on the floor so as not to get Lo’s thick, dark hair all sticky as hers was now.
Lo was flat on her back on the couch and Scarlett was lying on top of her, making out with her as she squirmed out of her pants and “knickers.”
Then Lo could feel the rhythmic thumping happening as well as some painful scratches from sharp nails on her ankles and feet. Scarlett was moaning.
Lo looked up and over Scarlett’s shoulder. There was Reilly, mounted on Scarlett’s ass, going to town on her as he had on the pillow only a few minutes earlier.
“Is he in you?” Lo asked.
“Knotted in place, yes.”
Lo squirmed out from under Scarlett. Scarlett desperately tried to hold her there.
“What?” asked Scarlett. “Don’t go! Kiss me. Fondle me. Please.”
Lo had already gotten up and was looking down at Scarlett and her pooch. The latter was rhythmically and forcefully filling and thrusting the former’s wet hole, his front paws on the back of her blouse. She was rendered immobile by the activity.
“Wait! Please!” begged Scarlett.
“I think I should go,” said Lo.
“No. Please. You can be next. Promise.”
Lo slipped into her heels and said, “Call me when you have an opening free for me. . . in your schedule,” said Lo.
There was nothing Scarlett could do or say. She was knotted firmly and was at Reilly’s mercy, if he had any, until he came and his knot became detumescent.
Binders Full of Women
Mysterious Scarlett
“Yes, please show Ms. Down in,” Lola heard the voice say over the intercom to the secretary at the front desk.
Lo had her binders full of women resting in her lap atop her short black skirt. She held the binders firmly, with both hands. Her feet were bouncing rapidly and nervously in her cute, shiny, teal, round-tow, kitten-heel, pumps. She looked up anxiously at the sound of Collin’s voice over the intercom.
“You may go in now,” said the receptionist to Lo, only glancing at her briefly.
Lo entered the room, but instead of seeing Collin behind the large, wooden desk, she saw a beautiful brunette woman with bold, red lipstick, brown eyes, and stylish glasses looking down at some papers on her desk.
“Where’s Collin?” asked Lo, taken aback and with impudence, as if she had a right to her expectations.
The woman didn’t even look up at Lo. “Busy.”
“But I heard his voice. He told the receptionist to. . .”
“He’s working remotely,” said the woman, again, without looking up from her work.
“But, he’s supposed to. . .”
“I’ll be reviewing the layouts.”
“Who are you?”
Now the woman looked up at Lola. Despite the woman’s attractiveness and thick mane of hair that Lo wanted to grab and hold onto as she pushed the woman’s voluptuous lips – her most striking feature – down between her legs, the stranger’s tone was cold, monotone, almost robotic.
“I’m the project manager. The editor. Collin’s right-hand man.” She spoke and looked like Elizabeth Hurley playing Vanessa Kensington from the Austin Powers movie, which was just fine by Lola, because Lo had a long-standing crush on Elizabeth Hurley and the British accent made her twitterpated.
“You don’t look like a man,” said Lo, trying to get on the woman’s good side – if she had one, that is.
“I could fuck you five ways to Sunday,” said the editor. Then those luscious lips broke into a smile and Lo could see the woman’s beautiful, bright white teeth behind them. “And I would enjoy it too, I bet.”
The woman stood up, walked around the large desk, and extended her hand. “I’m Scarlet.”
Lo couldn’t help but think how perfectly her name matched her looks.
“And I’m blushing,” said Lo.
“You’re everything Collin said you’d be.”
“Oh yeah? What did he say I’d be?”
“Irresistible.”
“Did he? That naughty rogue.”
“So, what’s that you have there?” asked Scarlet.
“My binders full of women.”
“I’d like to have a binder full of Lola,” she replied.
“That can be arranged,” replied Lo, and adding after a pause, “but I’m sure he’s shown you all of my angles already.”
“No, actually,” said the woman, politely, but slowly fingering Lo’s blouse seductively. “He wanted me to use my imagination. But he did tell me all about you.”
“Such tales require little imagination.”
“Well, now that I see you, I can tell you that the imaginings will be more vivid and erotic.”
Lo blushed again. She felt at a disadvantage since she knew nothing about this bombshell before her. “Collin can be obsequious.”
“Obsequious?! He didn’t do you justice.”
“No?”
“Well, to be fair, now that I have met you in person, it seems to me all words fall short of conveying your beauty.”
“You are kind.”
“No. I am objectively correct. I have multiple degrees in the subject.”
“They offer upper-level classes on Lola Down?”
“If only,” said Scarlet, “my degrees are in art, aesthetics, design, and marketing.”
“That’s a lot of degrees for so young a woman.” Now Lola was being obsequious. Scarlet was clearly in her thirties, if not early forties.
“Keep up the flattery like that and I will have to put you over my knee to teach you not to fib.”
“You could put me over your knee anytime for any reason.”
“I may take you up on that, but only if you displease me.”
“I don’t have a degree in it, but the giving and receiving pleasure was my field of study in college.”
“I could be your master’s thesis advisor then.”
“I’m willing to learn from anyone who can teach me a new trick.”
“Let’s see your homework and then we’ll get to the extracurriculars.”
Lo placed the multiple thick binders on the desk before the brunette.
“They are divided into sections, as I imagine the masturbatorium museum will be.”
Scarlet looked at the index:
Porn Stars
MILFs
Preggo
Lactating
Breastfeeding
BBW
SSBBW
Golden Girls
Girls Next Door
Moms and Daughters
Nudists
BDSM
Boy-toys
Trans
Tiny Tits
Tiny Cocks
Creatures of Enormous Size
Bestiality
Misc.
“I see you’ve been photo farming.”
“What?”
“You know, photo farming – collecting photos of women and men you find alluring.”
“Oh, I just call it ‘putting it in the fap hat.’ You know, like the ‘spank bank’ ‘snack pack,’ or ‘bean machine,’ ‘perv reserve,’ and ‘jill thrills’ if you wish to be particular about it.”
“It’s a photo farm,” said Scarlet definitively. “And that’s ok. We all have them.”
Scarlet turned the pages slowly, viewing each page with an expert eye.
She then flipped through the hundreds of other pages.
“There’s a lot here,” he said, pensively, as she was cursorily reviewing Lo’s work. “I think I’ll need to bring this work home with me. In the meantime, why don’t you utilize your platform to see what your readers would like?”
“Like, post all of these photos?”
Scarlet managed to tear her attention away from the binders in order to look up at Lo.
“Not all,” she said, “That would be ridiculous! We’re trying to whittle this enormous collection down to a manageable size. Post a sample of each category and see what people say they’d like to see more of. After I’ve had a chance to look through this myself, I’ll call you.”
Lo reluctantly left her binders full of women on Scarlett’s desk and stood up, a bit perplexed.
“Will that be all?” she asked as if she were some sort of subordinate to this superior.
“One more thing,” said Scarlett.
“Yes?”
“What’s your favorite?”
Lola didn’t need to give the question any thought. She simply said, “That would be cheating. But maybe, if you ever do fuck me five ways to Sunday, you just might find out.”
Scarlett smiled mischievously and then pressed on her intercom button. “I’ll need a few minutes before my next appointment,” she said as she opened her desk drawer and pulled out a huge dildo and placed it on the desk for Lo to see. “That will be all, Ms. Down,” she pronounced clearly and coldly.
Lo’s heart had skipped a beat because, for a moment, she thought Scarlett would be using the foreboding phallus on her, but then she realized what was happening and turned to exit. She did an about-face so fast on her feet that her short little skirt flew up for just a second, revealing her ass to Scarlett’s probing eyes. Then she was gone.
[Dear Reader, please use the comments to vote for your favorites or to suggest others.]
Stoya
Stoya
Pornstar Sasha Grey
Sasha and Stoya
Sasha
Sasha
Pornstar Daizha Morgann
Daizha Morgann
Pornstar Lola Vargas Martin
Porn Star Gili Sky
MILF Samantha Massie
MILF Samantha Massie
MILF Samantha Massie enjoying Match, Cinder & Spark
Sam and Son
Sam and Daughter
Quintessential MILF Sam
Preggo
Three Pregnant Muses
Crossover – Preggo Porn Star Grey Desire
Lactating
Breastfeeding
Breastfeeding
Breastfeeding Lisa Shapira
Breastfeeding
BBW – Chunky Vixen
Chunky Vixen
BBW – Lisalou and Aurora Fits
Lisalou and Aurora
SSBBW Rosiee
SSBBW – Lady Brads
SSBBW – Lady Brads
BBW Party
Golden Girl – Beautifully Broken
Beautifully Broken
Beautifully Broken selling her panties. Send her an email and tell her Lola sent you.
Golden Girl – Queen Bev getting off to Lola
Golden Girl – Queen Bev from behind
Golden Girl – Queen Bev showing off the large pussy
Golden Girl – Queen Bev gets off on her FUPA
Golden Girl – Queen Bev loves to read naked
Golden Girl – Queen Bev an boyfriend
Vote for your favorite category/slut in the comments. Feel free to suggest a category or slut we missed. Also, don’t forget Lola Down:
Lola in the tub
More to (make you) cum.
Interview with Safe Word author: Molly Weatherfield, a.k.a. Pam Rosenthal
If you missed Part I of our two-part interview with Pam Rosenthal, whose erotica pen name is Molly Weatherfield, then you will want to check out THIS POST.
Her award-winning first book, Carrie’s Story, was followed by an even more wild adventure – both in terms of plot, sex, and narrative style – Safe Word.
Here is Lola’s interview with Molly and also an amazing illustration done by our dear friend in Ukraine, Sergii. The illustration shows Lola, lying down on the floor, reading Carrie’s Story, as Pam Rosenthal (top left) looks on at her fictional author, Molly Weatherfield (top right) and Molly’s fictional character, Carrie looks to her creator with admiration.
Pam, Molly, Carrie, Lola
Questions for Pam Rosenthal, a.k.a. Molly Weatherfield – PART TWO – Safe Word
Lola – I’m so glad you enjoyed the first interview and have agreed to a second for the sequel book, Safe Word! As I said at the end of our last interview, I totally needed a sequel because I didn’t want Carrie’s Story to end – especially not where it did end. But, I have to say, Safe Word did not follow any of the possible narrative sexcapades that I had imagined at the end of Carrie’s Story – and I imagined a lot!
This will be a tricky interview because I don’t want to give away too much of the book for anyone who hasn’t read it yet, but – OMG! – you really took off for the sequel! As in, Safe Word was off to the races!
Compared to Carrie’s Story, this book has a lot of steamy man-on-man sex and BDSM. Where did that come from and, again, were you worried about pushing boundaries or even warping genres?
Safe Word by Molly Weatherfield
Molly – Actually, I was so surprised to be writing it at all, that I never thought about whether I was taking things too far. I mean, I had told everybody that Carrie’s Story was a one-off, and that I was done. And then I found out that I wasn’t, which was such a gift, and so unexpected, that I just ran with it.
As for the man-on-man sex, I don’t remember it as being a conceptual departure from the first book. It’s just that in Safe Word there are more opportunities for variation. Carrie has moved on to a bigger world, with more possibilities, while Jonathan is kind of rediscovering that world. What wasn’t entirely explicit in Carrie’s Story (though Kate is kind of grumpy about it) is that for the year or two when he’s most involved with Carrie, Jonathan has stopped being active in the association and its doings. But with Carrie gone, his old life comes rushing in on him again. What I was going for was a sense that the magnitude and the variety of this hidden world of sexual exchange and domination should be always revealing more of itself to the reader, through Carrie’s and Jonathan’s narratives of the year they’ve spent apart. I used to call this the “Snoopy’s doghouse” approach, but clearly, it was a way to conceptualize my own fantasy life as I explored it.
Lola – There were a couple of points in the novel where I laughed out loud because the plot went in such an unexpected direction. For instance, the rivalry between Carrie and Stephanie really reminded me of some of the YA books I had read. And then, while in the stable, Carrie befriends her neighbor by clandestinely using a piece of rubber tube to communicate between stalls. That reminded me of a scene from V for Vendetta, which came out much later than your book. And you mentioned to me before the interview that the first scene of the book is right from Little Women. Two more disparate books, I think, could not be found. Was this sort of juxtaposition of texts part of your plan or did it just come out that way and you realized it after?
Molly – I don’t know anything about V for Vendetta. But the Carrie and Stephanie rivalry is very YA, you’re right. And it was inspired by something that happened years ago among a bunch of adults, including me, who were traveling and working together. And because of the pressures of the situation, we found ourselves sometimes acting like bratty teenagers, even to the midnight giggling and whispering. Not proud of it, but there you are.
As for Little Women, thankfully it was only after I’d finished writing the first scene of Safe Word that I realized that I’d copped it from the scene in Little Women when Laurie first catches up with Amy in Europe. In the Greta Gerwig movie the scene is shown from the p.o.v. of Amy in the carriage with Aunt March. But in the novel, it’s very similar to the scene in Safe Word: first a kind of birds-eye view of the setting in the south of France, then focusing in on a very handsome American man who’s being rather ogled by passers-by while he waits for a particular young woman.
Here are some snippets of the passage from Little Women:
At three o’clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais, a charming place… Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance… which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him… There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young man took little notice of them, except to glance, now and then, at some blonde girl, or lady in blue.
And here are some parallel bits from Safe Word:
The city itself [Avignon] is heavily touristed… On this particular day… however, it was sunny and lively… An American man was sitting at one of the cafes… and he’d been glancing up eagerly whenever a slender young woman, especially one with close-cropped hair, came from that direction… Lots of attractive people were strolling… lots of women he liked looking at… and since he was extraordinarily good-looking… none of this was going unnoticed.
What was so remarkable to me when I finally realized what I’d done, was remembering how much I’d loved the scene in Little Women when I read it as a breathless 9-year-old, just knocked out by what I took to be its elegance and sophistication. The point of view and the rhythm of the phrasing had clearly imprinted itself onto me and yet my conscious mind didn’t remember it at all; when I was writing that part of Safe Word I was focused on the Avignon history (which are themselves copped from Francine du Plessis Gray’s At Home with the Marquis de Sade, the book I’d reviewed for Salon.com).
But then, in both Carrie books — and really in everything I’ve ever written — I used so much of what I’d read and experienced, even when it might not appear directly apposite to the subject at hand, which I think is awesome evidence of the heavy lifting the mind and memory are capable of during the creative process. Once, at a reading, I was introduced by the author and anthologist Violet Blue, who said to me, jokingly, “I feel that I know you.” To which I replied, about 90% seriously, “You do.”
Lola – Whereas Carrie’s Story was, like many erotica books, a romance novel with kinks and explicit scenes, Safe Word is a much more complex work. I really appreciated the multilayer narrative. On one level you have Carrie, who is in love with life in general and is open-minded and willing to experience all of it. (I love that about her!) But there is always the lingering question in the background of the book (carried over from the first novel) of whether she will get together with her most obvious love interest, Jonathan. But Jonathan is engaged in his own love affair with Kate. And then, because none of these characters are simple, one dimensional, or merely functional for the plot, there is always the possibility that Kate and Carrie will fall in love. I had no idea how it would end, even right up to the last pages! How did this complex plot develop?
Molly – For maybe three quarters of the process, I didn’t know how it would end either. And I guess that I only found my ending when I’d realized that I’d come to the outer limit of my erotic imagination; the feeling that I couldn’t make things any heavier, deeper, or more hardcore and still continue having fun in fantasyland.
Kate’s my favorite character in some ways. I have no idea where I got the idea for her, but I’m always wanting to know (i.e. imagine, i.e. write) more parts of her backstory, to account for her toughness and honesty. I was also kind of obsessed with how Jonathan’s such a pampered little prince: I enjoyed imagining him, but I found myself resenting how much he gets away with; I remember explaining to author and sexual activist Carol Queen that I thought of him like my cat — so beautiful that somehow he existed to be spoiled and indulged. I found their story provocative, sexy, and a bit troubling — as Carrie does, even if she begins to wonder whether it’s her story any longer.
Lola – And, while we’re on the topic of narrative complexity, the trading of stories between Carrie and Jonathan as they seduce each other and then seduce each other again was brilliant! Of course they would seduce each other with words. I can appreciate breaking with conventional narrative form. This book is so inventive, not just for erotica, but as a novel. Did you feel as if you were breaking new ground that way?
Molly – I’m not really satisfied with how it flows between Carrie’s narrative, Jonathan’s narrative, and the overriding omniscient storytelling, but it was the best I could do with what technical chops I had. So I guess the best answer is that I was breaking new ground for me, and maybe for a certain kind of erotica, but that I was and am haunted by knowing that there are narrative techniques that I didn’t (and don’t) know how to employ. Yhat isn’t at all to say that I’m sorry I wrote it. I did the best I could with what I wanted to say, and in many ways it’s my favorite of my books.
Lola – One aspect of the book I really enjoyed was that the “masters” or “owners” were not only rich men. And the “slaves” or “subs” weren’t just women. (Other than Carrie, we don’t really know their socio-economic status in the civilian world.) There is a certain sexual equality in the book, if not economic equality. I also took particular delight in Jonathan’s punishment for breaking the rules. That really put a dent in the sense that these rich folk were beyond being flogged themselves. And, it’s clear throughout that Kate is the dom to just about all the other characters. Did it just flow that way as you were writing it, or did you have a political statement in mind?
Molly – Again, the sexual equality was what I’d learned from Anne Rice’s Sleeping Beauty books. I didn’t have a political statement in mind, although I suppose these days you could look at it that way. At the time, though, I was just glad to be exploring the world I was imagining, and grateful to those who’d given me a world of increased possibility.
Lola – “Feminism” means something different to just about each person who uses the word. I could picture some self-proclaimed feminists (especially Second Wave Feminists) getting their panties in a bunch about your erotica. But one aspect of Third Wave Feminism that I really embrace is the sex positivity – the notion that we all have our little kinks and there’s nothing wrong with living them out loud. So much sexual repression is a function of patriarchy and a healthy sexuality can look and feel all different ways for different people, including Male Dom/Female Sub relationships. Such relationships are not necessarily symptoms or results of patriarchy, or not simply so, at least. Did you receive a lot of criticism from other women/feminists for your writing?
Molly – No criticism at all from women or feminists. I know, it’s weird, right? But true nonetheless.
Lola – I’m sorry for my ignorance, but I wasn’t even born when this book was published. So, can you indulge me a little? The pony play. Where did that come from? If I do a Google search now for “bdsm pony girl race” I will get hundreds of images of women in various states of dress (leather, buckles, naked but for the harness, etc.) with bits in their mouths pulling little rickshaws with doms ready to whip them. I lack the historical knowledge to know if all this porn was inspired by your book (was it the first of this sort?), or if there was already a sub-culture of cosplay or other BDSM play that inspired you.
Molly – Pony play was around before I wrote Carrie’s Story, but I didn’t know about it. I only found out about it after I’d finished a short first draft and was looking for ways to extend it to novel length. Visiting a San Francisco leather/fetish store for inspiration, I found a glossy magazine containing an extensive photo shoot of some real-girls’ pony farm somewhere — or maybe it was all staged, I don’t know. Anyway, I leafed through it in kind of a fearful fever dream, jammed the magazine back onto the rack, stumbled out of the store, and drove home. Only to turn around, get back in the car, drive back, buy the magazine, read it over a few times, and write the Sir Harold chapter in a crazy burst of words that I’ve never been able to equal. It wasn’t writing, exactly: it was copying, as fast as my fingers would go, what my frenzied imagination was dreaming up as fast as it could. And then I retrofitted the earlier chapters around it.
Lola – Since our last interview, you mentioned that you wanted to post a link to the interview on your Facebook page, but were concerned that the censors might punish you for it. Along the lines of historical reference, can you talk about what sorts of shifts you’ve seen politically and artistically in tolerance and censorship with regard to erotica? There seems to be a growing movement in England and America to reduce access to certain material. I know we, with our blog, have been constantly challenged by censorship. I get my social media zapped on the regular and certain companies that transfer money refuse to send us funds because the money is made through sexually explicit material. What have you seen over the years?
Stroll?
Molly – First about censorship: Honestly, it’s been such a long time since I’ve written or actively promoted myself that I don’t have any specifics, but friends who are still writing are always dealing with it, and though I know stuff is always being challenged on Amazon, I’m sorry that I really don’t have any insights to share. I posted the link on my Molly Weatherfield page, which Facebook said it was going to take down. But they haven’t yet, so I’m totally confused. But I didn’t paste a link from my Pam Rosenthal page because I use it to connect to old friends and extended family, and I don’t want them to shut that down, so I’m more circumspect about erotic posts there.
As for shifts in standards, a few wildly unrelated points:
- I’m guessing that these days there’s a lot of really intense stuff out there, of a sensibility to appeal to readers of a different generation than mine. I’m told that my teenage granddaughters read stuff that’s crazy explicit (not my stuff, but who could blame them?). But I’m shy to pry too deeply, so I don’t know much.
- I’ve always objected to any pornography that tries to locate kinky sensibility in childhood trauma; it seems to me that when you do that you delegitimize freedom of choice and imagination by pretending to be on the side of the “victims” while at the same time scapegoating some nasty “victimizers” by blaming them for your own fantasy life. To the extent that Fifty Shades was coherent, it seems to me that it played that nasty trauma card while going all swoony over private jets and diamond bracelets — but since I found the book a dreary, disorganized read and wound up skipping long passages, who knows what she was getting at?
- What most troubles me right now is a kind of eroticizing of totally illegitimate power, as described in this powerful, smart, and scary essay: https://slowcivilwar.substack.com/p/thats-bait. If there’s anything I’ve tried to be clear and consistent about in these interviews it’s that I always situate my fantasies within a framework of total consensuality and freedom to say no. I really hate erotic fantasy that’s in any way based on coercion, and my imagination tends to shrivel up in horror when I don’t feel safe; which I don’t, these days — less as an erotic writer than as an ordinary American who cherishes democracy and the rule of law.
Lola – Lightning round of questions: Favorite erotica author? Favorite book (of any genre)? Favorite poet? Favorite movie? Favorite porn star? Favorite play of Shakespeare’s? Favorite sex toy? Favorite age (meaning, did you love your 20’s, 30’s, 80’s the most) and why?
Molly – Pauline Réage, who wrote Story of O, has got to be at the top of the list. Erotic authors I’ve admired over the years are Michelle Tea, Aaron Travis, Thomas Roche. I’ve mentioned Anne Rice’s Sleeping Beauty books, but I need to add that the direct inspiration for the association comes from the opening chapter of Rice’s book Exit to Eden. Actually, I’ve been reading more erotic poetry than fiction lately. Natalie Diaz’s book, Postcolonial Love Poem, has some really hot writing in it and won the 2021 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry; and you should run-not-walk to buy The Poetry of Sex, edited by Sophie Hannah.
I don’t have a favorite porn film, but the most smoking hot movie I’ve ever seen is Ang Lee’s Lust, Caution, starring the sexiest film actor I’ve ever seen, Tony Leung.
All-time favorite pieces of writing: Grace Paley’s short story, “Friends”; The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald (imo the great American novel); and Proust’s epic In Search of Lost Time, which is kind of my basic spiritual discipline.
Favorite play of Shakespeare? When I was young it was Much Ado About Nothing, clearly the first romcom. Now it’s absolutely King Lear, particularly in this version: https://www.ntathome.com/king-lear/videos/king-lear-trailer
No favorite sex toy, just some simple basics.
As for sexual decades: it was pretty great when I was writing Carrie in my 40s, but as we approach 80, there’s a new kind of beauty to it, for which we are profoundly grateful.
Lola – I don’t know if you have kids or grandkids, but, if you do, do you have any regrets about writing erotica since they will probably eventually be reading your work? Do you ever look back and think, “That was fun to write, but, OMG! I should have never published that!”?
Molly – Our very smart son, a literature professor, has managed to be entirely circumspect about my erotica for the last 30 or so years. I have no idea whether he’s read them or not, which is just fine by me. And I’m guessing that his two astonishingly literate daughters will be pretty much the same.
Still, I do sometimes have second thoughts about my books — again, because they’re still out there, in a world where cruelty has been instrumentalized and eroticized. So sometimes I have to pick up one or the other of them and reassure myself that that’s not what I was doing — far from.
Lola – Last question. Not sure if you have had a chance to read or listen to any of HH’s writings about me/us, but if you have, any thoughts?
Molly – Only a few sentences, so I can’t comment. But I love the idea of you guys sharing an erotic and a creative life as a single enterprise. Way to go and wishing you all the best.
Lola – Thank you so much! This has been a rare treat!!!
Molly – Thanks to you as well. I’ve been kind of grieving the fact that I’m not writing any more. But your smart, engaging questions have helped me sum things up and to own the astonishing experience of writing these books.
Lola Puts the “Fun” in Fundamental Fantasy
Lola Dreams of Gang Bangs
“Lola, by any chance did you watch Lily Phillip’s fucking a hundred cocks?” I asked over breakfast.
“Who do what?” she replied.
“Don’t be coy.”
We were sitting on the roof deck of a fancy five-star hotel in South Beach. To my right was the famous Ocean Blvd. and then the Atlantic. To my left was the roof deck pool, cabanas lining the side of it, and a bar at the far end. In the pool and lying out in the early sun were topless women and their husbands sunning themselves and drinking cocktails. It was only ten in the morning, and at that hour a Bloody Mary is basically breakfast. Or, at least it is when you’re on vacation.
“Of course I watched it,” she finally blurted out. “Why?”
“I was reading an article this morning that was quite enlightening about it.”
“I bet you were,” she said with jealous derision in her tone.
“Do you care to read it?”
“What’s it called and what do you find so fascinating about it?”
“It’s called ‘Lily Phillips: One Woman’s Dream of Don Juan’ or something like that. In a nutshell, it says that there is an archetypal sexual fantasy for men and another for women.”
“I’m curious. What would those be?”
“For men, it’s the – well, it’s a little difficult to explain,” I stumbled over my words. “But basically, every man fantasizes about being an Alpha Male on steroids.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just imagine Rocky, The Terminator, John McClane from Die Hard, all rolled into one.”
“I get it, like Tyler Durden is to what’s his name in Fight Club.”
“Exactly. And, he doesn’t have a name.”
“The fantasy figure?”
“No, the narrator for Fight Club, played by Edward Norton. He’s so castrated that he doesn’t even get a name.”
“Castrated?”
“Never mind.”
“And what is a woman’s fantasy? Please, do tell,” she said sarcastically, underscoring that it is not a man’s place to tell a woman her fantasy.
“According to this article, Don Juan.”
“Don Juan?” she repeated, stunned. “He’s a male fantasy, if anything. I mean, he is the prototype for those movies you just mentioned.”
“That’s what’s interesting about this essay,” I said. “It’s a little too convoluted for me to explain. Why don’t you read it yourself.”
I texted it to her. She finished her breakfast, stood up, removed her bikini top, and sat in one of the lounge chairs facing the pool, phone in hand, reading the article.
I ordered a mimosa and sat across the pool from her. I watched her from behind my dark sunglasses as her left hand held the phone in its palm and her right hand moved lower and lower down her abdomen, to her bikini bottom, and then between her legs, where she pulled the thong to the side and revealed her long, meaty labia. She slowly stroked them in full view of all to see – especially me.
The boys get a real thrill when Lo’s around
When she was done with the article, she looked up from her phone. There, in the pool, were at least two men and a few boys who had been spying on her just as I had been. Let me be clear, everything she did was unconscious. When she’s engrossed in something – a movie, a book, an article – she is oblivious to the onanistic meanderings of her free hand. But her audience was engrossed in her. Each of them – including me – tried to pass it off as if they hadn’t noticed a thing, but it was abundantly evident – to me and everyone else, especially the wives and moms around the pool – what captivated their attention.
She glanced over the brim of her large and dark sunglasses, smiled, fixed her bikini bottom, and walked to the bar where she sat on one of the stools. It was a small, tiki-style bar, only big enough for four patrons at a time. She waited for the bartender who, at that moment, was delivering a tray of drinks to various patrons around the pool.
I met her over at the bar and said, “Well? What did you think?”
“I like that the author doesn’t deny Lily Phillips her right to claim her own pleasure, her own fantasy. I like that he doesn’t say, “She says this, but she must be wrong.”
“And?” I was expecting a critique.
“I also agree with the observation that no man, no matter how virile, can ever get it up enough.”
“I thought you’d like that. I mean, that was the theme of our second book, More!, after all.”
“But,” she began.
“Ah-ha! I knew there was a but.”
The bartender returned to his post and asked Lo what she’d like. Lo got excited. She stood up from the stool and was now bending over, leaning on the bar, showing her thong-clad butt off to her loyal fans in the pool.
A.I. of Lola by the pool
“Hmmm,” she said, licking her lips, “you have all these specialty cocktails. I love their whimsical names!”
“I think she’ll need a minute,” I said to the bartender, with a wink.
She was wiggling her butt in anticipation of the fun drinks, like a puppy excited to play.
“So,” I said, bringing her back to the conversation. “What is the but?”
“Well, I think there are a lot of fantasies – not just two.”
“Fair, but I think he’s talking about a fundamental fantasy.”
“You know,” she said, looking at me now, “even Don Juan wasn’t so simple as people make him out to be.”
“Your point?”
“Well, when he was a young man – I mean, really just a boy – he was sold into slavery and then, when spied by the sex-starved sultana, Gulbeyaz, she had her eunuch buy him for her, dress him up as a harem girl, and sneak him into the sultan’s seraglio for him to please her on the sly.”
“You mean, in Byron’s telling of the tale,” I said.
“Of course Byron!” she responded.
“And your point?” I asked again.
She turned her head over her shoulder and looked at her admirers in the pool.
“Well, maybe Don Juan is a woman’s fantasy, just not the Don Juan who beds all the women. Maybe the Don Juan who. . .”
“Lo, I think I know where you’re going with this. You weren’t dreaming of Lily Phillips while reading that article over there,” I nodded to where she had been lying down. “You were dreaming of MILF Meri’s son.”
“Por qué no los dos?”
“Madam?” asked the bartender.
“I’ll have the Red Headed Slut shot,” said Lo, licking her lips.
“Very good. And you sir?”
“The Blue Balls shot.”
Meri and son with a bull
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Daddy!”
Lola Wishes to be Worshiped (art by Pulp Brother)
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Daddy!” Lo said, as she handed me a cute little card. She was wearing her silky, shiny black dress, black heels, and nothing else. She then sat on the chair, lifted up her legs high in the air, spread them, and said, “Do you want a little appetizer before dinner?”
I took in the sight and said, “Come to think of it, I could use a little snack.”
I got on my knees before her like a supplicant before his god, opened my mouth and put my tongue to her smooth, newly shaved, glistening pussy lips. I heard her moan on contact. I then dove in with an enthusiastic and concerted cunnilingal revery. I could feel her body convulsing and her lower lips salivating. At one point, I looked up from my coveted corner at the apex of her love and saw that she had pulled out her phone and was looking at something on it as I worshipped her womanhood. What could it be, I thought.
I continued a little while longer lashing her labia with my tongue before I could stand it no more. I backed off and stood up.
“Lola,” I said sternly, “what are you so preoccupied with?”
“Don’t stop, Daddio,” she said. “I’m just reading the Valentine’s cards I got from my fans.”
“Let me see,” I demanded.
She turned her phone around and scrolled through page after page of cumtributes from various men and women.
Tribute by Martin
From Martin with Love
Martin completes the task
A female fan gets off to Lo
I wiped my mouth of her juices and said, “I think it’s time we get going. Our dinner reservations are for eight.”
She pulled down her black dress and stood up. I could see on the inside of her knees a few streams flowing down her inner thighs.
She grabbed a hand-towel from the kitchen and wiped up her legs from her calf to her crotch. “I don’t want to make puddles in my shoes,” she said as she performed the slightly indecorous task.
“No, we can’t have that,” I said.
At the restaurant, we sat at a candlelit table for two with a romantic candle lit, illuminating our faces in the dim light of the room.
I passed Lo my Valentine’s Day card. I had made it myself. Instead of “Happy Valentine’s Day,” it read, “Felix Lupercalia!”
“What is this?” she asked.
“Latin.”
“OK. Why?”
“The origins of Valentine’s Day go back to Roman times. It was a holiday, much like a Bacchanalia, called Lupercalia. The priests of the festival would fun through the city naked, carrying small whips known as februa, from which the month gets its name, and they would whip the young women who came out into the streets for exactly that purpose.”
“Why did they do that?”
“It was supposedly part of a fertility ritual. The women thought that if they were whipped, the purification ritual would increase their chances of getting pregnant.”
“I imagine that if a lot of young women flooded the streets of Rome, bared their asses to have them whipped, that by the end of the day a lot of them would get pregnant, but not because of the whip.”
“You’re probably right,” I said.
“Will you ‘purify’ me when we get home?” she asked.
“Have you been corrupted?”
“So much,” she said, stars in her eyes.
“Then I’ll have to purify you with quite a bit.”
She bit her lower lip. “I’m having impure thoughts right now.”
Fertility Rites of Rome (art by Lesbian Silk)
Masturbatorium Museums
I mention this little interlude about the Cum Cube because, though it was ultimately only marginally successful in its original purpose and plan, it became inspirational for Lola with the new sex scheme she was concocting with Uncle Collin and his nephew David. You see, she recalled the Cum Cube, or masturbation station, and thought that it was a sort of proto-masturbatorium like that along the lines of which Collin was describing. Or, at least in Lo’s twisted mind it was. She thought back on the experience fondly.
Lactation Station Magazine
By the way, after the local news reports covered Lo’s Cum Cube and that inspired the morality police to put pressure on the politicians to have the actual police shut it down, it didn’t go to waste. The city actually repurposed the Cum Cube as a lactation station, but, in reality, it was used as a masturbation station. Whenever you see a public lactation station nowadays, you never know – there could be men or women inside there, jacking and fapping to magazines, books, posters, of Lo. Hell, they could be reading this very blog and getting off to it. But I digress.
Masturbation Station Magazine
Lola described her experience with the Cum Cube to Collin and he was very intrigued, but he pointed out the obvious differences between Lo’s lark and his grand scheme for industrial scale sperm collection sites across the country.
“We have to make the new collection centers warm, inviting, and most of all, we have to offer the men something they cannot simply get at home,” he said.
“Yes,” agreed Lola. “It cannot have anything of the seedy atmosphere of a peep show, a porn store, or. . .”
“Upscale,” interrupted Collin. “It has to be respectable. We cannot place them in the parts of town known for sex.”
“Maybe in five-star hotels?”
“That’s an idea.”
“We should model them on Good Vibrations.”
“Good Vibration?” asked Collin.
“Yes. You don’t know the store?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“That’s surprising.”
“How so?”
“Because it has to do with sex and I thought you were the world’s resident living expert on the subject.”
“You flatter me.”
“Good Vibrations is a sex-toy store. It’s first and flagship store was in San Fransisco. What makes it unique is that it markets itself mainly to women and in order to do that they had to make it bright, welcoming, in busy, safe neighborhoods. Not like most sex shops, in the worst parts of town where only men would dare venture.”
Lactation Station Magazine
“I see. I’ll have to research this more,” he said, taking a note on his desk.
“Yes, it has to be seamlessly integrated with the mainstream culture and commerce.”
“Even better, it has to be on the level of an art gallery!”
“Yes, that would be perfect. An art gallery – the biggest in the neighborhood – that has private viewing rooms with docents that double as cum coaxers.”
“I think we’re onto something,” said Collin with a broad smile.
He stood up and touched the bookshelf behind his desk in such a way that it rotated 180 degrees, hiding the books and revealing a fully stocked bar. “Shall we drink to this joint venture of ours?” he asked, pulling out a bottle of bubbly from a mini cooler.
“It seems a bit premature, don’t you think?”
“How so?”
“We haven’t gotten down to business with the hard choices of the décor.”
“Come here, my dear,” he said, popping the cork on the bottle and taking out two glasses.
Lo walked around the desk and sat on Collin’s lap as he poured the Champagne.
“Let us drink to hard business and premature celebrations while we peruse the paintings and photos that shall adorn our masturbatorium museums.”
Magazines for Breastfeeding Moms