When I
left, Lo and I were in a big fight. It’s
never good to leave for a week-long business trip halfway across the country on
bad terms. Especially with Lo. There wasn’t one thing that was the catalyst
of this rift, but rather lots of little things.
Both she and I had been dealing with pressures at work, I had been
recovering from the flu, she had an unexpected major expense that had to be
paid. We both were stressed, exhausted,
and short-tempered. Each of us had been
prickly with the other, like two porcupines in close quarters.
“Come here,
Daddio,” she said the night before I left as I was getting ready for bed. It was her way of trying to rekindle the
relationship. “I’m so cold. Come and warm me up.” Though she really was cold, she also was
naked on the bed, spreading her legs for me, rubbing her puss.
“Cold? Looks to me like you have a very warm
fleece,” I said of her au naturel triangle, “and all that friction you’re
making might light that bush on fire.”
The words came out more sarcastic and biting than I intended. My loving little banter was not warmly
received.
Watering the Bush
“If you
don’t like it, you can’t have it,” she shot back, covering herself with the
blankets.
“I never
said I didn’t like it.”
“Well, too
late. This bush is only for someone who
truly appreciates me.”
“And who
might that be?”
“ME!” she
said, pulling out her Hitachi, her dildo, and her phone.
No sooner
had she gotten the giant white ice cream cone revved up and the dildo delved in
deep and the phone queued to one of her favorite porn videos than, to her great
surprise, the phone rang! She nearly
jumped out of the bed. She dropped the
Hitachi and it was still buzzing. Her
dildo was left dangling, and she had to fumble with her phone as she said hello
because all the moaning and groaning sounds of the porno film were still
playing.
“Hi Lo,”
the person on the other end said, “Is this an ok time?”
“Yeah. Yes.
Sure. Just one sec.,” said Lo as
she tried to compose herself and shut off all her stimulation devices. Finally she was focused on the call and I
climbed into bed next to her, stroking my cock.
Seeing her pleasure herself still gets me off after all this time. But seeing her interrupted and frustrated is
a rare delight.
It was
Robert. He needed someone to talk
to. He was feeling despondent. And he had been scrolling through the
blog.
I curled up
next to Lo and whispered, “Don’t tell him I’m here,” as I guided my cock into
her cupped hand. She mindlessly gave me
a hand-job as she talked to Robert. Or
rather, I should say, I eased my way in-and-out of her palm. She was unaware of or unconcerned with my
movements.
She talked
to him in a consoling and kind tone, listening to his lament of
loneliness. He hadn’t been with someone
in so long. The night at the museum was
such a powerful moment for him. Since
then he had done more study of Koons and his Made in Heaven installation.
Jeff Koons and his wife Ilona Staller, “Made in Heaven”
When I
heard that, I was both amused and angered.
I’m the one who turned Lo onto Koons! I deserve the credit for that. Whatever.
I continued
to slide my cock in-and-out of her cupped hand.
I kept quiet.
“What did
you like about it?” asked Lo to Robert in her seductive tone of voice.
“I, um, I
liked, I like that you suggested it to me.”
“Really?”
asked Lo, intrigued. “Why?”
“Lo, I, uh,
I never met a woman like you.”
“Go on,”
she said, captivated by the story of herself.
“You’re so
brazen. Is that the right word? So, daring.
So. . .”
“Slutty?”
“That’s not
the word I was going to use.”
“Use it,”
she commanded.
“What?” he
said, as if he hadn’t heard her properly.
“Call me a
slut. I like it. Say it.
I’m touching myself now.”
She
wasn’t. She was holding the phone with
one hand and my member with the other.
“OK,” said
Robert. “You’re a slut.”
“Yesss,”
said Lo.
That was
too much for me. I pulled back and
grabbed my cock and came all over myself as Lo looked on, desirously.
Now she was
touching herself.
“Are you
jackin’ it?” she asked Robert.
“Am I. . .
?”
“Are you
jacking off? Stroking yourself?”
“No,” he
said, as if offended.
“Why not?”
“Lo, I
didn’t call you like someone would call a phone sex service.”
“You
didn’t?”
“No. I. . .”
“But you
can. What do you want to hear?”
There was a
long silence on the other end interrupted only by Lo’s occasional moans of
pleasure. Self-pleasure.
“Do you
want to hear that I loved sucking you off?” she asked.
“You did?”
“Yessss,”
she said.
“Why?”
“I love
sucking cock. Any cock. Lots of cock.
I love helping guys out. I love
giving relief. Let me help you. Are you by your computer?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Pull up a pic of me if you haven’t already.”
“I, I, I,”
Robert stammered.
“You
already had it up, didn’t you?” accused Lo.
“I did,” he
admitted.
“Good. Which pic is it?”
“It’s of you
in your neon blue panties stroking your pussy lips.”
“You like
that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s
beautiful.”
“Well
that’s exactly what I’m doing right now.
I’m stroking my wet, pink, pussy lips with my beautifully manicured
fingers, slowly sliding them up and down and in and out. Does that turn you on?”
“Yes.”
“Are you
stroking your cock?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, I want you to hang up the phone and take
pics of you stroking it to my pics. Make
sure my photo is in the frame so I know that I’m the one who is making you hard
and makes you cum. You will cum, won’t
you?”
“If you
want me to.”
“I do.”
“OK.”
“Do it and
send me the pics.”
“OK.”
“And
Robert.”
“Yes?”
“What am
I?”
“A dirty,
filthy slut.”
“That’s
right. Don’t forget it,” she said and
she hung up on him.
I was
cleaning myself off when she got the notification that a text was sent to
her. She opened it. There were three photos. One of Robert jackin’ it to her pics. One of him cumming. And one of the mess he made. Lo looked at them again and again and she
eventually came herself.
“Thanks,” I
said.
“For what?”
she said.
“For making
me cum,” I said.
“Oh, did I
do that?” she asked, sincerely unaware of her passive powers.
The next
morning, before Lo woke up, I was off to the airport, sad that we hadn’t
properly reconciled.
“She
has one boyfriend in Naples, another in Amsterdam, and then she toys with me.”
“Toys
with you?” Lo’s ears perked up.
Robert
had made an excellent meal for Lo and me even though we had dropped in on him
unexpectedly. He is a very generous and
hospitable man and he opened a bottle of wine for Lo as he and I enjoyed an
excellent bottle of Scotch. It was so good
and so smooth that, before we knew it, he and I were on our fourth already. It hit me all at once and I suddenly realized
that I was having difficulty seeing straight.
“We
Skype with each other once a week.”
“Ooooh,”
squealed Lo, “Skype sex.” Her tongue
slid over her front teeth.
Robert
blushed, “It’s not like that,” he protested.
“I’m
sure,” responded Lo.
“No,
really. Well, maybe once in a long
while.”
“I
knew it!”
“But
I meant no double entendre. I simply
meant that. . .”
“Do
you like to watch?” interrupted Lo.
“What?”
“Do
you like to watch, to watch her, Linda, when she toys with you?”
Robert
squirmed a little in his seat, uncomfortable.
He’s tremendously uptight and prudish, but he also thinks of himself as
enlightened and courageous, so he answered the question, “Well, yes.”
“Do
you reciprocate?”
“That’s
usually why she calls me on Skype. To. .
.”
“To
see you jack it?”
“If you wish to put it that
way, yes.”
“I
do like this gal. When can I meet her?”
“That’s
just the thing. She shuttles between
Italy, Holland, and London and I don’t think we’ll be together in person again
anytime soon.”
“She
can’t just puddle jump the pond and come over for a quicky?”
Robert
laughed at the suggestion.
“Boy,
you must be so hard-up,” said Lo seductively.
Robert
poured himself another whiskey and gestured to pour another for me. I covered the top of my glass to decline the
offer.
“I’m
sorry,” I said, “I’m going to lie down for a bit.” I got up, unsteadily, and found my way to the
guest bedroom. It was right off the hall
that went to the living room and so I heard snippets of their conversation from
bed.
“I
remember when I was between boyfriends,” Lo was saying, “not literally. I mean, after I graduated college and before
HH, I used to spend two or three nights a week at my friend Alyssa’s
apartment. She and I were the best of
friends back then. I had no romantic
designs on her, but we’d share a bed, both of us naked, holding each
other. She and I were both single and on
nights that we didn’t want to go home with a stranger, we’d take comfort in the
love we shared. After she fell asleep,
I’d lie there, wide awake, horny, and I’d touch myself silently, careful not to
wake her up with my strokes or my inevitably powerful orgasm. Now that’s what I do next to HH
sometimes. Like tonight, I’ll probably
have to do that since he drank too much.”
Hearing
her say that brought a smile to my lips as my mind drifted off on
whiskey-saturated clouds. I dozed for I
don’t know how long before I was roused from my slumbers by the sound of Lo’s
voice saying, “Are you sure you don’t want some company?” She was just entering my room and, as I
opened my eyes, I saw Robert’s shadow in the hallway.
“I’ve
had too much to drink. I’m going to feel
like shit in the morning. Thank you,
Lo,” he said politely.
“Well,
won’t you at least tuck me in?” she asked.
I saw her silhouetted against the hall light filling the doorway. She slowly removed her blouse, dropped her
jeans, undid her bra and took it off, and then slid out of her panties. I felt her naked body sit on the edge of the
bed and then lift up her legs on top of the covers under which I was
lying. Her legs spread and her hand
stroked between them.
Robert
entered the room timidly. He bent down
to offer Lo a kiss goodnight. She pulled
his arm and gently guided him into the bed.
“There’s room enough for all three of us,” she said.
He
got into the queen-size bed. I heard Lo
kiss him and before very long I heard him sleeping. I was about to drift off again myself when I
felt and saw Lo caressing herself, there, naked, between the two of us.
After
a restless night of beautiful dreams, I awoke to find Lo next to me, naked, and
Robert next to her, fully clothed. She
was nestled up to his body with her right hand on his crotch. I was holding her – a big spoon to her little
spoon – caressing her breasts.
I
carefully extricated myself from the scene and snuck into the kitchen to make
coffee. I found my phone in my pocket
and on it was a text from Lo. It was
sent only a few hours earlier: “Can I fuck Robert? Please!”
I texted her back: “Good morning, my love.
I was hard-up all night – from the moment you got into the bed next to
me to the moment I woke up next to you, caressing your breasts and your sweet
ass. Your warm, soft, luscious, naked
body looks lovely in the morning light.
In my dreams a word came to mind for you – NILF: Nymph I’d Like to
Fuck. Yes, that’s you.
By all means, feel free to get
Robert up! You have my permission to
rouse him. Show him what a NILF you
are.”
I
was sitting, enjoying a warm cup of coffee when Lo sauntered into the living
room wearing one of Robert’s dress shirts, covering her sexy body down to the
middle of her thighs. She said
nothing. She just cozied up to me on the
couch.
“How
are you, sweetheart?”
“I
missed you, Daddy.”
“What
about Robert?”
“Out
like a light.”
“And
you?”
She
nestled her face into my chest and said something inaudible.
“What?”
She
looked up at me and repeated it in a whisper, “I need to get fucked.”
“By
me or him?” I asked, adding after, “Or
both?”
“Preferably
both, but I’ll take what I can get.”
I
stood up and dropped my trousers. She
bent over the side of the couch and I entered her from behind. She held herself in place with her left hand
and rubbed herself between her legs with her right. It took all of 90 seconds before she came the
first time, audibly. It was about
another minute and a half before she came a second time, even louder. The third time took about five minutes and it
was deafening.
I
pulled out and said, “You’re just trying to wake him up, aren’t you?”
“Am
I a good NILF or bad?”
“It
doesn’t matter, dear.”
“Why
not?” she asked, puzzled.
“Because
you’re my NIFL and I love you.”
She
got on her knees and sucked me off until I came in her mouth and then she got
up and we made breakfast together. The
aroma of the eggs and toast must have woken Robert, because he finally emerged
from the bedroom holding his head.
“Owe!”
he lamented, “Aspirin!”
“Here,”
said Lo, helping him to sit down at the table.
“Have some of this,” she said as she poured him some orange juice and
went into the bathroom to get the aspirin.
She came back and nursed him.
“That’s
my shirt,” said Robert after a moment.
Daddy’s shirt
“Oh,
sorry,” said Lo. “Do you want it back?”
she asked and made as if to unbutton it.
“No,”
said Robert, “I just realized – it looks much better on you.”
We
had breakfast together and then Lo removed the shirt and handed it back to
Robert. “I’m just going to change and
then we’ll be going,” she said, standing naked before him.
Robert
was speechless.
“Thanks
for the hospitality. But next time, try
not to drink so much,” she said before disappearing into the bedroom.
“Do
you remember what happened last night?” asked Robert of me.
“Yes,”
I said.
“Do
you mind sharing?”
“No,” I said, “but when I share, it is only good manners to stay sober enough to be up for it.”
[Editor’s note, this story involves Dr. Robert Smith. For previous stories that include him, click on the links to: Well Laid, Hey Good Lookin’, Pyro, Happy as a Clam, Good Night, My Whore, and Attention Slut. There’s no need to read those stories in that order for this story, but if you are interested in the long flirtation between Lo and Dr. Robert Smith, you can get the backstory in those posts.]
Recently
our financial situation improved. In no
small part, Lo’s getting a full-time job has certainly contributed to our
recovering fiscal health. Now that we
aren’t always scraping by to pay the rent or put food on the table, we actually
have a little bit of money that we can set aside for a rainy day. So, trying to be the responsible adults we
pretend to be, we created a joint savings account. I know, nothing says sexy like money in the
bank. Walking home from the bank,
feeling a sense of accomplishment, I said to Lo, “We’ll call our account ‘The
Community Chest.’”
“Community
Chest! – That’s what they called me in college!” she blurted out with a
smile.
I thought she was
joking and said as much.
“No,” she said,
“that’s really what they called me.
There’s a long story there that I’ll tell you when we get home,” she
said, grabbing hold of my hand and pressing her palm into mine.
When we got home,
I started to make myself a sandwich in the kitchen. “So,” I said to her, “what’s the story from
college?”
“What story?” Lo
asked, playing dumb. She loves to tease
me and see that she has succeeded in piquing my interest.
“You know what
story,” I said, taking out the pickles, “the ‘Community Chest’ story.”
She reached down and
slid her hands from her waist up and under her bust, pushing upwards so that
her cleavage bulged out of the neckline of her black tank top. “You like, Daddy?”
“Yes,” I said,
“but I want to hear the story.”
“Kiss them,” she
instructed.
I wagged my pickle
at her (literally, no pun), and said, “Look here, Lo, if you’re trying to get
me to hop in the sack with you and forego this lovely lunch I’ve just made,
you’re in for some disappointment.”
“I’ll be your
lunch,” she said, standing up, unzipping her skirt and letting it fall to the
kitchen floor. She stood in her little
black lace panties and her black boots.
“Lola,” I said
plaintively.
“You know,” she
paused and thought and then said, “I’m hungry too.” She sauntered over to the fridge like a stripper
on the stage. She bent over, putting her
ass in the air, standing on her tiptoes, and took a long look at the
contents. “I know what I want to eat,”
she said, turning and walking toward me.
What is there to eat?
“Lo. Lo, I see that look in your eye. Lo.”
It was no use. She dropped to her knees on the kitchen
floor. She undid my belt, unbuttoned and
unzipped my jeans, pulled them down, pulled out my hard cock and filled her
mouth with meat.
Snack
“Fuck my face,”
she asked, looking up at me. “Put your
hands here,” she said, moving my hands to her head, “and push me, use me, fuck
my mouth.” I followed instructions. “Harder, Daddy!” she said before I forced her
back on my rod. I had passed the point
of no return and soon I was filling her up as she ravenously swallowed all I
gave her. It all happened in the matter
of a few moments. Then she got up, took
my plate with the sandwich that I had so carefully prepared, and sat at the
table, taking a big bite of it.
“Mmmmmm,” she said, “can I have a glass of seltzer to go with
this?”
“Lo! That was my
sandwich!” I rebuked as I pulled up my jeans.
“I just wanted a
bite. Here you have it.”
“No, it’s yours,”
I said dejectedly as I got her a drink.
“No, I feel
bad. Have half.”
“Fine.” I sat across from her and we ate. “Now,
tell me the story.”
“Well,” she began,
chewing, “you remember Ryan?”
“No, I don’t
remember Ryan.”
“Ryan, the boy
from college.”
“I’m going to need
a little more to go on than that. There
were a lot of boys from college.”
“I told you about
how one night after watching a movie in a friend’s dorm, he and I crashed there
on the sectional couch.”
“I vaguely recall
that.”
“You just want me
to tell you again.”
“Indulge me.”
“Well, we got to
talking in hushed tones about sex.”
“And who initiated
that topic?” I asked sarcastically.
“He was curious
about my masturbatory practices,” she said, ignoring my question. “I told him that I jill it once a day – at
least.”
“Oh yes, I
remember that story now.”
“Well, there’s
more to it than that. Come to the bedroom
and I’ll tell you the rest.”
I followed her
sexy ass to the bedroom, got naked, and climbed into bed with her.
She got on her
back and spread her legs. Putting her
hand down there, under the covers, she continued in breathy tones. “I was masturbating under the covers, like I
am now, as I talked to him in the dark.
I imagined that he was masturbating too.
I asked him about his girlfriend – someone I didn’t really know. He said that he wasn’t too happy with her and
I asked him why he didn’t break up with her.
He said, ‘because she gives really good blowjobs.’ I said, ‘Oh yeah? Tell me how you like it.’ He told me about what she does, adding, ‘but
I don’t think she really enjoys it.’”
Lo was pulling on
her nipples now and squirming in the sheets.
“I was sad to hear
that.”
“I’m sure you were
broken up about it,” I added full of sarcasm.
“I told him, ‘You
should try getting a blowjob from someone who really enjoys it.’”
“Did you give him
one?”
“I really really
wanted to.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“But he was too shy.”
“Too shy?!”
“Or
something. Maybe he felt bad cause of
the girlfriend. Whatever the reason, I
didn’t get to give it to him. I just
masturbated till I came. After that
night, there were many nights when I’d be in my dorm, chatting on Facebook, and
he’d pop up and quickly turn the chat into something sexual.”
“So you had
virtual sex with him?”
“You could say
that.”
“But that still
doesn’t explain how you got the nickname.”
“I’m getting
there. Give me a minute,” she said as
she climaxed.
I
waited for the waves of pleasure to subside.
She
flipped over and lifted her ass up.
“Fuck me, Daddy, and I’ll tell you the rest of the story.”
“Lo,
you just blew me in the kitchen.”
“Come
on! You can do better than that. Can’t you get it up again?”
Her
belittling comments didn’t help the situation.
“Get
behind me and fuck me,” she demanded.
I
got behind her, but I wasn’t hard. She
reached under the bed and passed me her glass dildo. “Use this for now,” she instructed. I slid the smooth, hefty sculpture into her
slippery puss and she continued talking in spurts.
“He
was a gamer and I think he told his nerdy friends about me. Soon they were inviting me over their dorm
rooms to play with them. They each
wanted me to jiggle their joysticks.”
“I
bet they did.”
“They
were all computer geeks and none of them had much sexual experience. Anyhow, I didn’t actually do anything with
them.”
“Nothing?”
I asked in disbelief.
“Not
much, but they made up stories about me.
They each claimed that they fucked me and so they began calling me the
community chest, bragging that they each made a deposit.”
“And
you let them get away with that?”
“Let
them, I got off on it.”
All
this time I was almost mechanically pushing and pulling the glass object in and
out of her puss as she was backing up and pulling forward on her hands and
knees. Now she said, “Harder,
Daddy. Pay attention to what you’re
doing!”
I
tried to give more attention to her puss, but I had more questions for
her. “So,” I asked, “what did you do with them?”
“Well,”
she said, ramping up again, “like I said, they didn’t have much sexual
experience and when I did try to blow one of them he. . .” she broke off and
began her howling orgasm.
I
pulled the dildo out from her and she squirted, involuntarily, all over the
sheets. She thrust her hands between her
legs, trying to stop the sprinkler, and she exclaimed, “Wow! I feel like a fucking Slip-n-Slide!”
“You’re
more fun,” I said.
Collapsing
in the bed when she was done, I brought a towel over and applied it between her
legs and to the sheets. I asked her
again, “What happened?”
“I
squirted,” she said, annoyed at my ignorance.
“No, silly. I mean, what happened with the geek?”
“Oh, well, I was
on my knees and I unzipped his pants, but when I opened up his fly, I saw that
he had already cum. I said to him, ‘Let
me blow you. You can take my tits out of
my top and suck on them,’ but he was so embarrassed that he just zipped up and
left.”
“And
the thought of that made you cum just now?” I asked.
“No,”
she said, “the thought of making all of his friends cum the night that I went
over there to play video games and they watched me finger myself – that made me cum.”
“Tell
me that story.”
“Another
time, Daddio, when I actually have a shot of getting fucked by you,” she said,
closing up shop for the day.
“What’s there to eat in the fridge?” I call to her
through the bathroom door. I had just
gotten home from work and I was famished.
“Nothing,” she calls back as I hear the squeak of her
opening the valves to take a shower.
“Nothing?! I
saw a cucumber in the bottom right drawer.”
“Oh, that’s not for eatin’,” she says. “Come to think of it, will you bring it to me
darling?”
Good grief. I
get the green gourd from the fridge for her and a cold beer for me. I pass her the vegetable when she extends her
hand through the narrow opening of the door.
“Can’t I see you?” I ask.
“No.”
“You do know that I’ve seen you naked before? Most of the internet has seen you naked
before. Probably most of our neighbors
have seen you naked before.”
“I have my shower cap on.”
“Oh, well then.”
The door shuts.
I sit down to read and sip my beer and await her exit from the
bathroom. And wait. And wait.
After her repeated cries to God and profanities that I imagine were
directed at her pleasure-bearing plant, I hear the waterspout squeak off.
Finally she emerges.
Lo is very wet
I whistle at her.
“You look half as good in your clothes as you do out of them.”
“That’s insulting!”
“Would you prefer the opposite: You look twice as good
in your clothes as you do out of them?”
“How about you just say I look fabulous.”
“You look fabulous, darling. And delicious. I had no dinner. Can I please eat you from bottom to top?”
“Oh, Daddy, I have to catch my breath,” she says,
lying naked on the bed next to me.
“You do that and I’ll caress your snatch with my
tongue.”
She puts her laptop over her shaved triangle and opens
it up.
“Darling,” I ask, “what are you doing now?”
“Just checking some email and sprucing up some social
media accounts.”
Dejected, I get up off the bed.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m taking off my work clothes and. . .”
“Getting naked?” she asks, licking her lips.
“If that would please you.”
“Will you lie next to me?”
“As you wish,” I say, somewhat sarcastically.
I sit next to her, reading my book as she scrolls
through pages with her right hand. Her
left hand is resting on my cock. It
grows in her palm. I put down my book
and turn on my side, rhythmically fucking her fist. Unconsciously, she allows it, but doesn’t
enthusiastically respond to it. She’s
engrossed in whatever it is she’s reading.
After a couple of moments, I look at what is on her
screen. It’s a page of nearly naked
women.
Just as I was enjoying seeing her in the naked flesh
next to me, and also her pixilated portrait resting just above her pink vulva
on her laptop computer, she scrolls away from the page. And, to make matters worse, she removes her
hand from my hard rod.
“Now what are you doing?” I ask.
“It’s well known that lists create
web traffic and a fan asked me to list six facts about my body.”
“Clickbait,” I respond.
“You can call it that,” she says,
but I think I’m the real bait.
Clitbait, you might say.” She
strokes her bean under the computer as she says it.
She returns her hand to the keyboard
and writes:
Six Facts About My Body:
It is an instrument of pleasure.
It is a canvass for cum.
It inspires creativity.
It drives people crazy.
It drives me crazy.
I love it.
“Not bad,” I say.
She ignores my compliment because now she is engaged in
answering emails.
One guy asks, “Who are you?”
“Cum and find out,” writes Lo, followed by, “Wait, reverse
that.”
Another guy sends a dick
pic. Lola tells him that if he is going
to do that, he has to send one with her photo in the frame. He replies, “I don’t usually send dick pics.”
“I bet you say that to all the
sluts,” she replies snidely.
I can see that she is getting excited. Her right hand moves to her chest and she
pulls at her nipples, making them erect.
“Looks like you’re ready to give
some pointers,” I say.
Another fan read the story, “Divine Destinies,” about Lo’s immaculately pure pink posterior flower. He wrote to Lo requesting some steamy chat, adding that, “I love to talk about dirty things.”
Lo, taking offense at this, replies,
“Are you suggesting that the pinnacle of my success is ‘dirty’?”
“Lo,” I say, “turn over and I’ll
take a pic of my tongue deeply penetrating your perineum and we’ll show him how
you’re more beautiful than Charlene and Mr. Clean.”
She chuckles and asks, “How the hell
do you know that song?”
“My brain isn’t as old as my body.”
“If by that mean you mean that
you’re immature, then you’re right.”
“Roll over.”
She closes her laptop and I think I’m in luck, but
then she takes out her phone. She does
turn onto her tum and begins going through photos from fans. “I just need a little something to wet my
whistle, if you know what I mean,” she says, as she puts her right hand down
between her pussy lips and strokes, then, using that natural lubricant, moves
to her porn star.
She passes me the phone and says, “Look what I found
in my in-box!”
I, looking at both her boxes intently at that moment,
take the phone from her.
“Read it aloud,” she says, “I’m all ears. . . and
vagina.”
I see a long email from a fan, a woman named “Jen X.” It reads:
As I read the lusty letter, Lo is
having finger fun time between her legs and her feet are working in tandem to
stroke my cock. The words are so poetic
and prurient that I very nearly cum. Lo
can feel it and she turns and says, over her shoulder, “I just got out of the
shower. I didn’t wash my hair and I
don’t intend to today. If you cum, don’t
cum in my hair.”
“Do
you think Audrey Hepburn ever said that to Gregory Peck?”
“Look,
I aim to please, so please be sure to aim.”
Just
as she says it, I take aim and hit my mark, right between her shoulder
blades.
Painting on Canvas
After
I recoup, I get up and go to the bathroom to clean myself off. There, on the sink, is her giant
cucumber. “Do you think this is still ok
to eat?” I call to Lo.
“What,
your cock?”
“Well
that too, but I was referring to your veggie vagina filler.”
“Oh,
I’m not done with it yet. Toss it here.”
I
do so and I also return to the bedroom to get dressed.
“Where
do you think you’re going?” she asks as she stuffs herself full of the jolly
green giant.
How about this?
“To
the store to get something for dinner.
Do you want anything?”
“How
about an eggplant. This is not nearly
enough to feed me.”
“Fuck! I hope that never happens again!” she blurted
out as she entered the house.
I
had been quietly sitting on the couch, perched in my usual spot, writing, when
she burst in with a flare for the dramatic.
“What
happened?” I inquired, merely raising an eyebrow.
“Get
in the bedroom and I’ll tell you.”
That
can only mean one thing.
I
saved my work, closed my laptop, and followed her to the bedroom. By the time I got there she was already
naked, her legs spread wide, her right hand slapping her pussy with a small
splash.
“What
are you waiting for?” she asked impatiently.
“I
came as fast as I could,” I said as I began removing my clothes.
“Well,
don’t cum as fast as you can now if you want to hear what I have to tell you.”
I
slid into her already lubricated puss and she let out a gasp of relief.
“Am
I wet, Daddy?” she asked.
“A
juice box,” I said. “What is going on?”
She
didn’t speak immediately. She was
enjoying the ride. Her hands had moved
to her sides and she was pulling her ass cheeks, spreading herself as wide as
she could go.
“Can
you feel me?” she asked.
“Almost
not at all. Like fucking a bathtub full
of warm water.”
That
was enough to bring her to a mild squirting orgasm as her puss gently gurgled,
soaking me, the bed, and her ass.
“Harder,
Daddy. Faster.”
“If
you tell me what’s going on, I’ll fuck you like a jackhammer.”
I
sped up my rhythm and increased my force.
Lola’s Yoga Pants
“That’s
it,” she said, her eyes shut. “I’m so
wet. So fucking wet.”
“I
can tell,” I said, “but not for me I bet.”
“I
was at the gym,” she began, as the scene played out before her shut eyes, “in
my grey yoga pants.” She paused.
“Yes,”
I said, bringing her back to the here-and-now.
“And
I was on the adductor machine, working on my inner thighs when I noticed the
guy in front of me. He was doing pull
ups directly in my line of sight.
Unconsciously I was watching his body go up and down while I was working
my legs. Then I noticed that I was
watching him – his bulging biceps, the ripples of his shoulders, his broad
chest. His shirt was short, so I could
see his abs, and then I looked a little lower and saw just how huge his cock
was. Every time he went up and down, I
was spreading and then clenching my legs together. I became self-conscious of what I was doing
and looked up to see if he noticed me.
Our eyes met for a moment and then. . .”
She
climaxed again; this time much harder than before.
When
she regained her composure, I asked, “And then what happened.”
“Daddy,
it’s too embarrassing!”
“What?”
“As
I was spreading my legs, completely involuntarily and without warning I. . .”
she trailed off.
“You
what?”
“I
came. I squirted. I felt myself drenching my yoga pants until
they were dripping. And he saw it
all! I immediately closed my legs
together and pretended to take a sip from my water bottle and somehow made it
look like I had spilled it on my lap. I
ran out of there as fast as I could! Oh
my God! I can never go back there
again!!!”
As
she told me this, I had slowed and almost stopped thrusting, I was so engrossed
in her story. But then she rebuked
me. “Don’t stop. Come on.
Fuck me. Use me. Fill me up.”
“Lo,”
I said apologetically, “I can’t even feel you, you’re so wet.”
“Forget
it!” she commanded, angry at me.
She
pulled away so I slid out of her. She reached
under the bed, grabbed her horse-cock dildo and said, “You can watch, if you
want, but I need something that’s going to really fill me up.”
She
stuck it to the headboard of the bed and backed into it as I was on my knees in
front of her, stroking my cock.
“Are
you thinking of him?” I asked as she thrusted back into the cock vigorously
with her eyes closed.
“Yes,”
she said honestly.
“You
think he’d fill you like that?”
“Yes,”
she said.
I
could see that I may have been distracting her from whatever fantasy was
playing out in her mind, so I continued with my masturbatory movements in silence
as I watched her tits hang down and rock back and forth, thinking about what
that guy must have thought of her in the gym.
Suddenly I came, shooting my pent-up love all over her face. It was a surprise to her because her eyes
were still shut. When she realized what
I had done, it sent her into a violent hysterical paroxysm, the likes of which
I had not seen in a very long time.
Her
arms spread forward and her body bowed down making a “Downward Dog” movement as
her cunt clenched the long, thick cock behind her.
When
she regained consciousness, she said, “Maybe I’m just not made for city
life. Maybe I’m meant to keep in shape
by working on the farm.”
Mark and Stephanie came over for
appetizers before we all were going to go to see a play. Lo had planned this night for the four of us
months ago. She was very excited because
the play was one that she had heard great things about and she thought that Mark
and Stephanie were just the couple to invite to it. My guess was that she had designs on Mark and
was hoping to get him into a showdy corner of the dark theater and play a
little herself. But what actually
happened was way beyond my wildest imaginings.
Lo, as is her practice of primping
and prepping, spent most of that lovely summer Friday afternoon cleaning up the
house for our guests, making a special dip, stocking the bar, adorning the
small tables with bouquets of flowers, and then hopping into the shower. I, for my part, cracked open a beer and
watched Lo do all this work in her panties and bra. I hope you, dear reader, don’t get the wrong
idea about me. I’d be more than happy to
chip in with the chores, but Lo is such a perfectionist that I have learned the
hard way over time that it’s best to leave it to her.
As I sat on the living room couch, I
heard what could only be described as Lo’s mating call, if mating occurred for
her the way it does for komodo dragons, that is, through parthenogenesis, or
without the need of a male. Yes, this is
a very long-winded way of saying that Lo was fucking herself in the shower with
one of her many dildos and calling, to God, to me, to anyone, with her
distinctive, “OH GOD! YES! FUCK! YES!
YES! YES! YES!”
Not quite as poetic as the final paragraph of Joyce’s Ulysses, but the same sentiment. When she got out of the shower and found me
sitting on the bed, I wasn’t the only one who was long-winded. She was panting for air since her hot, steamy
shower only added to the heavy, humid air of our apartment.
“Thinking of Mark?” I asked
snidely.
“Mark, Mike, Matthew, Milton, it
doesn’t matter.”
“Allow me to rephrase. Thinking of dick?”
“Many, many dicks,” she said.
I got up off the bed to spank her
bottom as she was bending over the sink to wipe down the mirror when I caught a
glance into the tub and saw it was populated with not one, but four
dildos!
“What the hell did you need four dildos for in there? You only have three orifices to fill.”
“I like to feel wanted,” she said as
she set out to blow dry her hair.
“How many times did you cum?”
“Three or four or five.”
“Seriously?”
“No, deliriously. I used different dildos for different holes
and different sorts of orgasms. I used
this one,” she said, pointing at the one that was stuck to the tile wall by its
suction cup base, “for my puss. Then I
added this one in my ass,” she said, indicating her large red double-ended
dildo. “And then I used that same one on
both my ass and my puss before I used this one,” she said pointing to the horse
cock dildo on the floor of the tub.
“What about that one?” I asked,
pointing to the black dildo we call “Tommy gun” because it looks like a little
machine gun the way the ball sack is attached to it.
“Oh, that one I just held in my hand
for fun. You know my motto.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Be happy: jill off, jill often.”
“Well, you’d better clean up your
bathtub toys before our guests arrive.”
“Why, were they planning on taking a
bath?”
“You never know.”
“That would be fun.”
“I bet you’d like that. But, remember, Mark hasn’t had sex with Stephanie in over a year now.” We knew this from what Stephanie had told me at their Super Bowl party.
“First, that’s not
due to any deficiency on his part. And
second, even if it was, I know I could help him. I’m a cock whisperer.”
“I think you still
aim to ‘help’ him,” I said, knowing that Lo is terribly attracted to Mark.
“So,” she
responded, “Why do you think I have so many dildos in the tub? I like to get men hard. I like them to desire me. I like to be what gets
them up in the morning and what gives them sweet dreams at night. I want to be a vessel into which men drain
their lust.”
“Everyone but the
shoemaker’s wife,” I said under my breath.
“What?” she asked
as she slipped into her dress.
“Everyone except
the shoemaker’s wife,” I said more loudly.
“What the fuck
does that mean?” she asked.
I responded, “You have to clean up
your language, young lady.”
“Fine, I’ll clean it up. I’ll take out every word except ‘fuck.’”
“You know what I mean.”
“Fuck?”
“Stop it.”
“Fuck fuck.”
“You’re being vulgar.”
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.”
“OK, I’ll play your game. What do you want to do tonight?”
“Fuck.”
“I bet you do. Fuck Mark.
Like I said, everyone except the shoemaker’s wife.”
“That’s the third time you said
that, now tell me what the fuck it means before I shove this shoe up your ass!”
she demanded as she held her high heel in her hand.
“It’s a saying. Everyone gets a new pair of shoes except the
shoemaker’s wife. The shoemaker never
gets to her because he’s so busy making the shoes for everyone else.”
“And what does that have to do with
us?”
“You’re the shoemaker. Everyone gets to drain their lust into you
but me.”
“Oh, don’t give me that,” she said,
feigning playing the violin for me. “You
get more than you can handle. Nine out
of ten times you deny me. That’s why this shoemaker has to go all
around town like the prince letting everyone try on Cinderella’s slipper.”
“Now this metaphor has jumped the
shark.”
“Look, if you want some of this,”
she said, slapping her pussy over her dress, “all you have to do is ask for it,
or better yet, take it!”
“I want it!” I said, lifting up her
dress and noticing that she hadn’t put on panties.
“Not now! They’ll be here in a minute or two.”
“I only need thirty seconds. You know that.”
“And people say romance is dead.”
At that moment the doorbell
rang. I went to go answer it and Lo
called to me and said, “Tell them I’ll be right out. Oh, and put the chips out and the dip. Oh, and can you turn on the Bluetooth speaker
to some up-beat music?”
“Sure,” I said, trying to remember
all I was supposed to do.
I took out the chips and dip,
grabbed Lo’s phone and pulled up Spotify, and turned on the speaker so it
played in the living room. Then I let in
Mark and Stephanie.
I invited them into the living room
and we sat down. “Lo will be right out,”
I said as we made polite conversation.
They looked very dapper, all dressed
up for the theater. She was wearing cute
flats, tight jeans, and a very sheer white top.
She doesn’t have very big breasts, but they are perky and she has a cute
bob haircut. He was in nice jeans,
leather shoes, and a tight fitting black t-shirt under a blazer. It was a dated, slightly “Miami Vice” look,
but he can be forgiven since he is from Miami after all.
I offered them drinks and they both
gladly elected for the harder stuff, passing over the beer and wine. I was surprised. Before theater events I find I can’t have
anything too strong, except coffee, lest I pull a Jack Nicolson and fall asleep
during the performance and begin snoring.
As I was entering with drinks in
hand, Lo made her stunning appearance. I
had seen her little, short black dress, but to see her with the sexy, shiny
black heels, her full makeup on, and that smile of hers was really
something. I wondered if she was still
commando or if she had elected to wear panties.
Ah, those perennial philosophical questions that I ponder in my life
with Lo.
We sat in the living room talking
since we had plenty of time before we had to leave for the play and somehow the
conversation turned to the topic of tattoos.
I pointed out that neither Lo nor I have any tattoos and we were
discussing what and where we’d get them if we chose to do so.
“Do you have any tattoos?” asked Lo
of both of them, but she touched Mark’s arm as she asked it.
“Lo, don’t you remember? – We went
to the beach with them. I didn’t see any
tattoos on either of them,” I interjected.
“Actually,” Mark said, “I do have a
tattoo.”
“Na-ah,” said Lo in disbelief,
grabbing his arm. “Where?”
“Well, I’m actually not too proud of
it.”
“Come on,” she said. “Where?” she asked, turning to Stephanie for
a hint.
“There,” said Stephanie, pointing at
his crotch.
“Na-ah,” said Lo again. “On his. . . ?”
“No,” said Mark. “Not on
it. Just above it.”
“What is it, I have to know,” said
Lo.
“If you’re that curious, I’ll show
you,” said Mark, standing up and moving to undo his belt buckle, but obviously
joking. But Lo didn’t take it as a
joke.
“Really?!” she said, the word
escaping her mouth faster than her brain realized what she had said and with
how much enthusiasm she had said it.
“No,” said Mark. “You don’t really want me to show you, do you?”
Lo unwittingly licked her lips and
nodded her head “Yes.”
“Fine,” said Mark, “I’ll show
you.” He actually unbuckled his belt.
I suddenly got up and said, “I’m
going to refresh my drink. Can I get
anyone anything?”
I was met with no answer. I looked at the tableau. There was Lo on the couch on one side of
Mark, her head directly level with his pelvis, looking intently. Mark was standing, undoing his belt buckle, a
big smile on his face. And Stephanie was
sitting on the other side of Mark, almost unable to see the action, her legs
crossed, a slight frown on her lips, watching her husband’s movements in front
of this woman who was over ten years her junior.
I was in the kitchen and I suddenly
heard Lo’s admiring voice coo, “Wow!
Impressive!”
When I returned to the living room,
Mark was buckling up his belt.
“So, why an eagle?” asked Lo, now
touching his knee.
“I was in college, I was drunk, and
I thought that. . . now this is really embarrassing.”
“Out with it,” demanded Lo.
“I was into the symbolism of spirit
animals and I felt that the eagle was my spirit animal and this,” he said,
running his hand across the top of his pelvis, “was the seat of my spirit.”
Lo did her best not to giggle and to
really stroke his ego (though she wanted to stoke something else, I’m sure). But then she said abruptly, “Oh, fuck, I
forgot, I have to send a quick email for work.”
I was confused and I saw her grab
her phone and scurry off. “I’ll be right
back. Just five minutes. Promise.
I just have to take care of this little bit of business.”
OH!
I thought, Is that what she’s
up to now. You see, “TCB – Taking Care
of Business,” is our little code for her masturbating. That’s what she texts me when she can’t come
to the phone because she’s busy cumming to something else.
And just as quickly as that
revelation hit me, a second, more menacing one alighted, “She took her
phone. Oh, shit!”
But that second realization was just
a bit too late in arriving. She must
have already gotten into the bedroom or bathroom, took down her panties, if she
was wearing any at all, and already found a dirty little video to watch because
suddenly the music on the Bluetooth speaker switched to the sounds of two (or
more) people fucking. Yes. Right there in the living room, the pornographic
soundtrack filled the air like an ambient disembodied orgiastic orchestra.
“Ha ha,” I fumbled, “must be a
random connection crossing paths with our wireless.” I jumped to shut off the speaker and couldn’t
find the confounded button fast enough!
Finally, in the awkward silence, we sat just sort of looking at each
other as I struggled to fill the air that was now devoid of sex sounds but
pregnant with nothing. Small talk into
the void, I thought, not finding the words that would penetrate those deafening
drawn out moments of muted embarrassment.
And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, that shriek of Lo’s
climax cut the stillness with “Oh FUCK!”
“I’ll just go to check to make sure
everything’s ok,” I said, in haste to remove myself not only from the living
room, but, if possible, from the continent.
“LO!” I whispered as I entered the
bedroom and found her with her dress up over her waist, one of her dildos up
her crotch, on hand manipulating it as her other held her phone as she was
kneeling on the bed. She scampered to
make it look like she wasn’t up to no good, but there was no evading her
shenanigans.
“What?!” she angrily asked, also in
a whisper.
“They heard you. They heard everything.”
“What?”
“Yes. The porn, the orgasm, all of it. Now, put your toy down and get out here. Oh, and make up some sort of an excuse.”
I returned to our guests, looking as
if nothing was wrong and said, “Oh, Lo just, er, dropped her computer on her
foot.”
“Is she ok?” asked Stephanie, seeing
right through the ruse.
“Oh yeah,” I said, waiving my hand
as if to say, nothing to worry about.
No sooner had I done that than Lo
came out, in her heels, smiling, and she said, “Sorry about that, I just found
out that something terrible happened at work.”
“How’s your foot?” asked Stephanie.
“My foot?” asked Lo, perplexed. “Fine.”
“We were all worried,” I said,
“about the computer you dropped on it.”
“Computer I. . .” she began.
If I could have stepped on her foot
to give her the hint, I would have, but as it was, I think my eyes were saying
everything.
“Oh yeah,” said Lo, “my foot’s
fine. Just a little bruise,” she
said. “Will you rub it?” she asked me as
she sat on the couch and took off her heel and put her foot up on my lap.
“I thought you rubbed it.” I said,
accusatorily.
“Oh, I did. I did rub it, but it still hurts,” she
said. “It needs more rubbing,” she
added, and I could just hear her saying, “Daddio,” but she kept that to
herself, thankfully.
She shook her foot, as if to demand
my attention, and I said, “Wasn’t it your other
foot Lo?” just to mess with her.
“No, silly,” she said, “I think I
know which foot I dropped my computer on.”
So I began caressing her foot. We all continued our little chat, but this
time without any ambient music.
Eventually it was time to go and we
went to see the play.
Prior to that evening, I had no idea
what the play was about. I hadn’t even
heard of it. But ever since, that play
has been etched into my mind. In brief,
it is the story of a late 19th century doctor who treats women with
hysterical paroxysms. He used to induce
them digitally, but now he has discovered this newly invented medical device
that uses the also newly invented technology of electric power. The device?
A vibrator! The wife, who is
sexually frustrated, becomes curious about this mystery treatment and uses it
on herself, to her delight. I won’t give
too much of the wonderful story away here, lest you, dear reader, go to see it
– which I highly recommend.
But for the four of us to see that
play together, well, I can only surmise that this was the scheming of Lo’s
cunning mind. For, as you know by now,
Stephanie and Mark have been struggling with rekindling the sexual spark in
their marriage. In many respects, they
may have felt like they were watching their relationship play out on
stage.
Lo’s little foreplay at home may
have been an elaborate prelude to the main event. A little masturbatory appetizer for our
guests, only in order to fete them with a full course meal of onanistic
explorations. During the performance, Lo
was squirming in her seat as she sat, very conveniently and strategically
between me and Mark.
At intermission, Stephanie pulled Lo
aside, leaving Mark and me to get drinks at the crowded bar. I was thankful for the distraction, for I
honestly didn’t know what to say to him.
When we did have a moment of awkward interaction, he asked, “What do you
think of the play?”
I answered, “Wonderful, wonderful,”
ambiguously.
“I can see what Lo likes about it,”
he said, just as ambiguously.
“What wouldn’t she like about it?” I
asked rhetorically.
Just then the ladies returned and
the lights flashed off and on indicating time to return to our seats.
The final act was a very satisfying
one, especially if Mark and Stephanie saw themselves in the main
characters. After the final curtain came
down, Mark and Stephanie said hasty goodbyes, claiming they had to get home to
relieve the babysitter. But who knows
what the actual cause of their haste was.
When Lo and I were alone, I rebuked
her for her bad behavior.
“Are you angry, Daddy?” she asked.
“Lo, why did you give in to your
carnal desires when we had guests? Were
you just prepping them for the play or were you too much in lust after seeing
Mark unzip his pants for you?”
A couple getting off to “Match, Cinder & Spark” and mysexlifewithlola.com together
“A little from column A,” she said,
“and a little from column B.”
“More like a lot from column B,” I
added. “What exactly did you see?”
“Lo,
what ya doin’?” I asked as I came in the house and found her on the couch,
naked, scrolling through her phone. This
wouldn’t be unusual, of course, except for the fact that she was not
masturbating at the time. Just getting
ready? Just finished? I wasn’t sure.
Lo on her Phone
“I
tallied it up and I have over 20,000 followers on our various platforms,” she
said without bothering to look up at me.
“Really? 20,000?
That’s a lot of horny men,” I said.
“And
women,” she added. “And don’t forget your
fans.”
Jen X
Madelaine
Piper
She was kind to include my fans, even if she said it with a bit of scorn. Lately, I’ve had quite a resurgence of interest. A number of women have been writing to me telling me how much they enjoy my stories. There has been Madelaine, Jen, Piper, Dawn, TJ, Tracy, and Liz. Of course these are not exclusive categories. Most of the fans of my writing are also fans of Lo. But in Lo’s mind, she refers to them as “your fans.” Flattering me? Or jealousy?
In
any case, I digress.
“I
think that makes you a micro-influencer,” I said.
“What
do you mean ‘micro’?”
“I’m
just using the terminology that. . .”
“Let
me see your cock,” she said, interrupting.
H.H.
I
walked in front of her on the couch and undid my pants and grabbed my member
from my underwear, pulling it out. “Nothing
micro there,” she said.
“I
just meant that you have reached that echelon.”
“But
we don’t sell anything,” she objected.
“I’ve
received a lot of offers from companies to write posts just for them, or
include their products embedded in our stories.”
“Really?” She was curious. “What sort of companies.”
“Sex
toy companies, mostly.”
“Would
they pay us for it?”
“Well,
they said that they would send us free dildos and vibes and stuff.”
“You
can’t pay the rent with sex toys.”
Rent?
“If
we only could,” I mused.
“It’s
fine,” she said, “I like our independence.
I prefer to be a social media sinfluencer.”
I
was 44. She was 18. I was her professor. She was my undoing. She was a flirt. I was a letch. She was smart and sassy. I was pompous and sardonic. She loved to tease me with her sex
appeal. I loved being teased, but felt
like she brought me to my knees and knew it.
She was unrelenting. I was
unrepentant. She was the young spark
that reignited the flame hidden deep beneath my gray ashes. It was a match made in hell and I yearned for
the tongues of fire licking my loins. I
had been in purgatory for so long that it was either commit to my sins or admit
that I had copped out on life. I chose
to sin bravely. But not just yet.
Lola Reading her Fan Mail
It
would be another six years before my defenses melted. Six years of excruciating distance and
proximity that would prove both a delight and debilitating distraction. She would write me suggestive, alluring, and blithely
innocent emails. I would respond with
allusions and innuendo.
Back when
she was still my student, I was teaching Emily Dickinson and she wrote her final
essay on the poem, “The Angle of a Landscape.”
The poem reads:
The Angle of a Landscape—
That every time I wake—
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Upon an ample Crack—
Like a Venetian—waiting—
Accosts my open eye—
Is just a Bough of Apples—
Held slanting, in the Sky—
The Pattern of a Chimney—
The Forehead of a Hill—
Sometimes—a Vane’s Forefinger—
But that’s—Occasional—
The Seasons—shift—my Picture—
Upon my Emerald Bough,
I wake—to find no—Emeralds—
Then—Diamonds – which the Snow
From Polar Caskets—fetched me—
The Chimney—and the Hill—
And just the Steeple’s finger—
These—never stir at all—
Her entire essay focused on the
latent sexual content of the work. Her
exegesis was explicit. It read like
wordporn. The “ample crack” was
Dickinson’s pussy lusting for the “Vane’s Forefinger,” or the “Steeple’s
finger.” The Bough of Apples recalled
Eve’s biting into the apple, the first sin that aroused sexual desire. The chimney. . . well, you get the idea.
When
I asked to speak with Ms. Down about it, she said very directly, “If Emily
Dickinson had just gotten some action, the world would be bereft of some
beautiful poetry, but she may have been much happier for it.”
“Are
we speaking of Emily Dickinson, or were you, perhaps, projecting?” I suggested
heavy-handed.
“I
don’t need to write to achieve sexual satisfaction.”
“There
you and I differ,” I said under my breath, adding, “It seems to me that this
essay may have fulfilled a certain need of yours.” I was referring to her need to be noticed by
me sexually.
“Yeah,
getting an ‘A’ for the course,” she said bluntly. “It’s good and you know it. Freudian, Structuralist, with a dash of de
Beauvoir. Did you request I come to your
office in order to tell me how good it is, or to inquire about my sexual
proclivities?”
I
changed the subject, pointing out to her a typo. “Ms. Down, you misspelled the poet’s name.”
“No
I didn’t,” she said belligerently. “I
added a ‘g’ to it. It’s called poetic
license. This essay is a ‘Dick In
Song.’”
I
blushed.
On
yet another occasion, I had distributed a questionnaire to the class – a survey
that the administration had created and instructed us professors to have our
students answer. When I collected them
all at the end, I noticed something different on only one of the anonymously
written responses. The first three
questions read: Age, Sex, Location. One
of the students – and I could easily guess who – wrote: old enough, never
enough, I’ll fuck anywhere.
After
she graduated, we would occasionally meet and she instinctually knew all my
weaknesses and vulnerabilities. She exploited
them like a master chess player prolonging the ultimate denouement.
Once
we met for a walk along the shore. She
wore cutoff denim shorts, a button-down red and white gingham blouse that she
tied up like a bikini top and had her dark hair in pig-tails. She was, without doubt, the spitting image of
Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island. This
was too coordinated to be coincidence.
It was not Halloween.
I
remarked about the striking similarity and she said, “I like Mary Ann much more
than Ginger, don’t you?”
“Doesn’t
everybody?” I asked rhetorically.
“I
mean, she’s more of a secret slut and that’s what makes her so appealing,” she
added as if musing to herself.
“I
can’t disagree with you there.”
“But
I was always attracted to the Professor,” she said, biting her lip while just
thinking about him. “I’d love to
see him without that straight-laced Oxford blue shirt and khakis.”
It
just so happened that I was wearing a similar shirt and khakis. What two stereotypes we made!
“You’ve
thought about this a lot,” I remarked.
“I’m
irrationally attracted to intelligence. I’m
a deviant in disguise,” she said, “just like Mary Ann.”
“I bet you
are.” Little did I know then just how
deviant.
Another time
she invited me over to see her new apartment.
She was sharing a house with six people, all recently graduated from
college. Her “bedroom,” if you can call
it that, was meant to be a study or, perhaps a walk-in closet for the wealthy
person who built the old Victorian home.
As a result, it had no closet and it was the room through which the rest
of the house had to traverse in order to get to the wrap-around porch.
I
walked into her room with great trepidation and I saw strewn around the
closetless space her panties, bras, and dildos of various sizes on some
bookshelves, next to which were some of the classics of literature and a true
classic Underwood typewriter.
“Ms.
Down, you fancy yourself a writer?” I asked looking at the magnificent
machine.
“Oh
no,” she said, displaying some rare humility.
“I just like old things. A bit of
nostalgia.”
Quick
to correct, I said, “You can’t have nostalgia for an era in which you did not
live.”
“I
have an old soul,” she said, followed by, “encased in a young body.”
“Our
bodies are insufficient containers of our desires,” I said, quoting something I
read once, “but yours seems to contain all my desires.” Did I say that, or just think it?! I wasn’t sure anymore. I grumbled and made a banal comment. “You must get absolutely no privacy in
here!”
“It’s
true,” she said, “people walk through here all the time to get to the
porch. Luckily, I’m a bit of an
exhibitionist, so I don’t mind, especially when I’m having sex with my
boyfriend or someone else or sex just with myself.”
I
pretended not to hear her comment.
We
walked onto the deck and I just wanted to hold her tightly in my arms, but
instead I blurted out, “It’s big. Really
big, and wide!”
“Yeah,
I always liked a big deck,” she said, looking to see if I heard what she
thought I’d hear.
“Yes,
er, well,” I stumbled and took a seat overlooking the street below.
I
can only surmise that she found my awkward mix of desire and discomfort to be
adorable. Why the hell else would she
pursue me for so long?
She
sat across from me. Not for the first
time that day, I noticed her sexy strappy heels, her short skirt, and the
smooth lines and curves from her ankles to her thighs. But now, as I sat across from her, I had a
much better view of these nether parts.
I tried to focus my attention on her pretty smile and seductive eyes,
but perhaps out of embarrassment and feeling like she was penetrating my dirty
thoughts, my gaze continually fell to her legs, feet, and toes.
“Oh,
wait!” she suddenly exclaimed, startling me out of my salacious dreaming about
those parts of her I was soaking in with my eyes. She suddenly got up and dashed into her
room. She dove on her bed and was going
through a pile books next to it. In that
position I could easily see right up her skirt as she searched her stack. “Got it!” she said as she returned
triumphant.
It
was the book I had published years ago on art.
“What,
Ms. Down, are you doing with that?”
“I
was hoping you’d sign it,” she said, knowing exactly how to unlock my heart,
through feeding my ego.
She
was sitting on the edge of her seat, oblivious to the fact that her skirt was
now riding up by her hips.
“Do
you have a pen?” I asked.
“Oh,
right,” she said, as she got up again to rummage through the clutter on her
small desk.
She
returned and gave it to me. “What would
you like me to say?” I asked.
“You’re
the man of letters. Say something sweet.
. . and smart. . . and sexy,” she said as her tongue ran across her sparkly
white teeth.
I
wrote: “Dear Ms. Down, This book is all about beauty, but as Emerson observed,
no museum replica can compare to the sweet, smart, and sexy wit, charm, and
loveliness of an evening with you in the flesh.”
I
signed it and returned it to her to read.
She
batted her eyelashes and looked up at me.
I swear I saw stars in her eyes as she looked upon me adoringly. “Do you really think so?” she asked.
“That
no museum piece compares to you?
Yes. I do.”
“I’ve
always wanted to model naked for an artist, but. . .”
“In
my humble opinion as an expert on art and beauty,” I said pompously, “any
drawing or painting of you would be merely one dimensional because there is no
way an artist could capture the sparkle of your personality.”
“Do
you think you could capture me?”
“Um,
you mean. . .”
“In
words.”
“As
in a novel?”
“Yeah,
something like that.”
“I
think that the only way to come close would be to have words accompanying the
images. But it would take a very
talented writer to do that.”
“I
think you’re talented enough to come close,” she said very suggestively.
“I
would like to try. . . someday,” I responded.
She was mere inches away from me.
She had indeed come very close to me.
I could almost feel her breathy words as she spoke. “But I am an academic,” I added, “not a
novelist. I doubt that I would be able
to do you justice.”
“You
never know,” she said, “I might just inspire you to do me. . . justice.”
Just
at that moment about four or five people came bursting out through the door of
her bedroom onto the porch, carrying beer and a bottle of booze and a
joint. Lo and I immediately pulled away
from the intimate position we were in and the spell was broken.
Later
that night, when I was back at home, I received a text from Lo. It read, “I heard once that sex is energy
between people. What do you think?”
I
said, “Before tonight, I would have laughed at that as New Age crap. But now I know what they’re talking
about. Was it good for you?”
“What?”
she wrote back.
“Never
mind.” I felt embarrassed. Was she playing me for a fool? Was this her way of flirting? Did she want me to be more explicit? I don’t know, but I let it drop, though I
played and replayed in my mind the “sex scene” we had shared many times since
that night.
I
was asleep, to begin with. There is no
doubt whatever about that. It was 4:45
in the a.m. and I was stirred from my slumber by the sonorous buzz of Lo’s
vibrator, the rhythmic rattle of the bed, and the blue glow illuminating her
face that was so contorted with a look of singular focus and intensity that I
thought I was seeing a ghost. She was
lying on her tum, both hands buried under the covers and under her body, the
phone propped up on a pillow about six inches in front of her. From the sound of the Hitachi’s hum and the
shaking of the bed, I deduced that she was working her clit with the Magic Wand
and her puss with a dildo, leaving no hands free.
I
opened one eye first and, upon seeing her apparition, I surprised myself with
my ability to remain inconspicuous. I
didn’t stir. I tried to give no hint
that I was, in fact, awake – inconsiderately propelled out of my torpor. I saw her struggle to keep the pleasure
points stimulated while simultaneously fumbling through her phone for
images.
Acutely
aware that no mortal would be able to withstand the auto-erotic stimuli that Lo
was producing, I announced my awakening by asking Lo, “Can I help you?”
I
was hoping she would be grateful if I would get behind her, replacing her
dildo, freeing up one hand so she could scroll through the photos. But no.
“Yeah,”
she said, not surprised and unconcerned that I was awake, “swipe left.”
I
did as she commanded. I looked at her
phone and there were pics of men, women, couples – all getting off to her
photos. As she gazed at each image, she
took in the content, and then said, “Swipe.”
A fan
She
was demanding, insistent, and a tad rude about it. But she had a goal and nothing was going to
get in her way – certainly not good manners.
“Swipe,”
she said. I did as told. Another photo of a guy jacking to her pics.
An Enthusiastic Fan
“Swipe.” A photo of a woman jilling to Lo.
“Swipe.” A picture of a couple; the woman gives the
guy a blowjob as Lo’s image is on the computer in front of them.
Stella’s Tribute
“Swipe.” A man with what looks to be a 12 inch
cock. He holds it with two hands as if
wielding it like a weapon. I hear Lo
whisper, “Fuck.” She scrunched up her
legs under her like an inchworm. The bed
rattled. It’s a big, heavy, solid
bed. It takes a lot for it to
rattle.
Lo said,
“Fuck!” Louder this time. More angry almost. I heard the Hitachi click into high
gear. Lo squeezed her eyes closed
tightly.
“FUCK!!!”
she called out. I heard the dildo shoot
out of her followed by the sounds of her geyser gushing onto the bed. She convulsed, clutching the bed sheets, burying
her head in the pillow and screaming at the top of her lungs:
“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!”
Then
silence. Peace. Stillness.
She struggled
to lift her head. When she did, she looked
at me. Tears were streaming down her
cheeks.
“You ok?” I
asked.
She nodded,
a little ashamed.
“Feel
better?”
She nodded
again.
“Ready to
sleep?”
She nodded a
third time.
I pulled her
head to my chest where she rested it comfortably. One wet leg was lying flat on the bed nest to
my leg. She lifted the other wet leg and
placed it over my legs, parallel to her arm which reached around my chest. She was wrapped around me like a marsupial
clinging to a tree. I felt her puss
still slippery and perhaps ejaculating a dribble more like a leaky faucet on my
hips.
I kissed her
forehead and said, “Sleep.” There was no
need. I could tell by her breathing that
she was already in dreamland.
Meanwhile,
my cock was rock hard as the first light of dawn began to illuminate the
windows.
Lo
came home from work late that night. I
had already eaten dinner and was lying on the couch engaging in my favorite
illicit pastime while Lo’s away, watching “SMILF.” She walked in just as Frankie Shaw was
engaging in a self-pleasure solo session, which isn’t all that coincidental,
given how often she does that in the show.
(Since Frankie Shaw writes and directs the series, I think that she
secretly wishes to be a porn star.)
Lo Likes Little Penis Porn
Lo
stood next to the couch looking down at me, judging hard.
“What?”
“You
know what,” she said, accusatorily.
“I
was just. . .”
“I
don’t care what you were just. Turn it
off. If you want to see a sexy woman
engaged in sex-for-one, then get in the bedroom. I’ll be there filling my snatch full of fun.”
I
shut off the episode and met Lo in the bedroom where she was on the bed, legs spread,
dildos laid out next to her like a surgeon’s tray of scalpels, forceps, and clamps. She had her phone in her left hand.
“What’s
that?” I asked.
“I call it my ‘in box.’ It likes to be filled.”
I
didn’t know if she meant what she was looking at on her phone or her beautiful
mons pubis, which at the moment she was about to penetrate with her long, red, double-ended
dildo.
Self-Care
I
removed my clothes and sat in the bed next to her, vying for her
attention. She was busy reading something. I inquired.
“I’m reading about my friend and blogger, Nero Black. His wife caught him about to masturbate.”
“Oh
really?”
“Yeah,”
she said, easing the dildo into her tight taco.
“His wife loves to read erotica and masturbate, but she never lets him
get in on the goods.”
“How
does he know her reading habits?”
“He
has access to her Kindle subscription and sees what she downloads.”
“Oh.”
“And
he’s hard-up as a result.”
“I
bet you find that an open invitation to flirt.”
“Who wouldn’t? Anyhow, the other night he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his pants and boxers around his ankles, his phone in one hand and his cock in the other, when she unexpectedly walked into the bedroom.”
“Uh-oh. And?”
“And
she ignored him! She acted like she didn’t
even see it.”
“And
that gets you off?”
“No,
what gets me off is imagining that the porn she reads is our blog and that the
porn he was about to wank to was my photos.”
She
dropped the phone and lay on her back to continue the fantasy.
“Did you ever get
caught?” I asked her.
“Caught? Doing what?”
“You know, jillin’
it.”
“No.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Not by any of
your previous boyfriends?”
“Look, it’s not
something I hide. If they found me
jillin’ off, then I kept on going. So
it’s not like ‘getting caught.’ It’s
more like putting on a show.”
And put on a show
she did, without ever offering to provide me with any sweet relief. Punishment for my “infidelity” watching
Frankie Shaw.
