A Report on the Nymphomaniac Condition

Posted on March 5, 2020 by Lola Down

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“A Report on the Nymphomaniac Condition” first appeared in ENM (Ethical Non-Monogamy) Magazine, March, 2020 issue.

It was said by the renowned sex researcher, Alfred Kinsey, that “A nymphomaniac is someone who has more sex than you do.” It would seem that modern psychology has caught up with Kinsey’s insight. The dictionary of psychological disorders, the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM), removed nymphomania from its list in 1980. But does that mean Nymphomania no longer exists?

In popular culture “sex addiction” has been used as a catch-all for a number of “disorders” that have been named and described: hypersexuality, compulsive sexual behavior, erotomania, hyperfilia, etc. But the DSM puts almost all of these under one listing: Sexual Disorder Not Otherwise Specified. This heading is as ambiguous, amorphous, and as slippery as the subject itself.

However, let’s keep in in mind that no matter how something is categorized or listed, it’s not a “disorder” unless it is distressing to the person exhibiting it or has detrimental effects in one’s life. If the result of the behavior is a net negative, then it could be labeled a disorder. That net negative could be manifested psychologically, as in feelings of guilt and remorse, or could result in actual physical harm to oneself. Other net negatives could include weakening of relationships, loss of a job, or other harms external to oneself.

Fan, getting off to Lo at work

In modern European and American culture, nymphomania has as checkered a past as the women diagnosed with it. Even though there is a male correlate to it – satyriasis – the two labels have been employed in radically different ways. Historically, the ascription of “nymphomaniac” has been applied to women who, had their gender been ascribed to men and the behaviors described as those of men, rarely would they be described as afflicted with satyriasis. In other words, historically, women exhibiting the same healthy and robust sexuality of men would be diagnosed with a disorder while their male counterparts gained the praise and admiration of others as Don Juans.

But, in the last decade or so, with the rise of internet porn, the term “sex addict” has been increasingly utilized in less stereotypical and gender specific, patriarchal ways. Famous actors such as Rob Lowe, David Duchovny, and Charlie Sheen all have come out as being sex addicts, making it easier for others to do so.

Despite the DSM debunking the myth of nymphomania and our modern society’s willingness to embrace a more gender-neutral term applicable to men and women, the term “nymphomania” and its connotations continues to live on in the culture’s consciousness and the collective unconscious.

Fan, getting off to Lo

Nymphomania is a concept that has a history to it almost as old as civilization itself. In Jewish lore there was Lilith, the contemporary or predecessor of Eve, who refused to be subservient to Adam and, supposedly, insisted on taking the “top” position during sex. Her name is derived from the Hebrew for “night” and she is associated with other female night demons who seduce men. As such, she is a succubus. This tale probably has its origin in explaining men’s nocturnal emissions.

Throughout history, assertive women and sexually promiscuous women have been associated with the demonic. Accusing a woman of being a witch was one way of marginalizing or eradicating powerful and lustful women. In more recent times, diagnosing them as hysterical was another. Perhaps if we rewrote history as “hystery” (from the Greek, hyster, meaning “womb”) we would have different stories to tell. But, from the ancient Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh, in which the goddess of love, Ishtar, unsuccessfully tries to seduce the hero, and the temple prostitute, Shamhat, successfully seduces and thereby defiles the natural man of the wild, Enkidu, to Helen of Troy, whose face and unfaithful figure launched a thousand ships, to the Sirens and Calypso, all the way through to Gatsby’s fair Daisy Fay Buchanan, wanton women have been revered and rebuked by the West’s confused attitude toward female sexuality.

In the West, only Virgins, like Mary, and doting, devoted wives, like Penelope and Henry James’ Isabel Archer, get univocal approval.

(The East, by contrast, is not as uncomfortable with strong, sexual, and wise women. From Cali to Guan Yin, not only are they revered and worshiped, but even the gender ambiguity of Vishnu is given prominence.)

Even in the contemporary medium of myth-telling – movies – the nymphomaniac is never depicted as anything but pathological and her fate is always a morality tale told from the point of view of the negative exemplar. Lolita, the touchstone of our modern-day horny heroine, has been made into a movie twice: once in 1962 by Kubrick and once in 1997 by Adrian Lyne. Based upon the classic book by Nabokov, the films and the book stand in a league of their own. The ultimate fate of Nabokov’s Lolita (spoiler alert) is morally ambiguous. Clearly a letdown to the pedophile protagonist, Humbert Humbert, when he finds his life-long love at the end of the book, we are never given any insight into mature Lolita’s feelings of fulfillment in family or lack thereof. However, it is, perhaps, too hasty to say that there have only been two Lolita films made. One of the most popular tropes in porn is Lolita. In this way the myth of the nymph lives on and on.

Lola Down, 21st Century Lolita

Other films, such as Lars von Trier’s Nymphomaniac and Craig Brewer’s Black Snake Moan, put nymphomania front and center. However, in both, the female protagonist is depicted as pitifully damaged and pathologically in need of redemption. In the latter film, that redemption takes the form of Christina Ricci, dressed only in her panties and a cutoff t-shirt, being chained to a cast iron heating radiator by a strong black man (Samuel L. Jackson). As psychologically dubious as this “treatment” might be, it could be said that the film gets to some deep, underlying archetypical images and fantasies buried in the American collective unconscious by playing on race, gender, and slave tropes.

The former film, Nymphomania, as drab and sexually non-stimulating as it is, does get to some diagnostic characteristics. As Robert Weiss, founder of the Sexual Recovery Institute, has discussed in his “Thoughts on Nymphomaniac: Volume I,” in the Huffington Post, March 20, 2014:

Nymphomaniac: Volume I is “sex addiction accurate.”

Joe’s sexual exploits start out (rather early in life) as innocent and fun-seeking, but before long she’s using them less for enjoyment and more for escape. This is typical. Simply put, addicts of all types engage in their addictions not to feel better, but to feel less.
• Joe views men as objects — a means to sexual gratification — rather than seeing them as equals and potential partners in emotional intimacy. When her lies actually ruin one man’s life, she feels nothing for either him or his wife and kids. Nor does she change her behavior.
• Joe spends nearly all of her free time pursuing sex. She has no other interests or hobbies.
• Joe’s sexual activity escalates in both amount and intensity. She has more and more partners as her addiction progresses, and she engages in ever-more risky behaviors.
• Joe’s response to any sort of emotional crisis is sex. When her father is terminally ill in the hospital, she has sex with an attendant. Later, she experiences sexual arousal at his deathbed.
• Joe seeks a sense of control and power through sex. For instance, she ‘allows’ or ‘forbids’ certain activities. At one point she speaks to Seligman about ‘privileges’ granted to one of her regular sex partners. Using sex to feel ‘in control’ is common with sex addicts, especially with female sex addicts.
• Joe appears to have not bonded appropriately with her ‘cold hearted bitch’ of a mother, relying on her father for kindness and nurture. Her childhood flashbacks show that she learned ways to ‘please’ her father, and that doing so was incredibly important. Even though their relationship does not appear to have been sexual or otherwise abusive, it is clear that she learned early on that the way to get love from men is to please them. This type of dysfunctional childhood bonding is common in sex addicts of both genders.
• By the end of the film, Joe’s entire life (not just her sex life) has become ‘monotonous and pointless.’ She compares her daily movements to those of a caged animal. Everything she does is rote and repetitious, and nothing has any meaning — especially not the sex. At one point she says to a partner, during sex, ‘I can’t feel anything,’ and it is clear that she is talking about both physical numbness and emotional numbness.

Though Weiss points out in the article that female sex addicts are often ascribed “highly shaming labels” such as nympho, slut, tramp, and whore, “that society routinely attaches to women who have a lot of sex, regardless of whether they do so because they enjoy it” or not, he does not in any way discuss the possibility of a positive nymphomaniacal experience in which those labels are coopted into accolades.

The linguist Geoff Nunberg has pointed out that many one-time derogatory and profane words have been coopted and reappropriated by the subjugated, marginalized, and oppressed populations against whom the slurs were originally leveled. As he says about the term “slut,” “after a Toronto police constable told a crime prevention meeting that women should avoid dressing like sluts if they don’t want to be victimized,” “slut walks” served as a way “to protest the whole culture of slut-shaming.” He points out that, “it is hard to imagine ‘slut’ being reclaimed the way ‘queer’ was, as a respectable label for academic programs and cultural centers.” (“Slut: The Other Four Letter S-Word,” on Fresh Air, WHYY, NPR, March 13, 2012)

This sort of reevaluation of values is exactly what Lo is literally embodying, pushing psychology today to free itself from the prejudices of patriarchy. She wears the labels “slut,” “tramp,” “whore,” and yes, “nymphomaniac” proudly (and she often wears little else). Between us, we use the words “nymphomania” and “slut” as honorifics rather than stigmatizing terms. Every slur can be reclaimed and used subversively by the oppressed.

There is some evidence that lustful, liberated women are making inroads into the tyranny of normativity. Thinkers such as Rollo May have proposed a theory of the daimonic, hearkening back to the origin of “demonic” as coming from the Greek “daimon.” For the Greeks, daimon meant something more akin to a personal deity; a guiding angel, you might say, rather than a guardian angel.

May uses the term “daimonic” to denote a drive that is not univocal in nature and, in one word, is akin to Freud’s dual Eros/Thanatos drives. As May says of the daimonic, it “has the power to take over the whole person. Sex and eros, anger and rage, and the craving for power are examples. The daimonic can be either creative or destructive and is normally both.” (May, Rollo, Love and the Daimonic, p. 123) It is worth mentioning here that, before May and Freud, there was a theory of human psychology in Judaism that posited two chambers in the heart: the yetzer tov and the yetzer ra. The former, “the impulse for good,” and the latter, “the impulse for evil,” worked in tandem and the rabbis believed that neither was “evil” (unlike the proverbial Christian good angel and devil on one’s shoulders), but that the yetzer ra was a force that propelled humans to creativity and sexual union, but it needed to be bent toward the yetzer tov in order to avoid its destructive tendency and be sublimated into socially acceptable expressions and activities that benefited society. One can easily see the parallels between that and Freud’s Eros/Thanatos theory. Perhaps “parallel,” is too benign. Maybe Freud was more plagiarizing from his own tradition. In line with this theory of complementarity, May has said, “The daimonic (unlike the demonic, which is merely destructive), is as much concerned with creativity as with negative reactions.” (Diamond, Stephen A., Anger, Madness, and the Daimonic: The Psychological Genesis of Anger, Madness, and the Daimonic, from the Forward by Rollo May, p. xxi)

In the nymphomaniac, the daimonic drive has been described as a propensity toward indiscriminate, compulsive, and often risky sexual behavior. To the extent that this is dangerous, harmful, and results in negative net results, it is “pathological.”

But that’s not the whole story.

As was mentioned above, the daimonic is also the engine driving creativity and the nymphomaniac can use her prurient powers for good, positive, “healthy” outcomes. As Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, the pioneer psychologist in the study of “flow” or “optimal experience,” has said, “One manifestation of energy is sexuality. Creative people are paradoxical in this respect also. They seem to have quite a strong dose of eros, or generalized libidinal energy, which some express directly into sexuality.” (Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly, “The Creative Personality,” Psychology Today, 1996, p. 38) I believe that the reverse of this is true as well: One manifestation of sexuality is creative energy. Perhaps that is because, as Csikszentmihalyi also says, “a certain spartan celibacy is also a part of [the creative person’s] makeup; continence tends to accompany superior achievement. Without eros, it would be difficult to take life on with vigor; without restraint, the energy could easily dissipate.” (Ibid.) Of course, the nymphomaniac is characterized by her lack of “continence,” but that does not mean that her prodigal participation in pleasure isn’t also a creative, artistic, and perhaps even a performative act. Seeing sex and art as two separate realms is the fundamental error in this analysis. Sex can be every bit a creative endeavor, full of “flow” and genius as a Picasso or Pollock painting. The only difference being that the “results” are fleeting, ephemeral, perhaps even “dissipated.”

In my particular case, I would say that writing about Lola Down, my own personal high priestess of porn and beloved nymphomaniac, is also a result of the daimonic and the writing often flows of its own accord in peak moments, like autographia. According to Csikszentmihalyi, flow is the experience of intense concentration during creative endeavors. For me, that describes the act of writing. For Lo, that describes the act of fucking. For me, the restraint and “continence” is crucial to produce just the right amount of effulgent energy. But for Lo, her creative power may be more akin to “the woman who identifies with the archetypal role of Muse or femme inspiratrice, providing sexual love to artists.” (Diamond, Stephen A., “What Motivates Sexual Promiscuity?” Psychology Today, 2011)

This is not to say that Lo doesn’t have her own creative endeavors, her own talents, interests, and areas of outstanding achievement. Far from it! But she does love being celebrated as muse, not only by me, but by all the artists who have been inspired to draw or paint her, as well as those who have written lovely verse and prose to her and about her. In addition, she frequently hears from women and men and couples who credit her as an inspiration in the bedroom. Frequently these accolades are accompanied by “tribute” photos of the men, women, and couples cumming to her inspiring images.

As much as all this worship is proudly welcomed by Lo, it is also of concern how many people – mostly men, but some women – write in to lament that, for them, the nymphomaniac is akin to some sort of mythical figure, a unicorn, a phoenix, or the Holy Grail. These awestruck admirers cannot believe that one actually exists, in the flesh, as it were. They had heard rumor of such creatures, but had never met one or received confirmation of their reality. Lo, like the Holy Grail, is for them a receptacle into which they can pour forth all of their hopes and dreams (and bodily exuberances) and also a cup that runneth over, spilling forth for all who thirst for her baptismal water.

Is this perceived paucity of nymphos due to the stigma attached to the term, repression of sexuality, or a failure to recognize and reclaim the term in a positive light? I don’t have the answer to these questions, but one thing was clear early on in my relationship with Lo – I was unable to find anyone writing about their nymphomaniacal girlfriend and the great challenges such relationships entail. So I began writing about it in a public forum in order to inform others and also to find out if others could inform me. It’s been a fun and enlightening journey and I thank all of you for your words of wisdom, encouragement, and envy. But most of all, I thank Lo for opening me up to all new vistas of life’s possibilities.

email downloladown@gmail.com for more info

Birthday Sex

Posted on February 29, 2020 by Lola Down

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After the fiasco that was our double date with Mark and Stephanie to see the play, In the Next Room, remarkably, we got an invitation to join them for dinner to celebrate Mark’s birthday. He was turning thirty-five and Stephanie had invited over three couples, including us. That made for eight people, including the man of honor and his lovely wife.

I saw Lola dolling herself up for the party and I said to her, “Look, I don’t want any shenanigans out of you tonight.”

“Can I have some shenanigans in me?”

“No!”

“Daddy,” she said in a sweet voice, putting her hand on my chest and rubbing it, “what are shenanigans?”

“Lo, don’t play dumb with me. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Last time they were here, you broadcast your masturbatory movies over the speaker system and I had to make apologies to our guests. This time we are going to be their guests, so please just let it be an uneventful evening.”

“But that’s so boring, Daddy,” she pouted.

“Boring or not, I’m keeping you on a short leash.” I immediately regretted my choice of words.

Her ears picked up and her eyes opened wide, “A leash?! Yes,” she said, putting up her hands like a dog begging for scraps.

“We leave in five minutes,” I said, ending the exchange.

Eighteen and a half minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom wearing a sheer blouse and her cutoff denim shorts – cutoff a bit too short – high heels, and nothing but smooth, sexy skin between the shoes and the denim.

“You’re not actually wearing that, are you?”

She turned up her nose at me and said, “I certainly am! What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, if you’re dressed as Daisy Duke for Halloween. But this is a birthday dinner.”

Sheer Top

“Hrmph,” she grunted, defiantly. “It’s July and it’s hot and I’m hot and I’m wearing this.”

“But your shorts have holes in them,” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, my shorts have two holes in them, and if I’m lucky, I’ll get both of them filled.”

“That’s not what. . .” I gave up, exasperated.

When we arrived, around six, we rang the bell and were let in by Stephanie. She seemed very glad to see us and led us into the living room where everyone was congregated. We were the last to arrive.

To my great surprise, she hadn’t invited three couples. That, apparently, was my assumption. No. She had invited four other women and us. That still made for eight altogether, but it was six women, Mark and me. I was by far the oldest. All the women were in their thirties, except Lo, who was in her twenties. Mark and Stephanie had dropped their kids off with her parents and the only other member of the house was their dog who immediately took an interest in Lo, putting his snout in her crotch and sniffing as soon as we were in the door. My first thought was, “She’s not wearing panties under those shorts I bet.”

Short Shorts

We introduced ourselves and sat in the loveseat. Mark, the man of the hour, was seated in a large recliner. The other women and Stephanie were on the sectional couch. I immediately thought of an episode of “The Bachelor.” I felt like I was the T.V. camera viewing all these women vying for Mark’s attention. Apparently Lo wasn’t the only one with the hots for him. But why, I wondered, had Stephanie invited them all over? And why did she invite us?

Then I remembered what Stephanie had said to me the night she and Mark threw the Super Bowl party. With tears in her eyes, she said that she hadn’t had a sex drive since their second kid was born, but she wanted Mark to be happy. Was this a set-up for him? – Happy birthday, darling, have your pick of the women.

I could tell, just by looking at Lo and how she practically bared her breasts to Mark every time she reached for an appetizer on the coffee table, that she was mentally making the very same calculations as I. If that was Stephanie’s game, then Lo was keen on being the winner.

The conversation turned to the heat wave we were experiencing and Lo made some remark about how good the AC felt. As she said it, I could see her nipples clearly protruding through the thin white material of her blouse. Yep, she was cooling down alright, just as she was heating things up.

I was curious about these other four women. Who were they? I didn’t remember them from the Super Bowl party.

I eventually found out that Mark didn’t know them either. They were friends of Stephanie’s and new friends at that. Lo had an in; she was the oldest friend Mark had there, and also the youngest.

Stephanie brought drinks and Lo got more comfortable. She slipped out of her heels and I noticed that she had gotten a pedicure and manicure. Her little toes looked like shiny red candy, as did her fingernails.

Even with the AC on, the cold drinks had condensation dripping down the sides, and I suspect that that wasn’t all that was dripping.

Stephanie said she wanted to do presents before dinner and that we had to go outside for Mark’s gift.

We all filed out the front door except Stephanie. When we were in the front yard, we were all wondering what was going to happen. Suddenly the garage door opened and, voilà! Stephanie was standing by a Honda CG 150. “Ta-da!” she said.

Mark was super excited and he practically ran up to the bike and gave Stephanie a big kiss.

“Let’s go for a ride!” he said to her. But she declined, using getting dinner ready as an excuse. “Anyone?” he asked to us. Of course, Lola immediately volunteered.

Stephanie passed her a helmet and after Mark got on, she hopped on, swinging her right leg over the machine, practically exposing the two holes she had mentioned earlier. She slid up behind Mark, resting her hands on his broad shoulders.
“I thought you were terrified of motorcycles?” I asked her.

“I am. But I’ll just have to hold on tight,” she said, reaching around Mark’s waist.

Mark started the machine and revved it up and I saw how excited the sound made Lo. Off they went, the back of her bum peeking out of the top of her short shorts.

The rest of us went inside.

The other women went into the living room and I offered to help Stephanie with dinner.

“Hey Steph,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” she asked naïvely.

“The women, Lo?”

She put down the bowl of salad and turned to me. “HH, we had a talk last time you were here. You remember.”

I nodded my head.

“If he can’t be happy with me, then at least I can help him to be happy with someone else.”

“What do you mean not happy with you?”

“I see what’s going on. I know that he has needs that I just can’t fulfill. I see how he looks at Lo. I’m not dumb. I want him to be satisfied.”

“Sex is one thing,” I said, “but it’s not everything.”

“Right.” I couldn’t tell if that was a sarcastic “right” or just apathetic.

“So, he can be happy with you.”

“Well, I want to make sure that he’s happy with me.”

“I’m sure he is,” I said to her, reassuringly.

Meanwhile, on the motorcycle, Lo was holding on to Mark around the waist and, as they rode, her hands slid lower, little-by-little.

They turned down a road that drove down to a secluded lake in the woods. They hopped off the bike and took off their helmets.

“This is beautiful,” said Lo, looking out at the lake as the pink hues of dusk illumined the horizon.

Mark stood still, looking out over the equally placid lake. All that could be heard was the gentle rustle of leaves in the trees as the evening breeze filtered through the woods.

“You want to swim?” asked Mark.

“That sounds so good!” replied Lo as she began to slip out of her blouse and short-shorts.

She was naked before Mark even undid a button. “You weren’t kidding, were you?” asked Lo.

“Uh, um, no,” he said, “I was just watching you,” he said, a little startled, perhaps, at Lo’s eagerness and lack of panties.

“Well, come on then,” she said, helping him to undo his shirt buttons.

“How will we dry off?” he asked.

“On the bike,” she said. “Come on, it will feel good.”

She removed his shirt and then he undid his belt and slid him out of his jeans. He slowly took off his boxers to reveal to Lo the object of her fantasies.

“That’s it,” she said, biting her lower lip.

The two of them were naked and they went into the water.

“I just can’t get my hair wet,” said Lo as she led him in. “Mmmmm, it feels so good.”

They were in – Lo up to her belly button, Mark only up to his thigh.

She turned toward Mark and gave him a long, wet, open-mouthed kiss.

Mark didn’t resist. . . until the end. He then pushed her away.

“Lo,” he said.

“Fuck me,” she said.

“Lo,” he repeated.

“Fuck me, please.”

He was speechless. He turned and walked out of the water. Lo watched his sculpted back and buttocks as he did and then she followed him to the shore.

“Let me blow you,” she said, dropping to her knees. “Smack my face with your cock,” she said as she grabbed the hefty appendage and proceeded to use it in the way she described. It remained flaccid in her hands.

“Lo,” he said one more time, “I can’t do this.”

She looked up at him from below, her lips slightly open, ready, hungry, wanting to take it in her mouth.

“Lo,” said Mark, as his gentle hand encouraged Lo to stand up, “I love Stephanie. I know she’d be happy for me to have you or one of the other women she invited over.”

Lo pouted at the mention of them.

“But I can’t. I know I have flirted with you and led you on, but I just can’t. It would be wrong.”

He didn’t have to say any more. Lo knew that the game was over, though she stole lusty glances at his lengthy instrument.

They walked to the bike and Lo said, “Put the clothes over here. We’ll air dry.”

They both got on the machine naked. Mark started it up and they rode through the still evening air by the vacant lake. Lo couldn’t help but reach around and grab at Mark’s cock on the bike. He didn’t seem to mind.

After a quick drive, they returned to the clothes, got off the bike and got dressed in silence before Lo said, “Mark, I understand how you feel and I respect it, but it’s such a shame. . .” she trailed off.

Getting back on the bike and driving back to Mark’s birthday party, Lo held on to Mark, tightly, but above the crotch.

When they returned, we had dinner – a BBQ in the backyard. At one point, Mark and I were alone. Lo had informed me privately earlier about their exchange by the lake. I said to Mark, “You’re a lucky man to have a woman like Stephanie.”

“And you’re lucky to have a woman like Lo.”

“Oh, I don’t have her. She has me. That’s for sure.”

“Well, then you’re lucky she has you,” he said.

“Yes, I am.”

“I bet she is amazing in bed,” he confided.

I took a sip of my G&T and said, “You have no idea.”

“I’d like to have an idea,” he said.

So I gave him a little birthday gift. I told him, “When we fuck – and she likes to fuck often – she’ll lie on the bed and tell me how much she needs my cock. I’ll slide in her wet and wide pussy. She’ll slide her right hand into her puss until both her hand and my cock are snug in there. And then, with her other hand free, she’ll look at your pictures.”

“No!” he said.

“I kid you not.”

“Really?!”

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. If I’m not mistaken, I think Lo got you an extra-special birthday gift.”

After the party was over and Lo and I were at home, I told Lo about my chat with Mark.

“I can’t believe you said those things about me!”

“Why not? They’re true.”

“Because,” she said with attitude, “when you write, your words are so much more poetic.”

“Sorry, dear, I read better on the page than in person.”

“That’s the difference between you and me,” she said, “I’m always better in the flesh,” she said as she bent over to show me just how short her shorts are.

“Well, he’ll just have to settle for the two-dimensional Lo,” I said as I slapped her ass hard.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked, waiting for more punishment.

“You’re not fooling anyone, dear. I saw your wrapped present for him.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” she said, looking up at me from between her legs.

“Yeah, and it looked just like the latest Match, Cinder & Spark.”

She stood up and said, “Well, you’re wrong.”

“Really? What was it then?”

“It wasn’t just the latest Match, Cinder & Spark, it was both volumes: IV and V.”

“Feeling generous, were you?”

“When I’m the gift, there’s no point to being stingy.”

“Then why didn’t you give him volumes I-III?”

“I want him to come back for more. Now fuck me, Daddy. I’m way overdue for a good pounding. And if you are good, I’ll tell you the details about my ride with Mark.”

Confession of a Poet

Posted on February 19, 2020 by Lola Down

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Kimberley Diamond

Recently, two readers wrote in: Christine Stevens, of Medium and Kimberley Diamond, also of Medium. The first wanted a confession for her new publication, True Confessional. The second was just to say how much she enjoyed the new Audio Book.

For Christine, I wrote the following:

As anyone who has ever read mysexlifewithlola or one of our books from the Match, Cinder & Spark series knows, I, your faithful narrator through the sexual adventures of my muse, Lola Down, am bound by my love, under her close supervision, to refrain from any dalliances, dainties, or even desires with, of, or for other women. She is allowed to fulfill all of her libidinous lusts, but I am strictly hemmed in to filling her and only her with my pent-up liquid longing. Not a drop shall be spent but with her heavenly consent.

And I would have it no other way. This arrangement pleases us both immensely.

However, I am here, dear reader, to confess to you that though it would seem inequitable that my lovely Lo is given free reign to spread her good cheer (and her legs) wherever her charitable caprice carries her while I chastely await her return, typing out reams and reams of erotica cataloguing her infidelity, the truth is that I take delight in contributing to as many, if not more, orgasms as she. Yes, it is the case that in back alleys, in cars, in bedrooms, in campgrounds, and other nefarious locals, Lo is busy bringing pleasure to her amorous companions. But I, dear reader, get the quiet satisfaction of knowing that my words, my loquacious soliloquies, my epic poem to my love brings gasps of climatic release to women around the globe! My fingers do not literally touch the aching, wet, desirous labia of my readers, but they do stimulate a more erogenous organ – the mind – of countless women around the world. For all I know, I could be bringing multiple women to multiple orgasms simultaneously at this very moment! And I probably am.

I know this because many of you, bless you all, write in to Lola and me to tell us so. Some of you include suggestive, flirtatious asides in your thankyou notes. (Very much appreciated.) And others of you include beautiful photos to accompany your kind words. (Also appreciated, by us both.)

Warm Skin Getting off to Lo

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am well aware that it is not merely my writing that has this effect on people, but Lola’s personality as well as her photogenic exhibitionism. And, as I am also well aware, a great many of her male readership takes extreme delight in posting “cumtributions” for Lo’s perusal, thus demonstrating that, whether in the flesh or in pixilated form, Lo is a Mistress of the Masturbatory Arts.

However, there is something about which she and I can both come together and agree upon: hearing from our fanbase of couples who have been brought closer through our artistic offerings. Sometimes it is a couple that is separated by distance. A scientist, for instance, based in the upper reaches of the arctic who shares with her boyfriend via email the stories and images that turn her on. A wife at home raising her two kids while her husband is deployed abroad is able to send dispatches to him of Lo’s sexploits that she wishes permission to do while he’s away. And the G.I. husband who shares with his wife (and his battalion) the cuckolding adventures of Lo, expressing his desire for a wife who would emulate Lo’s nympho tendencies. Sometimes the couple live under the same roof. The couple, for instance, who have been married for over a decade and find that the spark that has left their sex life has been rekindled by reading the salacious stories together before bedtime and pausing to discuss the aspects they enjoy and then, when the lights are out, they whisper in each other’s ear dirty imaginings inspired by the images of the page.

Sharing Couple of NJ Getting off to Lo

Whenever we hear from couples like these (and we have been lucky enough to meet some of you in person), it makes all of the “hard work” that went into creating this special niche of the pornographic panoply so worth it. Thank you.

Lo, darling, if you can find it within you to forgive me for pleasing all these women, I ask your humble forgiveness. I ask of all my readers, if you can find it within you to exonerate these trespasses, please sprinkle your holy water upon my confession and redeem this unrepentant poet.

Below is the email from Kimberley Diamond. She also sent in a few very, very sexy photos, but we will only reprint her profile pic from Medium here since we don’t have permission to show you the other stuff.

Hello Lola and H.H. from a wet and wild UK!

I’ve just finished listening to the audiobook of Match, Cinder and Spark and I loved it!

I loved it because it’s more than just erotica. Both my pussy and intellectual curiosity were piqued. It’s also more interesting than a standard biography because there are some fucking hot scenes that left me blushing on planes, trains and automobiles! I will definitely leave you a 5-star review on Audible but I also wanted to write something more personal to you both.

In the book, you say that a lot of women have hang-ups about sex – well, I am one of them. I feel liberated in that I can and do have sex with people who tickle my fancy, but I am often held back by my own acceptance and enjoyment of my body and its physiological responses.

I was both intrigued and enlightened to hear how Lola takes so much pleasure in self-pleasure. You wrote that she can amuse herself with herself. How wonderful! I think Lola has so much vital erotic energy that she can make love to the world just by being.

I was also painfully jealous to hear about her being pan-orgasmic. Cumming from a pedicure, I mean literally what the fuck?! Never in my wildest dreams could I imagine being that turned on from something so ordinary. While I do experience orgasm, it is with some difficulty and the feeling itself is almost always lackluster. Don’t get me wrong there are many other sexual sensations (and mental stimulations) that give me a lot of pleasure, but they are disconnected from that muted orgasmic response.

If I took just one message from this book, it would be the ease in which Lola demands sexual pleasure for/from herself. She doesn’t let anything get in her way; not body image issues, not the lack of man, woman or dildo, not work, not relationship bullshit, nothing! She has an unwavering commitment to taking exactly the pleasure that she needs. The cool thing is that in taking, she gives to so many others.

As a pleaser, I’ve always delighted in other people enjoying my body, but I’ve never truly enjoyed it myself – so that is something that my heart and pussy have both acknowledged and I will play with some more over the next few weeks.

Lola – I think you are a goddess incarnate and I kneel before you as a willing student, green with envy but desperate to learn of your magical powers. ….Haha, seriously though if you or H.H. write anything of a more instructional or “how-to” nature I would be thrilled to read and learn more.

H.H. – thank you for writing this wonderful story and for sharing your Lo with the world.

With love and lust

Kimberely

Thanks to Purple’s Gem for the second photo down. It was on their “fans only” Twitter Page and you should check it out!

Lo, “in taking, she gives.”

PurpleSole Had a good time with the book.

Sharing Couple of NJ Enjoying the Stories

Naughty Schoolgirl & Her Daddy

Posted on February 16, 2020 by Lola Down

1

Happy Valentine’s Day!

It was the week before Valentine’s Day. Lo and I had planned a mini-vacation weekend to ski country. I had booked us a special room at a resort hotel that included a wood-burning fireplace, a kitchenette, and, at the central fitness area, there was an indoor/outdoor heated pool, an indoor hot tub and a second outdoor hot tub. We were right on the mountain – ski off/ski in.

We arrived at night and since Lo had been diddling herself and telling me sordid stories from her past the whole drive there, she immediately got naked as I unpacked and brought in the groceries we had bought for the weekend.

She lay on the bed, legs spread, saying, “Daddy, don’t you want this?” as she slapped her pussy lips with her right hand.

I glanced at Lo’s untrimmed triangle and said, “Lo, that bush is so hot it’s on fire!”

“The burning bush, Daddio, the symbol of God on earth.”

“You said it! Just give me a minute to get this fire going and I’ll tend to yours.”

I stoked the fireplace and got it roaring and casting flickering yellow light in a few moments. Then I began to remove my shirt.

“Slowly, Daddy,” said Lo, “I want to enjoy this.”

I took off my clothes very slowly for Lo’s entertainment and then climbed into bed with her. The heat in the room was already pretty warm when we got there and before long she and I were creating quite a sweat. It was like a Bikram yoga studio in there. Mid-coitus we both had to stop and open up the sliding glass door that led out onto the mountain. I swear I could see the snow melting as the warm air escaped our room!

Lo got up and went into the shower. I heard the water streaming, the steam flowing out of the bathroom into the hot living room where I sat reading a book, and out the door into the cool mountain air, illuminated by the full moon in the clear night sky. After almost an hour, I heard her shrieks of ecstasy as she came multiple times.

She finally walked out of the bathroom, naked, revealing that her previously shag-like pubic area was now silky smooth. “I’m ready for you now,” she said.

“Good water pressure?” I asked.

“So good.”

“Bend over,” I commanded. She bent over the couch of the living room and I saw her ass, illuminated by the dancing flames from the fireplace. Cool air rushing in, hot air rushing out, Lo’s wet body in front of me, the fire behind me – it was as if we were in the womb of the earth with the primordial elements swirling about us, performing the holy act of creation.

I spread the two half-moons of her ass and applied my tongue to the central pleasure point. She let out a moan. I got on my knees and licked from back to front and back again as she spread her legs in the widest upside-down “V” that she could. Now it was like a Tantra yoga session.

I turned around, sat on the floor with my back up against the front of the couch and Lola slid her inner thigh up and down over my extended tongue. She came and she squirted right on me as I sat under her! I lapped it up as best I could.

“Fuck me, Daddy!” she demanded as she now turned, bent over the coffee table and I got behind her. Within mere seconds she was convulsing again. When Lo gets this excited, she involuntarily contracts the walls of her vagina and, despite my best efforts, squeezes me right out. It happened like that as she fell to her knees and ejaculated on the carpet.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she called out as it was happening.

“Don’t be,” I said, watching her with bemusement.

I grabbed some paper towels from the kitchenette and cleaned up after her.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so embarrassed. I feel like a puppy that needs to be housebroken.”

I laughed.

The next day we skied for a good few hours. We called it quits around three and then made plans for dinner.

We weren’t too far from a descent sized college town and Lo, foodie that she is, had already scoped out the best eats for a romantic dinner. She picked out my clothes for me saying, “This is a classy place. You can’t just go there in jeans, you know.” She followed it up with, “I wish you’d let me go shopping for you. All your clothes make you look like a stuffy old professor. Tweed? Really? Tweed?” She was referencing my dinner jacket. Nonetheless, she got me as presentable as humanly possible.

She, herself, was dressed to the nines. She loves any occasion to get dolled up. She wore a tight-fitting red dress that came down just past her knees and highlighted her curves. She wore strappy, flesh colored heels and to me she looked fabulous. The painful paradox about her amazing good looks and impeccable fashion taste is that as soon as she gets dressed up like that, I want to immediately rip off all her clothes and have her naked. The happiest solution to that paradox is to slip up her dress and do her from behind as she stands bent over the bed in her heels. But that was not to be on this occasion. She was too well put together for me to mess it all up with a wild romp before dinner.

When we got on the road it was still light out and I had recently got my hair cut shorter than usual. Lo looked over at me from the passenger seat and ran her hand through my hair and said, “Every time you get a haircut it brings out more grey.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, I mean it in a good way,” she said. “You look hot with all that salt and pepper.”

“You sure you don’t just mean I look old?”

“Old and hot,” she said and then she leaned back, spread her legs, and grabbed my hand and placed it on her smooth knee. “Touch me.”

I caressed her knee.

“Keep going,” she instructed, meaning, keep working my way up her inner thigh. She pulled her dress up, spread her legs further apart, putting a foot up on the dash, “You know the drill.” I leaned over a bit in order to put my hand on her crotch and stroke. Just as I did so, we almost got hit by an oncoming car swerving into our lane. “Hey! Two hands on the wheel!” Lo called out, clamping her legs together.

“But he. . .”

“And drive the speed limit.”

“Sweetheart, that says Route 5, not 5 miles per hour.”

“Oh.”

We avoided dying a gruesome death on the highway and pulled into a quaint little college town nestled in the foothills of the mountains.

“Wow,” said Lo, “Look at that sign. It’s so retro.”

She was talking about a big sign over a diner that looked vintage 1950’s.

“I don’t think it’s retro, I think it’s just old,” I replied.

“No, it’s a classic.”

“Like me? Am I a classic?”

“No. You’re an antique.”

Soon we were at our destination. It was in one of the tallest buildings in town, a five story hotel. The restaurant was on the top floor. Lo and I walked into the lobby and got an elevator all to ourselves. Once the doors closed, she leaned up against me, kissing me and reaching for my crotch.

“Hey,” I protested, “there’s a camera in here, you know.”

“Even better,” she said as she pushed her breasts up in the tight dress for me to kiss.

The doors opened into a crowded bar that led to the restaurant.

Apparently, this was the only fine food in town since almost every table was full. Luckily Lo had called ahead of time to make reservations and we were seated next to an older couple (yes, even older than I by about twenty years) and because the tables for two were spaced in close proximity to each other, Lo and I politely said hello and smiled. The older couple was very gregarious and immediately started up a conversation with us. Lo and I quickly realized that they were under the impression that I was Lo’s father and I was visiting her here at her college. We did nothing to disabuse them of that notion and we played along with a secret maliciousness shared between us that excited us both. All through the conversation, Lo’s sexy foot was rubbing my leg up and down under the table.

The words that Lo usually saves for private, intimate moments were spoken freely and publicly, such as, “Thank you, Daddy, for coming. . . to visit me.”

“It’s my pleasure, little girl,” I responded, “I love coming. . . to visit. And I love it when you come. . . home to visit me too. I want you to come. . . more often.”

“Oh, Daddy, I promise to come as much as I can.”

This sort of silly banter gave us a perverse pleasure and I could see the desire in Lo’s eyes increasing as she played the role of naughty schoolgirl.

She was so eager to get back to the suite, that we skipped dessert. The older couple was having their (decaf) coffee after their meal when we got up to leave. We wished them a good night and they wished me a good visit. I politely helped Lo into her jacket, and then, as we walked out of the restaurant, I put my hand on her ass in a very possessive manner. We walked to the elevator, and in there she wrapped her body around mine and kissed me passionately. The doors opened to the lobby and I had to tap her to indicate that we were a spectacle to be seen by anyone in the lobby. She pulled herself off of me and straightened out her dress before walking into the lobby. I followed her and, to my surprise, she pulled me down a hall off to the right of the lobby.

“What? Where are you going?” I asked.

“Just shut up and follow me.”

Neither of us had ever been in this hotel before and so I wasn’t sure what she was doing. She opened up a door that led into a large linen closet filled with folded sheets and towels. She shut the door behind us and turned on the lights.

“Daddy, I can’t wait until we get home,” she said as her right hand unzipped my fly and reached in to fondle my cock and her left hand hiked up her dress, reached up and under it, and began rubbing her clit over her panties.

“Lo!” I protested.

“Shhhh!” she commanded.

“Lo, what if someone walks in here?”

“The maids only use this to make the beds in the morning. Don’t worry. We’re safe here for now. If you’d be quiet, this will only take a few seconds.”

She was pulling on my cock and rubbing her clit vigorously. She looked at my erection and I could see by the weakness of her knees that she really only had seconds to go before. . .

“Oh, oh, OH!” she called, biting her lip, trying to contain the volume of her orgasm. She let go of my member and fell back into the shelves on the wall. She leaned up against it for support as her fingers continued to rub out the orgasm to completion. I saw the panties transform from light pink to almost red as her ejaculate oozed through the material. Luckily she had enough towels for an army to soak up the wetness running down her inner thigh. When she was done pleasuring herself and drying off, she removed her soaked panties and wrapped them in a dry, white towel, putting them in her purse. She through the dirty towels on the floor so no one would mistake them for the clean ones and she straightened her dress, pulling it down by the hem, and asked, “Do I look ok?”

“You look great,” I said, trying to put my erection back into my pants with difficulty.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Just a little flush in the face.”

I got my manhood to stand straight, but inside my boxers, and I zipped up my fly, tucked in my shirt and said, “I’m going to need a minute.”

Lo looked longingly at my crotch and said, “Oh yeah.”

Lo leaned in to kiss me full of passion.

“Lo,” I said, pulling back, “you’re not helping the situation.”

She and I stood awkwardly in the closet waiting for the emblem of my desire to subside.

A mere five or six minutes after we entered the linen closet, we walked out of it, apparently unnoticed.

We got into the car and she laughed at our mischievousness. Before we had even driven out of the parking lot, she had my fly undone, my cock out, and her face in my lap.

We got back to our little suite and, as she slipped out of the tight dress, I got the fire roaring and soon we were at it with her calling to me, “Daddy, fuck me! Fuck me, Daddy!” It took mere seconds before she was cumming again.

Impressive Size

Posted on February 8, 2020 by Lola Down

2

[Prequel to Breeding Farm]

“It’s so big!” gasped Lo. “It’s beautiful. Stunning. I just can’t believe it.” She truly was impressed. We had just pulled up in the driveway of Lily’s uncle’s mountain resort home. Her uncle was traveling around Europe and, since Lily was one of his favorites, he gave her permission to use it and to host friends. We happened to be the friends that she and Jim chose to invite up for a long weekend.

The air was crisp and the sky was clear and blue and radiant. All the trees on the mountain were in their peak of autumn perfection. We had the whole secluded house to ourselves.

Lily showed us around the grounds and gave us a tour of the home. Then she showed us to our quarters. The bed was enormous! The bathroom and bathtub were almost as big!!! This would be fun. Lo and I looked at each other knowingly, expectantly.

Since it took us quite a while to get up there, winding through the dangerous mountain switchbacks, we made some dinner and then had some drinks. We were all tired from the trip and Lo and I were eager to get to bed and get to each other.

Lo All Wet

She got naked and hopped into the clear glass encased shower as I drew a bath in the tub. From inside her little chamber, she pressed her tits up against the glass and then turned and pressed her ass up against it as she used the hand-held showerhead to massage between her legs.

She came a couple of times, struggling to keep her screams to herself. Then she emerged from the shower and slid her sexy self down upon my hard cock as I lay half-submerged in the water of the claw-foot white porcelain tub.

We had to be careful because we didn’t want to make too much noise or too much mess. When she had finished cumming in reverse cowboy position, she turned and descended on my spear once more, this time facing me. Grabbing her tits and pulling her nipples, she asked me, “Shall I be a good girl this weekend, Daddy, or a bad girl?”

“You’re already a bad girl,” I said, “so, you might as well not deny your nature.”

She came again and then urged me to get up and out and dry off so we could enjoy one another in the plush bed. Bent over the side; face down in the down pillows; on her knees straddling me – we explored many positions, before she finally opted for being bent over a chair and seeing herself in the full-length mirror as I made her tits swing with my thrusts from behind her.

Just as we were both approaching the pinnacle of success in this position, she commanded, “Stop!” She wasn’t kidding. I did as she bade me. “Get a towel and put it on the floor.”

I followed her command. The towels were thick and heavy and the floor was wall-to-wall carpet.

“Get behind me and keep going, only harder.”

I again followed her command and within moments her clenching climax had pushed my member right out and she was squirting what seemed to be gallons on the towel beneath her.

She collapsed and said, breathlessly, “I knew that was going to happen.”

The next morning, after I had made everyone breakfast, we headed out on a hike. I happily pulled up the rear, right behind Lo, whose behind, in her black athletic tights, was the best inspiration for me to keep going.

Lo – Tight

It was an exhilarating trek through the crisp air of the mountain tops. The sights and the thrills were worth the exertion.

When we got back to the house, we were famished and we heated up a big pot of chili we had prepared before the trip.

We then settled into our vacation home and after a few glasses of wine, Jim suggested a game of cards. We decided on poker and I raised the stakes by suggesting strip poker. Lo kicked me under the table. I didn’t know why at the moment.

Our friends were game and we got to playing. Little did everyone (except Lo) know, but I’m a terrible poker player. I can never keep straight which is the better hand. Lo took pity on me and helped me all she could, to her own detriment. She did her level best of spying on my cards to help me, to discard her good hand, to lift me up by lowering herself. Doing that was tougher than actually winning! But before too long, she was shirtless, sockless, and then pantless. Not to be outdone by her rival, Lily went garment-for-garment with Lo. After only a couple of rounds they were both braless. It came down to a question of who was going to lose her panties first: Lo or Lilly? You guessed it! Lo was out and in her birthday suit. She seemed more than happy to be the loser of the game.

During the hour or so that it took for Lo to win or lose, depending on how you’re scoring this, we had finished a bottle of wine and Jim and I had broke the seal on our special bottle of Scotch.

Eager to keep playing, Lo suggested that since she had no more clothes to offer, we play for certain “favors.” These new rules started out tame enough. First Lo had to bend over to pick up a napkin. Then she had to get up and walk around the table to refresh my glass and Jim’s glass, with a little curtsy of course. She had to remove Lily’s panties when Lilly lost. But soon we moved on to having Lo’s writs be tied up around one of the support beams in the room as she bent over. We found a riding crop that Lily’s uncle used as a decorative prop, and we used it, each taking turns swatting Lo’s ass and occasionally her pussy from behind. Lily was the cruelest with the crop. But then we gave Lo some aftercare. Each of us got a turn fingering her from behind. She came almost immediately for each of us. After Lily’s turn (she went last), Lo pressed her legs together and commanded me to grab a towel, as she had the previous night. When I had spread it at her feet, she spread her legs and looked as if she was putting out a fire from between her thighs!

“Holy shit!” cried Lily. “I’ve never seen that actually happen in real life!!!” She seemed thrilled.

Lo slowly slunk to the floor, exhausted. She looked up, a smile on her face, a bit proud, her legs spread in a ‘V’ shape, and a puddle underneath her. “Really?” she asked.

“It happens all the time to Lo,” I chimed in.

“I’ve read about it, I’ve seen it in videos, but never actually saw a woman squirt. How do you do it?”

“I don’t do it. It just happens. Talent, I guess.”

Lily untied Lo’s wrists and helped her up.

“Do you think you could show Lily how to do that?” asked Jim, turning the tables on his bride, since she had been eager to have Lo teach Jim how to pleasure a woman despite his diminutive size.

“I know a lot of people claim to be able to teach it,” said Lo, “and there are a lot of websites out there dedicated to how to make a woman squirt, but I don’t know. I only know that it works for me when I’m super aroused.”

“It’s more of a problem than a talent,” I said.

Lo frowned at me. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.

“Come on, Lo,” I said, “you know that you sometimes accidentally squirt at very inconvenient times.”

“Oh, that’s true.”

“And the number of sheets we have to go through. . .”

“Yeah, it makes for a lot of laundry.”

“And how you shoot me right out of you mid-coitus.”

“That’s true too,” she admitted.

“I don’t need to squirt,” interrupted Lily, “I just would like to cum when having sex.” She blurted it out and I could see that Jim’s request of Lo and Lo’s performance clearly were making her feel inadequate and so she turned the tables right back on Jim.

“Look,” said Lo, always the peace maker, “I have an idea to help everyone. I’ve done this before, or a variation of this. I’m already naked. Why don’t we all get naked, light a candle, sit in a circle, and speak openly, honestly, candidly about sex, love, and relationships. As long as the light of the candle is illuminating our circle, there is no judgment, no accusation, no falsity. We will be vulnerable and compassionate with each other. Our nudity is only an outward symbol of our inward vulnerability.”

Lily looked at Jim and he nodded his head that he was willing to give it a go.

We all got naked and for the first time I got a view of the little that Lilly had to work with. Jim’s physique is fit, trim, and small. Attractive, but tiny. I’m not hung like a horse (horse cock being something Lo dearly likes), but compared to Jim I was. I had to remind myself, by the candlelight, there is no judgment. Right.

We all sat down in a circle with the candle at the center. Jim and I were cross-legged and both Lola and Lily, being more flexible, sat full lotus position.

Lola started us off, “Sex is good, but sex without meaning, without connection, without intimacy can be empty and leave you cold.”

As Lo said these words, I couldn’t help but think of all the times she fucked guys, strangers, in the back seat of the car as I drove, or at the beach as men came all over her body, or. . . . Wait, I reminded myself again, no judgment. Got it.

“Yeah,” said Lily, picking up the thread of the conversation, “that’s true, but sometimes, while having that meaningful connection, I just want to get rammed home with a long, hard cock. I want to submit to a domineering, rough, take-command partner. That can be both hot and intimate.”

“Jim?” asked Lo.

“I know she likes that, but it’s just not me. I’m kind, gentle by nature. I love her. I don’t want to. . .” he trailed off, not even able to articulate the deeds she wanted done to her.

“That’s totally understandable,” said Lo, “but there is a major gap between her desire and yours, or her idea of intimate intercourse and yours.”

“It’s clear you love each other,” I said, “but do you trust each other?”

“Completely,” said Lily right away.

Jim just nodded.

“If you trust each other,” I followed up my thought, “then maybe an open relationship. Having a bull who will come over and do for Lily all the things she wants and needs could expand your relationship pallet.”

“A bull?” asked Jim naively.

“A man who fucks married women,” explained Lily. She obviously had explored this herself.

“H.H. does that with me,” said Lo, “and he loves it.”

“I like to see her satisfied,” I said. “If she likes to be fucked by another guy, then why should I stand in her way?”

“Come on,” said Lo, to me as if calling bullshit. “You are not simply standing to the side while another guy fucks my brains out. You love it. You love to see it and to guide him through it and to hear all about it if you can’t be there in person.”

“She’s right,” I confessed. “Honesty.”

Jim, who was very visibly uncomfortable by everything he was hearing, said, “I just don’t think I can do that. I mean, we’ve given an open relationship a chance and it drove me crazy. I almost called off the wedding because I was so enraged and jealous.”

“Jealously is a symptom, not a cause,” said Lo.

“A symptom of what?”

“Of so many things – a feeling of inadequacy, a fear of being left, anger with a previous girlfriend who hurt you. I mean, it could stem from any number of deep-seated insecurities. But mainly it’s a form of fear.”

“That doesn’t make it any less real. Understanding it doesn’t remove it,” said Jim.

“No, you’re right. I’m just pointing out that what you’re feeling doesn’t stem from what Lily is doing. She loves you. But she also has desires. She wants to be with you. But she also wants to have wild, earth-shattering orgasms.”

“And I want to be used, abused, humiliated, and tossed aside like a worthless fuckdoll” said Lily.

There was an awkward silence before Lo said, very reassuringly, “All healthy desires if channeled properly.”

I decided to be daring. “Would you like me to demonstrate?” I asked, knowing full well that Lo’s jealousy would explode inside her heart like a hydrogen bomb.

“I’d love it,” said Lily looking at my limp cock.

Lo gave me a sidelong glance and said, “I don’t think right now is the time for that. We’re making progress.”

“Oh,” I said, “I didn’t mean now. I just meant. . .” I was caught now, but it was worth it to get Lo’s ire up after that perfectly detached and clinical explanation of jealousy she just pronounced as if she were so far beyond and above it. But I felt bad immediately after because it suddenly dawned on me that she might not have been talking from a superior position to jealousy, but from her intimate knowledge and understanding of it within her own heart.

As if to strike back at me, she then said, “Jim, I feel as if you’re bottling up your emotions and not letting them flow out. What can I do to help you?” As she said this, she caressed his knee with her left hand. I saw his cock twitch at the unexpected touch.

“I just feel like I don’t know how to please her.”

Lo’s hand moved closer to his crotch. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

“I want to find a way that I can be everything she needs,” he said.

Lo’s hand got to his balls and began fondling them as his micropenis started to grow.

“We cannot be everything for our partners. We have to be content with who and what we are for them and who and what they are for us.” She began stroking his little cock with her thumb and index finger. “Do you like that?” asked Lo.

“Yeah,” he said, “it feels good.”

“Lie down,” said Lo.

He reclined on the carpet as Lo continued to jerk him off. Her right hand was caressing his legs, spreading them apart. Her left hand gently held his little member between her thumb and finger.

“You know, I wouldn’t even feel you if you were to penetrate me,” said Lo.

“I know,” said Jim as if in a hypnotic trance.

“But that wouldn’t matter to you, would it?” asked Lo.

“No,” said Jim, “I’d be really into it.”

“I know you would,” said Lo.

From where I was sitting, I could see Lily begin to stroke her pussy as she continued to sit in the lotus position. She was enjoying this.

Lo lowered her mouth to Jim’s cock and tickled the tip with the tip of her tongue, clearly in order to let us see what she was doing. Then she lifted up her mouth and said, “Don’t cum.”

“I’m trying not to cum, but it’s so hard. It feels so good.”

“Stand up,” commanded Lo.

Jim stood up.

Lo pulled him forward and positioned him next to Lily as Lo, still on her knees, manipulated his tiny pud with her fingers.

“Close your eyes,” Lo said.

Jim closed his eyes.

Lo stroked faster and faster and lifted her mouth to his little balls to kiss and lick them.

“You may cum now,” she said, and no sooner did she say this than he came, right on Lily’s face.

“Open your eyes,” said Lo to Jim.

He followed her command and looked down at Lily who was covered in his ejaculate and smiling.

“There you go,” said Lo. “Did you like that?”

Both of them said “Yes” at the same time.

By the way, I was hard as a rock at this point and I finally said, “Lo, any chance I will get to cum?”

“Oh, are you hard-up?” she said in a mocking manner.

“Yes.”

“Do you deserve to cum?” she asked with a look in her eye that told me I was being punished for my comment earlier.

“I sure do,” I said confidently.

She was feeling surly, but despite that, she indulged me and she told me to lie back.

I followed her instruction. To my surprise, instead of doing to me what she had done to Jim, she sat on my face. She was facing my toes and she invited Lily over as I began lapping Lo’s wet pussy lips like a thirsty dog.

Lily grabbed my cock and balls (I could tell it was Lily, though I couldn’t see her, because I know Lo’s touch) and began furtively fondling. Then she began to jack me off. I felt a mouth lower on my cock, but now I wasn’t too sure whose it was. Lost in the mystery of it all, I gave in and came in heavy, forceful spurts. Lo came as well, drenching my face. I practically drowned.

When she got up and I sat up, Lily said, “You come almost as quickly as Jim does.”

“That’s not fair,” I said in my defense, “I’ve been watching Lo for over an hour now. I was primed and ready.”

“Ready to be pumped dry,” said Lo.

“Well,” said Jim, “I think we all got something out of this.”

“Um,” said Lily, “of the four of us, three of us came.”

“Well Jim,” said Lo, “you got some work to do.”

Jim smiled and asked Lily, “Do you want to go to the bedroom?”

Lo looked at him, got up, exited the room into the mud room and returned with one of the dog leashes that was hanging there. She put the collar around Lily’s neck and gave the handle to Jim. “That’s not how you ask a slut like Lily. Take her upstairs.”

Jim stood up and gently pulled on the leash. Lily got on all fours and crawled like an obedient bitch at his side. Off they went.

“Well done,” I said to Lo.

“Don’t give me that ‘well done’ bullshit. You’re in big trouble mister.”

“Me?” I said innocently, “What did I do?”

“You know very well what you did.”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous. I just want you to admit it.”

“OK, so maybe I tried to suggest that I do something with Lily. But look at what you actually did with Jim.”

“There is no comparison.”

“How not?’

“Because I’m your slutty hotwife and you are my obedient, chaste, little stag.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Would you have it any other way?”

“No. Actually I wouldn’t. I was just teasing you to see if you would be jealous.”

“I wasn’t jealous. I just want you to know your place.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“And where is my place?”

“Right between my legs.”

A Sexy Sample

Posted on February 6, 2020 by Lola Down

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Lo and her Date

We want to send a big shout out and many kisses to Girl on the Net for posting a sexy sample of our newly available audio book of “Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I: Nymphomania and the Single Girl.” The original hard copy is quite expensive, but worth it. The ebook is very affordable. But this audio book is a totally new immersive experience, thanks to the fabulous talent of Ms. Jupiter Grant of Jupiter’s Lair, the narrator!

Go give it a free listen today and, if you love it, which you will, order your own copy.

Sample from “Lo Goes Down”

Pre-Release! Match, Cinder & Spark – Audio Book!

Posted on January 26, 2020 by Lola Down

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Dear Readers,

The definitive drop date for Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I: Nymphomania and the Single Girl on audio through audible.com is February 14, 2020. But, thanks to the incredible work of Jupiter Grant (narrator) and the production team at Audible, Match, Cinder & Spark is available for pre-release NOW!

Madelaine Loves Match, Cinder & Spark, Vol. I

That’s right, for only one Audible.com credit or $13.96 in America or £18.29 in the U.K., you can get all six hours and 18 minutes of steamy listening.

Lola, Jupiter, and I are all very excited about this new project and we think you are going to love it!

Get yours today right here:

US – Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I

UK – Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I

Review: A Horny Halloween by Jupiter Grant

Posted on January 19, 2020 by Lola Down

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A Horny Halloween by Jupiter Grant

Everything old is new again. I’m old. Maybe I too am new again. I’m old enough to remember being too young to have lived through the age of the radio play, but eagerly wanting more whenever, on those rare occasions, I had the chance to hear a rebroadcast of one of the classics from the ’30s or ’40s back in the ’70s and ’80s. But now, through the magic of the internet and the exciting new era of low-budget production reaching mass audiences and those in the audience getting to directly and immediately communicate to content creators what they want and putting their money where their demand is, we now have a whole new Golden Age of audio. Audio books, podcasts, even old-timey radio dramas. It’s all making a comeback and I couldn’t be more thrilled!

Because of this resurgence of the spoken word, and, perhaps even more recently, the proliferation of it among kinky sex-bloggers, Lo and I have become acutely aware of the power of sound to leap off the page and excite, every bit as much as the visual image accompanying sexy stories is able to do, if not more so.

In addition to this exciting new dimension of sexy sound, coincidentally, one of our fans has recently been corresponding with Lola earnestly requesting us to put our stories to sound because this avid “reader” is blind. He is able to hear our stories through the generic computer-generated voice software that he has or that some websites, such as Medium.com, offer. But he wanted to hear the stories told in a voice that was equal to their imagery.

Eager to please all of our enthusiasts, we actively sought someone with the right sound, sensibility, and savoir-faire, to narrate our naughty roman à clef. After much searching, we finally found someone who was truly magnificent. A sex-blogger herself, she wouldn’t blanch at the profane passages. Highly educated and well-versed in eclectic religious lore, history, and philosophy, she followed where the story took to cerebral flights of fancy. A lover of literature and, we think, a natural thespian, she made the dramatic dialogue of Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I: Nymphomania and the Single Girl come to life. And, as a woman of deep feelings, she made the climactic crescendos cum to life as well.

Match, Cinder & Spark

All of this praise is prologue in order to say that the following review is somewhat biased, but biased by previous knowledge of the author and narrator’s talents.

I speak here of the incomparable Jupiter Grant, whose A Horny Halloween (e-book $4.99), is, as the title suggests, at turns scary and sexy. The six chapters clock in at two hours and eleven minutes on the audio version, as read by the author herself. The tales are chock full of nearly equal parts sex, spunk, blood, and more blood. But most of all, the stories all display a very vivid imagination that begins with the common light of day and gradually grows darker and more mysterious until we find ourselves caught between two worlds – light and dark, familiar and mysterious, mundane and magical. There is a distinct echo of Edgar Allan Poe, but, unlike Poe’s magical realism, these tales touch on religious rites, cults of initiation, and, in the last (and by far the best) chapter, a very incarnate experience with the narrators personal God and Savior.

Ms. Grant’s narration, as always, is a very pleasant British accent that leaps off the page with dramatic flurries as well as undulating deep tones where the text necessitates a baritone pitch. Be sure to listen to these spooky stories with someone you can squeeze tightly because you won’t want to be alone for either the scary or the sexy bits! But, whatever you do, make sure you give this collection from Jupiter Grant a listen.

Ms. Jupiter Grant of Jupiter’s Lair

When Writing, You Gotta Have a Point

Posted on January 12, 2020 by Lola Down

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“You should do it,” said Lo.

“I don’t think so,” I replied.

“No, you definitely should do it.”

“It’s not really my thing,” I said.

Now, dear reader, before your imagination gets the best of you, we were not talking about any of the things you may have thought we were talking about.

I had been invited to give a talk at a Moth reading. As many of you probably already know, a Moth reading is a storytelling event where each speaker is given about five minutes to tell a tale without a script. No notes. Just ad lib, though the performance can be prepared and rehearsed like an actor’s monologue.

“I’m a writer. I’m not a performer, a thespian. And I’m awful at memorization. It becomes stale to me.”

With a “Peshaw,” she dismissed my objections. “You can tell a story! You’re made of stories. You ooze stories.”

“A little too graphic,” I muttered.

“You want to ooze some stories into me?” she asked suggestively.

“Lo, that’s the problem! All my stories are about you! About sex! This has to be PG. And also, I notice that good stories, like the one’s that win at Moth competitions and get the most applause on Medium, have a point, a sentimental little piece of wisdom, a surprising ah-ha! culminating conclusion. My stories don’t have that. They’re just stuff we do, things we say, everyday life. There’s no point to them at all.”

“Well. . . ,” she cooed, “I wouldn’t go that far. You have a nice little point.” She reached down and grabbed at my crotch.

“Little?”

“Why don’t you point me in the right direction and maybe a story will come to you.”

She got on the bed and slid out of her panties, leaned back and spread her legs.

I positioned myself above her. She reached down between her legs and rubbed her pussy. “Mmmmm, that feels good,” she said.

I hadn’t even touched her yet.

She raised her hand from her crotch to her mouth and licked her fingers. She didn’t do this in order to lubricate, but to taste her own lubrication.

“Fuck me, Daddy.”

Before I entered her, she was back to caressing her pussy – pulling her labia and slapping her hole, making popping sounds with her hand.

She came.

“That felt good,” she said.

“Lo, you know that I. . .”

“I know, Daddy. The point wasn’t to make you cum.”

“Then what was the point?”

“You figure it out. You’re the writer.”

One sexy reader

Write the Wrongs

Posted on November 24, 2019 by Lola Down

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Fleabag

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frankie Shaw

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writing the Wrongs