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.
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!
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 Girlcome 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.
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.”
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.
“Lily texted me,” I texted to Lola, “and she invited me to meet her at the bar to watch the World Series.” It was the seventh game. She was hoping to see her team win. “Do you want to join?”
“Will Jim be there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nah,” Lola texted, “I’ll stay in.”
I walked into the crowded watering hole after a long day at work. Lily, was sitting at the bar, close to the TV. To my surprise, she had saved me a stool next to her. She gave me a hug and turned toward me. Despite the cold October air, she was wearing only a short skirt and a thin, loose fitting blouse. Her legs were spread a bit as she talked to me.
“Where’s Jim?” I inquired.
“He’s with some of his friends watching at their house.”
“You didn’t want to join them?”
I could see that she hadn’t invited me there just to watch the game. She was already on her second drink of the night. What was on her mind?
After just a little prodding (it didn’t take much), she revealed her true design. She was looking for some free legal advice and simultaneously looking for some special attention.
She had recently graduated and got her Master’s in Sexuality and Gender Studies. Now she was looking to do something with that degree and was interested in becoming a “Sex and Spirit Guide” to individuals and couples. The question on her mind was, “If my therapeutic techniques involve hands-on help and I accept money for it, what’s the legal distinction between that and prostitution?”
It was a real zinger of a query – one that they don’t ask you in law school! And my first inclination was to say, “I’m not sure I follow. Could we please go back to your place and you can provide me with a demonstration in order that I understand what you do a little better?” But I wisely withheld that request, which was purely for the academic purpose of gaining clarity, and I asked instead, “So you envision digitally manipulating and stimulating your clients?”
“Well, not only that, but possibly role-playing, BDSM experimenting, discovering their inhibitions through play therapy – you know, taking them on a real sexual and spiritual journey to the seat of their soul.”
“Yeah, this morning I had a professional photographer come to take some risqué photos to advertise my services.”
I got lost in my imagination as I envisioned the scene, but she continued. “And Jim even joined for some of them.”
“Oooh,” I cooed, “Boudoir photos?”
“Some were,” she replied alluringly. She began to pull out her phone as if ready to show me the raw, unedited shots. I wanted to look. I wanted to tell her all about the blog. I wanted to divulge everything. But I knew better. First, it’s Lo’s secret to reveal, not mine. That has always been the rule. Second, I’ve learned that letting on to the blog to people who are in the blog creates a Schrödinger’s Pussy situation – where the knowledge of being observed contaminates the observation.
Again I got lost in my thoughts.
She was clearly trying to attract my attention. She regained it as she unlocked her phone. I fumbled for my words a bit and said something stupid like the answer to her legal question would take some research. “A deep dive,” I remember saying.
“If you could advise me,” she said, playing the role of the helpless dancer in need of a savior, “I’d appreciate it so much. I want to heal people, not get arrested.”
Her allusion to consequences kept me in check and I soon paid my tab and said a friendly farewell to her, looking forward to going home to my sweet slutwife.
I got in late. I found Lola in bed, almost asleep, Stoya on my pillow.
“What’s this?” I asked. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said. “Come to bed. I’ll explain.”
I removed my clothes, washed up, and got in bed. She was on the verge of sleep. I moved Stoya to the nightstand.
“I’m all ears. . . and a penis,” I said.
She rolled over toward me. “I was bad,” she began. I could have figured that. “I was thinking of Heather and Erin and all the other women I’ve been with. I was feeling like being with a woman tonight.”
“So you took out Stoya?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I tried a little experiment,” she said.
“Schrödinger’s Pussy,” I muttered under my breath, recalling my conversation of earlier in the evening.
“What?”
“Nothing. Continue.”
“I fingered myself a bit, rubbed some of my girly juice on her lips, fingering her, and put her over my clit. I fucked her pussy with my clit.”
“Did you cum?”
“Many times. It really does feel pretty realistic.”
She hugged me and asked, “Are you mad?”
“No. But I take it you didn’t wash her properly when done.”
“Sorry Daddy.”
I got out of bed and performed the recommended cleaning to Stoya’s pussy and then hung her out to airdry.
When I got back into bed, Lo was sound asleep on her tum. I was on my back. My right hand caressed her back. Then her lower back. Then the roundness of her rump. Then between her legs. I could feel how wet she was still. My fingers circled around her pussy, becoming soaked. I then slid one finger back and did circles around her other special spot. Slowly, gently, furtively, I dipped in, just a bit. No response. Then a bit more. Lo’s ass raised slightly. A little more. She either consciously or unconsciously elevated her hips. She looked like an inchworm as my finger wormed its way into her bum.*
Then a moan. Then a sigh. Then a “Daddy, what are you doing?”
“Nothing, Lo. Sleep.”
I was in up to my first knuckle. I went deeper. And deeper. And then added a finger. Her ass indicated it liked what it was getting. It was completely relaxed and open to exploration.
And then, without warning, it seized up on my fingers. It clenched like a vice and I heard Lo’s breathing accelerate. After only a few seconds it was over. I pulled my fingers out. She was back to sleep. I was hard-up.
“There’s always Stoya,” I thought.
* See the story, “Sin-esthesia” in which Lo gives her “blanket consent” to being fucked while asleep.
As I have mentioned in the past, we receive a lot of fan mail. Most of it is for Lo, of course, but, on occasion, I receive a kind epistle from an adoring fan. Sometimes, the cursory reader gets confused. Like the time a guy wrote to Lo saying, “You’re an incredible writer.”
She wrote back, “No, no. Not me. My man, HH. He does the writing, I do the fucking.”
Lo and HH – much younger.
Recently, one fan of my writing wrote in asking if Lo ever gets enough pleasure and, “Do you ever get tired of writing about sex or is it always fresh for you?”
Lo was sitting on the couch reading the email, her bare legs spread as one hand held her phone and the other pleasured herself (she never gets enough pleasure – there’s the answer to your first questions), when she looked up at me, sitting at the other end of the couch, to read to me the fan’s email.
I pondered for a moment, we discussed it a bit, and she responded, “We have these amazing adventures that we just want to share with other people. I guess it’s like a travel blog, but for sex. We like to take you on our journeys with us.”
“How about we make it more like a food blog?” I asked Lo. “I eat you out and then I can write about the four-course meal later.”
“Four courses?”
“Yeah: pussy, ass, mouth, and then you lick my popsicle for dessert.”
“As much fun as that sounds, slide over here and look at this,” she said.
She spread her legs wider and I sat between them. One of her legs was up on my lap and the other behind my back. “I like this,” I said, looking at her delectable body.
“You might like this even more because it appeals to your insatiable ego.”
“Oh yeah? Well, you have my attention now!”
“I didn’t before?”
“Before you had my erection.”
“Let me see,” she demanded.
“No. First you show me whatever it is that’s going to aggrandize my ego.”
“I said ‘appeal to your ego.’ It’s impossible aggrandize. I don’t think it could get any bigger.”
“Are we still talking about my ego?”
“Take a look at this,” she said, turning her phone so I could see the photo.
“Littlegem,” she said, referring to one of our blogging community friends across the pond.
“Really?”
“You like?”
“Yes,” I said emphatically. It’s one thing to be told that my writing turns people on, but to see it happening is quite thrilling.
“And that’s not all,” said Lo, swiping the photo to reveal another. The second photo was in black-and-white.
“Wow!”
“OK,” said Lo, “I was wrong. Apparently there was room for your ego to grow.”
“Something’s growing alright.”
“Then I shouldn’t tell you what else Littlegem said.”
“Tell, tell!”
“Well. . . she said she wants to do a recording of her reading your writing while having her clit teased.”
“Like Stoya did for ‘Hysterical Literature’?”
Stoya Reading MySexLifeWithLola
“Don’t mention her.”
“Oh, right. Still, that’s amazing!”
“I think it would be great because I got an email from another fan who is blind.”
“Blind?!”
“Yes, blind.”
“How the hell did he find our blog?”
“Apparently, he has someone read the stories for him.”
“Oh my God! That is one of the hottest things I’ve ever heard!!!”
“Yeah,” said Lo, “and it got me thinking. We should totally do an audio book since I’m sure there are lots of long-distance haulers who would like to have me as their companion across the lonely stretches of highway.”
“I’m sure they would.”
“And people who want to hear about my sexcapades on their way to work.”
“The morning drive will never be the same.”
“And insomniacs who could use a good bedtime story.”
“Nothing like a good wank at the end of a long day to induce sleep.”
“So you see, it’s really necessary for everyone’s well-being that we do this.”
“Indubitably. And are you going to be the one to record the stories?”
“Oh no!” said Lo. “I’m no actor. All my orgasms are real.”
“Of course. Then who?”
“I’ll put out a call for open auditions.”
[Note to reader, if you haven’t checked out PurplesGem yet, you really should. They’re a great BDSM/kink couple. Great writing and photos. Below are some of our favorite photos from them, with permission, of course.]
[p.s. – If YOU want to audition for our audiobook, then go to ACX.com and look for “Match, Cinder & Spark.” If you can’t find it, email us: downloladown@gmail.com]
“Daddy,” asked Lo, “if it’s ok with you, when the guests arrive, I’d like to pretend for the night that I’m Robert’s girlfriend.”
I raised my eyebrows as a confused bunch of emotions swirled in my mind. Of course one of those emotions was arousal. But there was also intrigue, surprise, befuddlement, and a twinge of hurt and even a sliver of jealousy. Why wouldn’t she be ok with introducing me as her partner? Why the rouse? All of these thoughts flooded my mind, but then, at the flash of her pearly whites and her sexy red tongue gliding over them seductively, I could see that the real reason for the roleplay was because it excited her.
She liked the thought of taunting me, making me jealous, leaving me in the cold – the third-wheel as she got to be the center of attention. So, what was I to do? I capitulated and she gave me a devoted little peck on the cheek as a reward.
She practically danced back to Robert to give him the good news and I saw his face light up. I imagine he has felt a bit awkward as a middle-aged single guy in a mostly coupled world. And that awkwardness couldn’t have been diminished at all by coming to our house at all hours of the night for a booty call with Lola. So, her little charade for the evening’s entertainment must have boosted his confidence.
“You know,” I said to Lo at one point before the guests arrived, “there’s a job for what you do.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, clearly delighted by her acting role.
“It’s called ‘girlfriend rental,’ or something like that. I saw an article about it a while ago. Men who don’t have girlfriends can hire a woman to be their date for a company function or even for Thanksgiving!”
“Hmmmmm, interesting,” she pondered, “a little side-hustle.”
I was asleep when she walked in the dark bedroom. Nights like this, when she spends the night out with friends or lovers, it isn’t quite sleep. It’s more of a restful repose, just barely below the surface of consciousness. When I heard the bedroom door open, I was instantly awake, but I didn’t dare open my eyes or stir. I like to spy on her from the darkness. With one eye open, I saw her remove her blue dress. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She had been wearing a bra when she left the house. She wasn’t wearing panties when she left, so it was no surprise that she wasn’t wearing panties now. She slipped out of her heels and walked barefoot and bare assed into the bathroom. She turned the light on. She sat, peed, got up, brushed her teeth, and then slid under the covers next to me.
“I know you’re awake,” she whispered.
“Now I am,” I said.
“And I know you’ve been a bad boy,” she said, reaching down to my crotch and grabbing my hard cock.
“Look at you – kitten calling the cock back.”
She chuckled and said, “The expression is the kettle calling the pot black.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You left your vagina in the bathroom,” she said, disapprovingly, speaking of my Stoya Fleshlight.
“It needs to air dry. That’s what it says in the instructions.”
“So you used it?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Unlike Stoya, I don’t air dry. I’m always wet. Very wet.”
Stoya, Stoya’s Fleshlight, Art of Lola Down
“And full of Robert’s cum?”
“Get in me and find out.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I said.
I climbed on top of her and spread her legs. I slid in and sloshed about. She moaned.
“Tell me,” I whispered in her ear.
“Am I wet?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Loose?”
“Very.”
She likes to hear how slippery and slutty she feels to me.
“Good,” she cooed in my ear.
“Tell me, what happened.” I was eager.
“You first,” she said.
“What? Why?”
“Because, if I tell you, you’ll cum and I want to hear about your night before you cum.”
She had a point. Well, she had two points if you include what I was giving her below the sheets.
“Well, I began by looking at the blog of TJ like you suggested.”
“Yes.”
“She’s so like you, it’s uncanny.”
“I know.”
“But that just made me want you.”
“Good.”
“And as I was thinking about you with Robert, I took out the Stoya Fleshlight and went through your photos. I looked at all the cumtributes you get from guys. I looked at the pics you sent to Robert and others. And then I came. I came hard.”
“Well, Daddy,” she began, knowing how to butter me up, “we met for drinks. He thought I looked great. I know I looked great because Robert wasn’t the only one staring at me.”
Just the thought of her walking into the bar was enough to put me over the edge. I had to slow down while she continued talking.
“We had a couple of drinks,” she said in her soft voice directly into my ear, “and then went to the theater. It had the big, leather, recliner chairs. But those aren’t great for romance. There’s the big, bulky armrest in separating you. We were sitting in the very last row and I put my seat way back. When the movie came on, I let the hem of my dress slide up and up and up.”
“Was he touching your knee?”
“He couldn’t reach. But he could see. It was an odd movie, but there were a few sexy scenes in it. And Emma Stone. . .” She trailed off as she came again.
Catching her breath she said, “Get behind me,” as she pulled out her phone to look at sexy pics of Emma Stone.
I got behind her and glanced over her shoulder at her phone. “Get back there and fuck me like you fucked Stoya!” she commanded.
I grabbed her hips and pulled her ass back as I thrust forward, deep into her. I could feel the tip of my cock dipping into her deep well where someone else had already cum and gone.
Emma Stone The Favourite
“I just touched myself during the sex scenes,” she said in between gasps. “He watched me. He wanted me. His right hand held my left and I squeezed hard every time my right hand brought me to an orgasm.”
She came as she recalled her climaxes in the theater.
“At a more boring point in the movie I got on my knees in front of him and pulled out his cock. I put it in my mouth and went to town on it.”
Luckily for her and for me, I had cum earlier in the night and so was able to weather this blow-by-blow account.
“He didn’t cum, which disappointed me. You know how I like to feel successful at everything I do. I think he was nervous we’d get caught. He lifted me up and tried to place me back in my seat, but I simply lifted up my tight blue dress and eased my ass down on his hard rod. Sitting on his lap, like a stripper in the club, I slowly slid back-and-forth. He came deep inside me. That was just before the movie ended and as we walked out, I could feel his cum oozing down the inside of my legs.”
That was all I could take. I exploded deep inside her, adding to her collection for the evening.
“That’s it, Daddio,” she said as I reached under her and slid my arms up to her breasts and held her tightly. “Use me. Make me yours again. Fill me up. Make me your cum-bucket.” I collapsed on top of her and held her in my arms while imaginings of her night flickered through my rapidly darkening mind.
“Come,”
I heard her yell from the bedroom down the hall as I walked into the house
after a long Friday at work. She might
have been saying “Cum!” to a lover.
There’s never any way to tell from the sound of her voice – only on the
page.
I
cautiously walked down the long hall to the bedroom. What would I find?
The
door was open a crack. I peeked in. She was naked, on her tum, her round rump
nicely illuminated by the setting sun.
Her legs were bent at the knees and her bare feet dangled up in the air,
twined around each other. In her hand
she held her phone.
“Come
in, Daddio,” she said without turning her eyes from the screen in front of
her.
I
walked in and removed my jacket and tie.
“What
you up to?” I inquired.
“I
bet you’d like to know.”
“That
is why I asked,” I said flatly as I removed my shirt and undid my belt.
“Get
naked, get hard, and get in me,” she commanded.
“I’m
already hard,” I said.
“As
you should be,” she replied, moving her hand to her mouth, licking her fingers
and then moving her hand to her ass and circling her wet fingers around her
special spot.
“Oh,”
I commented, “You want it like that?”
“No,
Daddio,” she said, “I’m just enjoying myself.”
Always
coy when it comes to her ass. Always for
someone else, or for her own pleasure, but never for me.
I
got behind her and tried to look at her phone by leaning forward over her back
and seeing over her shoulder.
“Get
up there and fuck me,” she instructed, her finger still rounding her sweet spot
as I slid into her puss. “I’ll tell you
what I’m looking at.”
I
did as she said and she told me that a fellow blogger, a woman named TJ, wrote
to us saying, “I love reading your blog.
It gets me so wet.”
“Really?! Do I know this TJ?” I asked as I thrusted
harder.
I
slowed down a bit trying to remember which erotic blog that was.
“Don’t
stop!” Lo said as her hand grabbed the girth of my cock and she pushed her ass
back into my hips, bouncing off of my bare bodkin.
I
resumed my powerful, pleasurable, pelvic pounding.
“Look,”
she said, putting her phone up on her back for me to read the email. It said:
I love how
accepting you are of Lola’s magnificent sexuality. You guys seem to have ‘it’
don’t you? I wish I could masturbate as openly as you do, Lola. I feel
self-conscious, like an addict or something. But I fucking love fucking myself.
. . it’s the best. I am more autosexual than anything else I think. Keep
celebrating each other.
Fan mail like that makes it all
worth it. Well, that’s not completely
true. I know that I would be writing all
this whether no one read it, or only one person read it – Lola. But knowing that others read it, enjoy it,
and get off to it is the icing on the cake.
Speaking
of icing, as I read the email, Lo began to climax as one hand worked her ass
and the other, from underneath, worked her clit. Her Kegel muscles contracted and I was
squeezed out of her as she curled into a convulsing, throbbing ball, squirting
uncontrollably. The more she pushed her
knees up to her breasts in a tightly bound fetal position, the more she sprayed
the bed and my knees. I lifted up her
phone to prevent it from being ruined by the liquid.
TJ, author and model of The Lustful Empress, getting off to Lo
“Fuuuu-uuuuck,”
she groaned as the last bit of lady juice spurted out of her.
When
she regained control of her limbs, she slowly got up and pulled the soaked
sheets with her, dropping them in the laundry basket. “I’ll clean up, Daddy, but right now I have
to get ready.”
“Ready
for what?” I asked, holding my throbbing, hard rod in my hand.
“My
date.”
“Date?”
“With
Robert. I told you, didn’t I?”
I
just looked dumbfounded.
“We’re
going to the movies.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“And
what are you seeing?”
“The Favourite.”
“Is
he your favorite now?” I asked, demoralized.
“No,
Daddio, she said, caressing me and looking up at me with those beautiful big
brown eyes. “That’s the name of the
movie. It’s a period piece.”
“Really? Not a porno?”
“Well,
I hear it has a lot of woman-on-woman sex scenes.”
“I
knew it!”
“But
that’s not why we’re going to see it.”
“You’re
going to see it to have sex in a crowded theater.”
“Oh,
Daddy, you always impute to me the most debased of motives.”
“So
why are you going to see it?”
“It’s
historical. It has great sets, acting,
and costumes.”
“And?”
“And
probably to fuck in a dark theater.”
“Don’t
get caught.”
“But
getting caught is at least half the fun.
Does that make you jealous?” she asked, as her hand stroked my hard
cock.
“So
you’re leaving me home alone on a Friday night?”
“Not
totally alone,” she said, “You have TJ.”
“Who?”
“TJ,
the woman from the blog.”
“Oh,
right,” I said to my consolation prize.
Lola
made the bed and I watched her tits droop as she bent over to tuck in the
sheets. Her naked body moved like a
delightful dance as she unfurled the blanket.
“Look,”
she said, as she hopped back in the bed and took up her phone. I sat next to her. Her left hand stroked my hard erection up and
down as she scrolled through TJ’s blog with her right hand.
We
read and looked at the photos together.
Lola
TJ of The Lustful Empress
“She
sounds like she could be your twin sister,” I said as I read about how TJ
becomes aroused by her own naked body.
“Hold
this,” she said, giving me the phone.
Now,
with her right hand she was stroking her pussy and I scrolled through the
blog.
“Oh
boy,” I said, “You want her.”
Lo
bit her lower lip.
“Lo,”
I cautioned, “You just made the bed. You
don’t want to. . .”
Before
I could finish my sentence, she had jumped off the bed and ran to the bathroom,
barely making it to the toilet before releasing her ejaculate all over the tile
floor with a scream.
When
she had regained her composure, she got some paper towels and got on her hands
and knees to clean up the mess.
“What
time is your movie?”
“Eight,”
she called back. “But we’re meeting for
drinks first.”
“Well,
you’re going to be late,” I told her.
She
jumped in the shower and I continued to look at the blog, hard up.
“Hey,”
she called to me, “you’re not allowed to cum.
You know that, right?”
“I
still don’t understand how that is fair,” I said, taunting her.
I
got up and looked at her in the shower.
“Get!”
she screamed. She hates when I see her
in her shower cap.
“How
is it fair that you get to cum twice and then go on a date with another man and
I’m not allowed any autoerotica myself?”
“First,”
she said from behind the shower curtain, “it’s not autoerotic if you use
someone else’s pictures. Second, you
didn’t count the three times I came before you got home.”
“Lo,
now you’re just. . .”
“And
third,” she cut me off, “this has nothing to do with fairness. It has everything to do with me.
What I want. What I allow
you. Got that? Don’t forget it.”
Lo
jumped out of the shower and hastily dried off before slipping into a blue
dress and blue heels. No panties.
“You’re
going to be cold like that,” I cautioned.
“I’m
planning on things heating up quickly,” she said.
Soon
enough she was out the door, leaving me alone.
I
scrolled through TJ’s blog, which I recalled I had seen before, and I thought
to myself, “She said no cumming, but she didn’t say no edging.”
I
spent about an hour going through each and every post before I thought to
myself, “If I don’t stop this right now, I’m going to explode!”
Stoya Left, Lola Right
In
order to take the edge off, I switched to photos of Lo, which are always fair
game, and I pulled out the old Stoya Fleshlight. Lubing up Stoya and myself, I imagined what
Lo was up to with Robert. I didn’t even
need to see Lo’s photos. Soon enough I was
cumming and cumming hard and deep in Stoya’s pussy, just thinking about Lo in a
dark theater, legs spread, and Robert discretely moving his hand up her smooth
thigh until reaching that wet pussy, pulsating with anticipation. Gently he would rub and flick her pussy lips,
clandestinely making her cum. I pictured
her hands gripping the seat and her upper teeth biting down on her bottom lip
to prevent the scream from escaping her mouth.
That was enough to bring me over the edge and release me into a deep
sleep.
