What
does it mean to be an “underground” author in the age of the internet?
Lately
I’ve been reading a lot of and about Charles Bukowski. Largely ignored for most of his life, he
submitted his rough, distinctly “low-brow” poetry to independent and small
press journals. Through these he gained an
“underground” following that slowly grew by word of mouth until other independent
and small press publishing houses printed his works in book form for that
“underground” fan base. Bukowski’s work
caught the eye of other writers and musicians, mostly in the L.A. and San
Francisco areas, until eventually he caught on nationally and even
internationally.
But
in today’s media world, what does it mean to be an “indie” author or to have an
“underground” following?
fan pic
This indie author, whom you are now
reading, dear valued patron, has a substantial following, or, shall I say, a
much larger following than I ever imagined would sprout from my initial blog
posts about Lola. As I have explained in
various interviews elsewhere, this compulsion, which borders on graphomania,
came into being because, after a few months with Lo, I discovered that there
was almost no literature out there about being in a relationship with a
nymphomaniac. Since no one else was
writing about it, I figured I’d toss my hat in the ring and give a first-person
account of what it’s like – the proverbial trials and tribulations as well as
the orgasms and titillations.
Before
I knew it, I was suddenly gaining a following and garnering the praise and
accolades of other fellow sex-bloggers.
Women were sending me fan mail and nudes of themselves, much to the
consternation of Lo. Men and women were
writing to Lo and sending her all sorts of salacious selfies, much to her lurid
enthusiasm.
The Beautiful Faye Daniels getting off to Lola Down
Our
subscriptions and unique visits to our blog went up and soon we were being
featured on sites like Bustle and Top Sex Blogger lists.
I
compiled various stories into books and those sold swiftly. And now, today, we have over 20,000 followers
on our various media outlets.
However
much those numbers might dwarf the reach and following of a Bukowski back in
the day, with the potential of today’s technology, that seems far less
impressive than it would have been when the only way to get your writing in
front of a reader was through the mimeograph machine.
Are
you, dear confessional confidant, part of an underground audience? Does it even make sense to speak of such in
today’s complex and multilevel media ecosystem?
Or is “underground” just a term that is used retrospectively to describe a core following of people that read a
certain author before he or she hit the mainstream? Is it something that can only be applied with
hindsight?
I
don’t know the answers to these questions and I suppose, on some level, it
doesn’t matter since I write about what I love and I love what I write about –
Lo. As long as the love is good, I feel
the writing will be good as well. And
though the letters and gifts from the readers are flattering and the money
(what little there is) earned from the writing is appreciated, what matters
most is that I really enjoy doing what I’m doing.
“Our vices always lie in the direction of our virtues.” – Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers
It
was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and Lo and I were about to go for a brisk
walk through the neighborhood when, as we exited the front door, we found a
package addressed to Lo.
“Were
you expecting a special delivery?” I asked.
“Not
that I recall,” she said.
She
picked up the brown box and we brought it inside, unwrapped it, and we found
two beautiful paintings of Lo somehow done on thick panes of glass. One was of her puss.
On seeing the
striking resemblance up close, Lo remarked, “The illustration really captures
my essence.”
Painting by Blackbook Artist
By now, it’s no secret that Lo has a
lot of admirers, both in person and virtually.
Her fans love to send her gifts and those gifts range from the common,
run-of-the-mill dick pic to beautiful original paintings and artworks that
arrive by mail at our doorstep. I have
no issues with any of her accolades. I
am more than satisfied to bask in the glory of her brilliance, like the moon illuminated
by the sun. I will also admit that many
of those admirers pay at least lip service to the writing. And, given that Lo’s lip service is something
I get on a regular basis, I have no reason to complain. But it is nice, every once in a while, when
an enthusiastic and attractive woman writes to me to express her appreciation for all the hard work I do.
This has happened on a few occasions
and, despite the disproportionate attention that Lo gets compared with yours
truly, it never ceases to amaze me that she still gets jealous.
Recently, I received an email from
an admiring female fan that read: “Hi there, HH, I recently came by your blog
through another site.” Interesting turn
of phrase – “came by your blog,”
rather than “came across your blog.” Do
you think she was intentionally ambiguous?
And our fans always say, “through another site,” but never say through
which site – perhaps embarrassed by the seedy sites and searches they use. I digress.
The letter continued, “Someone in my network was going crazy about how
they’re jacking off to LOLA and your stories about 50 times a day and how she’s
probably the most intense woman alive in our times. Of course, when I checked your website out, I was
blown away after reading the explicit as well as brilliantly written episodes.”
My darling correspondent was kind enough to purchase
our books and also take some photos with them and send some sexy pics to
me. I hardly have to add that Lo was
flattered by the letter as well (which is probably the only reason why it
slipped passed her watchful eye and was brought to my attention by her).
I will say, dear reader, that
missives such as this have dwindled in number since we began this little
sexcapade of a blog. I attribute this
diminished return to the rapid advances in technology. Not only can one watch porn on their phones,
but other porn progress, such as 3D porn and realistic porn video games, have
made the market for pure erotic writing with occasional still photographs a
quaint relic of our pornographic past, like Playboy Magazine and the pin-up
calendar.
Fan Submission
The digital age has afforded great benefits to authors
such as myself – a vast, almost instant platform to reach across the world, the
ability to communicate directly with one’s readers, and a streamlined mechanism
for typing. (Recall that Jack Kerouac
had to feed industrial spools of paper into his typewriter while he drank his
whiskey in order to not interrupt his flow by having to replace the sheets of
paper.) For all those boons, it’s hard
to compete in the age of digital diversion.
The smartphone has all the bells and whistles. All I have is my story. And yet, every time I go see some block-buster
action film in which the stunts and special effects are on steroids, I often
leave feeling let down. Sure, the visual
CGI was on a galactic scale, but the story!
The story! Without a good story,
all of the other stuff falls flat. It’s
like a cake composed entirely of icing, or a tricked-out car with no
engine.
Fan Pic
I digress again.
Maybe I should stick to my story.
I was telling you about my lovely letter from a fan. Though I write out of sheer delight, on
occasion (many occasions actually), it feels as if it is an obsessive
compulsion. But when I receive a
compliment from a reader, it seems to justify the excess.
“See that, Lo,” I said, “Maybe
it’s not just the scribblings of a madman.”
“Oh,
darling,” she said, “They’re lucky that you have something good, worthy, and
important to contribute, unlike most of the drivel that people write.”
I love a careful reader!
“You just
think that because I write about you.”
You see, dear reader, it is difficult to get an objective
opinion from Lo. But she is self-aware,
to a degree. Once, when I returned from
a business trip to New York City and was telling her of the nude women at Times
Square trying to turn a buck by selling a selfie with them, she said, “You’re just telling
me this to get in my pants.” She knows
that I know that her reaction to jealousy is to seduce me.
“How
did this become about you and sex?” I asked.
“Everything
is about me and sex. I’m a
nymphomaniacal megalomaniac.”
She
then undressed and reclined on the sofa.
I just looked at her.
“What are you doing?”
she asked, impatiently.
“I’m an author of erotica and a philosopher – I’m contemplating your navel.”
After
reading the letter from my admirer, I suppose I was grinning from
ear-to-ear. My delight triggered Lo’s
jealousy and I warned her that I would expose her bad side if she kept it
up.
“Bad
side?”
“Yes,” I said, “Everyone has a bad side.”
Lola turned around and showed me her ass and pussy
from behind and asked over her shoulder, “Is this my good side or my bad side?”
After reading this blog entry to Lo, she said to me,
“You know, we should have another tagline.
Instead of “The nymphomaniac next door,” we should say,
“Mysexlifewithlola – come for the pics, stay for the story.”
“That’s good,” I said.
“Or maybe,” she mused out loud, “Cum to the pics, stay
for the story.”
“Or,” I said, “you could cum for the camera, they stay
for the story.”
“No,” she said, “I like mine better.”
“You always do,” I responded.
She then fiddled out of her bra and cuddled up to me,
her nipples hard and erect under her blouse.
“Don’t you like mine better, Daddy?” she asked.
“I do think you persuaded me.”
“You never
can argue with me when I wear this. I
must have a couple of great points.”
Yes, you do make a couple of good points, I must admit.
To which I said, “I’ve got it! The tag should be: Lola Down – clever
lines, sexy curves.”
“We have so little faith in the ebb
and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide
and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on
permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in
life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity – in freedom, in the sense that the
dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same
pattern.”
Anne Morrow Lindbergh – Gift From the Sea
For
a few months now, Lola and I have been like the dancers upon a large stage –
not like the partners doing a sexy Spanish tango, but like performers of some
contemporary choreography who move at a great distance from each other, yet
always aware of the presence of the other.
Her work has demanded long hours and travel around the country. My work has kept me at the office on
weekends. We have seen each other only
occasionally – hastily preparing and eating dinner, a ride to and from work, a
quick fuck before sleep.
Realizing
the monotonous irregularity of our relationship, we consciously made an effort
to set aside a weekend for a “love-in”: two days of nothing but lying in bed
together, rediscovering each other’s bodies, reading naked next to one another,
watching movies, and preparing luxurious meals – all in the comfort of our own
home. Laundry can wait. Work can wait. Life can be put on hold.
But
fate had something else in store for us.
On the Friday that was to kick off our cocoon habitation, Lo got word of
the unexpected death of her friend Cammy’s husband’s aunt. When Lo relayed this to me, at first I
thought, “So?” I didn’t expect that such
a tangential relation would in any way impinge upon our reunion weekend. But, it turns out, Cammy is very anxious
about death and dying, is prone to panic attacks, and since her new husband
would be needed at the memorial and funeral services, Cammy pleaded with Lo to
come along for moral support. Lo
graciously agreed.
“It’s
only for Saturday,” said Lo.
“That’s
fifty percent of our love-in.”
“I’ll
make it up to you,” she said, seductively.
“Promise.”
“Can’t
Cammy handle this herself?”
“No,
she can’t. Besides, I already said I’d
go with her.”
I
was in a foul mood. I grunted something
incomprehensible, but clearly expressed my displeasure.
“I’ll
be back tomorrow night and we still have tonight.”
It
was no use. My mood was spoiled. Lo said to me that I was spoiled, and, in retrospect, she was right.
Friday
we went to bed and I rolled away from Lo as she lay there naked next to me in
the dark. “Daddio, you realize don’t you
that you could have me now.”
Grunt.
“Do
you realize how many men would pay – would die – to have a naked nympho next to
them in bed, wet, waiting, and willing to fuck?! Do you?
You big grouch. Come here. Put your face in my cleavage, suck my tits,
grab my ass and fuck me,” she said, pulling on my arm.
“No,”
I said like a child. “I don’t want a
quick fuck and then sleep. I want to
have you all weekend, all to myself.”
She
didn’t respond. She just reached over
and grabbed my cock and began to rub it under the blankets.
“I
can feel you getting hard. I know you
want to have me.” She was right.
After
some manipulation, I rolled over to her.
I got on top of her, spread her legs and entered her.
“That’s
it, Daddio. Have me. Use me.
Use me like so many guys have used me.
Fuck me. Get your rocks off on
me.”
She
continued to encourage me like that.
Though her voice was soft and breathy, I could tell she wasn’t getting
off herself. Her breath wasn’t becoming
short and rapid. Her hips weren’t moving
to meet mine. She wasn’t using her body
to help herself climax. But she kept
talking to me and the sound of her sexy voice was enough to stir me to a swift conclusion.
“Yes. Cum on me.
Cum on my face. Cum on my tits,”
she said without cumming herself.
When
I was done, I said, “You didn’t like it.”
“No,
Daddio. I did.”
“Then
why didn’t you cum too?”
“Because,
I just wanted you to use me. Sometimes I
like to do that.”
“You
like to fuck. You like to orgasm. You like to do it all again. I know what you like.”
“Sometimes
I just want to be your fuck-toy that you use to get your rocks off. It was so hot seeing you cum on my face.”
As
odd as it sounds, when Lo doesn’t cum, even if I do, it leaves me feeling like
our romp was anticlimactic. I went to
sleep feeling worse than I did before.
Saturday
came and Lo got decked out in her little black dress and black leather
boots.
“Do
I look ok for a funeral?”
“You
look like the stereotypical mistress who follows a funeral.”
“What?!”
“Lo,
your skirt doesn’t even cover your knees and that top really makes your chest.
. . er. . . prominent.”
Look Daddy, No Panties!
“You
think so?” she said, perking up.
“Yeah.”
“Shucks,
you know how to compliment a lady.”
“Good
grief!”
“Wish
me luck,” she said as she gave me a peck on the cheek.
“Luck?”
I asked, surprised.
“Or,
whatever one wishes when one goes to a funeral.”
Off
she went and I went to the office, thinking that she’d be rather late
returning.
Half
past three, and I before I even had a chance to go to lunch, I got a text from
Lo – “I’m home. Where are you?”
I
closed up shop and sped home to see her.
When I got in, there she was, greeting me at the door.
“Oh,
hello,” I said, seeing her still in her mourner’s basic black.
“Hello
ole’ man.”
“How
was your, er, funeral?”
“My funeral.”
“I
mean, the funeral you. . .”
“It
was fine.”
“Fine?”
“Well,
better than fine – for a funeral.”
“What
do you mean by that?”
“Come
to the bedroom and I’ll tell you.”
When
I got to the bedroom, she had already hopped on the bed and lifted her skirt up
over her waist, showing her bare ass.
“Lo!”
I said, taken aback, “You didn’t wear panties to a funeral in December?!”
“How
else is a girl supposed to amuse herself at a funeral?”
“Seriously?”
“Don’t
you like?” she asked, wagging her ass in the air.
“Um.”
“Well,
I can tell you, there were boys at the funeral who were very happy to see me.”
“What
are you talking about?”
“Get
yourself out of those pants and I’ll explain.”
I
dropped my trousers immediately and pulled up behind her.
“That’s
it, old man. Pound it. Drive it home.”
“Lo,
why are you so randy today?”
“When
am I not?” she retorted, followed by a moan.
“What
got into you at that funeral?”
“You
should be asking who got into me.”
“Lo,
you didn’t.”
“I’m
sorry, Daddy, but I was like the song.”
“The
song?”
“You
know: ‘I gotta stay high all the time to keep you off my mind.’ Bad habits, you know.”
“They
say bad habits never die.”
“Ha,”
she laughed, “It wasn’t a funeral for my habits, that’s for sure.”
“What
did you do?”
“Remember
the wedding we went to?”
“Which
one?”
“The
one where we got it on in the powder-room.”
“Yeah.”
“Well,
that’s what I did, but at a funeral.
Same difference.”
“But,
I wasn’t there.”
“I
had no idea you were so fond of funerals.”
“I
had no idea you were so irreverent.”
“Irreverent? Don’t you think that it’s very respectful of
the dead to enjoy life?”
“Not
that way!”
“Sex
is the emblem of life and orgasm its crowning achievement.”
“The
French call orgasm le petit mort –
the little death.”
“Well,
then I died many times at that funeral!
Slay me once more.”
“Lola!”
“Do
you like fucking me knowing that two other guys were in me earlier today?”
I
went at her with great vigor and she came as she talked dirty to me about
it. After she did, I pushed her body
flat on the bed and ejaculated all over her back.
“Fuck!”
she yelled out, “My dress!”
Her
mourner’s gown was now my cum rag. I
fell down next to her on the bed.
Between deep gasps, I said, “That’s how you should greet me every time I
come home.”
“Even from work?”
“Especially from
work?”
“Even when you
just go out to the bar?”
“Yes, when I go
out to the bar. When I go out to do
grocery shopping. When I take out the
trash. When I enter through that door
you should greet me just like that.”
I
was asleep, to begin with. There is no
doubt whatever about that. It was 4:45
in the a.m. and I was stirred from my slumber by the sonorous buzz of Lo’s
vibrator, the rhythmic rattle of the bed, and the blue glow illuminating her
face that was so contorted with a look of singular focus and intensity that I
thought I was seeing a ghost. She was
lying on her tum, both hands buried under the covers and under her body, the
phone propped up on a pillow about six inches in front of her. From the sound of the Hitachi’s hum and the
shaking of the bed, I deduced that she was working her clit with the Magic Wand
and her puss with a dildo, leaving no hands free.
I
opened one eye first and, upon seeing her apparition, I surprised myself with
my ability to remain inconspicuous. I
didn’t stir. I tried to give no hint
that I was, in fact, awake – inconsiderately propelled out of my torpor. I saw her struggle to keep the pleasure
points stimulated while simultaneously fumbling through her phone for
images.
Acutely
aware that no mortal would be able to withstand the auto-erotic stimuli that Lo
was producing, I announced my awakening by asking Lo, “Can I help you?”
I
was hoping she would be grateful if I would get behind her, replacing her
dildo, freeing up one hand so she could scroll through the photos. But no.
“Yeah,”
she said, not surprised and unconcerned that I was awake, “swipe left.”
I
did as she commanded. I looked at her
phone and there were pics of men, women, couples – all getting off to her
photos. As she gazed at each image, she
took in the content, and then said, “Swipe.”
A fan
She
was demanding, insistent, and a tad rude about it. But she had a goal and nothing was going to
get in her way – certainly not good manners.
“Swipe,”
she said. I did as told. Another photo of a guy jacking to her pics.
An Enthusiastic Fan
“Swipe.” A photo of a woman jilling to Lo.
“Swipe.” A picture of a couple; the woman gives the
guy a blowjob as Lo’s image is on the computer in front of them.
Stella’s Tribute
“Swipe.” A man with what looks to be a 12 inch
cock. He holds it with two hands as if
wielding it like a weapon. I hear Lo
whisper, “Fuck.” She scrunched up her
legs under her like an inchworm. The bed
rattled. It’s a big, heavy, solid
bed. It takes a lot for it to
rattle.
Lo said,
“Fuck!” Louder this time. More angry almost. I heard the Hitachi click into high
gear. Lo squeezed her eyes closed
tightly.
“FUCK!!!”
she called out. I heard the dildo shoot
out of her followed by the sounds of her geyser gushing onto the bed. She convulsed, clutching the bed sheets, burying
her head in the pillow and screaming at the top of her lungs:
“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!”
Then
silence. Peace. Stillness.
She struggled
to lift her head. When she did, she looked
at me. Tears were streaming down her
cheeks.
“You ok?” I
asked.
She nodded,
a little ashamed.
“Feel
better?”
She nodded
again.
“Ready to
sleep?”
She nodded a
third time.
I pulled her
head to my chest where she rested it comfortably. One wet leg was lying flat on the bed nest to
my leg. She lifted the other wet leg and
placed it over my legs, parallel to her arm which reached around my chest. She was wrapped around me like a marsupial
clinging to a tree. I felt her puss
still slippery and perhaps ejaculating a dribble more like a leaky faucet on my
hips.
I kissed her
forehead and said, “Sleep.” There was no
need. I could tell by her breathing that
she was already in dreamland.
Meanwhile,
my cock was rock hard as the first light of dawn began to illuminate the
windows.
Lo
came home from work late that night. I
had already eaten dinner and was lying on the couch engaging in my favorite
illicit pastime while Lo’s away, watching “SMILF.” She walked in just as Frankie Shaw was
engaging in a self-pleasure solo session, which isn’t all that coincidental,
given how often she does that in the show.
(Since Frankie Shaw writes and directs the series, I think that she
secretly wishes to be a porn star.)
Lo Likes Little Penis Porn
Lo
stood next to the couch looking down at me, judging hard.
“What?”
“You
know what,” she said, accusatorily.
“I
was just. . .”
“I
don’t care what you were just. Turn it
off. If you want to see a sexy woman
engaged in sex-for-one, then get in the bedroom. I’ll be there filling my snatch full of fun.”
I
shut off the episode and met Lo in the bedroom where she was on the bed, legs spread,
dildos laid out next to her like a surgeon’s tray of scalpels, forceps, and clamps. She had her phone in her left hand.
“What’s
that?” I asked.
“I call it my ‘in box.’ It likes to be filled.”
I
didn’t know if she meant what she was looking at on her phone or her beautiful
mons pubis, which at the moment she was about to penetrate with her long, red, double-ended
dildo.
Self-Care
I
removed my clothes and sat in the bed next to her, vying for her
attention. She was busy reading something. I inquired.
“I’m reading about my friend and blogger, Nero Black. His wife caught him about to masturbate.”
“Oh
really?”
“Yeah,”
she said, easing the dildo into her tight taco.
“His wife loves to read erotica and masturbate, but she never lets him
get in on the goods.”
“How
does he know her reading habits?”
“He
has access to her Kindle subscription and sees what she downloads.”
“Oh.”
“And
he’s hard-up as a result.”
“I
bet you find that an open invitation to flirt.”
“Who wouldn’t? Anyhow, the other night he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his pants and boxers around his ankles, his phone in one hand and his cock in the other, when she unexpectedly walked into the bedroom.”
“Uh-oh. And?”
“And
she ignored him! She acted like she didn’t
even see it.”
“And
that gets you off?”
“No,
what gets me off is imagining that the porn she reads is our blog and that the
porn he was about to wank to was my photos.”
She
dropped the phone and lay on her back to continue the fantasy.
“Did you ever get
caught?” I asked her.
“Caught? Doing what?”
“You know, jillin’
it.”
“No.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Not by any of
your previous boyfriends?”
“Look, it’s not
something I hide. If they found me
jillin’ off, then I kept on going. So
it’s not like ‘getting caught.’ It’s
more like putting on a show.”
And put on a show
she did, without ever offering to provide me with any sweet relief. Punishment for my “infidelity” watching
Frankie Shaw.
“You are beautiful.
Your eyes are beautiful. Your
mouth is beautiful. Your breasts are
beautiful. Your cunt is beautiful.”
Lola Down, spread wide
I was reading a message Lo received on her phone from
an admirer of the blog.
“A regular Shakespeare, that one,” I said.
“I think it’s sweet,” she responded, as her left hand
began to fondle her pussy lips under the covers.
“Sweet?! He
left out your hair, your nose, your neck, your shoulders, your tum, your ass,
your legs, your feet, and your toes!”
“I’m sure he was going to get there,” she said
matter-of-factly.
“Can I get there?” I asked, sounding a bit desperate
for affection, or her attention.
“Get where?” she asked, playing with me.
“Anywhere.
Between your legs, ideally.”
“Let’s see where this goes,” she said about her
internet friend, unfortunately, and not about my bid for her caress.
“I know where this
goes,” I said, putting her hand on my hard rod.
I was hard because her internet friend had sent a slew of photos of
himself jacking off to her pics and cumming all over them. She looked good in the sexy photos.
“Daddy,” she said, protesting, “I’m busy trying to
please my loyal fans.”
“I don’t mind, as long as you do it while spreading
your legs.”
“I’m spreading the love.”
“Can you spread the love wide enough for me to get in
on it?”
“Your pussy looks pretty and gorgeous,” wrote another
fan.
“It is pretty, gorgeous, wet and waiting to be
filled,” she wrote back.
“Me, me!” I said, “Pick me.”
“Calm down, Daddio,” she said, full of vanity fed by
her fans’ flattery.
“Tell me more about you,” wrote another internet
correspondent.
“Read the books,” typed Lo, “There’s
too much to tell and too many people to tell it to.”
“You’re hard, girl,” responded the inquirer.
“Funny, everyone tells me I’m easy,” quipped Lo, “and
that makes them hard.”
“I love your stories,” wrote one female fan.
“H.H. writes. I
inspire,” wrote Lo to her.
“Do you inspire with your body?”
“And my wit.”
“I’m inspired right now!” I said to Lo as I grabbed my
cock firmly. “They all are cumming to
you. Can I cum to you?”
“Cum to, on, in, with, over, under, around, beside – I
provide the pussy. You pick the
preposition,” she said, dismissively.
I got up on my knees and stood over her, jacking my
cock.
“Just don’t cum on my phone,” she said as she
continued to scroll through her contacts.
She continued to fondle herself beneath me for a while
before she said, “Daddio, lie down next to me.
I’ll help you.”
I lay down and she grabbed me by my shaft. “I’m your righthand man,” I said as she jacked
me off with her right and scrolled with her left.
“My wife is nothing like you,” wrote one desperate,
sad husband.
“You two should
read our blog together. It would open up
her mind. . . and pussy.”
“I could never
suggest it,” he wrote, “she’d freak!”
“But you like it?”
asked Lo.
“God yes,” he
sighed through the medium of type.
“Tell me what a young, sexy, slutty person such as
myself does for you.”
“I’d love to eat your yummy, sloppy, used, cum-filled
holes,” he wrote.
“Another bard!” I opined sarcastically.
“Shut up and cum,” commanded Lo as she tugged more
aggressively.
“Are you in a rush?” I asked.
“Both hands are full,” she said, “leaving nothing for
my snatch.”
“I’ll happily fill that gap.”
“You stay right where you are,” she ordered.
“Has she ever caught you jacking off?” wrote Lo to her
married man.
“No. It would
be a big deal if she did. It would be an
even bigger deal if she caught me jacking off to you and not to porn.”
“I am porn,” protested Lo.
“I mean, it’s one thing to get off to anonymous,
vacuous, impersonal, professionally produced porn and it’s quite another thing
to get off to you.”
“That’s more like it,” responded Lo.
“That’s it, I’m getting up and out of bed,” I said.
“But nooooo.”
“Yes. You’re
just treating my cock like it a joystick to your favorite video game.”
“A game I always win.”
She continued stroking.
“Are you into length or girth?” asked her internet
interloper.
“I’m into cock.
And cock gets into me.”
“Once again, I must protest!” I said. “You’ve got a very capable, compatible, and
coveted cock right here, but you’re not letting it into you!”
“What, ole man, my right hand isn’t enough for you?”
“Not when you’re teasing those guys about how fast and
loose you like to play.”
A new fan chimed in, “I
have to stop sinning. I’m religious,
that’s why I can’t go on doing this.”
“Sex is
spiritual. And I’m a sex goddess. Worship at my alter,” replied Lo.
“Now you’re
offering theology lessons?” I chided.
“No. Just encouraging them to be good
semenarians.”
“That was
terrible. Low hanging fruit,” I replied.
She cupped
my testicles and said, “Very low hanging.”
“Oh, does your wit never cease?!”
Now
she squeezed my balls to show me that I had better be careful about mocking
her.
Another
woman asked Lo if she liked taboo tales.
To which Lo responded, “How
taboo are we talking here?”
The woman said she was into watersports and bestiality.
Lo wrote back, “Let’s knot.”
“Don’t you mean. . . oooooh, I get it,” I said.
“Woof!” she said to me.
The woman, whose name was Mila Beijne., went on to tell a little story.
I was a model a
few years back and after doing a shoot I was talking a bit with the
photographer, the lighting guy and his assistant. They invited me to their home. I trusted them and liked them. We were all horny and I was willing, I admit. At the photographer’s home we had some drinks
and then they slowly undressed me. They
got naked too. They were all good looking men and one was really hung. They
kissed me everywhere and started fucking me in my mouth, pussy, and ass. I was very horny. After quite a long time,
they changed positions, each taking a different hole. Then they rotated again and fucked me a long
time again till I was exhausted. They
filled me up in every place they could. But
the fun was not over yet. One put me on
the floor and the other started urinating over me. Then the other two joined in.
It was a lot and all over my body and in
my long hair. There was no shower, so it
was a special experience driving home.
It was my first time doing that and I liked how the act showed their dominance
over me.
Mila asked to be included.Mila B. through the years
I could see Lo getting increasingly more excited as she read the short little story from Mila. She quickly wrote back, “Yeah, HH does that to me. I love it. Being below him, feeling his warm stream flow over my back and butt.”
“We haven’t done that in a while,” I
reminded her.
She ignored me because another fan
had written to her. This guy was
old. I mean, like twenty years older
than I and I’m in my 50’s! His name was
Bob and he wrote:
Hi Lola, and thank you!
You are an inspiration to me. I
hope you can give me some advice.
I’m in my 70’s and I’ve been in a relationship for over 25 years. No passion or sex for the last 20 years. I’m at a loss as it has become impossible to
talk about it with her. I’ve made the
mistake of combining our lives and living situations this whole time. It has become all about her for the last
several years. I feel I’m too old to
begin another relationship with a woman, yet I still admire all women and all
that I see on your blog. I’ve even
become curious about men as I feel that may be the only way to explore my
unresolved sexual fantasies. Yet I’m
still conflicted as I long for an intimate relationship that I’ve missed in my
life.
Do you have any suggestions??
Lola wrote back, “To tell you the truth, Bob, I’m just good wanking material, but I’m not a sex coach or a sex therapist. You might want to check out one of these trained professionals to get some expert advice on having more sex with spirit.” She provided a link. Then she added, “But if you’re looking for a real hotwife, cum to me.”
“What?!” I said to her, shocked that
she’d even offer that to him.
She ignored me and
typed, “I have a very soft spot for old married men whose wives no longer have
sex with them. Would you like to see
it?”
Of course he said
yes. Lo sent him a naughty pic of the
place between her legs that she was denying to me.
“Lo, that’s just
cruel!” I said.
“What? Soon you’re going to be that old and you’d
want the same from me. Wouldn’t you?”
“What’s cruel is
that I’m that old man who is being denied right now!”
“If what I’m
giving you isn’t good enough, then take matters into your own hands,” she
said.
As
she said it, another married man was singing her praises in a message that
read, “I’ve come to worship your holy holes.”
“See,”
she said, “I’ve got fans who know how to woo me.”
“Woo
you? They worship you!”
“What’s
the difference?”
After
some flirtatious back-and-forth, Lo asked to see a pic of the man’s wife.
He
asked why she wanted to see that and Lo responded, “I like to see who I’m
beating out when guys are beating off to me.”
The
guy sent a photo. His wife was
beautiful. But apparently she lacked the
‘personality’ of Lo. He wanted to know
more about Lo and he asked her questions.
“I’m
like an open book, there for anyone to read,” she responded, “You just have to
know where to find me. Are you familiar
with the Dewey Decimal system?”
“Like, in the library?”
“Yeah.”
“So, I can find you in my local
library?”
“If only,” wrote Lo, “I’m indexed
under XXX.”
“As in 30?” he wrote with a winkface
emoji. “Still pretty young.”
“Pretty, young, and slutty. I’ll tell you what, you can virtually finger
my folios at: mysexlifewithlola.com,” she said, “and you can also buy the books
there. I suggest you get a few copies of
each and donate the extras to your local library so everyone can spread my
centerfold for free.”
As Lo was typing, she guided my cock
to her mouth and wrapped her lips around the tip. She looked up at me as her hand continued to glide
back and forth from the base to her mouth.
I began to cum and she hungrily held me in place so as not to spill a
drop. I was so worked up that I couldn’t
control my convulsions. I began
breathing deep, heavy breaths. Lo looked
up at me and said, “What?! Are you having
a stroke?”
When I finally managed to catch my breath, I looked
down at her and said, “Yeah, I’m having a stroke. A really good stroke.”
Lo
wrote a final line to her fans: “Good night all you kinky sexy rogues. Dream of me in your debauched nocturnal
thoughts.”
She put her phone down, grabbed her Hitachi, lay back,
shut her eyes, and began vibrating until she was the one violently convulsing,
squirting, and gasping for air.
When she was done and had removed the Magic Wand from
between her legs, she grabbed my hand and placed it on her bare pussy for me to
feel how wet she was. She’s proud that
she can turn on the tap almost at will.
“Pull my pussy lips, Daddy,” she said. I stretched them. “Harder.”
I pulled more. “Harder Daddy,”
she complained.
“Lo, if I pull them any further they’ll be down to
your knees.”
“Try it,” she said.
She likes the pain or pleasure.
As I pulled I asked her, “What were you thinking about when you came?”
“I think about you.”
This line from her was as false as Marlow telling Kurtz’s
betrothed that Kurtz’s last words were her name.
“OK, that’s enough of that,” I said, calling
bullshit. “What did you really think about?”
“I think about you,” she said. “And I think about cock. I think about a lot of cock.”
“That’s it?”
“And pussy.”
I gave up there knowing that the
litany of licentious thoughts could go on endlessly. I sat silently and she mistook my silence for
judgment.
“You don’t know
what it’s like to be me!” she blurted out defensively.
“Oh yeah, you’ve
got it so hard,” I said sarcastically.
“I wish,” she said
even more sarcastically as she lifted up my flaccid member in her hand.
“You know,” I said, “your porn persona and your
personality are not consistent.”
“What are you talking about?”
“All those people out there thinking you’re a
nymphomaniac, thinking that I am so inundated with your pussy that I barely can
find a moment’s peace, yet the reality is that you denied me just now.”
“There’s no inconsistency.”
“How not?”
“Because I know you’re going to write about this and
so it will be part of my porn persona.”
It
was Mother’s Day and Lo was bent over the bed, looking at her phone. Her red dress was flipped up and over her
hips, exposing her ass and lovely pussy lips.
I mounted her and she told me the following story:
‘Fuck!’ I
heard her call from the bathroom. A few
moments later, ‘God damnit!’ I was nervous.
I was
feeding the little one in his high chair and the other two were watching
TV.
‘Can I
help?’ I asked through the closed door.
‘Yes,’ I
heard after a moment. ‘Lola can you come
in here?’
I slowly
opened the bathroom door to find her, the mom whose kids I’d be babysitting
that night, struggling with her manual breast pump, trying to express some milk
for the baby. Her long green gown was
folded down over her hips, leaving her torso completely exposed. She was clearly stressed.
‘Lo,’ she
said, ‘I can’t get this damn thing to work.
It’s not sealing properly around my nipple or something. I know this is awkward, but can you. . .’ She didn’t finish her sentence. She thought of how to say it. And then she just came out with it. ‘Can you hold the bottle for me over my
nipple?’
I wasn’t
one to say no to her, ever. I walked up
to her. She unscrewed the suction cup
top of the bottle off and passed the container to me. I held it up to her breast, shyly at
first. She used one hand to pull on her
long nipple and then she used both hands to gently squeeze her breast. It was awkward, to say the least, with me
standing in front of her half-naked body as she milked herself.
She looked
right at me and said, ‘Thank you. I’m
already late and that thing is so cumbersome to use.’
‘No
problem,’ I said, smiling foolishly. I
had a crush on her since the day I met her.
She had frequently gotten naked in front of me, as if it was no big
deal. But now she was taking things to a
different level. I looked at her big,
full breasts and I almost leaned in to suck them myself.
The bottle
was about half full and she said, ‘My fingers are cramping from this. Would you mind?’
What?! She wanted me to milk her?! Would I
mind? Nothing would make me happier at
that moment, except, as I said, sucking her tits myself.
I got
behind her and she held the bottle to her other breast. I gently squeezed with both hands. She used one hand to pull on her nipple and
get the milk flowing. Soon I was
expressing her like a pro, squirting it out into the jar. She was so full, so ready.
She said, ‘Oh,
God that feels good,’ in a way that sounded like I was making her cum. She added, ‘You have no idea how painful it
can be to skip a feeding. It just has to
come out.’
It was all
over way too quickly. She dried off her
nipples. A task I would have happily
done with my mouth. And then she put on
her special bra and I helped her with her dress, zipping her up from the
back.
‘Thank you,
Lo,’ she said as she put the nipple on the top of the bottle. ‘Hopefully that will be enough for tonight.’
As
Lo told me this story, she was looking at various videos of lactating women and
I was going at her from behind. She had
never before told me her kink for lactation, but I was very, very glad to hear
it.
Lo
got me up from my slumber. Well, part of
me was already up since she wouldn’t let me climax earlier in the night. She had been switching off watching episodes
of “Gilmore Girls” and MILF porn since I had nodded off. Now she was ready for a second helping and
she had been coaxing my cock to an upright and locked position prior to my
regaining consciousness.
“Daddy,”
she whispered sweetly, leaning over so take my meat in her mouth.
“Yes
Lo?”
“Can
I tell you what I was thinking about?”
“What’s
that, Lo?”
She
took a few more licks and then she lay down next to me, her fingers stroking
between her legs. That’s when she told
me what she had been viewing.
“I
imagine,” she began, “Jess and Dean arrive at Lorelai’s house at the same time,
each thinking that he’s going on a date with Rory. When they meet on the porch, each carrying a
bouquet of flowers, they stare each other down and then exchange some snide
words. Rory hears the voices and comes
to the door.” At this point, Lo began
acting out the scene. A little known
talent of Lo’s is that she’s a great actor, just not in front of an
audience.
Rory
– What is going on?!
Jess
– Why don’t you tell us? I thought we had a date.
Rory
– You and Dean?
Dean
– This is no time for jokes, Rory. You
and I had a date tonight.
Rory
– Wait here.
Rory
runs upstairs to Lorelai.
Rory
– I’ve got a problem that makes Elizabeth Bennet look positively quaint.
Lorelai
– Really Rory? I can’t find my coffee
maker. And you think you got troubles.
Rory
– You’re looking in your bedroom. Did
you try the kitchen?
Lorelai
– Of course I tried the kitchen. That’s
why I’m in the bedroom.
Rory
– Did you bring coffee to bed?
Lorelai
– Maaaaaybeeee.
Rory
– Why don’t you just go to Luke’s and get his coffee?
Lorelai
– And bring him to bed?
Rory – No! Anyway, can you help me or not?
Lorelai
– Not until I have my coffee.
Rory
– (Sitting down on a pile of laundry.
She picks up dirty panties and a bra and discovers a coffee maker.) Here!
Lorelai
– You are destined for Harvard!
They
walk downstairs.
Rori
– . . . and so I guess I told both of them I’d go out with them tonight.
Lorelai
– Nothing wrong with a ménage à
trois.
Rori
– Mom!
Lorelai
– What? I’m just saying, if it’s good
enough for Lou Salomé, it’s good enough
for you.
Rori
– Her name was Lou Salomé, but you know
everyone called her Loose.
Lorelai – Rory! You know I’ve taught you not to slut-shame!
Rori – Can we get back to the. . .
Suddenly they hear thuds from the porch. They run to the front door. Jess and Dean are throwing punches and
wrestling. Lorelai separates them by
getting between them.
Lorelai – Hey! Hey!
Hey! Calm down!
Both of the boys are roughed up and Jess is bleeding
from the nose and Dean has a black eye.
Rori runs to get a towel and ice.
She returns and gives the ice to Dean and applies to the towel to Jess’
nose.
Dean – Oh, so you take care of him and just give me
a cold sack of ice?!
Rori – He’s bleeding!
Dean – And I have a black eye!
Jess – And I’ll give you another.
Dean – Oh yeah?
Lorelai holds down Dean while Rory holds down
Jess.
Rory – I’ve had enough of both of you!
Rory runs off into the night.
Lorelai and the boys go inside the house and they
sit in the kitchen while Lorelai brews coffee.
Lorelai – I can’t believe you two. You act like cavemen. Don’t you know how to treat a woman?
Jess – [Ashamed.]
No. My mom was never around.
Lorelai – Oh yeah.
I forgot sweetheart. [She puts
her hands through his hair.]
Dean – I was just. . . well, I guess I just am so
damn jealous.
Lorelai – It’s not jealousy, Dean, it’s
hormones. You’re all backed up with
testosterone. When’s the last time you
jacked it?
Dean – Wwwwwwhat?
Lorelai – You know: chocked the chicken, spanked the
monkey, beat the meat.
Dean – I, I, I. . .
Lorelai – You see, you’re just too uptight. You have to learn to relax a little bit. [She runs her hand down his chest to his
crotch.] Look, I think I know how we can
find a way for the two of you to work together.
Follow me.
The three of them go up to the bedroom. Lorelai strips naked and pulls down their
jeans. She positions Jess in front of
her and Dean behind her and bends over.
The two of them are going at it with her and she’s about to cum when in
walks Luke.
Luke – What the hell is going on here?!
Lorelai – [With a mouth full of Jess’ cock.] I can explain.
Luke – Explain?!
Rory said you’d probably need me to break up a fight and make some
coffee.
At that point Lorelai positions Jess below her so
his cock is in her puss with Dean’s.
Lorelai – Come here, Luke. If you’re hung anything like Jess, then – I
never thought I’d say this – the coffee can wait.
When Lo was done acting all this
out, she pulled out her two dildos, putting both in her puss and taking me in
her mouth, going at me like never before.
I finally came deep in her throat and she came in convulsions that shot
out the two dildos followed by a cascade of girly juice.
“Holy shit!” she said.
“Holy shit is right,” I said. “You deserve an Academy Award for best
writing, direction, acting, and best picture.”
My
good friend John from Seattle and his three sons (ages twelve through eighteen)
came over to visit while they had winter break.
They were in our town looking at colleges for the oldest and enjoying a
bit of vacation – skiing, museums, historical sites. I hadn’t seen John for a couple of years and
I was glad that, instead of booking a hotel, he asked to stay with us for the
four days they were here. I suppose I
should have known, however, that having all that testosterone under one roof
would drive Lo wild.
It’s
hard to keep Lo’s libido under wraps in the best of circumstances, but fill the
house with four male guests, three of whom need to sleep in the living room,
and, well, keep on reading.
One of the days that John and the boys were visiting, Lola came home from teaching her night class at the local community college where she has been guest lecturing on sex and sexuality in the Woman’s Studies department. She walked in the door in her knee-high black leather boots with the tall heels and her hip-hugging tight red dress. She looked. . . voluptuous. She said a quick hello and then grabbed a glass of Cabernet and joined us in the living room where the boys were sitting, playing games or texting on their smart phones or iPads, and John and I were quietly talking.
“I’m
so disgusted!” Lo began.
“What? What happened? Did class not go well?” I inquired.
“I
know it sounds ridiculous for a woman in her twenties to say it, but honestly,
kids these days!”
“What
happened?” asked John.
The boys turned their attention to Lo. Or, rather, they had looked up from their blue-glowing technology the moment Lo walked in the door and now Lo had their rapt attention. She sat on the couch and said, “Not that many years ago, when I was an undergrad, I wouldn’t have even thought of texting during class. I mean, yes, I would be on my laptop and not always taking notes, but isn’t it a sign of disrespect to openly text during a class?”
“Don’t
you have a policy against it or something?” I asked.
“Yes,
of course I do! But these two guys in
the front row – they are on their phones the whole time. They’re texting and even passing their phones
back-and-forth between them. I’ve said
something to them privately. I’ve called
them out before the whole class. Now I’m
done. I’ll just fail them.”
“It
would suck to fail at sex,” John quipped.
“You
teach about sex?” asked his middle boy.
“It’s
more than just sex – it’s about consent, the media, law, intersectionality,” Lo
began, but she lost his attention after the word sex.
We
talked a bit more and then the boys asked if they could watch some TV. To my great surprise, they wanted to watch
“Gilmore Girls” on Netflix.
“Really?”
I asked. “That show was popular like
twenty years ago.”
“Let’s
be real, it never was popular,” said Lo.
“You
used to watch it?” I asked.
“On
occasion.”
“So
why do you boys want to see it? Isn’t it
like a chick-lit show?”
“HH,
you’re so gender-conforming. Not
everything breaks down easily along gender-roles,” said Lo sarcastically, with
a hint of irony in her eyes as she spoke to me.
“Why
don’t you let the boys answer?” I shot back.
“Haven’t
you heard,” asked one of them, “they’re bringing ‘Gilmore Girls’ back.”
“What?”
I asked.
“Yeah,
like ‘Arrested Development’ and ‘The X-Files,’ it’s making a comeback on
Netflix.”
“Oh.”
I said, learning something new, “but that doesn’t explain the appeal to you,” I
said to the boys.
“It’s
a good show,” they said as they clicked it on.
“Watch and you’ll see.”
We
watched a couple of episodes together as we ate some Chinese food we had had
delivered.
Around
midnight we went to bed and, in the bedroom, Lo removed her tight red dress
revealing that all she had on under it was her bra.
“No
panties?” I asked.
“I
can’t take the chance of panty-lines in this dress – not with a room full of
students watching my every move.”
“Don’t
you think that that can be a bit distracting?”
“What
do you mean?” she asked as she slipped out of her bra and stood naked, looking
at herself in the mirror.
“You
know what I mean. You’re just fishing
for a compliment.”
She
batted her eyelashes at me and asked, “Aren’t I just the sort of bait that
would lure compliments?”
“That
you are.”
“Well,
what are you waiting for?”
“Don’t
you think that the class will be studying your every curve if you wear dresses
like that?”
“Like
what?”
“Let’s
just say that a dress like that on a body like yours should be enough to
distract anyone from their phones.”
“I
have no idea what you mean,” she said disingenuously.
“Haven’t
you ever read ‘The Scarlet Letter’?”
“Yes.”
“Well,
that’s The Scarlet Letter of dresses my dear.”
“So,
you give my dress an ‘A’?”
“Ugh.”
“What
do you think of me without my dress?”
“Can’t
you tell?” I asked, displaying for her my member standing at attention.
“Though
your sign language is easy enough to interpret, tell me. I like your words.”
“I
think your breasts look pretty and perky.”
“Go
on,” she said as she pulled and twisted her nipples, running her fingers over
them to make them even more erect.
“And
your shoulders are incredibly strong and sexy.”
“More.”
This
went on for some time with me complimenting the small of her back, her smooth
legs, her elegant feet. Then she said,
“You haven’t even mentioned my butt. I
mean, even I want my butt. If I could be with me, I would fuck my
butt.”
Finally
she got into bed and said, “Don’t you want to fuck my butt?”
“That
I do!”
I
got behind her as she was on all fours and she licked her finger and ran it
round her special spot as if pointing out the target. “Go ahead, Daddio, but be slow and gentle.”
As
I began to penetrate her, she moaned aloud.
“Lo,
shhhh. We have guests.”
I
ran it in deeper. She moaned louder and
said, “Gentle!”
“Right. Now Shhhh.”
I
lodged myself deep inside her extremely tight spot and she said, “Stay right
there. Does it feel good?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now let me do the work.”
I
remained still as she lunged forward and back, slowly at first, but increasing
in speed like a locomotive beginning to pull away from the station.
“You
know, Lo,” I whispered, “I have a distinct image in my mind.”
“And
what’s that?” she said as she was slowly churning away.
“Those
two boys sitting in the front row of your class, showing each other the texts
on their phones that you told us about. . .”
“Yeah?”
“I
like to think that they found your photos on the internet and now they’re
looking at them as you teach.”
“RED!”
she said, referring to our fantasy rule of The Raunchy Game. Red means, nope, you just crossed a
line. “That’s my worst nightmare,” she
said, “stop right there.”
Despite
her words, I could feel her orgasm beginning to surface. Not wanting to lose the moment, I said,
“Well, I can also imagine them sitting in the front row surreptitiously taking
your picture with their phones or their computers or something and then saving
the pics for later and jacking off to them in their dorm room.”
Lo
was coaxing the orgasm and sliding on-and-off my cock, forward-and-back. “Yessss,” she moaned. “Do you think they jack off to the pics
together?”
“I
wouldn’t doubt it,” I said. “I bet they
do it every night after class.”
“My picture’s
worth a thousand orgasms,” she said as she came, quite loudly.
When she was done,
the two of us were lying on our backs looking up into the darkness of the
room. “Can I ask you a weird question?”
I asked.
“I love your weird
questions.”
“When we were
watching ‘Gilmore Girls’ tonight, did you sense something odd about it?”
“Besides the fact
that it’s always Friday, the town has
five people that live in it, Emily and Richard Gilmore are cliché cutouts of
‘rich people’ and that every problem on the show is a privileged white-person
problem?”
“Yeah, besides all
that.”
“Like what?”
“Well, Rory has
these two boyfriends, Jess and Dean, and what are they? – sixteen, seventeen?”
“I guess,” she
answered, lying on her back, her eyes closed.
“And each of them
keeps ending up in scenes alone with her mother, Lorelai, who’s all of
thirty-two.”
“What are you
saying?” Lo asked, her fingers clearly moving up and down under the covers
between her legs.
“I’m saying that I
think there’s some subtext going on.”
“Fuck me and tell
me,” she insisted, spreading her legs as she lay on her back.
I got between her
wet thighs and entered her. I held her
tightly and whispered, “Lorelai was a MILF before that term was invented.”
Never one to miss
an opportunity to correct me, she said, “Darling, I think MILF was invented
then. You just hadn’t heard about it until much later.”
“Whatever,” I
said, “the point is, that’s exactly what she’s supposed to be and then these
strapping young men have all these one-on-one scenes with her in the house,
alone. Don’t you think they’re
suggesting something?”
“I’d like to see
that play out,” she said as her breath quickened. “When I reach my thirties, I hope I’m a
MILF.”
“Darling, you
don’t have kids and you’re already a NILF.
A nymphomaniac that I’d. . .”
“Do you think
that’s how they see me?” she asked, ambiguous as to whom she meant, but it
didn’t matter, she was already cumming.
Successful in my
duty, I gave myself permission to climax with her, but, sensing my imminent
orgasm, she said, “No! Don’t cum!” She insisted that I save it just as I was
about to reach the pinnacle of my performance.
I
kept on keeping on in her.
“I
said no!” she yelled, pulling her body away.
“What
the fuck?!” I said in an angry whisper, very frustrated, very aggrieved. Whereas I am frequently all for edging,
keeping my Chi to myself, sometimes I need a release and releasing in Lo is the
best release.
I
turned over, lay flat on my back on the bed, tried to catch my breath as Lo,
who had already cum twice, grabbed my member, licked it clean, and then kissed
her way up to my mouth.
“Why
can’t I cum?” I asked.
“Don’t
you know by now?”
“No.”
“I
like you to stay hard because you never know when I’m going to need your dick
again.”
“Oh,
I know all right.”
“You
do?”
“Yes. You always need it.”
“That’s
true. So, keep it cocked and ready so
that it is fully loaded at a moment’s notice.”
Sure
enough, she needed it again later that night.
She woke me from a sound sleep as she was watching some MILF porn on her
phone.
“Why
don’t you just jack it like a real man?” she complained.
“Because
I prefer fucking your flapper to fucking my fist,” I responded.
“But
Daddy,” she said, in a nicer tone now, “don’t you know that I find it hot to see a man masturbating?”
“Any
man, masturbating to anything, or certain men, masturbating to you?”
“I
prefer men to masturbate to me, but seeing any man masturbating to anything
still turns me on,” she said as she was rubbing her puss under the covers. “Please, Daddy, just stoke it for me, over
me, to me.”
“Maybe
I’ll just get my Stoya Fleshlight,” I said, trying to arouse her jealousy so
she’d give herself over to me completely.
“No! If you do, I’ll get out my horse cock dildo
and my Hitachi!”
“That
sounds fair. . . and fun!”
“No,”
she said, “I want you to use your hand and I’ll finger-fuck my holes.”
“Fine,”
I said, more willing to concede due to the prospect of watching her. I pulled down the covers, got between her
legs, grabbed my hard member, and pulled at it for her to see.
“That’s
it Daddio,” she said as she spread her legs wide, began inserting the fingers
of her right hand into her puss and slid her left hand around from underneath
her ass to penetrate her posterior place.
“Did
you make every man you were with masturbate for you?”
“I
didn’t have to make them,” she said.
“They volunteered.”
“Tell
me about it.”
“There
are so many. Which one?”
“Tell
me about Teddy.”
Teddy
was her fuck-buddy in college. A tall, lean,
basketball player with an enormous cock.
“I’d
lie in his dorm room bed and he’d stand over me with his huge black cock right
over my face. It was as long as my
entire head. He’d drop his balls in into
my mouth and grab his rod with both hands.
Both hands!” she said with emphasis.
“He’d stoke it over me as I lay naked on the bed and then, when he came,
he shot all the way down to my knees and covered me with his hot jizz up to my
chin.”
I
could tell that as she told me this story, she was on the verge of climaxing
herself. But she held back.
“Tell
me about Gerald.”
Gerald
was also a college fuck friend. The
opposite of Teddy in every way, except Gerald was also an athlete – a
bodybuilder whose bulging biceps attracted Lo until she found that he had a
micropenis.
“He
was so self-conscious about his size that, no matter how much I wanted to take
him in my mouth, he was resistant. My
natural attraction for women made the prospect of licking that little clit so
appealing, especially since he shaved it and his balls clean. He wore a teensy-tiny speedo when he worked
out. It was like he was wearing panties. I wanted to pleasure him with my lips and
tongue all the time, since I obviously didn’t feel him in either of my holes,”
she said as she fingered both of her holes more deeply.
“Did
he jack it for you?”
“It
was the only way he could cum. He’d pull
that little pimple with his thumb and index finger as he stood over me, just
like Teddy did, and then he’d ejaculate all over my face. It was the only way he could feel dominant.”
“How
often did he do that?”
“Countless
times. It always left me unsatisfied,
but I liked it nonetheless.”
“You
never met a cock you didn’t like.”
“Don’t
stop,” she said, looking at my cock as my stroking slowed. I pulled harder, longer, faster. “That’s it,” she said. Her whole hand was almost fully submerged in
her pussy and two fingers were going at her perineum.
“Tell
me about Tim,” I said. Tim was her beau
before college and, since he was older and Lo significantly younger, sex with
Lo was off-limits for him. That didn’t
mean that Lo didn’t try. Lo always finds
a way.
“He’s
probably the one responsible for my male masturbation mania. The only way he got off was by
masturbating. I would be fully clothed
and saying sexy, naughty, dirty things to him like I’m doing for you right now,
and he would jack it until he came.”
“Where’d
he cum? On your face?”
“No. He’d cum into my hands. I’d hold them out like I was receiving an
offering and then I’d lick them clean like a kitten licking a bowl of
milk. He loved that.”
That
was too much for her. She came and came
hard. Her pussy and sphincter clutching
and contracting on her deeply driven digits before eventually dilating
again. When she recovered, she looked at
me and said, “You didn’t cum.”
“No.”
“That’s
not fair, Daddy.”
“I
don’t think so either,” I said. “Why don’t
you give me a hand-job?”
“Because
I’m going to fall asleep now,” she said.
“That’s
fine, just position your left hand like you’re giving the ‘OK’ sign, and I’ll
do the rest.”
She
complied. I lay next to her and inserted
my cock. She said, “You’re just using me
as a sex object.”
I
didn’t know what to say to that, but luckily she followed up the comment with,
“And I like it. It’s so soothing.”
Reviewing
in my mind’s eye the stories she told, looking at her naked body next to me, I
came and came hard all over her. She had
drifted off to sleep. I grabbed a
washcloth, wet it with warm water, and gently cleaned her off. I kissed her mouth good night and lay next to
her thinking about what a good bad girl she is.
The
next morning I awoke to find her face bobbing up and down on my erect shaft.
“Lo?”
I asked.
She
popped off of my knob and said, “I’m sorry you didn’t cum last night,
Daddy. Let me make it up to you.”
I
didn’t disabuse her of that belief until after she accomplished her mission. When I did, she just said, “You dirty dog!”
“What?”
I asked, innocently. “You told me last
night you wanted me to cum. Was that
just lip service?”
