It was one of
those strange April nights when the temperature drops twenty degrees from the daytime
high of 68, the wind rustles up the new buds on the trees outside, and from out
of the darkness, lighting, thunder, and downpours fill the sky. Lola couldn’t sleep. When I got to bed she said, “I’ve tried
everything. I’ve tried meditation,
masturbation, guided meditation, guided masturbation. . .”
“Wait. What is ‘guided masturbation’?”
“Oh,
well, I called up a friend and asked him to tell me how he wants me to
masturbate,” she said as if it were no big deal.
“You
did?”
She
nodded her head in affirmation and pouted saying, “But it didn’t help.”
“I
bet it helped him. Why didn’t you call
me?”
“You
were working hard, Daddy.”
“So?”
I asked, frustrated by the thought that she’d rather hear inappropriate
instructions from one of her suitors than from me.
“Are
you still hard at work?” she asked seductively, rubbing my crotch to gauge my
state of arousal.
“Work
hard, play hard,” I said, as I pulled out my manhood for her to see.
She grabbed it while licking her
lips.
“You
know I’m not just a sex organ,” I said.
“I
think your brain is a sex organ,” she replied as she went down on me.
“In
that case, I have a very large sex organ.”
She
interrupted her activity to look up at me and say, “And growing larger.”
“I’m
not that big,” I said.
“I
meant your ego.”
“I’ll
have you know, I’m very humble.”
“Looks
to me, you have a lot to be humble about,” she said caustically.
“What
do you mean?”
She
pulled down the sheets to reveal her huge horse-cock dildo on the bed next to
her, still glistening.
“I’m
so big, wide, and wet that I wouldn’t feel any bit of you.”
“Care
to test that hypothesis?”
“I’m stretched to my
limit.”
“You have a limit? That’s news to me!”
“‘Limit’ is a flexible term. Like ‘full’ or ‘fucked.’”
“Oh, so it’s elastic?”
“Yeah, it can be used in many
different ways.”
“Depends on who’s using it.”
“Right. It takes a lot of abuse, but it is never
exhausted.”
“Never wears out.”
“Right.”
“Like this terrible pun.”
“What pun?”
“Are we still talking about ‘limit’?”
“I wasn’t, were you?”
“Darling, you certainly do push the
limits.”
“What limits?”
“All of them. But the real question is, why did you call on
some other guy for your ‘guided masturbation’ when you could have called upon
me?”
“So many married men turn to me for
sweet release. I’m a goddess of pussy. I answer to the call of depravity.”
“But you called him!”
“Well, I saw that he had posted a
pic of a cumtribution he had made for another girl and he wrote, ‘For my
beautiful cum slut.’ I called him to
remind him that I am his beautiful
cum slut.”
“You think you’re everyone’s
beautiful cum slut.”
“Well, aren’t I?”
“Everyone but mine, I guess.”
“Oh,
Daddy,” she said, still holding my cock firmly in her hand, “would you make a
cumtribution for me? Would you jack it
to my photos and cum all over them?”
“Lo,
why would I do that when I have you right here, in the flesh?”
“To
show me your unfailing love.”
“Lo,
I write thousands upon thousands of pages of poetry for you, but you’d rather I
grab my masculine member and stroke it until I ejaculate a hot mess over your
image?”
“I
call it giving tribute to my icon.”
“Because
you’re a goddess of pussy.”
“Now
you’re turning me on!”
“Those
are your words.”
“Well,
you feel that way, don’t you?”
“How
could I not, darling. It is the truth.”
“So
you’ll make an offering at my virtual alter?”
“If
you want me to, I will.”
“Now?”
“Whenever
you say.”
“No,
not now. I want you to do it when I’m
away. Now you can enter my holy temple.”
“But
I thought I wouldn’t even feel you.”
“You
won’t and I won’t feel you, but why should that stop us from fucking?”
I
got between her legs and entered her. She
was right – it was like a mere mortal entering the pearly gates. However, that only made it more alluring for
me. She could tell I was getting turned
on.
“Cum inside me,” she said.
“Put your fingers inside you, right where you want me
to cum.”
She inserted almost her whole fist along over my cock
and I could feel her fingering her G-spot.
“There,” she said, “right there.”
I came and came with force all over her fingers. She gripped my cock with her hand inside her
and milked it for every drop.
When I pulled out, she said she was going to clean up. I drifted off on the bed until I heard her
calling out for God from the shower. It
startled me. I navigated the thick cloud
of steam to find her squatting on the shapely bottle of Dove shampoo, rubbing
her clit, and cumming uncontrollably.
(Do they make the bottles that shape for that purpose or did she buy that
brand because of its ergonomic contours?
The questions Lo causes me to ask.)
I disappeared into the fogbank as stealthily as I had
entered it. I went back to the bed. When she climbed in naked next to me, I held
her warm body.
“Just in time,” I said.
“Just in time for what?” she asked.
“Tomorrow is the first of May.”
“Hooray!
Hooray! It’s the first of May!”
she sung, “Outdoor fucking starts today!”
“No, silly,” I said.
“April showers.”
“Oooooh,” she said, “Maybe tomorrow I’ll let you see
my pink flower.”
“Me and the rest of the world.”
“A beautiful flower should not be hidden away to be
seen only by one man.”
“Stop
it. You won’t get me to go by doing
that,” I said as Lo batted her lashes at me, reached for my cock, and rubbed
her hips up against my leg.
“It
will be fun.”
“Fun? Your idea of fun and mine are very
different.”
“I
don’t think so.”
“You
think another wedding will be fun?”
“The
last one was, remember?”
“I
remember – the food was beyond blasé, the music was mediocre, and the people
were piss-poor conversationalists.”
“Oh,
Daddy. Don’t you remember what we did in
the bathroom?”
“That
was its only redeeming feature.”
“I
have a lot of redeeming features,” she said, pulling her breast out of her
blouse.
“You
need a lot of redeeming, darling.”
“Suck
it,” she commanded.
I
bent my head down to her nipple and did as she asked.
“Bite
down.”
I
followed her instruction.
“Harder.”
I
did as she wished.
“Mmmmmm,
that’s it. Make it hurt. Pull it with your teeth.”
I
pulled.
“Let’s
go fuck,” she said, removing her blouse and lifting up her skirt, running down
the hallway. I followed her, but she
stopped me at the door to the bedroom.
“No, wait,” she said, “I have a better idea.”
“A
better idea than fucking?”
“Well,
it involves fucking.”
“I
see. What’s your idea?”
“I’ll
change into the different outfits I might wear to this wedding and you can fuck
me in each of them. At the end, you can
tell me which is the one you want me to wear.”
She
shut the door and when she opened it again she was wearing a little white
blouse and a short skirt and heels. No
panties. She lifted up the skirt and
bent over the bed. “How’s this?” she
asked.
I
entered her from behind and said, “This will do.”
After
she came, she pushed me out. “I have to
try on another outfit. Give a girl some
privacy to change.”
She
shut the door again. When she opened it,
she was wearing a tight blue dress and strappy heels. “Thoughts?” she asked as she lifted up the
dress from behind and bent over the bed.
I
repeated the process again. “I like
this, but not as much as the other. Too
fancy.”
Now
she pushed me away again and she shut the door in my face. When it opened, she was wearing a short red
dress. “This?”
“This
is by far the best!” She looked like a
little harlot and she lifted up the back to show me how ready she was for a
third go-round.
“So
you’ll come?” she asked.
“Yes,”
I said, meaning that I’d cum.
“No,
you’d better not fucking cum on this dress,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m not paying to have this dry-cleaned. I mean, you’ll come to the wedding.”
“Yes
dear,” I said reluctantly, “You know you always get your way.”
“Don’t
you like my way?” she asked as she slammed her ass into my hips again and again
and reached back with her right hand to massage her perineum.
“Your
way is the best,” I said, pulling out and telling her to get on her knees as I
came into her mouth and she hungrily devoured me.
My
reluctance to go was twofold. First, I
simply detest weddings. Call me a
curmudgeon, call me jaded, call me a stick-in-the-mud, but if you’re getting
married, don’t call me. Second, I found
it particularly challenging to be happy for the “happy” couple, knowing full
well that they really weren’t happy together but rather, felt this to be the
next logical step in their relationship.
Relationships based on logic are not relationships based on love. Logic has its own sort of force, but not the
mystical force exerted by love.
However,
countering these two weighty reasons for declining our invitation were two
weightier reasons to concede to the social obligation: an open bar and the
prospect of seeing Lo on the dance floor in that red dress. If two people are fool enough to get engaged
and ultimately get married, if those same two people are fool enough to invite
me to their party and supply free food and adult beverages all night, really,
who am I to stand in the way of my happiness?
So
I went. This was no conventional wedding
and thank God for that! It was not at
some swanky hotel or a low-budget VFW hall.
It was being held at a mountaintop private residence. As such, the bride and groom were welcome to
use the grounds, but not the dwelling. A
big-top tent was rented and set up and, as accommodations for the guests, we
were welcome to pitch our own tents in order to avoid the treacherous hair-pin
curves of the dirt road back down into the valley at night.
Lo
and I arrived around noon and, though we thought we were early, to our surprise
we found that the pre-nuptial festivities were already in full swing. Beer kegs were strategically placed around
the expansive lawn, games of Frisbee, croquet, and bocce were being
played. We mingled, took some pics of
the vista overlooking the river basin below, and we drank and had lunch before
setting up camp.
By
two o’clock a sprawling tent city was emerging and we were lucky enough to find
a level spot on some soft grass right at the corner of this temporary
village. As we unpacked the tent and the
air mattress, a young couple pulled up in their Subaru Outback and began
setting up their tent next door to ours.
Everyone was in a jubilant mood and the fella turned to me and said,
“Not a lot of space here for all of us.”
“No,”
I replied, neighborly.
“We’re
practically right on top of one another,” he remarked. It was true, there was so little room between
tents that we couldn’t even spread the lines to tether down the tent with the
stakes.
“I
wouldn’t mind being right on top of him,” Lo said under her breath to me. I saw her lick her lips as she watched him
nimbly unpack the suitcases from the car into their tent.
“I
hope you two don’t mind,” he practically called out to us, “but we’re planning
on trying to make a baby tonight.”
I
had no idea what the neighborly thing to respond was, so I just looked
dumbfounded until his wife yelled at him, “What did you just say?”
“I
said, we are hoping to make a baby tonight.”
“Oh
my God,” she said, “You have to excuse him, he’s a redneck country boy,” she
said apologetically. “You keep your
mouth shut and just set up the tent,” she called to her husband.
“What?”
he asked, “I’m just giving them fair warning.”
She
was an attractive brunette, in her mid-thirties I’d guess, and clearly in love
with the somewhat dim-witted, yet well-intentioned beau of hers.
The
two of them made some small talk with us as we put the finishing touches on our
new homes – asking how we knew the bride or the groom, where we were from,
etc. At one point he turned to me and
said, in confidence, “How old are you?”
“How
old do you think I am?” I asked back.
“I’d
say at least forty-five,” he said, being honest, though not necessarily polite.
“Well,
you’re in the ballpark, if you add about five or so years.”
“And
what about her?” he asked, nodding over to Lo.
“What
do you think?” I said, turning it back to him.
“Twenty,
twenty-two maybe.”
“Again,
you’re close,” I said.
“You
lucky dawg!” he said, slapping my back with a big smile.
Soon they and we
went our separate ways. There must have
been at least two hundred guests attending this affair and so we didn’t
actually see them again that evening. I
told Lo about his untoward questions and remarks and she smiled, contentedly,
while her words denounced his lack of couth.
The
rest of the day and night went much as you’d expect – cocktails were served
along with hors d’oeuvres. As the sun
was getting low making for the perfect romantic lighting, the bride and groom
were escorted down the grassy out-door isle to the perfect spot with a backdrop
of mountains descending toward the horizon in the distance. The speeches were made, the vows were
exchanged, the public display of affection put on for the guests. I, for my part, held back my applause,
reserving judgment for later years.
The
band came out and dancing under the stars and in the tent commenced along with
copious amounts of alcohol being consumed.
Perhaps as a result of the fresh air or all the dancing, the effects of
the alcohol upon me were negligible in comparison with what I ingested.
The
stars were bright, the air was warm with a slight breeze, and music was wafting
over the grounds. Lo was happy to be
dancing in my arms and before too long she pulled me aside and said, “Daddy,
let’s go to the tent.” It wasn’t so
early; already some couples had made their exits. But the party was still at critical
mass.
Nevertheless,
Lo and I led each other through the ever darkening expanse of land to the tent
city where, after taking a moment for our eyes to adjust, we figured out which
tent was ours. In through the zipper
door we climbed, out of our party attire we slipped, and into each other’s arms
we sprung.
Tents
are never ideal places for frolics in bed – firstly, because there is no bed
per se. Secondly, because open sleeping
bags slip and slide and bunch up and disappear in the darkness. Be that as it may, we found a way to make it
work.
We
were lying on top of one of the sleeping bags and under the other one. We were spooning. My arms were wrapped around her naked body
and her round bum was pressed up against my pelvis. She could feel my manhood growing hard. My hands groped her breasts. Her tush pushed harder on my hardness. She reached behind her and began stroking
it. She pointed it at her target and it
slid right in.
“Do
I feel tight or loose?”
“Tight.”
“Wet?”
“Very.”
“Do
you like?” she asked as I protruded deeper into her.
When
we were done, we turned on the flashlight to remake the “bed” (air mattress)
and cuddle up next to each other – big and little spoon – for warmth, though
the air had only cooled a little and we hoped that no one heard our kinky taboo
sweet nothings.
Only
a few minutes had passed before we heard our neighbors unzip their tent and
clumsily get into bed. They must have
set up their interior so that their heads were right by ours, because we could
hear every word they whispered.
“Shhh,
Sam, you’ll wake everyone up,” she said.
“No
one’s around,” said Sam.
“Yes
they are,” she whispered back. “I just
saw the light go out in their tent when we were walking here.”
“Then
they’re not asleep.”
“Shhhh,”
she said back.
There
was some rustling and movement and then we heard some giggles on her part
followed by a zipping sound (the sleeping bag) and some more rustling. Lo was kissing me when we heard her moan. It didn’t take long before they had worked
themselves into a rhythmic slip-sliding sound and we could hear the heavy
breathing. Lo reached down and grabbed
my hardening cock. We heard the wife
moan and it sounded like she was in bed with us.
Lo
got on all fours, her head facing the neighbors’ tent, and she nudged me to get
behind her. As I entered her, she also
moaned. We heard the rhythm of the
neighbors stop cold for a second and then, when Lo moaned again, it picked
up.
I
was very self-conscious and I could hear my hips slapping up against Lo’s ass
as Lo began to breath more heavily. Soon
she was whispering, “Yes, yes.” We heard
the neighbor wife call, “Fuck, that feels good.
Harder, Sam.”
That
just spurred Lo on to be louder with her, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” in
time with my thrusts.
Now
it was feeling like a competition – who could go longer, who would be louder. It was odd, there in the darkness, as if we
were in the same room, yet not. The
simultaneous orgy and privacy was getting us very worked up and I think Lo
wasn’t able to control it any longer – she started crying out, “Fuck, I’m
cumming. Fuck! Deeper!
Hold it. Hold. It.
Stay. Right. There.”
As
she did so, our female neighbor began growling through her grit teeth. She was cumming too and it was an angry,
intense orgasm.
When
we were all done and lying down, I’m not sure who started it but there was
giggling and soon we were all giggling before Lo said, “Good night,” to our
neighbors and they responded with a very warm, “Sleep tight!”
“Whatcha
doin’?” I asked when I saw Lo on the bed, a book in her left hand, her right
hand under the covers, between her legs.
Her
right hand quickly withdrew and her legs snapped together as she looked up,
blushing, and said, “Nothing!”
“Looks
like you’re reading a book and masturbating.”
“Yeah,
so?” she replied belligerently.
“So,
I like that.”
“Well,
it wasn’t meant for you.”
“Why
so defensive?” I inquired as I sat on the bed next to her and looked at what
she was reading. It was Game of Thrones.
“I’m
sorry, Daddy,” she said, her tone completely changed. “I was just reading this and. . . you
startled me. That’s all.”
“What
was it you were reading?”
“Pull
down your pants, get on your back, and I’ll tell you.”
I
followed her instructions immediately.
She climbed on me, lowered herself on my erect rod, and let out a soft
moan. She was very wet and I glided in
with ease. When she was comfortable, she
said, “I was just reading a passage in the book where one of the women learns
to ride a horse. She mounts it slowly
because she’s afraid,” she said as she slowly slid down on my cock, and then
back up again. “But she gradually gains
confidence in the saddle. The horse
moves faster and she finds it exciting.
Eventually the horse breaks into a trot as all the men watch her ride
it. She rides with her husband and then
the two of them are together and. . .”
She trailed off as she began to undulate on me.
Nipple Pull
“Is
that all?” I asked.
“Pull
my nipples and twist. Hard.”
I
did as she commanded.
“Harder!”
she said.
I
was practically pulling them down to her navel as I twisted.
“She and her
husband find a place to lie down and he pinches her nipples and pulls on them, just
like you’re doing.” She came.
She
lifted her gushing puss up off my soaked spear and lay on her back. “Have me again and I’ll tell you more.”
Fap. Jill.
Vibe. Flick the bean. Solo time.
T.C.B.
However
you call it, Lo does it. And she does it
more than any woman I’ve ever met and more than most women whose rumored
self-pleasure sessions have reached my ears.
That
said, it came as no surprise to me when I heard. . . well, just sit down, get
comfortable, and I’ll tell you.
Lo had gone on her date. I was home, alone. At least she had had the courtesy to jack me off before leaving. But what to do with my time? You see, dear compassionate reader, when Lo goes off like that, it puts me in the greatest state of tension and anticipation. If only I could be there on all of her dates, sitting at the bar, watching from afar.
But
Lo needs, deserves, and wants her space.
I get that. And, to be fair, the
eager expectation is more than half the fun.
The other half is hearing her tell the tale to me in bed.
Still,
that gap between her departure and arrival must be filled. A hard, very hard task.
I
can’t just go out with friends. My mind
would be preoccupied. And what if I
missed Lo’s return?
Reading
is futile. My every wandering thought is
of Lo, and the thoughts wonder frequently, just like Lo.
Writing? Well, sometimes that is a good pastime.
But
on this occasion I got up to some mischief.
You,
my faithful reader, are well aware from long ago that Lo is insanely
jealous. Not just of my attention, not
just of other women, but of literally anyone who might remotely rival her in my
eyes. Hence, she was frequently frowning
upon my watching Weeds, and
especially Mary-Louise Parker, whose character, Nancy Botwin, not only
intrigued me, but reminded me of Lo in a number of ways.
Mary Louise ParkerFrankie Shaw fapping to MySexLifeWithLola – Can you believe it?!
Somehow,
during Lo’s late night adventures most likely, I managed to get through all the
episodes of that series. And for a good
long time, nothing replaced it. . .
.
. . until SMILF came along with its
very Lo-like star, Frankie Shaw.
Frankie Shaw of SMILF – Lola’s Fantasy
Lo
and I had watched the first episode together, but when Frankie got down and
dirty, Lo hit the power button and said, “Nope.
No more for you.”
“But.
. .” I tried to protest.
“But
nothing. If you’re getting hard
watching, then I’m shutting it off and you and I can go to the bedroom and get
fucking.” And that’s just what we did.
Now
that Lo was out, and most likely getting fucking with someone else, the image
of Frankie Shaw on the “recently watched” option of the T.V. menu was calling
to me and I thought, “This is ridiculous.
This is more than a double-standard.
This is cruel and unusual punishment.”
So I hit “Play.”
My
suspicions were borne out; Frankie Shaw is just like Lo. When she frantically scrolls through the
photos on her computer with one hand down her panties, it was a replay of a
vignette I had seen so many times with Lo in the starring role. In my mind, though, Frankie Shaw was fapping
it to mysexlifewithlola.com, scrolling through all the desultory images of Lo
fapping it to who-knows-what – probably to Frankie Shaw, if I’m being honest,
since Lo loves to condemn with me that which she condones privately.
I
only got through another two and a half episodes before I saw the headlights of
a car out front stop and let out a passenger.
It was Lo. I could tell by the
swivel of her hips as she walked. The
T.V. was off before she was in the house.
“Hello,”
she called from the door.
“Hello,”
I called back.
She
peered in the unlit living room.
“Sitting in the dark?”
“It’s
my best light and greatest comfort.”
“Well,
it can be dark in the bedroom too,” she said, walking down the hall, her
leather boots on the wood floor sounding like seductive music to my ears.
I
got up and followed her and said, “You bring the light,” as I turned on the
nightstand lamp to see her. Upon
reflection I added, “You know, that’s where Lucifer gets his name.”
“What?”
she asked, looking at me quizzically.
“Lucifer,
it literally means, ‘carrier of light.’
It is said that he, like Prometheus before him, had stolen the holy
light of God and ferried it to humans.
Artists for millennia have understood that light to be metaphoric for
creative inspiration, not literal light.
That’s what you are, my Lucifer.”
“Well,
get in bed if you want to fuck like the devil.”
I
waisted no time. I hopped under the
sheets as she stood next to the bed looking at herself across the room in the
full-length mirror.
“Good
date?” I inquired.
She
took off her black leather jacket and removed her shirt. No bra.
She was wearing a bra when she left.
It must have been a good date.
She
bent over, took off her boots, and then slid out of her skirt. Still no panties.
Her
naked body eased up next to me and she whispered in my ear. “Did you miss me, Daddy?”
“I
always miss you when you’re gone.”
“Did
you wonder what I was doing?’
“Of
course.”
“What
did you do while I was out?”
“I’m
more interested in what you did,” I
said. (See what I did there?)
“Slide
in me and I’ll tell you,” she said.
As
I complied, she moaned and said, “I missed you, Daddy.”
I
guess I have a type.
I
entered her and, truth be told, all I could feel was how very wet she was. It made me think of the scene from SMILF where Frankie Shaw is having sex
with the tall, big, basketball player, surrounded by all the other guys from
the team, and he says, “Am I in you?”
Just
as I thought that, Lo said, “Can you feel me, Daddy? Am I loose?”
“So
loose,” I said, “Like the opening of a tent flapping in the wind.”
“Well,”
she said, “you don’t have to be so explicit about it.”
“I
wasn’t explicit,” I said, “it was a simile.”
“Here’s
a simile: Get in my ass, it’s just like my pussy, only tighter.”
I
laughed and followed her instruction.
She moaned.
“Your
ass is a vice,” I said. “That’s a
metaphor.”
“I
thought you meant that my ass is a vice, like gambling or liquor,” she said
over her shoulder.
“It’s
that too, and so many other things.”
“Oh
yeah, what else?”
“It’s
the seat of my love for you.”
“Look,
Daddio, I want to get fucked good, hard, long, and hard. I want cock, right now, not poetry, so get up
there and give it to me.”
“You
said hard twice.”
“I
want it twice as hard.”
I
gave her what she wanted and said, “And I want to hear about your date.”
Once
she was good and pumped, she began talking in between gasps for air.
“I
showed up, looking slutty, smelling sweeter than cotton candy, and wetter than
a flower in the rainforest.”
“Who’s
the poet now?” I asked.
“Shut
up and keep pounding.”
“Keep
cumming and carry on,” I said, feeling her gushing.
“He
was a perfect gentleman. He stood when I
approached him.”
“I’m
sure he stood at attention.”
“And
he had saved me a seat at the bar. I sat
down and after he got me my drink, I swiveled toward him and spread my legs so
he could see, very clearly, what I was wearing under my skirt.”
“As
I recall, you weren’t wearing anything.”
“That’s
right, not even a merkin, as you had suggested.”
“I
still think the merkin was the way to go.”
“Maybe
next time, dear, but this time I was quite exposed.”
“Quite
the exposé.”
“But
not quite the big reveal. Not yet
anyway.”
“I’m
listening.”
“Yeah,”
she said, “but not fucking. Deeper
Daddio.”
I
grabbed on to her ass with both hands and spread her as far as she would go for
maximum insertion. She moaned
deeply.
“Don’t
get lost in your orgasm,” I warned, “I’m just as deeply invested in your
story.”
“I
asked him if he felt like eating.”
“The
ambiguity of your question is delicious.”
“He
paid the tab and we walked out of the hotel bar. I thought we were going to go to his car, but
as we were in the lobby, we saw the guests of a wedding filtering into the
ballroom. He stopped me and said, ‘I
have an idea. You look too good not to
show off. Let’s go.’ And then he took me by the hand and we
crashed the wedding party.”
“Very
impulsive.”
“We
danced for a good hour before the food was served. He twirled me and dipped me, sweeping me off
my feet.”
“Giving
great views of your gams, I’m sure.”
“My
what?”
“Never
mind.”
“From
there we went to the hotel room he had ready.”
“Just
for a nightcap.”
“In
the elevator up to the room, he kissed me passionately and his right hand began
going up my skirt.”
“I
bet the elevator wasn’t the only thing going up.”
“In
the hotel room he sat me down in the chair and asked if he could make a
request.”
“What
was that?”
“He
wanted to watch.”
“What?”
“He
wanted to watch me finger myself, with my clothes on. He said that his wife has a fear of fapping. She never does it. And it’s one of his favorite fantasies –
women masturbating.”
“Well,
he found the right woman, alright.”
“That
was no coincidence. He had been reading
the blog for a long time. He tried to
get his wife to read it, to open her up to new ideas.”
“And,
did it?”
“He
said it didn’t. I told him, ‘Well, I’m
wide open.’ That’s when he could resist
no more and he fucked me good, hard, long, and hard.”
“There
you go again,” I said.
“What?”
“You
said hard twice.”
“Well,
he was hard. I was easy.”
I
couldn’t take it any longer and I ejaculated deep inside her.
“Lo,
you are the poet here,” I said as I slowly pulled out. “You pain such vivid images in my mind.”
“And
now that you’ve dipped your pen in my inkwell, I’m sure you’ll write all about
it.”
“How
do I look?” she asked, doing a little twirl on the toes of her shiny black
boots.
“Just
Peachy,” I said.
“Peachy?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re
so old,” she replied. “Do you like the
lipstick? Too much?” she asked as she
puckered up.
“Depends. What do you plan on doing with it?”
“Hopefully
something naughty,” she said as her tongue ran over her pearly whites.
Lo
was all decked out for a date she had with a new gentleman caller. About a half hour earlier she had emerged out
of her steamy shower, silky smooth down below.
She showed me saying, “Hopefully he’ll appreciate this.”
“You
are eager for him to get up your skirt,” I said, nonchalantly, though I was
upset that she wasn’t offering it to me.
“So
eager that I’m not going to wear panties.”
“Why
don’t you shave for me? Only when you’re
going on dates?”
She
walked up to me and made a pouty face, and teased, “Oh, is my ole man jealous?”
“No,”
I said, “Not jealous. But I appreciate a
slick, wet, whistle just as much as the next guy.”
“I
know,” she said condescendingly. “But
don’t you like my muff too?”
“Lo,
I like all of you in every way,” I said, “But maybe you could just keep the
mons pubis polished all the time, especially for when I go down on you.”
“But
Daddy, it’s winter. I might catch a
chill.”
“Wear
a merkin. I hear they’re coming back in style.”
“Funny.”
“I’m
serious. I read an article about
it. It was all the rage for Fashion Week
in New York.”
“Fiddle-dee-dee,”
she said dismissively.
“You
don’t seem to be too worried about catching a chill today,” I observed.
“I
plan to have his warm mouth on my va-jay-jay soon enough,” she retorted.
“Are
you just trying to tease me?” I asked, adding, “Cause you could have my mouth
on it right now.”
She
was applying moisturizer to her tits, tum, and mellifluous legs and puss. “Will you get my back?” she asked, applying
some lotion to my palm and turning around.
I
began to rub it into her shoulders and then down her back. She bent over, exposing her rear. “Get it in good there, cause I want to be
silky sweet for him when he has his face where your hands are now.” I was circling my middle finger around her
anus and she was moaning.
After
a little while of that, she got on the bed, lying on her back, her legs up. I thought for sure this was my
invitation. But no! Instead she said, “Don’t forget my toes. Get right in there.”
I
applied the lotion to her heel, her arches, her toes and between her toes, one
foot at a time. She was almost climaxing
from the sensation. I was hard as a rock
in my slacks and protruding noticeable. I
could see her pussy glistening.
“Do
you plan on giving him a foot-job as well?”
“I
plan on giving him whatever he wants.”
“Lo,
why are you torturing me so much? I’ll
just pull out my cock and you can give me
a foot-job. Think of it as warm-ups or
practice,” I said as I unzipped my pants.
“I’m
already hot. I don’t need warm-ups. And are you saying I need practice?”
“Practice
makes perfect.”
“I
am purrrrrfect,” she said, “or at least so I’m told.”
She
got off the bed and began rummaging through her wardrobe.
“Out!”
she commanded. “You’ll see when I’m
done.”
I
left the room and then, a while later, she appeared in the living room asking
me how she looked. I was starving for a
taste of her. When I said, “Just
peachy,” I was thinking about eating her peach, which now was more like a
nectarine.
She
lifted the hem of her short skirt to show me her bare nectarine. Then she bent over to pick up her purse and
pull out her phone.
“Lo,
the whole world can see how nicely you prepared yourself when you do that
move.”
“That’s
what I was going for.”
I
rolled my eyes.
“You
won’t miss me too much?” she asked.
“Lo,
I’m going to tell you the truth. As soon
as you shut that door, permission or no permission, I’m going to pull out my
Fleshlight and cum so hard into Stoya’s pussy.”
“NO!”
she exclaimed. Horror of horrors.
“But,
I’m so worked up right now. I can think
of nothing else.”
“I’ll
tell you what,” she said, “I just ordered my Lyft. It will be here in exactly four minutes. Go get a condom.”
I
ran to get a condom from the bedroom and appeared back in the living room,
eager to fuck her, but I had another thing coming.
“Put
it on,” she said, looking at her phone.
I
obeyed.
And
then, instead of bending over the couch and letting me enter her, she grabbed
my covered cock with her right hand and began jacking it.
“What?”
I asked perplexed.
“I’ll
jack you off. You have about two
minutes,” she said, not even looking at me.
“Why
won’t you let me fuck you?”
“Because,
I’m pretty as a picture right now. I
don’t want to risk messing up my outfit.”
“Really?”
“A
minute and a half. Do you want to be
hard-up all night?”
“OK,
ok,” I said, letting her tug, “but why the condom?”
“No
mess,” she said, her hand moving mechanically.
“Speaking of pictures. . .” she said as she manipulated her phone with
her other hand. She raised up her arm
and smiled at the camera as she shot a selfie without me in the frame. No one would even suspect she was giving me a
hand-job as she flashed her smile at them.
She sent the pic to her date with a message, “Coming.”
She
looked again at her ride app and saw the car turn onto our street. She got closer to me and ever-so-gently
licked my earlobe with her tongue as she increased her wrist motion. “That’s it Daddio, think about how he is
going to lick my clit later. Think about
how he’s going to cum all over my puss and make my skirt all dirty with his hot
mess. I’m your little trollop, your
little. . .”
She
stopped mid-sentence. The Lyft was
outside our window. I came into the
condom. She let go. I grabbed my cock and stroked it as I watched
her through the window getting into the car and blowing me an air kiss.
[In honor of all our friends, such as Cara, Hy, Catherine, and of course, Michael & Molly, who are attending Eroticon this weekend, a little fantasy of what we envision our attending it to be like. Hopefully next year.]
Drawing of Lola by nglare
“LOLA”
– her name lit up the marquee. As we
approached the theater from the street, slick from the recent rain, Lo looked
up and said, “Big, bright, beautiful, and inviting. That’s me alright!”
We
were in England for the annual Literotica convention and somehow we were the
headline event for this evening’s performances.
Lo was giddy with excitement.
Entering
the theater from the side door for performers, there was a flurry of activity
backstage. Everyone was primping and
preparing. Lo, herself, had tried on
three different outfits and five different pairs of shoes before settling on
the glittery gold sequin top, the slinky green skirt, and the flashy four-inch
heels. “Green and gold,” I said, “the
colors of money.”
We
were there to do a reading and book signing, but Lo had plans for oh so much
more than that. Her Marina Abramovic
performance-art streak was activated and she had conspired with me to put on a
show. We were to be a Penn & Teller
style duet. She’d be Penn, the showman,
and I’d be Teller, the silent sidekick. She
had her props: a little wooden lectern on which she put the book, some paints,
paint brushes, markers, and a sign. The
sign read:
Match, Vol. I – $35
Match, Vol. II – $20
Match, Vol. III – $20
Complementary with
your purchase:
Squeeze
Tease
Pull
Paint
Draw
Write
Kiss
Suck
Cum
NOT ALLOWED:
Penetration of any
sort
Photos
(Mild BDSM is ok)
All prices USD
After
the opening acts, we were introduced to a loud round of applause. I got butterflies in my stomach and I’m sure
Lo did as well. We took our places on
the otherwise empty wooden stage under the hot spotlights. I stood next to Lo at the lectern with three
stacks of books and my portable credit card swipe device plugged into my phone.
Lo
opened the books to the places she had specially chosen for this event and read
some select passages: The preface to Vol I, penned by her; the encomium to the
color red; a few poems. As she read each
passage in her sweetly seductive voice, she slowly removed first one and then
the other strap of her blouse and let it fall, revealing her breasts. She then wriggled out of both the blouse and
her skirt until she stood stark naked but for her sexy heels. The poems were read in the buff.
When
she was done the music began – selections of songs mentioned in the books. I invited the audience members who had pre-purchased
books to step up and have Lola sign them while they each took a turn participating
in one of the activities mentioned on Lo’s sign.
The
first ones in line were a bit shy and timid.
They ventured a kiss or a gentle tug on Lo’s nipples while she leaned
over to sign one of the gloss nude photographs of her in the book. A few others took up the Sharpie pen and
wrote love notes to Lo on various parts of her body. Some wrote “Slut” or “hotwife” or “cum here” with
an arrow pointing to her puss.
As
the audience saw the performance taking place, those without books were eager
to get in line and I began selling our inventory. Men took out their cocks and began stroking
as they eagerly awaited their turn in line.
Some
of them stroked it next to Lola as she signed the books and wrote cute comments
about the men’s anatomy in the margins.
The
first man to cum did so on Lo’s feet, filling up her shoes with warm jizz.
The
next man to cum had a powerful ejaculation and managed to hit Lo’s tits with remarkable
aim. He even got a bit of applause!
A
woman was in line and she gave Lo a very warm kiss on the lips and then slid
her tongue down Lo’s neck to her glazed breasts and cleaned off the previous
customer’s cumtribution.
This
performance went on for some time, until we sold out of all our books!
Unfortunately
for Lo, all of this fun foreplay was merely a tantalizing orgasm tease. She whispered in my ear and I briefly
disappeared off stage to grab Lo’s favorite toy from one of the event sponsor’s
display: The Hitachi Magic Wand. We
plugged it into an extension cord and I brought the large, white device to Lo
who proceeded to use it on her clit while sitting in a high stool. She spread her legs and, within only a few moments
filled with tension and anticipation, Lo finally gushed with an torrential
outpour of emotion, release, and fluid that covered the stage.
After
her grand finale, some stage hands appeared at Lo’s side with warm, wet towels
and they cleaned her off. One of them
gently removed Lo’s feet, one at a time, from her shoes and wiped them
down. Another person mopped the wooden
floor. Once Lo was cleaned off, she got
dressed again and we walked off the stage.
Before exiting, though, Lo took a long bow, but not to the audience, but
to the wings of the stage, thus giving the audience one last look up her
skirt.
Congratulations
were showered on Lo and me from our fellow literotica friends and authors and
we got ready for the afterparty.
Recently,
a new phrase has been popping up in various articles on sex, relationships, and
women: The Orgasm Gap. Sometimes it’s
referred to as “The Gender Orgasm Gap.”
It is the result of various studies’ data showing that women in
heterosexual relationships have far fewer orgasms than their male
partners. This gap disappears in gay
relationships.
There’s
plenty of literature out there for you to do your own reading into the matter,
but what I would like to discuss here is the orgasm gap that exists between Lo
and me. In our relationship there is
undoubtedly an orgasm gap, but it is the inverse of the one referred to above.
I’ve
conducted my own non-scientific study.
One October a few years back (I deemed it “O-month,” for “Orgasm Month”)
I did my best to count the number of orgasms achieved by Lola (either during
coitus or on her own) and the number achieved by me, your faithful author. The results were 70+ for Lo (not exactly sure
of the actual number because I was relying on her reportage of her solo
sessions and often she lost count), to my 18.
That’s approximately a 4:1 orgasm gap in favor of the female.
Now,
in our relationship there are many “understandings.” I am not allowed to jack it unless
specifically instructed by Lola. That
usually means in her presence, so she can enjoy it. I am not allowed to have sex with anyone
outside our relationship. Lo, on the
other hand (so to speak), has no strings attached. Solo sex, sex with others, accidental orgasms
– all are fair game for her.
But
a while back, when Lo was cross with me about something and thus withholding
her pleasures from me, I took matters into my own hands, literally. I got myself a Stoya Destroya
Fleshlight. It served the purpose at the
time. It also came in handy (can’t seem
to get around that double-entendre) one night when Lola was too inebriated to
give consent.
Lola Fingering Stoya
Lo
doesn’t like my using Stoya’s pussy. Her
jealousy reigns supreme. It matters not
that it is literally just a pussy and not a person. But the other night. . . .
I
had to work late. I was at the office
around 7 pm and I got a text from Lo saying that she was going out to dinner
with her friend Candice. Lo and Candice
had become close friends over the past few months. Candice is a self-described “thick”
woman. I would describe her as
lusciously zaftig. She is heavier than
Lo by at least fifty pounds. When they
met, she was in a committed relationship, but that fell apart very
suddenly. Lo became her go-to confidante
and wing-woman. They went to clubs,
bars, restaurants together about three or four times a week. I think Lo enjoyed the singles scene and
having someone to share it with. Candice
frequently found fuck-buddies, but was longing for a man who would be a
dedicated daddy. She admired Lo and was
particularly envious of our special relationship.
Candice
would often come over for brunch after her one-night-stands and dish the
details about it to both of us over mimosas.
And
then the other night. . . .
As
I was saying, Lo went out to dinner with Candice. I thought nothing of it since it had become
part of their repertoire. I figured that
Candice was horny and looking to find a cock to bring home for the night and Lo
was going to help her, as usual.
(A
little aside here: If I were granted permission to have sex with just one of
Lo’s friends, it would be Candice. I
find her voluptuousness very attractive.
But, either out of respect for Lo or lack of interest, Candice has never
reciprocated my flirtatious banter with her.
Unless, of course, the juicy stories she tells us about her sexcapades
are intended to rouse me, which they do.)
But
when I got home, I found Lo in bed, jillin’ herself silly. She had all her toys on the bed and it looked
like she had used each and every one. Currently
she was banging with the largest of the bunch.
It was stuck to the headboard and she was sliding her ass back, taking
it all in, and then sliding forward.
Back-and-forth, slapping her cheeks up against the wood and then easing
off. She didn’t stop when she saw me
enter the room. I sat and waited,
patiently by the foot of the bed. She
looked at me as she fucked her dildo.
Our eyes were locked as I saw her desperately trying to get off. When she finally climaxed, slid off the
dildo, and sprawled out in the sheets, legs spread and sloppy, I kissed her
hello.
“Are
you mad, Daddy?” she asked.
“Why
should I be mad?” I responded.
“Get
naked and I’ll tell you.”
I
did as she requested, got in bed next to her, and listened as she told me the
following story:
I went to
the restaurant to meet Candice for dinner, but I was early and she was
late. I sat at the bar and ordered a
drink while I waited for her. As I
waited, a handsome, young, black man came in and sat next to me. He was very good looking, very fit, and I
suddenly found myself getting very wet.
Candice
finally arrived and as I was finishing my drink, the young guy got up and went
to the bathroom. I turned to Candice and
told her how hot I thought he was. She
admitted to me that she thought so too.
When he
came back, he paid his tab and got up to go.
But Candice immediately went after him.
She told him what I had told her in confidence, and he returned to the
bar and sat between us. He started up a
conversation with me and I found out that he’s a football player for the
college.
As we
talked, he began rubbing my thigh and moving slowly further and further toward
my crotch. I didn’t protest.
Eventually
he came very close to me and kissed me.
I reciprocated. But then I pulled
away and told him that I was there for Candice – her wing-woman. She wasn’t supposed to be mine.
I think he
liked that. He showed an interest in
both of us and the thoughts that went through my mind. . . .
She
didn’t elaborate, so I asked her, “What thoughts would those be?”
I
was fully expecting her to say, “Get in me and I’ll tell you,” but she
didn’t. After a pregnant pause, awaiting
her command, I finally got between her legs, poised to strike, but she covered
up her crotch with both hands and protested, “No, Daddy! I can’t.
I’m sorry.”
“Why
not?” I asked, frustrated and eager.
“I
did myself a little too much. I’m
swollen and sore.”
Not
only did I want her, badly, but I also wanted to hear the conclusion of her
story just as badly. I asked her
politely if I could use the Stoya Fleshlight.
She said, “Why don’t you just use your fist like a
real man?”
“I
could ask you the same thing. Instead of
using your Hitachi, your 18” dildo, or your Remus, why don’t you just use your fist like a real slut?”
She
laughed despite her anger as she threw a pillow at me.
“Fine,
get her out,” she said.
“You’ll
hold it for me?”
She
didn’t answer. I rummaged through the
back of the closet and pulled out Stoya.
I grabbed the bottle of lube from the nightstand drawer and I got both
Stoya and me nice and slick. Lo took the
hefty contraption in two hands and I slid right in.
“Comfortable?”
she asked.
“Yes,
very,” I said, making her more jealous.
“Go on with your story.”
“You
like fucking her, don’t you?” she asked.
“Not
as much as fucking you.”
“You
like fucking Stoya. You like that she’s
a porn star. You like thinking about how
many men have fucked that pussy already, how many men have cum in it.”
Stoya’s Lovely Lady Parts
I
was getting very turned on by her dirty words.
“Nothing
would be hotter than seeing you make a porno,” I replied. “I would stand in the wings while the
director, the lighting crew, the sound engineers, and of course, the four or
five male porn stars stood around your naked body as two or three of them
fucked you on camera.”
“Do
you want me or do you want Stoya?”
At
this point, I admit, in my mind, Lola and Stoya were fused into one person as I
imagined the set of the film.
“Fuck
her! Fuck her good and hard! Come on,” she demanded. “Fuck that used, slutty pussy. Cum in her.
Cum deep in her,” she commanded.
I can never resist her commands.
I came and I came hard as Lo pressed the Fleshlight down on my shaft,
licking her lips as she watched me crumble as if struck by an arrow of pure
pleasure.
I
never did get to the end of her story that night.
Lola’s Lolvely Lady Parts
I
have no idea how many times Lo came before I got home, but this is just one
example of the so-called “Orgasm Gap” in our relationship.
The following interview was just published on the very elite blog: AuthorsInterviews by the wonderful Fiona Mcvie!
Hello and welcome to my blog, Author Interviews. My name is Fiona Mcvie.
Let’s
get you introduced to everyone, shall we? Tell us your name. What is your age?
LOLA:
Hi, my name is Lola Down. I’m in my
mid-twenties. My man, H.H., the author,
is in his mid-fifties.
Fiona:
Where are you from?
LOLA:
We’re both from the U.S. The North East
to be more specific. But that’s about as
specific as we get.
Fiona:
A little about your self (ie, your education, family life, etc.).
LOLA:
We’re both well educated with graduate degrees.
My family background is rather tattered and filled with pain. His is all American Apple Pie, so far as I
can tell, but I’m sure that there’s lots beneath the surface. He doesn’t talk much about it, so it’s a bit
of a mystery to me. We met when he was
my art history professor. I was a
freshman and 18. He was in his late
forties.
Fiona:
Tell us your latest news.
LOLA:
Latest news is that soon we will be publishing the third book in our series of Match, Cinder & Spark. The first volume, subtitled “Nymphomania and
the Single Girl,” included a lot of stories about me when I was single. The
second volume, subtitled “MORE!” included more stories. The third volume, subtitled “Writing Under
Cover,” included a story about living a double life: of normal folks by day,
and sexplorers by night. The next volume
is subtitled “Sexy Shorts” and will only be two-three page stories.
Get all of the books, hard-copy for best results.
Fiona: When and why did you begin
writing?
H.H.:
I began writing in high school. Short
stories, mostly of a sci-fi genre. In
college I tried a bit more, but it wasn’t very good. It wasn’t until I was in my late twenties,
early thirties and going through some very tough times in my personal and
professional life that I turned to writing as a form of escape, release, or
therapy. That’s when it began to go much
better.
Fiona: When did you first consider
yourself a writer?
H.H.: I never really felt like a writer and certainly never
introduced my self as such because it seemed so pretentious and false. But at a certain point I just had written so
damn much that it was undeniable that that was what I was. A tiny fraction of it had been published, but
it wasn’t until starting the blog, mysexlifewithlola.com, that I really felt
like a writer. That’s when our
readership just went up and up and people from all over the world began writing
to us saying how much the writing (and Lola) inspired them. That felt great!
Fiona: What inspired you to write your
first book?
H.H.:
After a few years of regularly writing and publishing for the blog, the
manuscript of stories was into the hundreds of thousands of words. Currently, as of today, the word count of
only the published stories is 476,472.
That doesn’t include the words in the hopper ready for publishing on the
blog, or the notes that have incomplete stories and fragments. So, even though the stores didn’t have a
narrative arc, and they were mostly a collection of stories with two main
characters in each story, I thought, this is a good way to make access to the
stories easier for people. The blog
navigation can be as confusing as it is easy, if that makes sense. I didn’t spent time shopping the manuscript
around since we already had a built-in fan base of over many thousands. Unfortunately, the first volume, Match, Cinder & Spark: Nymphomania and
the Single Girl, was rather lengthy and, in the hard-copy, we included a
lot of high-quality, glossy photos. That
shot the price really high. I didn’t
realize how expensive it would be until the project was finished. By that time, after all that work, I decided
that I was just going to publish it as is, let the buyer pay for the book. It
is a collector’s item, after all. And,
with some more work, I could publish an e-book version and sell it for
literally 1/70 the price. Unfortunately,
at the time, the technology was not available for the photos to be included in
the e-book, but that also meant that people all over the world could safely
read it in public places, like the subway or on a plane or the airport, without
fear that Lola’s pussy would suddenly pop up on the screen. And if they wanted to see Lola’s va-jay-jay,
they could always just do a Google search of mysexlifewithlola.com.
Fiona:
How did you come up with the title?
Lola: Match, Cinder & Spark – He’s the
“cinder,” that is, the fire that has passed its prime. I’m the “spark”; the catalyst that sets things
aflame. Together, we’re a match. I won’t say a perfect match, but one that is
highly combustible. . . and hot!
Fiona: Do you have a specific writing
style? Is there anything about your style or genre that you find particularly
challenging?
H.H.:
The writing usually comes very easy. It’s mostly quasi-autobiographical. Lo provides the inspiration and a lot of the
raw material for the stories and then I just take artistic liberties to craft
it into a story that has some form. But
every once in a while I try to switch it up by trying out a new narrative
style. I once wrote a story called “Fuck
Noir” and I tried, not too successfully, to adopt a detective novel narrative
voice. I was particularly fond of the
last line, but that was all Lola’s doing.
Fiona:
How much of the book is realistic and are experiences
based on someone you know, or events in your own life?
H.H.:
Like I said, almost all of the book is based upon something in our lives,
either individually or together. We take
pains to protect the innocent as well as the guilty, and I use poetic license
to intersperse scenes out of sequence in order to tell a better story, but
there’s very little there that didn’t actually happen.
Fiona: To craft your works, do you have
to travel? Before or during the process?
H.H.:
Travel provides great material. There has never been a trip that we have gone
on, either separately or together, that hasn’t produced at least one fun
story.
Fiona: Who designed the covers?
H.H.:
I once wrote a story called “How My Girlfriend Became an Amateur Internet Porn
Star” which is all about the design of the cover of our first book, Match, Cinder & Spark: Nymphomania and
the Single Girl. I had chosen some
stock photo for the cover and when Lo saw it, she freaked. “I go
on the cover. No one else. Me.” Well, from then on, I knew that any promo for
the book or the blog had to be of Lo. It
meant a lot of photo taking by me (and some sexy selfies), but it’s truly a
labor of love.
Fiona:
Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?
H.H.:
Love yourself. Love the one you’re
with. Love each other. And if you’re single: Love yourself and love
our blog and books.
Fiona: Are there any new authors that
have grasped your interest? Who is your
favorite writer, and what is it about their work that really strikes you?
H.H.:
There are a lot of bloggers in our blogging community whose work I really
love. Too many to name them all, but a
small sample includes: Cara Thereon of CaraThereon.com, Hyacinth of
adissolutelifemeans.com, Nilla of Vanilla Mom’s Blog, just to name a few.
Lola:
Also, lately I’ve really enjoyed TJ of The Lustful Empress, Nero Black and his
eponymous blog, and lots of writers on Medium.com, most especially MyErotica
run by Rose, and the columns by Madelaine Hanson.
Madelaine Hanson
Fiona: Outside of family members, name
one entity that supported your commitment to become a published author.
Lola:
Actually, none of our family members know about this blog. But I’d say that
Medium.com has done the most in that they pay their member authors for the
content they create based upon some mysterious formula. I’m sure that they
somehow make far more than the authors, but it’s more than other platforms
provide.
Fiona: Do you see writing as a career?
H.H.:
Outside of the erotica that I write, I have a whole host of other works under
my real name. One day, maybe after I’m dead, the truth will out and then it
will become the unenviable task of others to reconcile the “legit” writing with
the “scurrilous” works. That is, of course, if anyone cares.
Fiona: If you had to do it all over
again, would you change anything in your latest book?
H.H.:
Well the latest book is just on the cusp of being published and so I’m trying
to insure that it will be the best yet.
Fiona: Did you learn anything during the
writing of your recent book?
H.H.:
I learned how much I love Lola, not because she’s so incredibly sexy, so dirty
in her thoughts, but because she is so incredibly funny. Writing dialogue with her is so easy because
our day-to-day lives together are full of amusing banter. We like to think of
ourselves as like Nick and Nora Charles from The Thin Man movies.
Fiona:
If your book was made into a film, who would you like to play the lead?
H.H.:
Jeremy Irons. I think he is wonderful in the remake 1997 of Lolita. But he’s probably a bit old for
the part now (though he’s in great shape).
Maybe Jeff Goldblum.
Lola:
Amanda (Donaghey) George. She looks just like me. Or maybe Sasha Grey, because she looks a bit
like me and is willing to do anything.
Amanda GeorgeSasha Grey
Fiona: Any advice for other writers?
H.H.:
Never take advice from a fellow writer.
They’re all full of shit.
Fiona: Anything specific you want to
tell your readers?
It’s almost 9:00 a.m. and Lo hasn’t emerged from the bedroom yet. I walk into the bedroom and as I open the door I find her lying on the bed, tum down, ass up, in her left hand she holds her phone and she is staring at it intently as her right hand manipulates a dildo in her puss and another in her ass. She looks up briefly, caught in the act.
“I would join you, but I see you’re full up,” I say snidely.
“You can be next. Just give me about ten more minutes.”
“You realize, it’s a quarter-to-nine, right?”
She waves me off, resentful of the interruption, concerned about the distraction.
When I walk in again at five-to-nine, she’s already in her tight pants, her pumps, and blouse, ready to go to work.
“What happened to my turn?” I inquire.
“Sorry Daddio, but I only had room for three this morning.”
“What do you mean, room for three?”
“I mean, three orgasms.”
“I didn’t even hear you.”
She shrugs her shoulders and walks into the bathroom to fix her hair. When she does, I take a surreptitious glance at her phone. I see that she had made a phone call at 8:47 to Brian. I guess that’s why she was so quiet.
“You know,” I call to her from the bed, “you’re an inveterate masturbator.”
“What’s ‘inveterate’ mean, Daddy?” she asks in her little-girl voice.
“Yep, that sounds like me. I like it: Inveterate Masturbator. It could be my superhero name.”
“And your superpower would be. . . making yourself cum?”
“That and the power to make others cum. You want to cum, Daddio?” she asks teasingly.
“Yes, yes I do!”
“Tell me more.”
“I want to cum. Isn’t that enough?”
“Tell me how you want to cum,” she says, walking over to me and putting her hand on my crotch.
“I want to cum in you, on you, for you, under you – choose your preposition.”
“Do you want me to tug your cock and jack you off or do you want me to suck it or do you want to fuck my puss or do you want to fuck my ass?”
“Preferably, a little of each, you know, like tapas.”
“Hmmm,” she hums, “I like that.” Then, abruptly, she turns and walks out of the bedroom. “Too bad I have to go to work,” she calls over her shoulder. “I guess you’ll just have to be hard-up for me all day.”
That is too much. All niceties are off. “What about your friend?” I call back to her.
“My friend?” she asks as she slips into her heels.
“Yeah, Brian, who you had phone sex with this morning.”
“Daddy,” she says, stopping in her tracks, “you were snooping.”
“Yeah, so. It doesn’t change the fact.”
“Well, I guess you’ll just have to be really hard-up all day until I get home and have the time to tell you about it. Kisses,” she says as she puckers up. I am in no mood to kiss her after that torture. She waits with her eyes closed. When she feels nothing on her lips, she opens one eye and then the other. “Fine,” she says, “if you don’t want to kiss me, I’ll find someone who does.”
I write erotica. No. Scratch that. What I really write is love poems to Lola. Really, really, really long love poems. So long that, to the untrained eye, they read like prose.
Niel Gaiman once said, “If you’re only going to write when you’re inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet,but you will never be a novelist — because you’re going to have to make your word count today, and those words aren’t going to wait for you, whether you’re inspired or not. So you have to write when you’re not inspired.” I don’t have a problem with this advice in general, but part of the problem is that when I’m not inspired, a certain detached, disinterested, distant feeling comes over me with regard to my writing. I hesitate to say “objective,” because that implies a truth to the judgment and, for the life of me, I pray that that cold view of my writing is not true.
I struggle to capture exactly the feeling I get at these moments of disenchantment, but there are a few readily available examples of how I feel about my work that I can offer. If you’ve ever seen The Big Lebowski, then you may recall the “modern interpretive dance” scene where The Dude watches his landlord, Marty, perform. It is painful and comic to watch. But it means so much to Marty. That’s certainly part of it – if Marty was an author and not a dancer.
Another analogy is thinking thoughts when very stoned as compared to reading those thoughts when sober; some crucial élan vital is missing. A third analogy is that of being naked. One can be nude with one’s lover and that can be magnificent, or one can get caught naked in public, as often happens in humiliation dreams. The difference between nude and naked is as great as the difference between consent and coercion.
Being nude is easy. Writing is not.
But then there are also times like now. Last night Lola and I went out to a party with some friends. She wore her jack-pot top that prominently displays her cleavage and she wore her tight jeans with heels. She looked good and I wasn’t the only one to notice. Most of the evening her eyes sparkled and her teeth twinkled as she chatted and laughed, throwing back her long hair and touching the arms of those she liked. She flirts. And I love seeing it. I watched her from afar and occasionally I sidled up next to her sliding my right hand over her round butt. I wanted her all evening and the longer we stayed the more I wanted her. But I’m not as young as I used to be. The witching hour approached and my energy for performance and social settings dwindled. I felt fatigued on the ride home. Lo and I were traveling in the back of a cab and she was clearly not ready for the night to end. She kissed me and reached down between my legs. She reached between her legs and she enjoyed the thrill of being just out of sight from the driver as she made small-talk with him.
We got home and I got in bed, loving her, but needing sleep. She joined me, naked, and feeling dejected by my drowsiness, pulled out her Hitachi, phone, dildo, and began her nightly bedtime ritual of self-pleasure.
In the morning I awoke before she. She was curled in the fetal position facing away from me. I was wrapped around her, holding her tightly for it was a chilly morning and we needed each other for warmth. My hand roamed over her soft skin from her shoulder down to her breast, feeling the flesh of her tum and over her round hips. I wanted her. My rod was stiff between my legs, protruding into her. She was down for the count.
Desirous of her, but respectful of her sleep, I snuck out of bed, washed up, made my coffee, and set up my little writing nest on the couch and began to compose this lustful literary tribute to her, my muse. I know that when she wakes she will be full of passion for me as I will be for her. And when I read these words to her, she will find them flattering, beautiful, and inspired. That will make up for all the disenchanted moments when I look upon this massive encomium to Lola as if written by someone else. My love, my longing, my lusty imaginings and my self-critical eye will all be aligned. All shall be well, at least until the next wave of despair, alienation, and disenchantment plumes within me. But, until then, I’ll take what I can get – of Lo and of writing.
