Finally a moment to relax. Some time to myself. A quiet interval to read for enjoyment before sweet sleep. I was deep into the Bukowski’s Notes of a Dirty Old Man, appropriately enough. As I tried to enjoy one of the short stories about a dissolute life, Lo lay next to me, naked, her legs spread, diddling her bean, clearly looking for attention. She spread her legs wider, putting her left leg up and over my legs. She inserted her finger and moaned. No response from me. She spread her legs even further until her left knee hit the cover of my book, knocking it out of my hands. She dipped all five fingers into her gaping pleasure patch.
Lo’s Bed Spread
“Hey,” I said, “watch it!”
“Clearly you’re not interested in watching,” she retorted.
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“Probably not,” she replied, cursorily, as she continued to fap with her five fingers.
“Then may I read in peace?”
“Why do you want to read now?” she asked.
“Well,” I said with some snark, “right now, I feel like it gives me a leg up, if you know what I mean.”
She raised her leg even further, across my chest.
“Watch out, dear,” I said, “you’re spreading yourself a bit thin there.”
“Thin?! Thin?! I’m a proudly thick woman,” she said.
“Look,” I said, “if you want me, then just use your words and ask for me to fuck you.”
“I shouldn’t need my words,” she said as she pulled out her fingers from her puss, “I’m using sign language.”
“And I’m using my ability to read lips.”
“See, we don’t even need words,” she said, “we can communicate perfectly well with body language.”
I got on my knees, pulled down my boxers, pulled out my hard cock and asked, “What does this body language express to you?”
Reading Notes of a Dirty Old Man
“Everything I want to know,” she said, “now dip your pen in my wet well and write your poetry all over me, you dirty old man.”
A
July vacation at a beach house for a week can be the perfect antidote to all of
your problems. Unless that vacation is a
family reunion and the beach house is for thirty people. And among those thirty people are married
dads in their forties and fifties who are in good shape. And your girlfriend is Lo. Then, you might have ninety-nine problems,
but Lo is the only one you have to really worry about.
That
was the case this week. Every seven
years or so my extended family decides that we should make a pilgrimage from
all the corners of the globe, rent one enormous house on the beach with enough
bedrooms and bathrooms to accommodate us all, and stay under one roof for seven
days straight. We have been doing this
for a few decades now, but we hadn’t had one of these since I started dating
Lola.
She
hadn’t met most of my family – only heard about them through various stories I
told her and, to be fair, with thirty of them, I doubt that she really could
tell one from the other without having met them in person. But this week, right in the middle of July,
we were all going to be up-close and personal with each other. Foolishly, I hadn’t thought of warning her
prior to our departure. This was my
family. Did I need to warn her? Apparently so.
You
see, if I do say so myself, I come from a very good looking family. My brothers and sisters and my cousins have
certain family features in common – features that drive Lo wild. I’d even venture to say that, of the lot of
us, I am probably the least physically attractive. My male relatives all have strong-cut jaws,
expressive eyes, and the classic broad shoulder tapering to a thin waist. They are very health conscious, for many of
them were athletes even through college.
My female relatives share many of the same good genes that have
preserved their looks into midlife. And
they are married to rather attractive spouses.
Throw
into this mix of middle-age men – all walking around topless, biking, kayaking,
swimming, cooking, and being dads to their respective kids – a twenty something
nymphomaniac with daddy issues wearing a skimpy bikini and you have just
brought all sorts of wrath down upon your head.
Such was my lot for a week.
It
began innocently enough. We were on the
beach with a few of my cousins. The sun
was blazing and the waves were rough and tumble. We had our boogie boards with us and, after a
beer, Lo said she wanted to ride the waves with me. We grabbed the boards and went into the
refreshing water, waded out past the crashing waves and waited for the right
moment. As we were out there, Lo turned
to me and said, “Daddio, I’m so wet!”
“We’re
in the ocean, Lo. Of course you’re wet,”
I replied.
“I
don’t mean like that,” she said with a devilish grin.
Before
I could respond, a wave came and soon she and I were soaring towards the shore
atop the white crest of the surf.
Conditions were just right for multiple sorties. She looked happy, like a little girl. I had never seen her see so happy. She was grinning from ear-to-ear. What I didn’t realize, since I was next to
her for most of the wet-n-wild rides, was that each and every time we caught a
wave and were carried in atop the undulating surge, Lo’s bikini top would be
pushed downward and, each and every time she stood up from the excursion, her
breasts were popping out, wet and glistening in the sun for all my cousins to
see.
I
only found out about this later, when, back in the house, she got naked in the
bathroom with me to take a shower. “Are
you mad, Daddy?” she asked.
“Why
would I be mad?” I said as I saw her perfectly tanned body before me.
“Because
of my ‘accidents’ at the beach.”
“What
accidents?” I asked, naively.
Then
she told me about her struggles with keeping her top on her tits.
We
got in the shower together and washed each other down with body-soap. It was one of those large shower/hot tubs
that had a comfortable seat to sit. I
told Lo to sit down below me and spread her legs. She did so, mistakenly thinking that I was
going to put my cock in her mouth. She
opened up to receive me, but, instead, I took aim and let lose, releasing the
golden stream formed from the many beers I had had on the beach. She relished in the warm stream I doused her
in, covering her tits and tum, puss and feet.
When I was good and done, she pulled my hand down and reversed positions
with me and, putting one foot up on the ledge, she took aim and allowed me to
get it just as good as I gave it.
Then
she got down on her knees on the floor of the shower and took my hard cock in
her mouth, fondling my balls with her right hand as her left rested on my
knee. Her long, wet, dark hair bobbed up
and down under the stream of the shower.
She wanted me to cum, that was clear.
She worked hard to earn my ejaculatory appreciation, but I denied her
the satisfaction of completion. Before
she got lockjaw, we got out of the shower and dried off.
She bent over the
bed, her ass beckoning me. It was my
turn to get on my knees and worship her tumescent pussy lips with my
tongue. She tasted sweet and I wanted
more. I buried the tip of my tongue as
deep as it would go in her cunt and then in her ass and back again and
again. She came multiple times, her cum
dripping down the sides of my mouth and saturating my beard as it streamed down
my neck onto my chest. I delighted in
making her so wet. Due to the cramped
living quarters, she had to bite her lower lip and swallow her orgasmic
screams. She buried her head in the
pillow to moan and groan.
At some point I
heard the sound of a radio playing from the pool area outside our window. AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” was narrating
the scene.
She was a fast
machine,
She kept her motor
clean
They sang as I
licked the smooth mons pubis of Lo from behind.
She could take it no longer and she crawled forward on the bed like a
wounded soldier out of the heat of battle.
She rolled over, exhausted already, and spread her listless legs.
She was the best
damn woman that I’d ever seen.
I slid in her
pussy with my aching rod and, honestly, I couldn’t feel a thing. Just wet.
So wet. At the very instant of my
shaft lodging deep inside her, she came in waves – waves like those of the
ocean that we were riding just a little while earlier. After her quick climax, she was suddenly
filled with new energy. She rolled me
over onto my back and slid her wet slit down the length of my solid pole,
kneeling on top of me as she pulled and pinched her nipples. I grabber by her hips and rocked her forward
and back, slishing and sliding over my hips.
She had a certain
size,
Telling me no
lies,
Knocking me out
with those American thighs.
She came
again. Again, all I could feel was
wetness cascading down upon me.
She dropped her
head down to bite on my neck and then she slid off of my rod slowly as her
tongue slid down my chest, over my abs, eventually resting at my cock. She took it all in her mouth and down the
back of her throat.
Taking more than
her share,
She had me
fighting for air,
She told me to
cum, but I was already there.
I filled her with
my pent-up power. But she wasn’t done –
no, not by a longshot.
She wanted no
applause,
Just another
course,
Made a meal out of
me,
And came back for more.
Had to cool me
down
To
take another round,
Now
I’m back in the ring
To
take another swing!
She
licked and sucked, bobbed up and down, and opened wide for my balls –
everything and anything she could do to get me back up and hard again. When she finally succeeded, she lowered
herself slowly on me once more and grabbed me, letting her nipples gently touch
mine as she let her body become enfolded in mine. I wrapped my arms around her and held her
tight.
Shower Time
From her state of
delirium, she began whispering in my ear.
“You know,” she
said in a hushed tone, “I think your family likes me.”
“I’m sure they
do,” I said.
“I mean,
especially your brothers. They really
like me.”
“I think they
really liked what they saw.”
“And I liked what
I saw.”
“What was that?” I
asked as I felt her excitement increasing with the taboo things coming out of
her mouth. I slowly moved my hands from
her back to her thighs, to her ass cheeks, and then I pulled them, spread them,
and placed my index finger on her special spot.
“They’re so
built,” she said enthusiastically, “so mature.”
“You mean old.”
“Not old.”
“Older than me.”
“Yeah, but in such
good shape.”
“I see,” I said,
knowing where she was going. . . and liking it.
“And so big.”
“Big?” I asked as
I entered her ass with my finger.
“Their cocks. Their balls.
Wearing a Speedo. . .”
She couldn’t
finish her thought. She was cumming and
cumming harder than any of the previous times.
My finger was deep inside her and I could feel her clenching up on it
and releasing multiple times.
When she was done,
all orgasms finally brought to fruition and her body exhausted, she said to me,
“That last orgasm, it felt just like I was riding that boogie board. It felt like I was riding that wave, topless,
the sea carrying me, lifting me, thrilling me, covering me with spume and salt
and sun.”
“Did you cum when
you were out there?”
“I think I might
have, a little bit.”
“You really are a
nymph, fucked by Poseidon himself.”
We
were out on a double date with Mark and Stephanie. Despite, or perhaps because of, Lo’s slutty
ways, especially around Mark, they invited us out again after the beach
experience. They had hired a sitter for
their kids and this time it was just the four of us at a local restaurant. Because it was so crowded that Friday night,
we took the first table we could get – a high-top in the bar area.
Lo
was wearing her sexy little black skirt and heels with a neon blue blouse that
had one too many buttons undone, revealing her cleavage and part of her lace
bra. She was sitting kitty-corner to
Mark, and when she laughed, she would put her hand on his forearm, his knee, or
touch his bicep. She did this in a
friendly, yet flirtatious way.
After
the day at the beach with them, there was no way they would be surprised by
this. I was wondering to myself if they
were actually interested in propositioning Lo, or both me and Lo, but were too
inhibited to come out and say it.
If
Lo was trying to get me jealous with her fawning over Mark, she was doing a
good job of it. Usually I’m not the
jealous type – especially not with a hotwife like Lo. But Mark was too perfect. He was smart – a teacher in fact – and
handsome, he worked out at the gym and was in tip-top shape, he had a perfect
smile, and he was about four inches taller than I. As if that wasn’t enough, Lo was perpetually
reminding me of how large his cock is, as she ascertained through his pants and
his bathing suit. If he had any flaws
that made his wife not want all that every night, I was unaware of them. To make matters worse, Lo kept on inquiring
of him about his personal habits. “How
do you stay so fit? How do you keep in
such great shape?” she asked, as she rubbed her hand down from his broad shoulder
to his elbow.
He,
for his part, was lapping it up. He went
on and on about his workout routine as Lo licked her lips just imagining
it.
What
Stephanie felt or thought during this, I don’t know, but in order to avoid any
bad feelings, I inquired of Stephanie how her work was going and how the kids
were doing. It was boring polite dinner
talk. I really wanted to blurt out and
ask her, “What do you think of my little slut making moves on your hunky
husband?”
However,
all this flirtatious frivolity came to a screeching halt when Julie approached
our table. Julie is a woman who moved to
our neighborhood recently and has earned the ire of Lo. She is just about Lo’s age with a teenage
son, which means that she must have been pregnant when she was about 16. She’s single and she gives Lo a run for her
money. She’s tall and has an All-American
look about her that says she’s nothing but innocent sweets and smells of apple
pie. She uses this to her advantage in
order to charm every guy she meets. She
hasn’t spoken more than the casual hello to Lo (or any other woman in the
neighborhood), but will go out of her way to chat up any of the men on our
block.
How Lo Pictures Mark out to eat with Stephanie
Julie
happened into the restaurant alone, but I doubt she planned to leave it that
way. Seeing us – or rather, seeing me –
she approached and gave me a warm hug hello with a kiss on the cheek. To the other three, she merely waived and
flashed her sparkling whites at them. I
felt Lo kick me hard in the shin under the table. I was glad of it. After all the torment she had given me thus
far that evening, it was my chance to return the favor.
Though
Julie was only going to say hi, I asked what brought her to that restaurant
that night. She said that her son was at
a sleepover and that she just felt like getting out. Much to Lo’s silent consternation, I insisted
that Julie join us and get to know Mark and Stephanie. At first Julie declined the invite, but I
insisted.
“I
couldn’t possibly. There’s not enough
room at this table,” she said.
“Nonsense. I’ll make room for you right here,” I said,
sliding my stool over and grabbing another one for Julie so that she was very
cozy between me and Mark.
Lo’s
eyes were shooting ICBM warheads at me.
Ha!
Despite
Lo’s displeasure, the addition of Julie really helped the evening’s
conversation. The awkward pairing of Lo
and Mark trading googly eyes at each other while Stephanie and I tried to
pretend like nothing was happening was disrupted by Julie’s asymmetrical
addition. Now Lo was forced to pay
attention to me at the expense of her romantic overtures to Mark. I enjoyed that very much.
The
night came to an early end for us because Lo insisted she had to get home “at a
decent hour” in order to prepare for some fictitious event. When I began to express perplexity at this
excuse, I received another swift kick to my other shin. I wasn’t sure how I’d walk home on those two
injured legs of mine.
As
soon as we were out of the restaurant, Lo stormed off at a brisk pace ahead of
me.
“What?”
I asked insincerely innocent.
Silence.
“Lo,
come on. Slow down and talk to me. What’s the matter?”
“You
know very well what’s the matter,” she said from ten feet in front of me.
“No
I don’t. What’s the matter? Come on?
Please slow down.”
She
waited for me.
“Oh, Julie, there’s plenty of room for
you. You can come here and sit on my lap,”
she said in a mocking manner.
“I
did not say that.”
“Whatever.”
“Does
it upset you?”
We
had just arrived at our apartment. We
got inside. She went right to the
bedroom and got naked.
“Mmmmm,
you look good,” I said.
“This,”
she said, sliding her hands over her sexy body, “is not for you.”
“I
suppose it’s for Mark,” I responded.
“It’s
for anyone except you,” she said curtly.
I
got naked and into bed and she slid under the covers next to me and shut out
the nightstand light.
From
the darkness I heard, “Daddy, do you like her?”
“Who?”
“You
know who.”
“Julie?”
“Yeah,
Julie, that slut.”
“Careful
Lo, ‘slut’ is a compliment in your book.”
“Only
for me. And you’re only for me. You hear me?”
“Yes,
Lo, I hear you.”
She
reached down and grabbed my cock and began rubbing it. “This is mine. You got that?”
“Yes
Lo.”
I
was getting hard. She dove under the
covers and began sucking my cock. When
she reemerged, she asked, “Do you want me?”
“Yes,”
I said.
“Well
get behind me and fuck me.”
I
did as she commanded. She was wet and
willing. She came within seconds of
penetration.
“Why
do you want me?” she asked when she caught her breath.
“Because
Lo, I’m like a dog. If you reach down
between my hind quarters and fondle me and suck me till I’m hard, I’m going to
want you.”
That
had her cumming again.
“Either
I get to have you,” I said, “or I’m going to be left painfully hard-up and full
of liquid desire for you.”
She
loves the thought of me (or men) suffering physical anguish in the groin for
her sweet release. This made her climax a
third time.
“Cum
in me. Use me. That’s what I’m here for. You don’t need anyone else. Just me and my cunt. Fuck me, you horny dog.”
I
did as she commanded, filling her full of my froth.
Filled, but not Finished
She
fell forward and I cuddled her.
“Daddy,
do you love me?”
“So
much,” I said.
“Then
why do you make me so jealous?”
“Honestly
Lo, it’s just to reassure me that I’m still your favorite. I don’t mind sharing you, but I do really
fear losing first place to someone else.”
“Daddy,
you’re silly. You know that more than
half the reason I flirt with other guys is because I want you to fuck me
fiercely. I want you to fight for me and
subdue me with your cock. Make me know
that you’re my Daddy.”
Hearing
her talk like that got me hard all over again and so I mounted her again and
asked her what she was.
“I’m
your bitch. I’m your horny, slutty,
dirty bitch.”
“Lo,
what ya doin’?” I asked as I came in the house and found her on the couch,
naked, scrolling through her phone. This
wouldn’t be unusual, of course, except for the fact that she was not
masturbating at the time. Just getting
ready? Just finished? I wasn’t sure.
Lo on her Phone
“I
tallied it up and I have over 20,000 followers on our various platforms,” she
said without bothering to look up at me.
“Really? 20,000?
That’s a lot of horny men,” I said.
“And
women,” she added. “And don’t forget your
fans.”
Jen X
Madelaine
Piper
She was kind to include my fans, even if she said it with a bit of scorn. Lately, I’ve had quite a resurgence of interest. A number of women have been writing to me telling me how much they enjoy my stories. There has been Madelaine, Jen, Piper, Dawn, TJ, Tracy, and Liz. Of course these are not exclusive categories. Most of the fans of my writing are also fans of Lo. But in Lo’s mind, she refers to them as “your fans.” Flattering me? Or jealousy?
In
any case, I digress.
“I
think that makes you a micro-influencer,” I said.
“What
do you mean ‘micro’?”
“I’m
just using the terminology that. . .”
“Let
me see your cock,” she said, interrupting.
H.H.
I
walked in front of her on the couch and undid my pants and grabbed my member
from my underwear, pulling it out. “Nothing
micro there,” she said.
“I
just meant that you have reached that echelon.”
“But
we don’t sell anything,” she objected.
“I’ve
received a lot of offers from companies to write posts just for them, or
include their products embedded in our stories.”
“Really?” She was curious. “What sort of companies.”
“Sex
toy companies, mostly.”
“Would
they pay us for it?”
“Well,
they said that they would send us free dildos and vibes and stuff.”
“You
can’t pay the rent with sex toys.”
Rent?
“If
we only could,” I mused.
“It’s
fine,” she said, “I like our independence.
I prefer to be a social media sinfluencer.”
I
was 44. She was 18. I was her professor. She was my undoing. She was a flirt. I was a letch. She was smart and sassy. I was pompous and sardonic. She loved to tease me with her sex
appeal. I loved being teased, but felt
like she brought me to my knees and knew it.
She was unrelenting. I was
unrepentant. She was the young spark
that reignited the flame hidden deep beneath my gray ashes. It was a match made in hell and I yearned for
the tongues of fire licking my loins. I
had been in purgatory for so long that it was either commit to my sins or admit
that I had copped out on life. I chose
to sin bravely. But not just yet.
Lola Reading her Fan Mail
It
would be another six years before my defenses melted. Six years of excruciating distance and
proximity that would prove both a delight and debilitating distraction. She would write me suggestive, alluring, and blithely
innocent emails. I would respond with
allusions and innuendo.
Back when
she was still my student, I was teaching Emily Dickinson and she wrote her final
essay on the poem, “The Angle of a Landscape.”
The poem reads:
The Angle of a Landscape—
That every time I wake—
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Upon an ample Crack—
Like a Venetian—waiting—
Accosts my open eye—
Is just a Bough of Apples—
Held slanting, in the Sky—
The Pattern of a Chimney—
The Forehead of a Hill—
Sometimes—a Vane’s Forefinger—
But that’s—Occasional—
The Seasons—shift—my Picture—
Upon my Emerald Bough,
I wake—to find no—Emeralds—
Then—Diamonds – which the Snow
From Polar Caskets—fetched me—
The Chimney—and the Hill—
And just the Steeple’s finger—
These—never stir at all—
Her entire essay focused on the
latent sexual content of the work. Her
exegesis was explicit. It read like
wordporn. The “ample crack” was
Dickinson’s pussy lusting for the “Vane’s Forefinger,” or the “Steeple’s
finger.” The Bough of Apples recalled
Eve’s biting into the apple, the first sin that aroused sexual desire. The chimney. . . well, you get the idea.
When
I asked to speak with Ms. Down about it, she said very directly, “If Emily
Dickinson had just gotten some action, the world would be bereft of some
beautiful poetry, but she may have been much happier for it.”
“Are
we speaking of Emily Dickinson, or were you, perhaps, projecting?” I suggested
heavy-handed.
“I
don’t need to write to achieve sexual satisfaction.”
“There
you and I differ,” I said under my breath, adding, “It seems to me that this
essay may have fulfilled a certain need of yours.” I was referring to her need to be noticed by
me sexually.
“Yeah,
getting an ‘A’ for the course,” she said bluntly. “It’s good and you know it. Freudian, Structuralist, with a dash of de
Beauvoir. Did you request I come to your
office in order to tell me how good it is, or to inquire about my sexual
proclivities?”
I
changed the subject, pointing out to her a typo. “Ms. Down, you misspelled the poet’s name.”
“No
I didn’t,” she said belligerently. “I
added a ‘g’ to it. It’s called poetic
license. This essay is a ‘Dick In
Song.’”
I
blushed.
On
yet another occasion, I had distributed a questionnaire to the class – a survey
that the administration had created and instructed us professors to have our
students answer. When I collected them
all at the end, I noticed something different on only one of the anonymously
written responses. The first three
questions read: Age, Sex, Location. One
of the students – and I could easily guess who – wrote: old enough, never
enough, I’ll fuck anywhere.
After
she graduated, we would occasionally meet and she instinctually knew all my
weaknesses and vulnerabilities. She exploited
them like a master chess player prolonging the ultimate denouement.
Once
we met for a walk along the shore. She
wore cutoff denim shorts, a button-down red and white gingham blouse that she
tied up like a bikini top and had her dark hair in pig-tails. She was, without doubt, the spitting image of
Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island. This
was too coordinated to be coincidence.
It was not Halloween.
I
remarked about the striking similarity and she said, “I like Mary Ann much more
than Ginger, don’t you?”
“Doesn’t
everybody?” I asked rhetorically.
“I
mean, she’s more of a secret slut and that’s what makes her so appealing,” she
added as if musing to herself.
“I
can’t disagree with you there.”
“But
I was always attracted to the Professor,” she said, biting her lip while just
thinking about him. “I’d love to
see him without that straight-laced Oxford blue shirt and khakis.”
It
just so happened that I was wearing a similar shirt and khakis. What two stereotypes we made!
“You’ve
thought about this a lot,” I remarked.
“I’m
irrationally attracted to intelligence. I’m
a deviant in disguise,” she said, “just like Mary Ann.”
“I bet you
are.” Little did I know then just how
deviant.
Another time
she invited me over to see her new apartment.
She was sharing a house with six people, all recently graduated from
college. Her “bedroom,” if you can call
it that, was meant to be a study or, perhaps a walk-in closet for the wealthy
person who built the old Victorian home.
As a result, it had no closet and it was the room through which the rest
of the house had to traverse in order to get to the wrap-around porch.
I
walked into her room with great trepidation and I saw strewn around the
closetless space her panties, bras, and dildos of various sizes on some
bookshelves, next to which were some of the classics of literature and a true
classic Underwood typewriter.
“Ms.
Down, you fancy yourself a writer?” I asked looking at the magnificent
machine.
“Oh
no,” she said, displaying some rare humility.
“I just like old things. A bit of
nostalgia.”
Quick
to correct, I said, “You can’t have nostalgia for an era in which you did not
live.”
“I
have an old soul,” she said, followed by, “encased in a young body.”
“Our
bodies are insufficient containers of our desires,” I said, quoting something I
read once, “but yours seems to contain all my desires.” Did I say that, or just think it?! I wasn’t sure anymore. I grumbled and made a banal comment. “You must get absolutely no privacy in
here!”
“It’s
true,” she said, “people walk through here all the time to get to the
porch. Luckily, I’m a bit of an
exhibitionist, so I don’t mind, especially when I’m having sex with my
boyfriend or someone else or sex just with myself.”
I
pretended not to hear her comment.
We
walked onto the deck and I just wanted to hold her tightly in my arms, but
instead I blurted out, “It’s big. Really
big, and wide!”
“Yeah,
I always liked a big deck,” she said, looking to see if I heard what she
thought I’d hear.
“Yes,
er, well,” I stumbled and took a seat overlooking the street below.
I
can only surmise that she found my awkward mix of desire and discomfort to be
adorable. Why the hell else would she
pursue me for so long?
She
sat across from me. Not for the first
time that day, I noticed her sexy strappy heels, her short skirt, and the
smooth lines and curves from her ankles to her thighs. But now, as I sat across from her, I had a
much better view of these nether parts.
I tried to focus my attention on her pretty smile and seductive eyes,
but perhaps out of embarrassment and feeling like she was penetrating my dirty
thoughts, my gaze continually fell to her legs, feet, and toes.
“Oh,
wait!” she suddenly exclaimed, startling me out of my salacious dreaming about
those parts of her I was soaking in with my eyes. She suddenly got up and dashed into her
room. She dove on her bed and was going
through a pile books next to it. In that
position I could easily see right up her skirt as she searched her stack. “Got it!” she said as she returned
triumphant.
It
was the book I had published years ago on art.
“What,
Ms. Down, are you doing with that?”
“I
was hoping you’d sign it,” she said, knowing exactly how to unlock my heart,
through feeding my ego.
She
was sitting on the edge of her seat, oblivious to the fact that her skirt was
now riding up by her hips.
“Do
you have a pen?” I asked.
“Oh,
right,” she said, as she got up again to rummage through the clutter on her
small desk.
She
returned and gave it to me. “What would
you like me to say?” I asked.
“You’re
the man of letters. Say something sweet.
. . and smart. . . and sexy,” she said as her tongue ran across her sparkly
white teeth.
I
wrote: “Dear Ms. Down, This book is all about beauty, but as Emerson observed,
no museum replica can compare to the sweet, smart, and sexy wit, charm, and
loveliness of an evening with you in the flesh.”
I
signed it and returned it to her to read.
She
batted her eyelashes and looked up at me.
I swear I saw stars in her eyes as she looked upon me adoringly. “Do you really think so?” she asked.
“That
no museum piece compares to you?
Yes. I do.”
“I’ve
always wanted to model naked for an artist, but. . .”
“In
my humble opinion as an expert on art and beauty,” I said pompously, “any
drawing or painting of you would be merely one dimensional because there is no
way an artist could capture the sparkle of your personality.”
“Do
you think you could capture me?”
“Um,
you mean. . .”
“In
words.”
“As
in a novel?”
“Yeah,
something like that.”
“I
think that the only way to come close would be to have words accompanying the
images. But it would take a very
talented writer to do that.”
“I
think you’re talented enough to come close,” she said very suggestively.
“I
would like to try. . . someday,” I responded.
She was mere inches away from me.
She had indeed come very close to me.
I could almost feel her breathy words as she spoke. “But I am an academic,” I added, “not a
novelist. I doubt that I would be able
to do you justice.”
“You
never know,” she said, “I might just inspire you to do me. . . justice.”
Just
at that moment about four or five people came bursting out through the door of
her bedroom onto the porch, carrying beer and a bottle of booze and a
joint. Lo and I immediately pulled away
from the intimate position we were in and the spell was broken.
Later
that night, when I was back at home, I received a text from Lo. It read, “I heard once that sex is energy
between people. What do you think?”
I
said, “Before tonight, I would have laughed at that as New Age crap. But now I know what they’re talking
about. Was it good for you?”
“What?”
she wrote back.
“Never
mind.” I felt embarrassed. Was she playing me for a fool? Was this her way of flirting? Did she want me to be more explicit? I don’t know, but I let it drop, though I
played and replayed in my mind the “sex scene” we had shared many times since
that night.
I was a little rusty. It had been a while since I was in the
classroom in front of a packed lecture hall of undergrads. To compound matters, I wasn’t even lecturing
on my specialty, art, but on literature.
You see, a friend and colleague of mine had taken ill and needed someone
to fill the gap as a long-term substitute for the second half of the
semester. The course was
“Post-Modernism.” I had jumped in just
as the syllabus was up to Donald Barthelme’s The Dead Father. Looking out
across the room full of bright, enthusiastic, eager, young faces, I was feeling like the dead father myself. Were colleges admitting younger students, or
was I just growing old? I know what Lo
would say.
The lecture hall was designed much
like a movie theater, with the students’ seats at an incline, rising about ten
feet from the lectern to the last row.
And it just so happened that in the third row was a very sexy and
seductive brunette seated directly in front of me, her knees level with my
eyes.
I must have tickled her fancy
because on the third day of classes she strutted in wearing high heels, a short
skirt, and a crop-top that prominently displayed her navel. As I was pontificating about the post-modern
condition, she was crossing and re-crossing her legs, allowing ample time for
me to see that she was clearly not wearing panties. I was even able to discern the dainty little
‘V’ shape of her carefully groomed pubic hair.
Trying my best to not stare, since a
hundred other eyes were on me as I looked out and up into those vessels waiting
to be filled from my fount of wisdom, I read from the text:
Class Pet
They stand before
the hole in the ground.
No
fleece? Asked the Dead Father.
Thomas
looked at Julie
She
has it?
Julie
lifted her skirt.
Quite
golden, said the Dead Father. Quite
ample. That’s it?
All
there is, Julie said.
Unfortunately. But this
much. This where life lives. A pretty problem. As mine as yours. I’m sorry.
Quite
golden, said the Dead Father. Quite
ample.
He
moved to touch it.
No,
said Thomas.
No,
said Julie.
I’m
not even to touch it?
No.
After
all this long and arduous and if I may say so rather ill-managed journey? Not to touch it? What am I to do?
Fan petting her Golden Fleece to Lo’s images
A suggestive passage, indeed. But what was I to do? The page had been earmarked by the professor
in whose stead I stood and the passage highlighted. After reading aloud, it dawned on me that
perhaps this was indicated for his personal pleasure and not for me to discuss in class.
Too late. The cat was out of the
bag now. Or the puss, as the case may
be.
My little class flirt raised her
hand. “Why is Julie’s pubic hair
depicted as blonde?” she asked, unabashed.
Perhaps even a little sadistically, as her question was intended to make
me squirm publicly.
“Excellent question!” I said like a
fool. “Maybe because the entire text is
harkening to Greek mythology, and the Golden Fleece is, well, golden?”
Unsatisfied, she followed with, “But
isn’t this just perpetuating the myth of white elitism?”
“It could be read that way, or it
could be read as a commentary or critique of those very origin stories that
propounded the European and, by extension, white supremacist beliefs.” I thought the answer not bad for an
extemporaneous analysis.
“And the centrality of the father,”
she said, “isn’t that really patriarchal?”
“You could view it that way, except
for the fact that the children are taking him to be buried. They are attempting to bury the patriarchy,
you might say.”
As I answered, she spread her legs,
very wide this time, and her right hand moved with grace and effortless flow,
down to her crotch and ever-so-briefly pet her labia, causing them to
spread. I knew where I wanted to bury my
patriarchy.
When the class was finally over, as
the students were filing out of the lecture hall, I called the precocious
student over to my lectern.
“Ms. uh. . .”
“Down,” she said, “Lola Down.”
“Ms. Down,” I said, looking into her
brown eyes. “I am sorry that you found
this week’s text so objectionable.”
“I didn’t find it objectionable,”
she said, batting her eyelashes at me.
“I just don’t understand men’s idealizing and obsessing over blonde
pussy.”
I was shocked, shocked! at her
forthrightness.
“Well, er, yes, um, I completely
understand,” I muttered, unable to compose myself.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said, “I
like blonde pussy as much as the next girl, but it’s like ice cream. Why only taste vanilla when there’s also
chocolate and strawberry?”
“Well put,” I said like an
idiot. “I look forward to seeing you
next class.”
“I look forward to being seen,” she
said, knowing exactly what I meant.
“And,” I added, “I hope you won’t be
too offended by our assigned reading next week.”
“Lolita?”
she asked, displaying that she was well aware of what was on the syllabus,
“Don’t worry, I read it so many times in middle school that the pages fell
out. It’s my favorite!”
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.
