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A Report on the Nymphomaniac Condition

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

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

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

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

Fan, getting off to Lo at work

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

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

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

Fan, getting off to Lo

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

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

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

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

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

Lola Down, 21st Century Lolita

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

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

Nymphomaniac: Volume I is “sex addiction accurate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that’s not the whole story.

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

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

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

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

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

email downloladown@gmail.com for more info

Birthday Sex

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

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

“Can I have some shenanigans in me?”

“No!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sheer Top

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

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

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

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

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

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

Short Shorts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The rest of us went inside.

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

“Hey Steph,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” she asked naïvely.

“The women, Lo?”

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

I nodded my head.

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

“What do you mean not happy with you?”

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

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

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

“So, he can be happy with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want to swim?” asked Mark.

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

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

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

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

“How will we dry off?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lo,” he said.

“Fuck me,” she said.

“Lo,” he repeated.

“Fuck me, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

Lo pouted at the mention of them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I am.”

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

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

“I’d like to have an idea,” he said.

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

“No!” he said.

“I kid you not.”

“Really?!”

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

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

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

“Why not?  They’re true.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?  What was it then?”

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

“Feeling generous, were you?”

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

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

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

Confession of a Poet

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Kimberley Diamond

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

For Christine, I wrote the following:

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

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

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

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

Warm Skin Getting off to Lo

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

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

Sharing Couple of NJ Getting off to Lo

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

With love and lust

 

Kimberely

 

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

Lo, “in taking, she gives.”

PurpleSole Had a good time with the book.

Sharing Couple of NJ Enjoying the Stories

Body of Work

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A while ago I wrote that even in today’s topsy-turvy world, Lo and I attempt to avoid politics and political positions in the things we publish.  Yes, we’re political in our everyday lives.  I mean, who isn’t?  To be a-political is to say, “I don’t care if other people make decisions for me or what decisions they make.”

Deborah de Robertis

But here, in our little nook of the erotic blogosphere, we do our best just to tell a good, sexy story and keep you all out there engaged.  It’s a safe space for us and hopefully for you from all the noise, hatred, and vitriol that surrounds us.

But then, one morning while listening to an interview with the creator of “The L Word,” Ilene Chaiken, I heard her say of the show that, “I think it’s revolutionary in America because we’re such a sex-averse culture. And to talk about sex, not just lesbian sex or LGBTQ sex, just to talk about sex is revolutionary.”  That gave me pause and totally reframed this little endeavor of ours.

Mia Kirshner

Maybe she’s right.  Maybe, just writing these lewd, crude, prurient, perverted, sexual, salacious, suggestive, and explicit stories is a political act.

I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this before since, during the course of our career as sex enthusiasts, we’ve been banned from: PayPal, WordPress, Tumblr, MeWe, and most recently, Pinterest.  After that last one, Lola turned to me and said, “Since when did being sexy become a crime?”

The L Word

I said, “Darling, you have looks that could kill.  Your body is a dangerous weapon if in the wrong hands.”

We were kidding around, but really, she’s right and so is Chaiken.  In our society, sex – consensual, adult, legal sex! – is treated as a contagion that must be contained.  Beauty, especially the beauty of the unadorned human body, is hypocritically exalted in museums but excluded from life.  It is sequestered away as if the halls of high culture were but a peepshow parade for the few, but not for the many.

Deborah de Robertis

 

Deborah de Robertis

Deborah de Robertis

A keen example of this is the performance art of Deborah de Robertis.  In 2014 she entered the Musée d’Orsay, sat down in front of Gustave Courbet’s painting, “The Origin of the World,” hiked up her golden dress to her hips, spread her legs, and displayed her genitalia.  This may seem like the bizarre behavior of an exhibitionist unless one is aware that Courbet’s painting is a beautiful oil painting of a woman’s naked torso, prominently displaying her cunt – the origin of the world.  Like any great piece, her performance art could be interpreted in a variety of ways.  The way I understand her work is as a statement about society.  “Look here!  You, you artists, aesthetes, philanthropists, critics, connoisseurs, cultural gate-keepers, and curious members of the museum-going public – look!  Courbet says that this is the origin of the world.  He’s right.  This, the window of women through which you came and into which you cum; this is the origin and center of the world.  Yet, here I am, proudly displaying mine right next to the framed work, and the latter imitation you prize and protect while the former flesh and blood you censor and persecute.  You hypocrites!  You despisers of the female form, the body, the earth.  You cower in fear before the frothing flaps from which you emerged.”

 

I digress.  All I am trying to say here is that we are proud of our body of work and proud of our fellow sex bloggers, sex workers, sex enthusiasts, and all of our readers and fans.  People say the Sexual Revolution took place in the ’60’s.  Well, by the looks of things, the Revolution is far from over.  Pick up your penises, your dildos, your vibrators, your anal plugs, your strap-ons, and whatever other toys and tools you use and jack it, jill it, fuck it, fill it!  Long live the Revolution!!!  Kinksters of the world unite.  You have nothing to lose but your clothes!

Deborah de Robertis in front of Lola Down as “Origin of the World”

Sex on Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

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[Continued from: Quiver]

When I woke up from my long nap, I found Lo sitting in the cozy chair next to the hotel room bed, on her computer, typing away.

“Whatcha doin’?” I muttered.

“Oh, well, look who has rejoined the land of the living!”

“What time is it?”

“Six.”

“Six?!  I must have been out for like three hours!

“About three and a half.”

“What have you been up to?”

“This, that.”

“Right.”

I slid like a sloth over the bed toward the chair and peeked over her computer to see what she was doing.  As I suspected, she was chatting up people on social media.  NSFW social media.

“You want to see?”

“OK.”

She showed me.  One guy had messaged her, “What are you wearing?”  Another messaged her “Do you like cum?”  She posted a pic of herself covered in cum and said, “Answered two-in-one.”  She thought for a moment.  “Hmmmm, two-in-one – that’s my favorite sex position!”

“It’s too early for your humor,” I grumbled.

“What are we going to do, Daddio?” she asked, excited and perky, as she shut her computer.

“What about your virtual gentlemen callers, Lo?  Are you just going to leave them hanging like that?”

“No worries.  They’ll jack off to my photos and show me the evidence later.  They’re ok.”

“Twenty-first Century romance at its finest.”

“You want to go out?”

“I’m not a dog.”

“If only.”

“I don’t want to go out,” I said.  “I want a coffee, three Ibuprofen, and a shower, in that order.”

“What’s the matter, ole man?”

“Day drinking, day fucking, sun stroke, and probably death.”

“Then this is heaven,” she said, spreading her legs and stroking her pussy.  Did I mention she was naked in that chair?

“Lo, please.”

“It’s alright,” she said, “I already came.”

“When don’t you cum?  Honestly.”

“What restaurant tonight?”  She was persistent.

“How about tonight we just order room service.  We have a five o’clock flight in the morning.”

She pouted.

“Lo, too much of a good thing. . .”

“Is a better thing!”

“I don’t think that’s how the saying goes.”

“Fine, fine,” she said.

A little later we got our dinner delivered and put on Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.  As we watched it, I turned to her and said, “You are definitely Neal Page,” (the Steve Martin character).

“And you are definitely Del,” (the John Candy character).

“Glad we agree on something.”

We went to bed early.  No sex.  At least not for me.  What she did, I don’t know because I fell right to sleep.

The next day, she was not having it.  Morning, that is.

When I woke her, she said, “It’s dark outside.  This is not a time.”

“Lo, it’s three-thirty.  We have to get to the airport, drop off the rental car, and get through security.”

“Three-thirty is late afternoon.”

“There are two of them.  This is the other one.”

“I don’t like it,” she said.  She put her head under the pillow.

“We have to get going,” I pleaded.

She finally got herself together and we were in the rental car driving to the airport.  The whole way Lo was complaining.  I knew it was because the sun had not even begun to rise yet.  She is a nocturnal animal, but an early bird she is not.

“Look,” I finally said out of frustration, “if you want to actually be Neal Page, then you can walk the rest of the way.”

“OK, Del,” she said snidely.

“Might I remind you that Del was kind-hearted, upbeat, jovial, and he also got them out of every hopeless situation they found themselves in.”

“Are you kidding me?  If it wasn’t for Neal and all his money, they never would have gotten out of St. Louis.  Del just used Neal because Del was broke.  Del was a manipulator, a freeloader, a grifter.”

“Del was happy.  Neal was a miserable, uptight, meanspirited, asshole.”

“Neal had a job and a family.  Del sold shower curtain rings, was homeless, and had no one.”

“He was a widower!  His wife died!  He probably loved her so much that he went to pieces after she passed away.”

“Pshhhaw,” she said dismissively.

“Are you honestly telling me that you think Neal was the better of the two characters?”

“Yes.”

“Del taught Neal how to enjoy life.  Del was well-liked all across the Midwest.  Everywhere they went, he knew people and they went out of their way to help him.  He must have been a nice guy.  Neal knew no one.”

“Neal had a real job and didn’t go door-to-door.”

“Why are we fighting about this?” I finally said to Lo.

“You know,” she replied back, “you just missed the exit to the airport.”

“What?”

“Yeah.  You were so caught up in being right that we drove clear passed it.”

“Fuck!”

She pulled out her phone and was figuring out how to get to the car rental place.

In the distance I could see the sun just breaking through the horizon.

“I know why you’re so argumentative,” I said to Lo.  “You didn’t get to jill it this morning.”

“Duh.”

“Well, go on.  It only takes you a minute.  After all, Del said that Neal’s worst trait was he was always fidgeting with his balls.”

“And Del’s worst trait was he never shut up,” she said as she slid her hand down her pants.

When we got to the airport and were driving up the parking garage toward the car rental return, she said, “Pull over.”

“What?”

“Just pull into a parking spot.  I’ll finish here.”

I did as she said, but warned her, “Be quick about it.  We’re already running late.”

I backed in so I could see if anyone or any cars were coming while Lo was intent on cumming, but the place, the time pressure, the stress of it all made the five minutes of diddling the bean all for naught.

“Fuck,” she said, but not in a good way.  “Let’s just go.”  She removed her hand from her jeans and buttoned them up.  I drove us to the proper destination for the rental and we made it to our flight just on time.

We boarded and buckled in for our four hour flight back home.  Lo pulled out her noise cancelling headphones and plugged them into her phone.  After we were in the air, Lo turned something on and that something turned her on.

She asked the flight attendant for a blanket.  That could only mean one thing.

She draped the blanket over her legs and dove down with her favorite fap finger and soon she was clenching her knees together.  That took all of three or four minutes and then another three or four minutes after that, Lo was sound asleep with her headphones still on.

Out of curiosity, I removed her headphones gently from her head and listened.  She had the audio of Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I: Nymphomania and the Single Girl playing, as read by the incomparable Jupiter Grant.  Unbelievable.  Never have I met such a vain, narcissistic nymphomaniac.  She actually got off to herself getting off!  Well, that and Ms. Grant’s sexy reading voice.  I was a bit flattered since I had written the words that brought her to climax.  Better than writing for Hallmark. [See NOTE]

Just before we landed, I woke Lo to avoid her being startled by the bump when the wheels hit the tarmac.  I told her she might want to button up her pants.  She did so.

When we got out into the brutally cold weather of the Northeast, we tried desperately to get a Lyft, an Uber, or a taxi, but since this was the second most travelled day of the year, they were all a long wait.  We ended up taking the subway right at the height of rush hour.

As usual on our return flight, Lo was terribly underdressed for the weather back home.  She only had on her skin-tight jeans, her striped jackpot top, and a leather jacket.  Because of the biting cold, even after we got on the subway, her nipples were protruding right through the already shapely and revealing shirt.  The suits on their way to the office took notice and Lo basked in their attention, especially insofar as I was well aware of it.  She likes to tease them and me simultaneously.

She gave me a sidelong glance and ran her tongue over her sparkly white teeth as she pressed up a little closer to one suit when the crush of people got on at the next stop.

I’ll admit, it made me rigid and uncomfortable.

When we got out of the crowded subway car, I turned to Lo and said, “You’re so lucky I love you, because any other man would leave you after a ride like that.”

“Save it for home,” she said.  “That wasn’t the last ride of the day.  You have one more to give me.”

As soon as we got in the door and dropped the bags, she took me by the hand into the bedroom.  “Why do you ignore me so much, Daddy?”

“Ignore you?!  Lo, I lavish attention on you.”

“You don’t show it.”

“You mean, I don’t show it the way strangers in a subway show it.”

“Yeah,” she said, dropping her pants, sliding out of her pink thong, and lifting up her striped shirt, no bra.  “Come here and warm me up,” she said.

I got naked and in the bed next to her and she wrapped her bare body around mine.

“You know why I tease them and flirt with all those hard-up husbands on social media, don’t you?”

“Enlighten me, Lo.”

“Because I’m just trying to get your attention.  It’s all for you.”

Suddenly the lyrics to the song by Janet Jackson were floating through my mind.  I was in a delirious dream state.  She climbed on me and all I could hear in my head was, “Guess I’m goanna have ride it tonight.”

Up and down she posted, saying to me, “Cum in me.  Cum in me.  Cum deep in me.  Give me your attention.  Give it to me.  Give it all to me.  I want it.  I want it all.  I need it.  I need more.  I need more.  Fuck, I need it.  Fuck me.  Fuck me.  Fuck me Daddy.”

I saw her fire-engine-red fingernails down over her clit.  I felt her fingers pry up and into her snatch.  She wiggled them deeper inside, up along the top of my shaft as she lifted her hips up, and then she delved in deeper as she lowered her wet crotch down to the base of my cock.

Now it was just her and me fucking in the cold sunshine back home.  No strippers.  No beach girls in string bikinis.  No musclebound men mounting Lola like a stray bitch in heat found wandering around the boardwalk.  No sexting hard husbands, willing wives, and curious couples looking for a cheap thrill.  No chatting up lustful ladies or seducing single men with her virtual vagina over the internet.  No.  None of that.  Now it was just the two of us fucking.

“Where do you want me to cum?  Show me with your finger,” I said as I felt myself getting close.

“Right here,” she said, wiggling her index finger on her g-spot.

“Now?”

“Now.”

I ejaculated right onto her fingertips lodged deep inside her hole.

When I had given her her fill, I slid out and she pulled her sticky little hand and licked each finger as if she had just made cake batter and got it on her hand.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she said as she collapsed on me and fell asleep.

I knew she was asleep because her breathing had changed and when her phone buzzed, she didn’t move.

I reached over to the nightstand and picked up her phone.  It was one of her internet friends.  I read the message: “Hey Lo, my wife is in the shower.  I’ve got about five minutes.  Do you think you could help me cum?”

[NOTE: The Audiobook is not out yet.  Lo was listening to Jupiter Grant’s raw recording.  Expected release date: Valentine’s Day, 2020.  Stay tuned!]

Quiver

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[Continued from “Black Friday: A Juicy Story Before Brunch”

The day after Thanksgiving.  Black Friday.  Miami Beach.  Lo was on a mission.  This was our third day in Miami.  Seventy-two hours of glorious sunny days, short-shorts, and sex.  And, in typical Lo fashion, she wanted more of all three.

“What’s for breakfast?” I asked.

“I thought we were having sex,” she said as she sat on the side of the bed wearing only her sexy tank-top T-shirt and spreading her legs.

“Sex for breakfast?”

“Yeah, we’ll call it ‘Sex-fest.’”

“But Lo, you just came twice.”

“That was all external stimulation.  It just makes me more hungry.”

“Hungry for breakfast?” I asked, since I was starving.

“No, hungry for your cock in my cunt.”

“It’s not even 9 a.m. and you’re using that sort of language?!”

“It’s never too early to speak a Romance Language.”

“You forget, I was in the Romance Languages department at my college.  They didn’t speak like that.”

“Illiterate.”

“We could discuss the nuances of philology all morning, but. . .”

“But I want you to fuck me.  Please.  Just a quick in-and-out is all I need.”

“Fine,” I said and I puled my shorts down around my knees.

The hotel room bed was only a full; much smaller than we were used to.  I said to her, “There better be a spot for me in that bed cause I’m getting in it.”

“Oh, I’ve got a spot for you and you definitely are going to get in it.”

She turned over and scrunched up her body into a little ball on the bed, exposing her puss and ass to me.

“Just go right in,” she said over her shoulder, as if I needed some instructions.

“Top or bottom?” I asked.

“Top or bottom?” she was confused.

“Yeah, which hole?”

“Which do you want?” she asked seductively, surprising me.

“Top!” I said without hesitation.

“Well, fill the bottom first and, if you’re good, you can have the top.”

Lola & HH

Standing by the side of the bed, I slid in with ease and she moaned.  She was drenched and dripping.  “Stay.  Right.  There,” she commanded.  I didn’t even move.  I just grabbed her by her hips and lifted her a little then pushed her down a little.  Up and down, up and down I slid her on my cock.   My thumb moved its way to her top hole to press against it. Within seconds her cunt was gushing and clenching.  I pulled her in closer by her hips to make sure I stayed in place; the tip of my cock up against her g-spot.  She didn’t even scream.  She just bit her lower lip and moaned.  I could see her facial expressions and contortions in the mirror.  In a few more seconds she pulled forward and, as I slid out of her, she squirted.  I was careful to jump back and avoid getting splashed.

“Ahhhh,” she said, “that did the trick.”

She was splayed out on the bed now, breathing heavily.  I stood next to the bed.

“This isn’t a coat rack,” I said of my erect phallus.

“What?” she asked, perplexed.

“You promised me the top hole, remember?”

“Oh, right!”

She scrunched up into her little ball again, wiggling her ass in front of me.  “Can you hit the target?” she teased.

“Stay still and my arrow will fill your quiver.”

I grabbed her hips again and pressed the full head of my cock up against her sphincter.  Her flower bud opened.  Slowly I filled her.  I could see her hands out in front of her clutching the bed sheets as she felt the pain and pleasure of my deep dive.

Again she commanded, “Stay. Right. There.”  Her ass clenched down on me and her body turned the noun, “quiver,” into a verb.

Suddenly she lunged forward, just like she did before, leaving me hard up, standing by the side of the bed a second time as she caught her breath.

Turning her head over her shoulder, she said, “Amazing, Daddio!”

Then, noticing me pulling up my shorts, she said, “Aren’t you going to cum?”

“Darling, thirty seconds of standing behind you, rigid as a statue, while you got your rocks off was exclusively for your pleasure.”

“But I want you to cum.”  She turned around, on all fours, facing me, or rather, my crotch.  She looked up at me and asked, “Don’t you know what Cyndi Lauper says?”

“Cyndi Lauper?!  You’re dating yourself dear.”

“Oh, I wish I could date myself.  I’d be such a good fuck.”

“You’re getting distracted again.  What does Cyndi Lauper say?”

“Oh, right.  She sings, ‘Girls just wanna have cum. That’s all they really want – some cum.’”  She sang the lyrics.

Girls Just Wanna Have Cum

“I think you might be taking some poetic license with that.”

“Whatever.  Cum in my mouth,” she commanded as she took my cock into her open mouth and slobbered over it with her tongue.

“And spoil your appetite?” I asked, enjoying the sensation and the thought of what a dirty, slutty girl she is.

“It’s more of an appetizer.”

“No,” I said flatly, pulling out of her mouth.

She pouted.

“I’m starving,” I said.  “If I don’t eat soon, I’m going to waste away.”

She rolled her eyes sarcastically – as if I was in any mortal danger of wasting away.

“What?” I asked.  “Look at me,” I said, striking a pose, flexing my biceps, “One hundred seventy-five pounds of pure muscle!”

“One hundred and seventy-five?!” Lo exclaimed in disbelief, “Aren’t you a few pounds off there?”

“No.  It is a hundred and seventy-five pounds of muscle.  The other thirty pounds might be fat, but under it is the pure muscle.”

“Still a little shy of the mark, I think.”

“Well, the other ten pounds is brain, of course.”

“Of course,” she said sardonically.

I stepped on the scale and cursed it saying, “You lying sack of shit!”

Lo, naked but for her T-shirt, stepped on the scale after me and said, “It better not be lying, it says I lost two pounds!”

“It lies.”

“Does it?  Or could it be that my diet and exercise and drinking plenty of liquids has caused me to lose two pounds?”

“It lies.”

“Why would it lie to me that I lost two pounds and lie to you that you. . . well, uh, you’re. . . ?”

“Because it likes the view it has of you from down there.”

She laughed.  She almost never laughs at my jokes, but I suppose this one also appealed to her vanity.  I love it when she laughs.

“Do you like the view?” she asked, bending over and looking at me from between her knees.

“I don’t know why they call it mooning when it looks as bright and pink as the sunrise to me,” I said.  “But as pretty as you are, morning glory, can we please go get breakfast?”

“Sure,” she said as she slipped into her bikini bottoms.  “How do these look?”

It was a very skimpy pink thong bikini bottom that she purposely pulled up extra tight.

I gave her a cat-call whistle and launched into a sing-song limerick:

 

Do your labia hang low?
Do they wobble to and fro?
Can you tie ’em in a knot?
Can you tie ’em in a bow?
Can you throw ’em o’er your shoulder
Like a continental soldier?
Do your labia hang low?

 

“What?!” she asked, looking down between her legs.

“Look in the mirror,” I gestured.

She took a look and could see what I saw: her puffy pussy lips straddling the skinny g-string.  She’s very self-conscious of her large labia.

“Ah, fiddle-dee-dee,” she said, dismissing my concern.  She walked up to me and, seeing that I had pitched a tent in my shorts, she sang back:

Does your cock stand high?
Does it reach up to the sky?
Does it droop when it’s wet?
Does it stiffen when it’s dry?
Can you wave it at your neighbor
With an element of flavor?
Does your dick stand high?

 

“Touché,” I said.

“Tushie?” she asked, turning around and showing me her bottom again.

I smacked it hard and said, “That’s for being tardy.”

We finally got in the rental car and I let Lo drive.  Lo being Lo, she blasted the radio and “I’m Real” by Ja Rule happened to be on, pounding the bass of the speakers to the chorus:

 

 

-Cause I’m real-
The way you walk
The way you move
The way you talk
-Cause I’m real-
The way you stare
The way you look
Your style your hair
-Cause I’m real-
The way you smile
The way you smell
It drives me wild
-Cause I’m real-
And I can’t go on without you

 

 

Lo was contentedly squirming in her leather bucket seat to the beat of the music.

“Can you shut that damn music off?!” I complained.

“You know, you sound like an old man when you say that.”

“You know, I am an old man.”

“Oh, I know.  It’s just sad to think about.”

“Well, if you want to break up with me, go right ahead.”

“Sounds like you’re trying to get rid of me.”

“No.  You said that it’s ‘sad’ to think about me being an old man.”

“It is!  I mean, I’m not even at the great hump of my life yet.”

“I thought I was the great hump of your life.”

“I should hope not.”

“What?!”

“What I mean is, I’m not over the hill yet.”

“I should hope not.”

“What does that mean?”

“It simply means, that at twenty-something, you still have some great humps to look forward to.”

“And you don’t?”
“I didn’t say that.  I’m looking forward to humping you in about five minutes.”

“Why so long?”

“So long?  Is five minutes too much to wait for you youngins these days?”

“Five minutes is like two and a half news cycles.”

“Well, here’s some breaking news: the best is yet to come.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Cause I love cumming.”  She pulled up to the curb.  “Here we are.  Where are you going to fuck me?”

“Well, I need nourishment first.  Let’s eat,” I said as we got out of the convertible and went to the hostess stand on the sidewalk.  We were seated at a quaint table outside with a view of Ocean Boulevard and the beach across the street.  Pretty people were walking by and fancy cars were cruising slowly to see and be seen.

A tricked-out car drove by – shiny, sparkly, loud.  Lo was clearly impressed.

She observed it closely and then commented, “The exhaust is merely cosmetic.”

“Just like yours!” I quipped.

She gave me a look of faux shock.

A musclebound fella walked by in a tiny speedo and a loose fitting tank-top.

“Lo, stop drooling.  Or at least use a napkin.”

“What?!  He’s a very beefy boy. . . and I’m a beefeater,” she said, taking a slow, seductive bite of her sausage.

After breakfast, we walked down the strip and Lo was window shopping, until she was actually shopping.  I sat outside sipping my frozen drink.  When she came back out, she gave me a t-shirt like the one worn by Mr. Muscles.

“I didn’t know whether to get you a large or an extra large,” she said.

“You should always get me grandiose.”

“To match your ego?”

We walked down to the beach and Lo pulled out of her oversized bag a sheet she stole from the hotel.  She spread it out on the sand and then spread herself on top of it.  I sat down next to her and began rubbing in the sunscreen on her shoulders.  When I was done I said, “I’ll draw on your back with my finger and you tell me what I’m spelling.”

“OK.  But where’s the top?”

“Here,” I said, as I scribbled up by her shoulder blades.

“Hey!  What are you doing?” she asked as my finger went down between her butt cheeks.

“I’m just seeing where the bottom is.  Oh!  Look at that.  I think I found the ink well.”

“Yeah?!  You’re gonna have a broken nub if you keep it up!”

After a bit, she pulled out the deck of cards from her bag and began shuffling them.

“What are you playing?”

“Strip Solitaire.”

“Are you winning or losing?”

“I’ll take off my top and you tell me.”

I scanned the beach to see if any other women were going topless.

“Hey!” she said, “I’m over here!!!”

She thought she saw me looking at some of the other sexy women on the strand.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, teasing her.  “So I like looking at them.  They’re like boats: I like how they look, but I don’t want to have one.”

“Oh yeah?  Like boats?  You better watch out that I don’t wash them away with my tsunami.”

“Are you squirting again?  I didn’t even see you touch your puss.”

“I don’t need to with all this eye-candy.”

“Oh, so it’s ok for you to look, but not me?”

“Exactly.  Next pair of sunglasses I buy you will be blinders.”

With that comment, she left her card game and sauntered into the water.  Just at the water’s edge, she turned back to me and called, “Daddio!  Aren’t you coming?”

“Not yet,” I called back, “but I will be.”

“What?!” she called.

“I’m not coming!”

She yelled back, “I’ll fix that!”  She then turned tail and bent over, revealing her shoelace thin thong.  She feigned finding a seashell, but she was just showing off.  She eventually walked in the water, sticking out her tongue at me over her shoulder as the waves crested and fell over her hips.  Then she dove in.

When she returned from the cool dip, she asked, “What do you think of my hair?” as it dripped from its curls down her breasts.

“You look just like Medusa.”

“That’s not a compliment.  Wasn’t she so ugly that she turned anyone who looked at her to stone?”

“No no no, that’s not it.  What the Greeks meant was any man who saw her got hard as a rock and that’s how I feel about you and your wild, curly hair.”

“Nice save,” she said with a smile as she laid down next to me, getting me all wet.

I had just got comfortable and was engrossed in the book I was reading, The Postmodern Condition, you know, your typical beach read, when she said, “Let’s go for a walk Daddy.”

“What?  Now?”

“Yes, Daddio.  I want to go find something nice.”

“To wear?”

“To fuck.”

“I’m still available, you know.”

“Available?  No you’re not.  You’re taken.”

“I’d never know it.”

“You had me this morning.”

“For thirty seconds to help you get your rocks off.”

“So, what the hell are you complaining about?”

“I’d like to get my rocks off.”

“Oh, are your rocks aching?”

“Yes.  Yes they are.”

“Follow me.  Let’s see if we can do something about that.”

We went for a walk through the dunes to a little wooded park, verdant with scrub pines, palms, and colorful flowers.  When we found a little bench, she said to me, “OK, you go over there and just watch.”

“What am I watching for?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

I sat diagonally from her, about thirty feet away.  I watched as she sat there looking pretty.  Guys walked by, mostly couples.  But then one muscular black man in a skimpy bathing suit, bulging out of the itty-bitty stretchy material, stopped and asked her a question.  She looked up, batting her eyelashes at him, smiling, licking her teeth with her tongue as she looked down, furtively, at his crotch.  They began chatting.  And then, within not so very long they got up and walked out of sight.

About a half-hour later Lo returned to the spot where I waited for her.

She approached me slowly, with a look of wily satisfaction and mystery about her.

“You can have me now, Daddy.  He’s all done.”  I noticed jizz covering her clavicle.  She grabbed my hand and walked me to the secluded spot where she had just been with the tall, dark stranger.

“Lo,” I said, “What do you mean he’s all done?”

“Well,” she said, “do you want me to act out exactly what we did?”

“Sure.”

She laid down on the bench and began stroking her pussy over her short shorts while I stood over her and looked at her.

“Well, Daddio?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to take out your cock and stroke it?  That’s what he did.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And what did you do?”

“What do you think?  What should a good girl do when she goes to the park and begins masturbating over her shorts and a tall, dark, hung stranger appears pantless ready to fuck?”

“Did you get his digits?”

“All of them.”

“All of them?”

“Yeah, all of them, inside me.”

“Right here?”

“Right here.”

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, confused.

“To a bar.  I need a drink.”

Truth was, it was hot.  I was thirsty.  I was tense.  I was irritated.  I was horny.  And I wasn’t about to start fucking Lola right there in the barely concealed patch of public privacy.

“Wait!” she said.  “I have to change first.”  She spread her legs and showed me the dark spot covering the crotch of her denim shorts where she apparently squirted.

She popped into the public restroom and a moment later, she popped out wearing just her bikini top and a short skirt.

“Wow!” I said.  “You’re like a superhero!”

“Super Squirt!” she pronounced, swinging her shorts around her finger, grabbing me by my arm.

We went to a fancy hotel with a rooftop deck, pool, and bar.  This was a new hotel and the rooftop was pretty high up there and it even had a balcony with a glass floor.

Lo walked out and leaned over the railing and said, “Wow!  Don’t look down!”

“I’m not,” I said, “I’m lookin’ up – lookin’ up your skirt, that is.”  No panties.  No bikini thong.  Nothing.  Just her perfectly shapely and shaved mons pubis.

We then went and sat at the bar where I ordered a Tom Collins.  Lo apologized to the bartender for my unfashionable taste in drinks, saying, “I’m sorry, he’s old.”

The bartender chuckled.

For the middle of the day, on a beautiful beach day, the bar was pretty busy.  But, I guess for the people who live down there, going to the beach every day loses its allure pretty quickly.

Lo asked me, “You want to see what I saw on the bench?”

“Sure,” I said, not knowing where she was going with this.

She pulled out her phone and pulled up a photo of her with her legs spread and a guy with an elephant trunk hanging down from his crotch standing over her.

The old pervert seated next to Lo at the bar – not me, the guy on the other side of her – looked over Lo’s shoulder out of curiosity.

“Nice shot,” he said.

“Not nearly as nice as when he came on me,” retorted Lo without missing a beat.

“Is that so?” asked Mr. Intrusive.

“Yes, that’s so,” said Lo, followed by, “Oh, how rude of me.  HH, this is,” she said, as if introducing an old friend.

“Kip,” he said.

“Kip,” said Lo.  “Kip, HH,” she said, introducing us.

I shook his hand over Lo’s lap and said, “Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure,” he said.

He clearly had had a few already.  He wore a festive Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts, sandals.  I’d say he was about 46 and beginning to bald.  A bit overweight.  Genial smile and friendly – midwestern friendly.  Too friendly, you might say.

Lo was in a festive, flirty mood and so she teased and toyed with this guy, telling both him and me what happened with her mystery man down by the beach.

“How very slutty of you,” he said.

“I thought so,” replied Lo proudly.

The guy asked, “Will you be my slut?”

“I’m everyone’s slut.  That’s what being a slut is.”

“I don’t know if you could handle me,” said the guy.

“Why not?” asked Lo, defiantly.

“My cock – it’s pretty big and has a lot of girth,” he said.

Lola pulled out her phone and found a photo of her horse cock dildo.  “This is one of my toys,” she said.  “I can handle any cock.  Any human cock, that is.”

The guy was trying to play it cool, but I could see he was intrigued by Lo’s unabashed candor.

What about Lo?  She was flirting and teasing, but was she actually into him?  I couldn’t tell.

We had a few more drinks and continued chatting.  The fella next to us was married, had adult children, older than Lo, and claimed to be in Miami on business.  But it was Thanksgiving weekend.  Who is in Miami on business?

Lola was waxing rhapsodic about how much she loved Miami – the ocean, the beaches, the restaurants.

The guy interjected, “The orgasms on the boardwalk.”

Lo squirmed in her barstool and pressed her knees together.

She looked at me, embarrassed.  I knew what happened.

I said, “You could say, she cums with the territory,” as I feigned spilling my water.

“That’s the worst pun you ever made,” said Lo as she watched me clean up the mess she made under her stool from her perch.

“Really?  I’m sure I’ve made worse,” I said, looking up at her, hoping she wouldn’t have another accidental squirting orgasm.

“I’m sorry,” Lo apologized to our new friend, “Dad jokes.”

“I’m a dad,” he said, “no need to apologize.”

Along one side of the pool there were semi-private alcoves with recliners made for two.  Lo ordered another drink and suggested we take the one that was recently vacated before someone else got it.  She picked up her bag and casually sauntered to her destination.

Mr. Middleage followed her, leaving me to grab (and pay for) our last round.

When I got to the little cabana, Lo was lying down with her Mr. Marriedman next to her.  I handed Lo her drink and said I was going for a swim.  Her antics were beginning to upset me, if I’m honest.

I got in the warm water and rested up against the side of the pool with my drink in hand, watching Lo and her beau.

She lay with her legs crossed under her skirt.  She removed her bikini top.  The guy ogled her.  They were making small talk.  I could practically read Lo’s lovely lips when she said, “That’s ok, you can touch.”

The guy put his hand on Lo’s hip and slowly caressed her.  Lo turned over and he put his hand down under her skirt and I could see him touch her bum as she took a sip from her straw.

She rolled on her side, showing him her tits and letting her skirt open in front.  She said, “You like what you see?”

He said something I couldn’t make out.

“Are you hard?”

Again, I couldn’t make out the words.

“Jack it,” she commanded.

He pulled a towel over his cargo shorts and reached down.  Lo watched him intently.

She loves being the stimulant for sexually starving strangers, the sweet release for men and women who need a focus for their swirling smut-dreams like a mantra for meditation.

She was speaking softly to him, encouraging him, telling him dirty things about her, probably telling him about how she sucked my cock after letting me have her ass that morning.

His head dropped back and he became rigid for a few seconds before crumpling like a suit having all its starch sucked out in one magic moment.

Lo got up and came into the pool.  Her skirt billowed behind her in the water.  She swam to me and said, “Let’s go, Daddio.”

“Mission accomplished?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.  My mission is to make you cum like that,” she said as she grabbed my cock under the water.

We got out and Lo put her top on, and we walked out, both dripping wet, but she in more ways than one.

She blew a good-bye kiss to the man with the mess in his cargo.

Back at the hotel, Lo could hardly wait.

“Did you like everything today, Daddy?” she asked as she lay naked on the bed.

“Most of it,” I said, thinking it over.

“Let’s take a shower,” she said, just as I got out of my clothes and was very ready and eager to have her.

“What?  Now?”

“Yeah,” she said.  “I got sand in my hoo-ha.”

“What did you say?”

“You know, I’m not interested in any pearls in the ole clam.”

“Only you, darling, only you,” I said, amused at her pornographic poetry.

The shower had a small seat built into the back wall of it.  She sat on it, spread her legs, looked up at me, and said, “Was I a very bad girl today, Daddy?”

“Yes, yes you were.”

“Was I a dirty little slut?”

“Very much so.”

“Are you mad that I let a man cum on me in public?”

“No, darling.”

“Are you mad that I walked around with his cum on my body all day?”

“Proud of your accomplishment?”

“Oh yeah,” she said.

“Am I terribly disgusting?” she asked.

“Not to me,” I said.  I can’t lie.

“Show me, Daddy, that I’m yours,” she said.

I wasn’t sure what she was after.

She reached out and grabbed my cock and held it in her hand.

“You drank a lot at the bar,” she said.

“Not too much.  A few drinks.”

“Have you peed even once today, Daddy?”

Now I knew where she was going.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes,” she said, a certain neediness in her voice.

I closed my eyes, relaxed, and let go.

She shook her tits and spread her legs wide as I drenched her in the warm stream from her chin down to her twat.

“That’s right, Daddy,” she said, “I’m such a slutty, cum-hungry, whore.”

I looked down at her, dripping wet, and said, “Ah, the Fountain of Youth!”

When I was done, we turned on the warm water and took turns washing and worshipping each other.

When we finally got in bed she said, “Use me, Daddy.  Use me however you want.  Treat me like your little fuck-doll.”

I had her on the bed just like I did in the morning.  I slid in her puss only briefly and then went back to her other hole, filling her from tip to balls.

“Mmmmm, yes.  Hold me down.  I like that.  Slap my ass.  Slap my puss.  Slap me.  Hold me down.  Hurt me.  Make it hurt!  Make me yours again, Daddy.  I’ve been so bad today.  I just want to be yours.  Yours.  Make me stop whoring around town.  Make me good again.  Make me so sore I can’t even walk.  Make me stop searching for cock.  Make me good again.”  She went on like that the entire time I fucked her until I was nearly ready to cum – finally after a full day of teasing and edging, watching her degrade herself for me and for others, in private and in public.  Finally, I was ready to explode with all that pent-up jealousy, desire, rage, ravage, revenge, lust, love, and “Lo!” I called out as I was about to erupt.

She quickly hopped off my rod and spun around, opening her mouth wide and accepting the offering I emitted like a parched nomad in the desert desirous of every last drop of life-giving liquid.  She wrapped her mouth around my cock and sucked, encouraging me to continue cumming until I could stand no more.

I fell down on the bed next to her and immediately lost consciousness, falling into a deep and peaceful sleep.

Thank You Daddy

 

Very Thankful

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mysexlifewithlola.com

It was Thanksgiving weekend and we had been invited to a family-friend’s house in Miami for the occasion.  Our host’s apartment was in one of the tall high-rise buildings downtown and was not nearly large enough to accommodate all the guests overnight, so Lo and I got a hotel room close by.  Being from up north, it took a lot of getting used to Thanksgiving without the brilliant foliage hues of warm oranges, deep reds, and brilliant yellows.  Rather, seeing palm trees, blue skies, and beaches made this weekend feel like any other vacation weekend.

We had arrived on Wednesday, the most highly traveled day of the year in America, but despite my travel anxiety, the trip went off without a hitch.  We got settled in our hotel early that day and then made our way down to Miami Beach where Lo slipped into her skimpy little bikini and we quickly made the transition from trudging through ankle high snow to gliding through soft golden sand and refreshing surf.  My staying out of Lo’s crosshairs was next to impossible on this beach because no matter where I turned there was another scantily clad sexy woman walking, lying in the sun, swimming, playing volleyball, or applying sunscreen.  Each time I looked up, I was in trouble with her.

Finally I said to her, “What do you want me to do, put blinders on?”

To my great surprise she smiled and said, “I’m just kidding.  Look all you want.  Go on the BP.”  BP is our code word for “Butt Patrol.”

“What?  Wait.  Say that again.  I think I have an inner ear infection.  I thought you said, ‘Look all you want.’”

“That’s what I said.  You’re not hearing things.  There are too many beautiful women on this beach for me to be jealous of all of them.”

Well, this was certainly a change.  At first it was a welcome change, but within mere moments of it setting in I became very disconcerted.  Does this mean she doesn’t love me anymore?  Has she lost interest?  Is she less invested in me, my feelings, my love?  A mini-crisis of faith descended over me and suddenly I lost all interest in any of the scenery.

We walked a little further in silence and then she added, “Also, I just feel fat.”

“Fat?!” I cried out.  “Lo, you’re beautiful!  Perfect!  A goddess!  A zaftig, sexy, siren.”

“Zaftig means fat,” she said flatly.

“No.  Zaftig means pleasantly plump and juicy.  You know that.  That’s exactly what you are, you little squirt.”

Zaftig Lola

“Wouldn’t you prefer her or her or her?” she asked, pointing at different stick-skinny-blondes on the beach.

“If I did, I would be with her, her, or her.”

“Then why don’t you go with them?”

“Now you’re just fishing for more compliments.”

“No,” she said, “I’m serious.”

“Because I love you.  I want you.  I find you attractive.  And so do a lot of other people, I might add.”

Her hand reached out to hold mine and we walked a little further, but the sun was beating down and it was soon far too hot to be out there in the direct light of noon.

We headed toward Ocean Boulevard and I thought we were looking for a cool – literally cool – place to have lunch, but Lo, of course, had other ideas.  We had passed a strip club on the way to the beach and apparently she took mental note.  She directed us right there and we ducked in to get out of the heat and into the steamy striptease.  But, little did we know, Miami isn’t like New York or D.C. where they have performances all day, all night.  No one was dancing.  It was just another dive bar.

The bearded bartender asked what we’d have and Lo said, “I came here to have a show.  Where are the dancers?”

“Oh, they don’t come on until eight or nine,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Fine, then make me a margarita and make it strong,” she demanded, visibly disappointed.

“I’ll have a piña colada” I said.

Lo was sitting with her elbows on the bar, her biceps boosting up her boobs in her bikini top.  The bartender obviously enjoyed the view.  He made conversation with her, almost ignoring me.

“Sorry the ladies aren’t on now,” he said.  “But I know a few who’d like to put on a show for you,” he added.  “And I’d like to see that.”

He asked us where we were from and so forth.  Lo was flirting with him and rubbing my leg with her foot, but he couldn’t see that.  Did she want him?

We each had our drink, cooled down and then, when we asked for the tab, the bartender said it was on the house.  Lo smiled flirtatiously and I put down a healthy cash tip.

“What now?” I asked Lo, to see where her whims would take her.

“Let’s just fuck,” she said.

We went straight back to the hotel and Lo stripped out of what little she was wearing.

She looked pleasantly plump and juicy and I told her so.

“Show me how bad you want me,” she said.

I pulled down my bathing suit and revealed my incredibly rigid cock pointing right at her.

“Mmmmmm, good,” she replied, lying back on the bed.

I climbed on the bed and lifted her legs in the air.  She had crossed her legs doing a little stripper move and I entered her as I held her up by her ankles.  She moaned.  Then I took her beautiful, soft feet, one in each hand, and gently rubbed her soles on my cheeks as I looked down at her, fondling her nipples.  She held my head between her feet and I grabbed her hips.

“I want to fuck your round rump,” I said.  I slid my hands up the side of her body to her tum and grabbed a handful of her flesh.  I held her by her doughy roll and I loved it.  “You know,” I said, “I find this part of you even more sexy than your tits.”

“Now you’re just making me feel self-conscious and fat,” she said.

“I love it,” I said to her.

“I don’t,” she said to me.

“Turn over,” I instructed.  She complied.

I began going at her from behind as I smacked her lovely ass cheeks with my hands.  She backed into me, ramming my pole deep into her.  I could feel her intensity growing.  And then she said, “Do you like my ass, Daddy?”

“Love it.”

“Do you like my fat ass?”

She was trying to get me to cum.

“Yes.”

“You like your fat little girl?” she asked seductively.

“I love my fat little girl.”

“Don’t you want to cum all over my fat, fat ass?” she asked and hearing her say that was enough.  I gave her one last thrust before pulling out, and grabbing my cock and ejaculating all over her ass and back, shooting occasionally all the way up to her shoulder blades.  Simultaneously, she began to squirt down on the bed.

“Pleasantly plump.  Very juicy,” I said.

I removed the covers from the bed.  We didn’t need them anyway.  It was warm enough without them.  After I cleaned us both up, we snuggled – big spoon/little spoon.  My hands were around her and I was holding her breast with one hand and her tum with the other.  But then I felt a warm liquid all over my lap.

“Did you just squirt again?” I asked her.

“Yes, Daddy,” she said simply before falling to sleep.

Sometime later, we both woke from our nap.  What had been a blindingly hot day, was now slowly slipping into a cool dusk.  I got up and took a shower.  Lo was still in bed.  Then I sat at the little desk of the hotel room and took out my computer.  I was preparing to post on the blog.  Lo was watching TV.

“What are you watching?” I asked.

“The New Girl.”

“The Nude Girl?”

“No, The New Girl.”

“Oh, cause I was watching The Nude Girl,” I said.

“Who?” she asked, jealously.

“You,” I said, showing her the pics of her on my computer screen.

“Oh, well, you don’t have to look only at the pics, you can have the real thing,” she said, spreading her legs and rubbing her puss.

“Lo,” I said, “Are you getting horny watching TV again?”

“When don’t I?  Besides, Zooey Deschanel is such a MPDG.”

Zooey Deschanel

“A what?”

“You know, a Manic Pixie Dream Girl.”

“No.  I don’t know.  Explain.”

“A Manic Pixie Dream Girl is. . .” she was looking for the right words, “is Zooey Deschanel’s character on this show.”

Lola

“And what’s that?” I asked, not being familiar with the show, this Zooey woman, or the expression.

There are these three guys on the show.  They’re sad, they’re lonely, they’re single.  They’re roommates.  And then comes along Jess who moves in with them.  She’s bubbly.  She’s cheerful.  She’s good-girl-American-girl-cute.  And she’s just what they need.  And they all want to fuck her, secretly or not so secretly.  That’s what an MPDG is.”

“Oh, so in addition to a MILF you also yearn to be an MPDG.”

“Oh no,” said Lo, “I’m both.”

“Is that possible?”

“Not for most women, but I can pull it off.”

“Yeah, you pull it off alright – you pull off your sweater and your bra and suddenly you’re every man’s dream.”

“Watch it!” she warned.  “I still remember how you called me fat.”

“Me?” I cried.  “You’re the one who. . .”

“Don’t even,” she said.  “You’ll piss me off and then you’ll have to butter me up.”

“OK,” I said, “If you lie naked, I’ll get a stick of butter.”

She threw a pillow at me and said, “As fun as that sounds – treating me like a butterball turkey – I want to go out on the town tonight.”

“Yeah, tonight and every other night.”

“It’s not every night that we are in Miami,” she said, getting out of bed.

“Where do you want to go?  Another strip club?”

“No no,” she said.  “I’ve got a few places in mind.”

“A few places?!”  It was a good thing I got that long nap in, because usually I am not able to keep up with Lo’s nights out.

She slipped into her bathing suit and, because it was still too early for the club scene, we went up to the hotel’s rooftop pool.  We got a couple of lounge chairs by the side that overlooks Ocean Blvd. and the beach, but we sat facing west to see the sunset.

An older couple sat next to us and the woman removed everything except her bikini bottom.  She looked at me as her obviously surgically enhanced breasts ballooned almost into my face.  “Is she trying to seduce me?” I thought and I saw Lo look sidelong at us both.

Lo and I got in the pool and I swam up to her and whispered, “Lo, that totally was not my fault.  She sat down next to me.  She was trying to impress me.  I didn’t know what to do, so I just smiled politely.”

“It’s ok,” laughed Lo at all my excuses.  “I know.  Besides, she’s got nothing on me,” she said, removing her own bikini top and putting it on the side of the pool.  She and I swam in the pool together as if we were one monstrous fish with four appendages.  I loved being next to her bare torso in the pool with others looking on from the patio.  Then she got out like a goddess and sat in the lounge chair and I went to the bar to order us drinks.  I watched admiringly as others were staring at my little nymph.

I brought her drinks and we enjoyed an indescribably colorful sunset.  I felt as if everything was perfect.

As the pool area emptied out, we went back to the hotel room.  After Lo showered and slipped on a sexy dress and slid into some very sexy heels, we were out and about at one of the city’s dance clubs.  I am no dancer, but I love watching Lo dance.  I ordered my drink at the bar and watched as she danced and flirted with the city’s diverse beauties.  I really think that Miami is perhaps the best looking city in the US.

As I sat and soaked in Lo’s form under the twirling lights, I thought of the Don Henley song, “All She Wants To Do Is Dance.”  Yep, that’s Lo.  All she wants to do is dance. . . and fuck.  And this night it looked like she was doing both out on the dancefloor.

Around two in the morning, she finally came back to me, all sweaty, and said she was ready to go because even though she was having a great time, her feet were killing her.

On our way to the hotel in the back of the Lyft, she pulled out her phone and was looking at something that made her excited.  She already had her shoes off, but as she looked at her phone, she put her bare foot on my lap and said, “Massage it, Daddy.”  She lifted up her other foot and asked me to do the same to that one while her dress revealed her commando crotch.  She used her feet to flirt with my manhood as the driver made small talk, but I could tell that she was way too intoxicated to know what she was doing.  When we got to the hotel, as we were crossing the quiet lobby, she said to me, “Come to the bedroom and fuck me.”

“Lola, I’ll come to the bedroom, but I’m going to sleep.  It’s a quarter-to-three in the morning.”

“No it’s not.  It’s sex-o’clock.  Time for me to cum in the bedroom.”

“In that case, I’m not going to the bedroom.  I’ll stay right here on the couch in the lobby.”

“I can cum on the couch just as easily as in the bedroom.  Even easier, because here I have an audience.”

Realizing the futility of my rebuke, I made sure she got to the hotel room without falling.

I went right to sleep, but at some ungodly hour I woke to find Lo on her phone travelling down dark electronic alleyways at night.

When I awoke in the morning, a flashback of the evening crossed my mind.  Lo was sound asleep, naked, next to me.  I grabbed her phone and scrolled through her history.  Just as I suspected, a number of photos and messages from her Tumblr fans.  Naughty, dirty, taboo, fetish, and wildly NSFW messages and photos.  Good thing we were on vacation and so were most other people for Thanksgiving.  I’ve noticed that around holidays, Lo’s fans really step up.  Loneliness sets in, I suppose, and they reach out.  Lo, ever gracious, always compliments their dick pics and entertains their most depraved fantasies about her.  Every once in a while she draws the line with them, if they disrespect her or disrespect women in general.  Though she is into BDSM, she still wants to be worshipped as a goddess.  It’s a fine line, but make no mistake, there is a line.

Lo’s Call for Tributes

I read a number of conversations that made me laugh.  For instance, in response to one fan who asked, “What’s up?” Lo responded, “If you’re looking at my photos, then your cock.”

To another guy who sent a pic of himself jacking off to her photos, she said, “Looks like you’ve got things well in hand.”

Satisfied that her nocturnal communications were nothing but the innocent fapping fun of a nymphomaniac, I put her phone down and made myself a coffee.

Lo woke, groggy.  She went to the bathroom and was in there for a while.

I had sat down to begin writing.  I had my warm cup of coffee to my left and my notes to my right and I was gazing off to the middle distance contemplating the first line of the story when I heard, “Darling, can you come here?  I need your opinion on something.”

I muttered under my breath, “She’s going to ask me how she looks in something and I will tell her and she’ll disregard my opinion and do whatever the hell she wants to do anyway.  I don’t know why she claims she needs my opinion.”  But I called back to her, “Yes dear,” as I got up from my comfortable writing perch and went to the bathroom.

In the bathroom I found her in a skimpy bikini.

“How do you like this top with these bottoms?” she asked.

“Nice.”

“Am I too fat?”

“Define what ‘too fat’ is.”

“Am I fat?”

“Honest answer?”

“Yes.  No.  Yes,” she said, confused.

“You’re just right.”

“But do I look fat in this?”

“Darling, you look perfect in it.”

“Is the bottom too cheeky?” she asked as she turned around and jutted her butt out.

“No.  This would be too cheeky,” I said as I pulled the sides of the bikini bottom together to reveal most of her ass, followed by a spank.

“Mmmm, I like that,” she said.

“Me too.  You’re welcome,” I responded as I began to return to my writing.

“Watit!” she demanded, “I’m not done,” she said as she removed her bikini top and grabbed another one.  She put on the second top.  “What do you think of this?”

“I think it’s too big.”

“Too big?”

“Yeah, it covers too much of your tits.”

“Well I like it,” she said.

“I don’t know why you say you want my opinion on things when you never act on it.”

“Fifty something years and you don’t know by now that when a woman asks your opinion on how she looks, what she wants to hear is a compliment?”

“No,” I said.  “It only took fifteen seconds for you to tell me that.  Now I know.  Thank you.  And, by the way, you look great in that.”

“I look even better out of it.  Take me to the right beach and you’ll see just how good I can look out of it.”

It was an enticing prospect, but today was Thanksgiving and we had to be at our family-friend’s house by two for the big meal.  That left little time for an excursion to a nude beach.

We were both hungry and we ordered breakfast to our room.

Room service arrived and Lo answered in her skimpy bikini bottoms, no top.  She even bent over to rummage through her bag for a tip to give him.  My guess was that her little show was all the tip he needed.

After he left, Lo began to pout.  She had ordered a bagel with cream cheese.  “The bagel’s not toasty enough and the cream cheese doesn’t spread.”

“You know what I like about you?  You tell it like it is.  There’s no beating around the bush with you.”

“I don’t have any bush to beat,” she said, pulling back her bikini bottom and showing her shaved triangle.

“That is true.”

“But you can beat my puss.”

I was only wearing my cut-off sweatpants-shorts and a T-shirt.  As Lo sat in her chair, fondling herself, I grew noticeably hard in my shorts.

“Why do you resist, Daddy?” she asked.  “I can see you want me.”

“I do, but. . .”  Before I could finish the sentence, she put her legs up in the air.  One on the desk and the other on the bed, and she really went at it.

“Jerk off for me,” she commanded.

“Do you want me to fuck you or do you want me to jerk off?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

I pulled at my cock, hoping that I’d be getting some of her puss.  She teased me by pulling her pussy lips, by pulling her bikini bottoms into a micro-bikini with her pussy lips spilling over the thin thong.  “Should I go onto the beach like this, Daddy?” she asked.

That was too much for me.  I exploded in my shorts.

HH cums

“Nooooooo,” she called, seeing her hopes and dreams splattered all over my crotch.

“Sorry, Lo,” I said meekly.

“Damn it!” she said.  “First breakfast was a disappointment, now dessert.”

“You’ll just have to take matters into your own hands,” I said.

No sooner had I said it than she swung around in the chair and opened the laptop computer to look at her Tumblr.

“Were you fooling around with my Tumblr account?” she asked me.

“No,” I said as I was cleaning myself off.  “Why?”

There was no answer.

“Are you looking at all the messages from last night, er, earlier this morning?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that was all you,” I said.  “Don’t you remember?”

“I do now,” she said.  I couldn’t tell if she was just trying to make like she hadn’t had that much to drink or if she was being honest.  In either case, she began laughing.  “I’m pretty funny,” she said as she masturbated to the photos she saw.

She got up and went on the bed where she shut her eyes and plunged her puss with her fist.

When she was good and done, I asked her what she was thinking about.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Nothing?  Really?  You just came like a howling wildebeest to the thought of nothing?”

“I’m very Zen.”

“Lo,” I said, unamused.

“Well. . .”

“Out with it.”

“I was thinking of the woman from the pool yesterday.”

“Mrs. Silicon?”

“Yeah.  But in my mind. . . .  No I shouldn’t say it.”

“Say what?”

“If I say it, you might get the wrong idea.  You might think that I want it and I definitely don’t want it.”

“Want what?”

“In my mind she was young, blonde, and natural.  She was coming onto you, making me jealous.  You took her down to our hotel room.  I followed and then the soundtrack started playing, ‘Girl Crush.’”

“What?”

“You know, the song ‘Girl Crush,’ by Little Big Town,” she said as she put the video on.

 

I gotta girl crush, hate to admit it but
I gotta heart rush, ain’t slowin’ down
I got it real bad, want everything she has
That smile and that midnight laugh she’s giving you now

I wanna taste her lips, yeah, ʼcause they taste like you
I wanna drown myself in a bottle of her perfume
I want her long blonde hair, I want her magic touch
Yeah, ʼcause maybe then you’d want me just as much
I gotta girl crush, I gotta girl crush

I don’t get no sleep, I don’t get no peace
Thinkin’ about her under your bed sheets
The way that she’s whisperin’, the way that she’s pullin’ you in
Lord knows I’ve tried, I can’t get her off my mind

 

“I see,” I said after hearing the song.  “We could make that happen.”

She threw a pillow at me.

After she got dressed, I asked her what it was she wanted to do in the few hours we had before we were expected for the Thanksgiving meal.

“I didn’t tell you?”

“No, no you didn’t.  What?”

“We’re going fishing!” she said all excited.

“We’re doing what?”

“Well, boating or fishing or skinny-dipping.  Whatever we want, but my friend has a boat and. . .”

“You’re friend?  Who the hell do you know down here in Miami?”

“Darling, I have friends all over the world.”

“Tumblr friends?”

“When you’ve got assets like these,” she said, showing off her butt, “everyone wants to be your friend.”

“Good grief!”

“Anyhow, this friend of mine, or ours. . .”

“Ours?!  I don’t even know him!”

“Whatever.  That doesn’t matter.  He knows you very well by now.  He’s got a boat and he promised to take us out for a little trip today!”

Soon we were at the marina and, after a few wrong turns, we finally found the boat and Lo’s ‘friend.’  His name was Alan and he seemed nice enough.  He was tall and lanky, he had some scruff on his face like he hadn’t shaved in three days.  He was tan and looked like he spent his days in the Florida sun.  I’d guess he was about twenty-seven or twenty-eight.  He had a small motorboat and we got aboard and Lo stripped down to her sexy bikini while Alan steered and made small talk with me.  Turns out, I was right about how he spent his days.  He worked at the marina part-time and as a waiter the rest of the time.

Lo and I had a few beers and we had a great view of the city from off the coast.  The sun, the gentle rocking of the boat, and the beer made me drowsy and I almost nodded off.  But we stopped the boat and we all decided to strip down to our birthday suits and take a refreshing dip.  Lo, who used to be on the swim team in high school, made an elegant dive into the deep blue sea.  I followed and then Alan.  I might add here that Alan’s schlong was quite long and I could see Lo looking up from where she was treading water, lusting after him as he pealed out of his tight shorts.  When I was next to her, I said, “Lo, you sure are a good Catholic.”

“What?” she asked, perplexed.

“As Jesus said, ‘Be fishers of men, not of fish.’  Looks like you landed a real big one.”

“Oh Daddy.  Do you think I didn’t know before how big he is?”

“I should have known.”

Then Alan jumped in.  The water was refreshing and it was liberating to be so far out, swimming the way God made us.   Lo was swam right up next to Alan.  “I’m getting tired of treading water,” she said quite falsely.  “Will you hold me a while?”

Alan gladly wrapped his arms around her torso and allowed his left hand to rest on her breast.  I watched from a slight distance.  I could see Lo gently guide his right hand down to her puss.  He was clearly rubbing her clit and soon she was cumming.  She loves to cum in the ocean.

After she came, she turned around, wrapping her legs around Alan’s hips, and she held onto him like an aquatic marsupial.  They began to make out, but it was awkward because, try as he might, Alan couldn’t keep both of them afloat while simultaneously trying to have intercourse with Lo.

Soon we climbed up the boat’s ladder, Lo first, of course, followed right after by Alan, and I brought up the rear.  We were all sitting in the boat, catching our breath and enjoying the invigorating breeze and sunlight for a while.  Then Lo went to the front to tan naked.  Alan and I put on our shorts and Alan began to drive the boat back towards the marina.  We passed a few other boats that waived and blew their horns at the sight of Lo.

About halfway back, Lo got up, grabbed another beer, and then asked Alan if he needed anything.  The way she said it, I knew exactly what she meant.  Alan said, “No, I’m good.”

But Lo got down on her knees, beer in one hand, and took his cock in her other hand and began stroking it over his shorts.

She looked up at him and said, “You sure?”

He looked down at her and said, “Well. . .” and that was enough for Lo to pull out his cock and take the whole, long pole deep in the back of her throat.  She sucked on it and then periodically took a sip of her cold beer.  Apparently the contrast between warm and cool was very pleasant for Alan and soon his froth was mixing with the head of the beer in Lo’s mouth.  She seemed gratified and proud of her accomplishment.

Alan zipped up and Lo put her bikini back on just before we were within sight of the folks on the dock.

We parked the boat and Lo and I said our goodbyes, apologizing for having to leave so early, but we did have a Thanksgiving dinner to attend.

As we were walking away, Lo, holding my hand, asked me, “Daddy, why didn’t you fuck me on the boat?”

“I enjoyed the show,” I said.

“But didn’t you want me?” she asked.

“I did, but honestly, with the beer, the sun, and after the swimming, I was completely exhausted.”

She rolled her eyes and replied, “You put the ‘old’ in ‘cuckold.’”

We were on our way back to our hotel when, along the way, we found a cozy little bar called “The Village Pump.”

Lola stopped to look in for a moment.  “Isn’t that what they called you in high school?” I asked, making a Lola joke.

“I’m rubbing off on you,” she said sardonically, followed by, “Hmmm, that sounds like fun!”

She grabbed my hand to pull me inside.  “But Lo,” I protested, “we have to get ready for Thanksgiving!”

“This place is so cute and the back patio spills out right onto the beach,” she protested.  “Just one drink.  I just want to experience it.”

“Fine,” I conceded as we walked in, to Lo’s delight.

We popped in, each ordered a drink, and we found our way to the beachfront seating in the way back of the bar.  Lo looked lovely in her sun hat and her bare feet.  She teased and tempted me as we sat there, suggesting all sorts of fun frolics with her feet and licks with her lips.  We downed our drinks, paid the tab and then were off to get ready for the Thanksgiving meal.

Back at the hotel, we changed into our casual-formal attire.  In Miami everything is casual.  We had to change quickly because due to Lo’s epicurean exploits, we were running behind schedule.  We got to our friends’ apartment fashionably late, but people were still having cocktails and eating some light hors-d’oeuvres.  Lo took a flute of champagne and quenched her thirst with it and then she grabbed me by the hand to pull me aside.

“Follow me,” she said, as she took me to the master bathroom.

Before I even had time to ask her “What?” she was bent over the marble sink in front of the large mirror.  “Mount me,” she instructed.  She slipped out of her red dress and pulled her tits out of her red bra.  I looked at the two of us in the mirror and penetrated her as she wished.

“What’s this all about?” I asked in a whisper.

A Quick Fuck Before the Thanksgiving Meal

“Shut up and fuck me,” she said as she pulled out her phone.  She put it on the counter and turned it on.  Over her shoulder I could see that she had just got an influx of pics from fans jackin’ it to her divine image.  Apparently, they excited her.  As she was scrolling through her happy holidays messages, I pulled out my phone and snapped a quick shot of the action – a sexy selfie of us mid-coitus.  She came.  I didn’t.  I was a bit too distracted.  But then, just as I was pulling out of her tight, wet slit, the clenching of her cunt on my cock was the little added stimulation I needed to put me over the edge.  I came, unexpectedly, all over her ass like icing on a cake.

Hastily, I cleaned her up and then she pulled up her panties and pulled down her skirt.

We hadn’t yet had the Thanksgiving meal, but I knew what I was thankful for.

Lo smiled mischievously as we mingled with the guests.  She was happy.  I was happy.  And our merry-making in Miami was brought to a very satisfying conclusion.

Public Figure Exposé

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Katie Hill

 

This blog is about love, sex, relationships, psychology, and sex.  Yeah, I said sex twice because, if the name of the blog is “mysexlifewithlola.com,” then an expectation is created that there will be a lot of sex.  So, there you have it.

This blog is decidedly not about politics.  In fact, many of you dear readers may have noticed that through all the topsy-turvy turbulent times in which we are living, this blog has delicately navigated a course far from politics.  There is a good reason for that.  If you are reading this, it’s because it is a fun escape from whatever else is going on in your life.  No need to bring all that baggage here as well.

But right now sex and politics have mingled in a way that make it appropriate for us to discuss.

You may have heard about Congresswoman Katie Hill recently.  If not, allow me to summarize her story.  She was, until last week, a Democratic representative from California.  She’s only 32 and she got elected after being the executive director of the non-profit People Assisting the Homeless (PATH).  Apparently, she also has a “kinky” side.  She came out as bisexual after high school and it is alleged that she and her now estranged husband were involved with another woman in a consensual relationship.

These facts became a problem for Hill when allegations swirled that she had an inappropriate relationship with a male staffer – a violation of House ethics rules that were put in place to prevent exploitation of power differentials in the wake of #MeToo.

But the thing that sunk Hill’s ship was the release of nude photos of her, allegedly by her estranged husband in an act of revenge porn.

It seems to me that in this day and age we need to begin taking seriously the fact that people can be more than one thing.  Katie Hill can be a successful, sincere, hard-working, do-gooder striving to help the homeless, represent her constituency, and bring equity and justice into the lives of many.  And she can be married to a man, have relationships with women, and not be limited by traditional notions of monogamy.  And she can be into taking nudie pics of herself and her lovers.  All of this can be true of the same person.  “Kink” does not mean bad or selfish or untrustworthy.  “Public Figure” does not necessarily mean missionary position for the rest of your life with the same partner of the opposite sex.  Aren’t we beyond that yet?

Further, though once upon a time it was the height of scandal for a woman to be exposed – think Phryne being exposed by her lawyer in ancient Athens, Lady Godiva,  A Night in Paris, or The Great Celebrity Photo Leak of 2014 – today it seems as if everyone and their mother is eager to have their racy photos on the internet and trending!  So what is the big deal?  Andy Warhol spoke of everyone having 15 minutes of fame in the future.  I think now that everyone will soon have their top 15 nude photos on the internet.

As optimistic as that may be, we also need to be realistic.  There are still many backward-thinking, bigoted, misogynist, mean-spirited, spiteful, and opportunistic people out there who are not above using a woman’s nude images against her.

Lo and I were pondering all of this when, just the other night, one of her female friends from the NFWITSFW part of the internet (that stands for “no fucking way is this safe for work”) told her that she wants to be “exposed.”

“What do you mean, ‘exposed’?” asked Lo.

“You know, like, I want the pics of me nude and pregnant to be the first image result when someone searches for that.”

Lo said that if I wrote a story about her friend and posted it, she probably would be.  Though Lo is a “sinfluencer,” I think she overestimates our power of “product placement.”

Our friend, Karla, or KB HotWife, as she likes to be known, said, “Use my real name.”

“What?!” asked Lo.

“Yeah,” said Karla.

“You’re sure to get all the attention you crave if we do that, but be careful what you wish for,” cautioned Lo.

Luckily for Karla, I’m not a speed writer.  The next day she told Lo she changed her mind.

Both Lo and I were relieved.  It’s one thing if she wants to use her own name, but we didn’t want to be the ones to expose her.  Who knows, she might want to run for public office some day!

[Below, enjoy some photos Karla has sent us for you to enjoy.]

Schrödinger’s Pussy

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“Lily texted me,” I texted to Lola, “and she invited me to meet her at the bar to watch the World Series.”  It was the seventh game.  She was hoping to see her team win.  “Do you want to join?”

“Will Jim be there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nah,” Lola texted, “I’ll stay in.”

I walked into the crowded watering hole after a long day at work.  Lily, was sitting at the bar, close to the TV.  To my surprise, she had saved me a stool next to her.  She gave me a hug and turned toward me.  Despite the cold October air, she was wearing only a short skirt and a thin, loose fitting blouse.  Her legs were spread a bit as she talked to me.

“Where’s Jim?” I inquired.

“He’s with some of his friends watching at their house.”

“You didn’t want to join them?”

I could see that she hadn’t invited me there just to watch the game.  She was already on her second drink of the night.  What was on her mind?

After just a little prodding (it didn’t take much), she revealed her true design.  She was looking for some free legal advice and simultaneously looking for some special attention.

She had recently graduated and got her Master’s in Sexuality and Gender Studies.  Now she was looking to do something with that degree and was interested in becoming a “Sex and Spirit Guide” to individuals and couples.  The question on her mind was, “If my therapeutic techniques involve hands-on help and I accept money for it, what’s the legal distinction between that and prostitution?”

It was a real zinger of a query – one that they don’t ask you in law school!  And my first inclination was to say, “I’m not sure I follow.  Could we please go back to your place and you can provide me with a demonstration in order that I understand what you do a little better?”  But I wisely withheld that request, which was purely for the academic purpose of gaining clarity, and I asked instead, “So you envision digitally manipulating and stimulating your clients?”

“Well, not only that, but possibly role-playing, BDSM experimenting, discovering their inhibitions through play therapy – you know, taking them on a real sexual and spiritual journey to the seat of their soul.”

“Wow!” I said, “It sounds very Jungian.”  Once more the images of Sabina Spielrein and Carl Jung came to mind.

“Yeah, this morning I had a professional photographer come to take some risqué photos to advertise my services.”

I got lost in my imagination as I envisioned the scene, but she continued.  “And Jim even joined for some of them.”

“Oooh,” I cooed, “Boudoir photos?”

“Some were,” she replied alluringly.  She began to pull out her phone as if ready to show me the raw, unedited shots.  I wanted to look.  I wanted to tell her all about the blog.  I wanted to divulge everything.  But I knew better.  First, it’s Lo’s secret to reveal, not mine.  That has always been the rule.  Second, I’ve learned that letting on to the blog to people who are in the blog creates a Schrödinger’s Pussy situation – where the knowledge of being observed contaminates the observation.

Again I got lost in my thoughts.

She was clearly trying to attract my attention.  She regained it as she unlocked her phone.  I fumbled for my words a bit and said something stupid like the answer to her legal question would take some research.  “A deep dive,” I remember saying.

“If you could advise me,” she said, playing the role of the helpless dancer in need of a savior, “I’d appreciate it so much.  I want to heal people, not get arrested.”

Her allusion to consequences kept me in check and I soon paid my tab and said a friendly farewell to her, looking forward to going home to my sweet slutwife.

I got in late.  I found Lola in bed, almost asleep, Stoya on my pillow.

“What’s this?” I asked.  “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said.  “Come to bed.  I’ll explain.”

I removed my clothes, washed up, and got in bed.  She was on the verge of sleep.  I moved Stoya to the nightstand.

“I’m all ears. . . and a penis,” I said.

She rolled over toward me.  “I was bad,” she began.  I could have figured that.  “I was thinking of Heather and Erin and all the other women I’ve been with.  I was feeling like being with a woman tonight.”

“So you took out Stoya?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I tried a little experiment,” she said.

“Schrödinger’s Pussy,” I muttered under my breath, recalling my conversation of earlier in the evening.

“What?”

“Nothing.  Continue.”

“I fingered myself a bit, rubbed some of my girly juice on her lips, fingering her, and put her over my clit.  I fucked her pussy with my clit.”

“Did you cum?”

“Many times.  It really does feel pretty realistic.”

She hugged me and asked, “Are you mad?”

“No.  But I take it you didn’t wash her properly when done.”

“Sorry Daddy.”

I got out of bed and performed the recommended cleaning to Stoya’s pussy and then hung her out to airdry.

When I got back into bed, Lo was sound asleep on her tum.  I was on my back.  My right hand caressed her back.  Then her lower back.  Then the roundness of her rump.  Then between her legs.  I could feel how wet she was still.  My fingers circled around her pussy, becoming soaked.  I then slid one finger back and did circles around her other special spot.  Slowly, gently, furtively, I dipped in, just a bit.  No response.  Then a bit more.  Lo’s ass raised slightly.  A little more.  She either consciously or unconsciously elevated her hips.  She looked like an inchworm as my finger wormed its way into her bum.*

Then a moan.  Then a sigh.  Then a “Daddy, what are you doing?”

“Nothing, Lo.  Sleep.”

I was in up to my first knuckle.  I went deeper.  And deeper.  And then added a finger.  Her ass indicated it liked what it was getting.  It was completely relaxed and open to exploration.

And then, without warning, it seized up on my fingers.  It clenched like a vice and I heard Lo’s breathing accelerate.  After only a few seconds it was over.  I pulled my fingers out.  She was back to sleep.  I was hard-up.

“There’s always Stoya,” I thought.

 

* See the story, “Sin-esthesia” in which Lo gives her “blanket consent” to being fucked while asleep.

Open Auditions

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Littlegem of PurplesGem reads about Lola Down

 

As I have mentioned in the past, we receive a lot of fan mail.  Most of it is for Lo, of course, but, on occasion, I receive a kind epistle from an adoring fan.  Sometimes, the cursory reader gets confused.  Like the time a guy wrote to Lo saying, “You’re an incredible writer.”

She wrote back, “No, no.  Not me.  My man, HH.  He does the writing, I do the fucking.”

Lo and HH – much younger.

Recently, one fan of my writing wrote in asking if Lo ever gets enough pleasure and, “Do you ever get tired of writing about sex or is it always fresh for you?”

Lo was sitting on the couch reading the email, her bare legs spread as one hand held her phone and the other pleasured herself (she never gets enough pleasure – there’s the answer to your first questions), when she looked up at me, sitting at the other end of the couch, to read to me the fan’s email.

I pondered for a moment, we discussed it a bit, and she responded, “We have these amazing adventures that we just want to share with other people.  I guess it’s like a travel blog, but for sex.  We like to take you on our journeys with us.”

“How about we make it more like a food blog?” I asked Lo.  “I eat you out and then I can write about the four-course meal later.”

“Four courses?”

“Yeah: pussy, ass, mouth, and then you lick my popsicle for dessert.”

“As much fun as that sounds, slide over here and look at this,” she said.

She spread her legs wider and I sat between them.  One of her legs was up on my lap and the other behind my back.  “I like this,” I said, looking at her delectable body.

“You might like this even more because it appeals to your insatiable ego.”

“Oh yeah?  Well, you have my attention now!”

“I didn’t before?”

“Before you had my erection.”

“Let me see,” she demanded.

“No.  First you show me whatever it is that’s going to aggrandize my ego.”

“I said ‘appeal to your ego.’  It’s impossible aggrandize.  I don’t think it could get any bigger.”

“Are we still talking about my ego?”

“Take a look at this,” she said, turning her phone so I could see the photo.

It showed a beautiful naked woman reading, Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume: III, Writing Under Cover.

“Oh my!  Who is that?!”

“Littlegem,” she said, referring to one of our blogging community friends across the pond.

“Really?”

“You like?”

“Yes,” I said emphatically.  It’s one thing to be told that my writing turns people on, but to see it happening is quite thrilling.

“And that’s not all,” said Lo, swiping the photo to reveal another.  The second photo was in black-and-white.

“Wow!”

“OK,” said Lo, “I was wrong.  Apparently there was room for your ego to grow.”

“Something’s growing alright.”

“Then I shouldn’t tell you what else Littlegem said.”

“Tell, tell!”

“Well. . . she said she wants to do a recording of her reading your writing while having her clit teased.”

“Like Stoya did for ‘Hysterical Literature’?”

Stoya Reading MySexLifeWithLola

“Don’t mention her.”

“Oh, right.  Still, that’s amazing!”

“I think it would be great because I got an email from another fan who is blind.”

“Blind?!”

“Yes, blind.”

“How the hell did he find our blog?”

“Apparently, he has someone read the stories for him.”

“Oh my God!  That is one of the hottest things I’ve ever heard!!!”

“Yeah,” said Lo, “and it got me thinking.  We should totally do an audio book since I’m sure there are lots of long-distance haulers who would like to have me as their companion across the lonely stretches of highway.”

“I’m sure they would.”

“And people who want to hear about my sexcapades on their way to work.”

“The morning drive will never be the same.”

“And insomniacs who could use a good bedtime story.”

“Nothing like a good wank at the end of a long day to induce sleep.”

“So you see, it’s really necessary for everyone’s well-being that we do this.”

“Indubitably.  And are you going to be the one to record the stories?”

“Oh no!” said Lo.  “I’m no actor.  All my orgasms are real.”

“Of course.  Then who?”

“I’ll put out a call for open auditions.”

[Note to reader, if you haven’t checked out PurplesGem yet, you really should. They’re a great BDSM/kink couple. Great writing and photos. Below are some of our favorite photos from them, with permission, of course.]

[p.s.  – If YOU want to audition for our audiobook, then go to ACX.com and look for “Match, Cinder & Spark.”  If you can’t find it, email us: downloladown@gmail.com]