Sun-Kissed


Beach Reading

            A July vacation at a beach house for a week can be the perfect antidote to all of your problems.  Unless that vacation is a family reunion and the beach house is for thirty people.  And among those thirty people are married dads in their forties and fifties who are in good shape.  And your girlfriend is Lo.  Then, you might have ninety-nine problems, but Lo is the only one you have to really worry about. 

            That was the case this week.  Every seven years or so my extended family decides that we should make a pilgrimage from all the corners of the globe, rent one enormous house on the beach with enough bedrooms and bathrooms to accommodate us all, and stay under one roof for seven days straight.  We have been doing this for a few decades now, but we hadn’t had one of these since I started dating Lola. 

            She hadn’t met most of my family – only heard about them through various stories I told her and, to be fair, with thirty of them, I doubt that she really could tell one from the other without having met them in person.  But this week, right in the middle of July, we were all going to be up-close and personal with each other.  Foolishly, I hadn’t thought of warning her prior to our departure.  This was my family.  Did I need to warn her?  Apparently so. 

            You see, if I do say so myself, I come from a very good looking family.  My brothers and sisters and my cousins have certain family features in common – features that drive Lo wild.  I’d even venture to say that, of the lot of us, I am probably the least physically attractive.  My male relatives all have strong-cut jaws, expressive eyes, and the classic broad shoulder tapering to a thin waist.  They are very health conscious, for many of them were athletes even through college.  My female relatives share many of the same good genes that have preserved their looks into midlife.  And they are married to rather attractive spouses. 

            Throw into this mix of middle-age men – all walking around topless, biking, kayaking, swimming, cooking, and being dads to their respective kids – a twenty something nymphomaniac with daddy issues wearing a skimpy bikini and you have just brought all sorts of wrath down upon your head.  Such was my lot for a week. 

            It began innocently enough.  We were on the beach with a few of my cousins.  The sun was blazing and the waves were rough and tumble.  We had our boogie boards with us and, after a beer, Lo said she wanted to ride the waves with me.  We grabbed the boards and went into the refreshing water, waded out past the crashing waves and waited for the right moment.  As we were out there, Lo turned to me and said, “Daddio, I’m so wet!”

            “We’re in the ocean, Lo.  Of course you’re wet,” I replied.

            “I don’t mean like that,” she said with a devilish grin.

            Before I could respond, a wave came and soon she and I were soaring towards the shore atop the white crest of the surf.  Conditions were just right for multiple sorties.  She looked happy, like a little girl.  I had never seen her see so happy.  She was grinning from ear-to-ear.  What I didn’t realize, since I was next to her for most of the wet-n-wild rides, was that each and every time we caught a wave and were carried in atop the undulating surge, Lo’s bikini top would be pushed downward and, each and every time she stood up from the excursion, her breasts were popping out, wet and glistening in the sun for all my cousins to see. 

            I only found out about this later, when, back in the house, she got naked in the bathroom with me to take a shower.  “Are you mad, Daddy?” she asked.

            “Why would I be mad?” I said as I saw her perfectly tanned body before me.

            “Because of my ‘accidents’ at the beach.”

            “What accidents?” I asked, naively. 

            Then she told me about her struggles with keeping her top on her tits. 

            We got in the shower together and washed each other down with body-soap.   It was one of those large shower/hot tubs that had a comfortable seat to sit.  I told Lo to sit down below me and spread her legs.  She did so, mistakenly thinking that I was going to put my cock in her mouth.  She opened up to receive me, but, instead, I took aim and let lose, releasing the golden stream formed from the many beers I had had on the beach.  She relished in the warm stream I doused her in, covering her tits and tum, puss and feet.  When I was good and done, she pulled my hand down and reversed positions with me and, putting one foot up on the ledge, she took aim and allowed me to get it just as good as I gave it. 

            Then she got down on her knees on the floor of the shower and took my hard cock in her mouth, fondling my balls with her right hand as her left rested on my knee.  Her long, wet, dark hair bobbed up and down under the stream of the shower.  She wanted me to cum, that was clear.  She worked hard to earn my ejaculatory appreciation, but I denied her the satisfaction of completion.  Before she got lockjaw, we got out of the shower and dried off. 

She bent over the bed, her ass beckoning me.  It was my turn to get on my knees and worship her tumescent pussy lips with my tongue.  She tasted sweet and I wanted more.  I buried the tip of my tongue as deep as it would go in her cunt and then in her ass and back again and again.  She came multiple times, her cum dripping down the sides of my mouth and saturating my beard as it streamed down my neck onto my chest.  I delighted in making her so wet.  Due to the cramped living quarters, she had to bite her lower lip and swallow her orgasmic screams.  She buried her head in the pillow to moan and groan. 

At some point I heard the sound of a radio playing from the pool area outside our window.  AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” was narrating the scene. 

She was a fast machine,

She kept her motor clean

They sang as I licked the smooth mons pubis of Lo from behind.  She could take it no longer and she crawled forward on the bed like a wounded soldier out of the heat of battle.  She rolled over, exhausted already, and spread her listless legs. 

She was the best damn woman that I’d ever seen.

I slid in her pussy with my aching rod and, honestly, I couldn’t feel a thing.  Just wet.  So wet.  At the very instant of my shaft lodging deep inside her, she came in waves – waves like those of the ocean that we were riding just a little while earlier.  After her quick climax, she was suddenly filled with new energy.  She rolled me over onto my back and slid her wet slit down the length of my solid pole, kneeling on top of me as she pulled and pinched her nipples.  I grabber by her hips and rocked her forward and back, slishing and sliding over my hips.  

She had a certain size,

Telling me no lies,

Knocking me out with those American thighs.

She came again.  Again, all I could feel was wetness cascading down upon me.  

She dropped her head down to bite on my neck and then she slid off of my rod slowly as her tongue slid down my chest, over my abs, eventually resting at my cock.  She took it all in her mouth and down the back of her throat. 

Taking more than her share,

She had me fighting for air,

She told me to cum, but I was already there.

I filled her with my pent-up power.  But she wasn’t done – no, not by a longshot. 

She wanted no applause,

Just another course,

Made a meal out of me,

And came back for more.

Had to cool me down

            To take another round,

            Now I’m back in the ring

            To take another swing!

            She licked and sucked, bobbed up and down, and opened wide for my balls – everything and anything she could do to get me back up and hard again.  When she finally succeeded, she lowered herself slowly on me once more and grabbed me, letting her nipples gently touch mine as she let her body become enfolded in mine.  I wrapped my arms around her and held her tight. 

Shower Time

From her state of delirium, she began whispering in my ear.

“You know,” she said in a hushed tone, “I think your family likes me.”

“I’m sure they do,” I said.

“I mean, especially your brothers.  They really like me.”

“I think they really liked what they saw.”

“And I liked what I saw.”

“What was that?” I asked as I felt her excitement increasing with the taboo things coming out of her mouth.  I slowly moved my hands from her back to her thighs, to her ass cheeks, and then I pulled them, spread them, and placed my index finger on her special spot.

“They’re so built,” she said enthusiastically, “so mature.”

“You mean old.”

“Not old.”

“Older than me.”

“Yeah, but in such good shape.”

“I see,” I said, knowing where she was going. . . and liking it.

“And so big.”

“Big?” I asked as I entered her ass with my finger.

“Their cocks.  Their balls.  Wearing a Speedo. . .”

She couldn’t finish her thought.  She was cumming and cumming harder than any of the previous times.  My finger was deep inside her and I could feel her clenching up on it and releasing multiple times. 

When she was done, all orgasms finally brought to fruition and her body exhausted, she said to me, “That last orgasm, it felt just like I was riding that boogie board.  It felt like I was riding that wave, topless, the sea carrying me, lifting me, thrilling me, covering me with spume and salt and sun.”

“Did you cum when you were out there?”

“I think I might have, a little bit.”

“You really are a nymph, fucked by Poseidon himself.”

Writing Down Lo


            What does it mean to be an “underground” author in the age of the internet?

            Lately I’ve been reading a lot of and about Charles Bukowski.  Largely ignored for most of his life, he submitted his rough, distinctly “low-brow” poetry to independent and small press journals.  Through these he gained an “underground” following that slowly grew by word of mouth until other independent and small press publishing houses printed his works in book form for that “underground” fan base.  Bukowski’s work caught the eye of other writers and musicians, mostly in the L.A. and San Francisco areas, until eventually he caught on nationally and even internationally. 

            But in today’s media world, what does it mean to be an “indie” author or to have an “underground” following? 

fan pic

            This indie author, whom you are now reading, dear valued patron, has a substantial following, or, shall I say, a much larger following than I ever imagined would sprout from my initial blog posts about Lola.  As I have explained in various interviews elsewhere, this compulsion, which borders on graphomania, came into being because, after a few months with Lo, I discovered that there was almost no literature out there about being in a relationship with a nymphomaniac.  Since no one else was writing about it, I figured I’d toss my hat in the ring and give a first-person account of what it’s like – the proverbial trials and tribulations as well as the orgasms and titillations.

            Before I knew it, I was suddenly gaining a following and garnering the praise and accolades of other fellow sex-bloggers.  Women were sending me fan mail and nudes of themselves, much to the consternation of Lo.  Men and women were writing to Lo and sending her all sorts of salacious selfies, much to her lurid enthusiasm. 

The Beautiful Faye Daniels getting off to Lola Down

            Our subscriptions and unique visits to our blog went up and soon we were being featured on sites like Bustle and Top Sex Blogger lists. 

            I compiled various stories into books and those sold swiftly.  And now, today, we have over 20,000 followers on our various media outlets. 

            However much those numbers might dwarf the reach and following of a Bukowski back in the day, with the potential of today’s technology, that seems far less impressive than it would have been when the only way to get your writing in front of a reader was through the mimeograph machine. 

            Are you, dear confessional confidant, part of an underground audience?  Does it even make sense to speak of such in today’s complex and multilevel media ecosystem?  Or is “underground” just a term that is used retrospectively to describe a core following of people that read a certain author before he or she hit the mainstream?  Is it something that can only be applied with hindsight? 

            I don’t know the answers to these questions and I suppose, on some level, it doesn’t matter since I write about what I love and I love what I write about – Lo.  As long as the love is good, I feel the writing will be good as well.  And though the letters and gifts from the readers are flattering and the money (what little there is) earned from the writing is appreciated, what matters most is that I really enjoy doing what I’m doing. 

Caught


            Lo came home from work late that night.  I had already eaten dinner and was lying on the couch engaging in my favorite illicit pastime while Lo’s away, watching “SMILF.”  She walked in just as Frankie Shaw was engaging in a self-pleasure solo session, which isn’t all that coincidental, given how often she does that in the show.  (Since Frankie Shaw writes and directs the series, I think that she secretly wishes to be a porn star.) 

Lo Likes Little Penis Porn

            Lo stood next to the couch looking down at me, judging hard. 

            “What?”

            “You know what,” she said, accusatorily. 

            “I was just. . .”

            “I don’t care what you were just.  Turn it off.  If you want to see a sexy woman engaged in sex-for-one, then get in the bedroom.  I’ll be there filling my snatch full of fun.”

            I shut off the episode and met Lo in the bedroom where she was on the bed, legs spread, dildos laid out next to her like a surgeon’s tray of scalpels, forceps, and clamps.  She had her phone in her left hand.

            “What’s that?” I asked.

            “I call it my ‘in box.’  It likes to be filled.”

            I didn’t know if she meant what she was looking at on her phone or her beautiful mons pubis, which at the moment she was about to penetrate with her long, red, double-ended dildo.  

Self-Care

            I removed my clothes and sat in the bed next to her, vying for her attention.  She was busy reading something.  I inquired. 

            “I’m reading about my friend and blogger, Nero Black.  His wife caught him about to masturbate.”

            “Oh really?”

            “Yeah,” she said, easing the dildo into her tight taco.  “His wife loves to read erotica and masturbate, but she never lets him get in on the goods.”

            “How does he know her reading habits?”

            “He has access to her Kindle subscription and sees what she downloads.”

            “Oh.”

            “And he’s hard-up as a result.”

            “I bet you find that an open invitation to flirt.”

            “Who wouldn’t?  Anyhow, the other night he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his pants and boxers around his ankles, his phone in one hand and his cock in the other, when she unexpectedly walked into the bedroom.”

            “Uh-oh.  And?”

            “And she ignored him!  She acted like she didn’t even see it.”

            “And that gets you off?”

            “No, what gets me off is imagining that the porn she reads is our blog and that the porn he was about to wank to was my photos.”

            She dropped the phone and lay on her back to continue the fantasy.   

“Did you ever get caught?” I asked her.

“Caught?  Doing what?”

“You know, jillin’ it.”

“No.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“Not by any of your previous boyfriends?”

“Look, it’s not something I hide.  If they found me jillin’ off, then I kept on going.  So it’s not like ‘getting caught.’  It’s more like putting on a show.”

And put on a show she did, without ever offering to provide me with any sweet relief.  Punishment for my “infidelity” watching Frankie Shaw. 

The Porn Identity

“You are beautiful.  Your eyes are beautiful.  Your mouth is beautiful.  Your breasts are beautiful.  Your cunt is beautiful.”

Lola Down, spread wide

I was reading a message Lo received on her phone from an admirer of the blog.

“A regular Shakespeare, that one,” I said.

“I think it’s sweet,” she responded, as her left hand began to fondle her pussy lips under the covers.

“Sweet?!  He left out your hair, your nose, your neck, your shoulders, your tum, your ass, your legs, your feet, and your toes!”

“I’m sure he was going to get there,” she said matter-of-factly. 

“Can I get there?” I asked, sounding a bit desperate for affection, or her attention. 

“Get where?” she asked, playing with me.

“Anywhere.  Between your legs, ideally.”

“Let’s see where this goes,” she said about her internet friend, unfortunately, and not about my bid for her caress. 

“I know where this goes,” I said, putting her hand on my hard rod.  I was hard because her internet friend had sent a slew of photos of himself jacking off to her pics and cumming all over them.  She looked good in the sexy photos.

“Daddy,” she said, protesting, “I’m busy trying to please my loyal fans.”

“I don’t mind, as long as you do it while spreading your legs.”

“I’m spreading the love.”

“Can you spread the love wide enough for me to get in on it?”

“Your pussy looks pretty and gorgeous,” wrote another fan.

“It is pretty, gorgeous, wet and waiting to be filled,” she wrote back.

“Me, me!” I said, “Pick me.”

“Calm down, Daddio,” she said, full of vanity fed by her fans’ flattery.

“Tell me more about you,” wrote another internet correspondent.

“Read the books,” typed Lo, “There’s too much to tell and too many people to tell it to.”

“You’re hard, girl,” responded the inquirer. 

“Funny, everyone tells me I’m easy,” quipped Lo, “and that makes them hard.”

“I love your stories,” wrote one female fan.

“H.H. writes.  I inspire,” wrote Lo to her.

“Do you inspire with your body?”

“And my wit.”

“I’m inspired right now!” I said to Lo as I grabbed my cock firmly.  “They all are cumming to you.  Can I cum to you?”

“Cum to, on, in, with, over, under, around, beside – I provide the pussy.  You pick the preposition,” she said, dismissively. 

I got up on my knees and stood over her, jacking my cock. 

“Just don’t cum on my phone,” she said as she continued to scroll through her contacts.

She continued to fondle herself beneath me for a while before she said, “Daddio, lie down next to me.  I’ll help you.”

I lay down and she grabbed me by my shaft.  “I’m your righthand man,” I said as she jacked me off with her right and scrolled with her left. 

“My wife is nothing like you,” wrote one desperate, sad husband.

“You two should read our blog together.  It would open up her mind. . . and pussy.”

“I could never suggest it,” he wrote, “she’d freak!”

“But you like it?” asked Lo.

“God yes,” he sighed through the medium of type.

“Tell me what a young, sexy, slutty person such as myself does for you.”

“I’d love to eat your yummy, sloppy, used, cum-filled holes,” he wrote.

“Another bard!” I opined sarcastically.

“Shut up and cum,” commanded Lo as she tugged more aggressively.

“Are you in a rush?” I asked.

“Both hands are full,” she said, “leaving nothing for my snatch.”

“I’ll happily fill that gap.”

“You stay right where you are,” she ordered.

“Has she ever caught you jacking off?” wrote Lo to her married man.

“No.  It would be a big deal if she did.  It would be an even bigger deal if she caught me jacking off to you and not to porn.”

“I am porn,” protested Lo.

“I mean, it’s one thing to get off to anonymous, vacuous, impersonal, professionally produced porn and it’s quite another thing to get off to you.”

“That’s more like it,” responded Lo.

“That’s it, I’m getting up and out of bed,” I said.

“But nooooo.”

“Yes.  You’re just treating my cock like it a joystick to your favorite video game.”

“A game I always win.”

She continued stroking.

“Are you into length or girth?” asked her internet interloper.

“I’m into cock.  And cock gets into me.”

“Once again, I must protest!” I said.  “You’ve got a very capable, compatible, and coveted cock right here, but you’re not letting it into you!”

“What, ole man, my right hand isn’t enough for you?”

“Not when you’re teasing those guys about how fast and loose you like to play.”

A new fan chimed in, “I have to stop sinning.  I’m religious, that’s why I can’t go on doing this.”

“Sex is spiritual.  And I’m a sex goddess.  Worship at my alter,” replied Lo.

“Now you’re offering theology lessons?” I chided.

“No.  Just encouraging them to be good semenarians.” 

“That was terrible.  Low hanging fruit,” I replied.

She cupped my testicles and said, “Very low hanging.”

“Oh, does your wit never cease?!”

Now she squeezed my balls to show me that I had better be careful about mocking her.

Another woman asked Lo if she liked taboo tales.  To which Lo responded, “How taboo are we talking here?”

The woman said she was into watersports and bestiality.

Lo wrote back, “Let’s knot.”

“Don’t you mean. . . oooooh, I get it,” I said. 

“Woof!” she said to me.

The woman, whose name was Mila Beijne., went on to tell a little story.

I was a model a few years back and after doing a shoot I was talking a bit with the photographer, the lighting guy and his assistant.  They invited me to their home.  I trusted them and liked them.  We were all horny and I was willing, I admit.  At the photographer’s home we had some drinks and then they slowly undressed me.  They got naked too. They were all good looking men and one was really hung. They kissed me everywhere and started fucking me in my mouth, pussy, and ass.  I was very horny. After quite a long time, they changed positions, each taking a different hole.  Then they rotated again and fucked me a long time again till I was exhausted.  They filled me up in every place they could.  But the fun was not over yet.  One put me on the floor and the other started urinating over me. Then the other two joined in.  It was a lot and all over my body and in my long hair.  There was no shower, so it was a special experience driving home.  It was my first time doing that and I liked how the act showed their dominance over me.

Mila asked to be included.
Mila B. through the years

            I could see Lo getting increasingly more excited as she read the short little story from Mila.  She quickly wrote back, “Yeah, HH does that to me.  I love it.  Being below him, feeling his warm stream flow over my back and butt.”

            “We haven’t done that in a while,” I reminded her. 

            She ignored me because another fan had written to her.  This guy was old.  I mean, like twenty years older than I and I’m in my 50’s!  His name was Bob and he wrote:

Hi Lola, and thank you!  You are an inspiration to me.  I hope  you can give me some advice.
I’m in my 70’s and I’ve been in a relationship for over 25 years.  No passion or sex for the last 20 years.  I’m at a loss as it has become impossible to talk about it with her.  I’ve made the mistake of combining our lives and living situations this whole time.  It has become all about her for the last several years.  I feel I’m too old to begin another relationship with a woman, yet I still admire all women and all that I see on your blog.  I’ve even become curious about men as I feel that may be the only way to explore my unresolved sexual fantasies.  Yet I’m still conflicted as I long for an intimate relationship that I’ve missed in my life. 

Do you have any suggestions??

            Lola wrote back, “To tell you the truth, Bob, I’m just good wanking material, but I’m not a sex coach or a sex therapist. You might want to check out one of these trained professionals to get some expert advice on having more sex with spirit.” She provided a link.  Then she added, “But if you’re looking for a real hotwife, cum to me.”

            “What?!” I said to her, shocked that she’d even offer that to him. 

She ignored me and typed, “I have a very soft spot for old married men whose wives no longer have sex with them.  Would you like to see it?”

Of course he said yes.  Lo sent him a naughty pic of the place between her legs that she was denying to me. 

“Lo, that’s just cruel!” I said.

“What?  Soon you’re going to be that old and you’d want the same from me.  Wouldn’t you?”

“What’s cruel is that I’m that old man who is being denied right now!”

“If what I’m giving you isn’t good enough, then take matters into your own hands,” she said. 

            As she said it, another married man was singing her praises in a message that read, “I’ve come to worship your holy holes.”

            “See,” she said, “I’ve got fans who know how to woo me.”

            “Woo you?  They worship you!”

            “What’s the difference?”

            After some flirtatious back-and-forth, Lo asked to see a pic of the man’s wife.

            He asked why she wanted to see that and Lo responded, “I like to see who I’m beating out when guys are beating off to me.”

            The guy sent a photo.  His wife was beautiful.  But apparently she lacked the ‘personality’ of Lo.  He wanted to know more about Lo and he asked her questions.

“I’m like an open book, there for anyone to read,” she responded, “You just have to know where to find me.  Are you familiar with the Dewey Decimal system?”

            “Like, in the library?”

            “Yeah.”

            “So, I can find you in my local library?”

            “If only,” wrote Lo, “I’m indexed under XXX.” 

            “As in 30?” he wrote with a winkface emoji.  “Still pretty young.”

            “Pretty, young, and slutty.  I’ll tell you what, you can virtually finger my folios at: mysexlifewithlola.com,” she said, “and you can also buy the books there.  I suggest you get a few copies of each and donate the extras to your local library so everyone can spread my centerfold for free.” 

            As Lo was typing, she guided my cock to her mouth and wrapped her lips around the tip.  She looked up at me as her hand continued to glide back and forth from the base to her mouth.  I began to cum and she hungrily held me in place so as not to spill a drop.  I was so worked up that I couldn’t control my convulsions.  I began breathing deep, heavy breaths.  Lo looked up at me and said, “What?!  Are you having a stroke?”

When I finally managed to catch my breath, I looked down at her and said, “Yeah, I’m having a stroke.  A really good stroke.”

Lo wrote a final line to her fans: “Good night all you kinky sexy rogues.  Dream of me in your debauched nocturnal thoughts.”

She put her phone down, grabbed her Hitachi, lay back, shut her eyes, and began vibrating until she was the one violently convulsing, squirting, and gasping for air. 

When she was done and had removed the Magic Wand from between her legs, she grabbed my hand and placed it on her bare pussy for me to feel how wet she was.  She’s proud that she can turn on the tap almost at will. 

“Pull my pussy lips, Daddy,” she said.  I stretched them.  “Harder.”  I pulled more.  “Harder Daddy,” she complained.

“Lo, if I pull them any further they’ll be down to your knees.”

“Try it,” she said.  She likes the pain or pleasure. 

As I pulled I asked her, “What were you thinking about when you came?”

“I think about you.” 

This line from her was as false as Marlow telling Kurtz’s betrothed that Kurtz’s last words were her name. 

“OK, that’s enough of that,” I said, calling bullshit.  “What did you really think about?”

“I think about you,” she said.  “And I think about cock.  I think about a lot of cock.”

“That’s it?”

“And pussy.”

I gave up there knowing that the litany of licentious thoughts could go on endlessly.  I sat silently and she mistook my silence for judgment. 
            “You don’t know what it’s like to be me!” she blurted out defensively. 

“Oh yeah, you’ve got it so hard,” I said sarcastically.

“I wish,” she said even more sarcastically as she lifted up my flaccid member in her hand. 

“You know,” I said, “your porn persona and your personality are not consistent.”

“What are you talking about?”

“All those people out there thinking you’re a nymphomaniac, thinking that I am so inundated with your pussy that I barely can find a moment’s peace, yet the reality is that you denied me just now.”

“There’s no inconsistency.”

“How not?”

“Because I know you’re going to write about this and so it will be part of my porn persona.”

Express Yourself


            It was Mother’s Day and Lo was bent over the bed, looking at her phone.  Her red dress was flipped up and over her hips, exposing her ass and lovely pussy lips.  I mounted her and she told me the following story:

            ‘Fuck!’ I heard her call from the bathroom.  A few moments later, ‘God damnit!’  I was nervous.

            I was feeding the little one in his high chair and the other two were watching TV. 

            ‘Can I help?’ I asked through the closed door.

            ‘Yes,’ I heard after a moment.  ‘Lola can you come in here?’

            I slowly opened the bathroom door to find her, the mom whose kids I’d be babysitting that night, struggling with her manual breast pump, trying to express some milk for the baby.  Her long green gown was folded down over her hips, leaving her torso completely exposed.  She was clearly stressed. 

            ‘Lo,’ she said, ‘I can’t get this damn thing to work.  It’s not sealing properly around my nipple or something.  I know this is awkward, but can you. . .’  She didn’t finish her sentence.  She thought of how to say it.  And then she just came out with it.  ‘Can you hold the bottle for me over my nipple?’

            I wasn’t one to say no to her, ever.  I walked up to her.  She unscrewed the suction cup top of the bottle off and passed the container to me.  I held it up to her breast, shyly at first.  She used one hand to pull on her long nipple and then she used both hands to gently squeeze her breast.  It was awkward, to say the least, with me standing in front of her half-naked body as she milked herself. 

            She looked right at me and said, ‘Thank you.  I’m already late and that thing is so cumbersome to use.’

            ‘No problem,’ I said, smiling foolishly.  I had a crush on her since the day I met her.  She had frequently gotten naked in front of me, as if it was no big deal.  But now she was taking things to a different level.  I looked at her big, full breasts and I almost leaned in to suck them myself. 

            The bottle was about half full and she said, ‘My fingers are cramping from this.  Would you mind?’

            What?!  She wanted me to milk her?!  Would I mind?  Nothing would make me happier at that moment, except, as I said, sucking her tits myself. 

            I got behind her and she held the bottle to her other breast.  I gently squeezed with both hands.  She used one hand to pull on her nipple and get the milk flowing.  Soon I was expressing her like a pro, squirting it out into the jar.  She was so full, so ready. 

            She said, ‘Oh, God that feels good,’ in a way that sounded like I was making her cum.  She added, ‘You have no idea how painful it can be to skip a feeding.  It just has to come out.’

            It was all over way too quickly.  She dried off her nipples.  A task I would have happily done with my mouth.  And then she put on her special bra and I helped her with her dress, zipping her up from the back. 

            ‘Thank you, Lo,’ she said as she put the nipple on the top of the bottle.  ‘Hopefully that will be enough for tonight.’

            As Lo told me this story, she was looking at various videos of lactating women and I was going at her from behind.  She had never before told me her kink for lactation, but I was very, very glad to hear it. 

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Orgasms


The Red Dress

            My good friend John from Seattle and his three sons (ages twelve through eighteen) came over to visit while they had winter break.  They were in our town looking at colleges for the oldest and enjoying a bit of vacation – skiing, museums, historical sites.  I hadn’t seen John for a couple of years and I was glad that, instead of booking a hotel, he asked to stay with us for the four days they were here.  I suppose I should have known, however, that having all that testosterone under one roof would drive Lo wild. 

            It’s hard to keep Lo’s libido under wraps in the best of circumstances, but fill the house with four male guests, three of whom need to sleep in the living room, and, well, keep on reading.   

            One of the days that John and the boys were visiting, Lola came home from teaching her night class at the local community college where she has been guest lecturing on sex and sexuality in the Woman’s Studies department.  She walked in the door in her knee-high black leather boots with the tall heels and her hip-hugging tight red dress.  She looked. . . voluptuous.  She said a quick hello and then grabbed a glass of Cabernet and joined us in the living room where the boys were sitting, playing games or texting on their smart phones or iPads, and John and I were quietly talking. 

            “I’m so disgusted!” Lo began.

            “What?  What happened?  Did class not go well?” I inquired.

            “I know it sounds ridiculous for a woman in her twenties to say it, but honestly, kids these days!”

            “What happened?” asked John. 

            The boys turned their attention to Lo.  Or, rather, they had looked up from their blue-glowing technology the moment Lo walked in the door and now Lo had their rapt attention.  She sat on the couch and said, “Not that many years ago, when I was an undergrad, I wouldn’t have even thought of texting during class.  I mean, yes, I would be on my laptop and not always taking notes, but isn’t it a sign of disrespect to openly text during a class?” 

            “Don’t you have a policy against it or something?” I asked.

            “Yes, of course I do!  But these two guys in the front row – they are on their phones the whole time.  They’re texting and even passing their phones back-and-forth between them.  I’ve said something to them privately.  I’ve called them out before the whole class.  Now I’m done.  I’ll just fail them.”

            “It would suck to fail at sex,” John quipped. 

            “You teach about sex?” asked his middle boy. 

            “It’s more than just sex – it’s about consent, the media, law, intersectionality,” Lo began, but she lost his attention after the word sex. 

            We talked a bit more and then the boys asked if they could watch some TV.  To my great surprise, they wanted to watch “Gilmore Girls” on Netflix. 

            “Really?” I asked.  “That show was popular like twenty years ago.”

            “Let’s be real, it never was popular,” said Lo.

            “You used to watch it?” I asked.

            “On occasion.”

            “So why do you boys want to see it?  Isn’t it like a chick-lit show?”

            “HH, you’re so gender-conforming.  Not everything breaks down easily along gender-roles,” said Lo sarcastically, with a hint of irony in her eyes as she spoke to me. 

            “Why don’t you let the boys answer?” I shot back.

            “Haven’t you heard,” asked one of them, “they’re bringing ‘Gilmore Girls’ back.”

            “What?” I asked.

            “Yeah, like ‘Arrested Development’ and ‘The X-Files,’ it’s making a comeback on Netflix.”

            “Oh.” I said, learning something new, “but that doesn’t explain the appeal to you,” I said to the boys. 

            “It’s a good show,” they said as they clicked it on.  “Watch and you’ll see.”

            We watched a couple of episodes together as we ate some Chinese food we had had delivered. 

            Around midnight we went to bed and, in the bedroom, Lo removed her tight red dress revealing that all she had on under it was her bra. 

            “No panties?” I asked.

            “I can’t take the chance of panty-lines in this dress – not with a room full of students watching my every move.”

            “Don’t you think that that can be a bit distracting?”

            “What do you mean?” she asked as she slipped out of her bra and stood naked, looking at herself in the mirror. 

            “You know what I mean.  You’re just fishing for a compliment.” 

            She batted her eyelashes at me and asked, “Aren’t I just the sort of bait that would lure compliments?”

            “That you are.”

            “Well, what are you waiting for?”

            “Don’t you think that the class will be studying your every curve if you wear dresses like that?”

            “Like what?”

            “Let’s just say that a dress like that on a body like yours should be enough to distract anyone from their phones.”

            “I have no idea what you mean,” she said disingenuously. 

            “Haven’t you ever read ‘The Scarlet Letter’?” 

            “Yes.”

            “Well, that’s The Scarlet Letter of dresses my dear.”

            “So, you give my dress an ‘A’?”

            “Ugh.” 

            “What do you think of me without my dress?”

            “Can’t you tell?” I asked, displaying for her my member standing at attention.

            “Though your sign language is easy enough to interpret, tell me.  I like your words.”

            “I think your breasts look pretty and perky.”

            “Go on,” she said as she pulled and twisted her nipples, running her fingers over them to make them even more erect. 

            “And your shoulders are incredibly strong and sexy.”

            “More.”

            This went on for some time with me complimenting the small of her back, her smooth legs, her elegant feet.  Then she said, “You haven’t even mentioned my butt.  I mean, even I want my butt.  If I could be with me, I would fuck my butt.” 

            Finally she got into bed and said, “Don’t you want to fuck my butt?”

            “That I do!”

            I got behind her as she was on all fours and she licked her finger and ran it round her special spot as if pointing out the target.  “Go ahead, Daddio, but be slow and gentle.”

            As I began to penetrate her, she moaned aloud. 

            “Lo, shhhh.  We have guests.”

            I ran it in deeper.  She moaned louder and said, “Gentle!”

            “Right.  Now Shhhh.”

            I lodged myself deep inside her extremely tight spot and she said, “Stay right there.  Does it feel good?”

            “Yes.”

            “Good.  Now let me do the work.” 

            I remained still as she lunged forward and back, slowly at first, but increasing in speed like a locomotive beginning to pull away from the station. 

            “You know, Lo,” I whispered, “I have a distinct image in my mind.”

            “And what’s that?” she said as she was slowly churning away.

            “Those two boys sitting in the front row of your class, showing each other the texts on their phones that you told us about. . .”

            “Yeah?”

            “I like to think that they found your photos on the internet and now they’re looking at them as you teach.”

            “RED!” she said, referring to our fantasy rule of The Raunchy Game.  Red means, nope, you just crossed a line.  “That’s my worst nightmare,” she said, “stop right there.” 

            Despite her words, I could feel her orgasm beginning to surface.  Not wanting to lose the moment, I said, “Well, I can also imagine them sitting in the front row surreptitiously taking your picture with their phones or their computers or something and then saving the pics for later and jacking off to them in their dorm room.” 

            Lo was coaxing the orgasm and sliding on-and-off my cock, forward-and-back.  “Yessss,” she moaned.  “Do you think they jack off to the pics together?”

            “I wouldn’t doubt it,” I said.  “I bet they do it every night after class.”

“My picture’s worth a thousand orgasms,” she said as she came, quite loudly. 

When she was done, the two of us were lying on our backs looking up into the darkness of the room.  “Can I ask you a weird question?” I asked.

“I love your weird questions.”

“When we were watching ‘Gilmore Girls’ tonight, did you sense something odd about it?”

“Besides the fact that it’s always Friday, the town has five people that live in it, Emily and Richard Gilmore are cliché cutouts of ‘rich people’ and that every problem on the show is a privileged white-person problem?” 

“Yeah, besides all that.”

“Like what?”

“Well, Rory has these two boyfriends, Jess and Dean, and what are they? – sixteen, seventeen?”

“I guess,” she answered, lying on her back, her eyes closed.

“And each of them keeps ending up in scenes alone with her mother, Lorelai, who’s all of thirty-two.”

“What are you saying?” Lo asked, her fingers clearly moving up and down under the covers between her legs. 

“I’m saying that I think there’s some subtext going on.”

“Fuck me and tell me,” she insisted, spreading her legs as she lay on her back. 

I got between her wet thighs and entered her.  I held her tightly and whispered, “Lorelai was a MILF before that term was invented.”

Never one to miss an opportunity to correct me, she said, “Darling, I think MILF was invented then.  You just hadn’t heard about it until much later.”

“Whatever,” I said, “the point is, that’s exactly what she’s supposed to be and then these strapping young men have all these one-on-one scenes with her in the house, alone.  Don’t you think they’re suggesting something?”

“I’d like to see that play out,” she said as her breath quickened.  “When I reach my thirties, I hope I’m a MILF.” 

“Darling, you don’t have kids and you’re already a NILF.  A nymphomaniac that I’d. . .”

“Do you think that’s how they see me?” she asked, ambiguous as to whom she meant, but it didn’t matter, she was already cumming. 

Successful in my duty, I gave myself permission to climax with her, but, sensing my imminent orgasm, she said, “No!  Don’t cum!”  She insisted that I save it just as I was about to reach the pinnacle of my performance.

            I kept on keeping on in her. 

            “I said no!” she yelled, pulling her body away.

            “What the fuck?!” I said in an angry whisper, very frustrated, very aggrieved.  Whereas I am frequently all for edging, keeping my Chi to myself, sometimes I need a release and releasing in Lo is the best release. 

            I turned over, lay flat on my back on the bed, tried to catch my breath as Lo, who had already cum twice, grabbed my member, licked it clean, and then kissed her way up to my mouth. 

            “Why can’t I cum?” I asked.

            “Don’t you know by now?”

            “No.”

            “I like you to stay hard because you never know when I’m going to need your dick again.”

            “Oh, I know all right.”

            “You do?”

            “Yes.  You always need it.”

            “That’s true.  So, keep it cocked and ready so that it is fully loaded at a moment’s notice.”

            Sure enough, she needed it again later that night.  She woke me from a sound sleep as she was watching some MILF porn on her phone. 

Lola is Cumming

            It’s almost like it’s a trade – sex for her stories.  I feel like I get the better part of the bargain: both sex and her stories.

            More gently than before, I entered her and held her in my arms as her lips whispered in my ear.  “Daddy,” she said.

            “Yes?”

            “I have to tell you something.  But it’s really embarrassing.”

            “What is it?  You can tell me.”

            “No.  It’s a really strange kink.”

            “Nothing’s strange between us,” I said.

            “Well, you know how I’ve been reading and watching Game of Thrones?”

            “Yes.”

            “You know that I know.”

            “Well, there’s one character on there who really gets me all twitterpated.” 

            I know precious little about Game of Thrones, so I didn’t even dare venture a guess.  I do know, from all the press, that there is a lot of sex and violence on it.  Lots of big, buff men and buxom, beautiful women.  The odds are that all of them get Lo twitterpated. 

            “Who might that be?” I inquired.

            “You’re going to think I’m weird.”

            “Lo, you’re delightfully different.”

            “Well,” she said, as she turned onto her back so she could see my face as she told me.  “There’s a character named Tyrion Lannister.”

            “Yeah?” I said, not sure what that meant.

            “He’s played by Peter Dinklage.”

            “OK,” I said, still not getting the full import of her revelation.

            “You know, from Elf.  The ‘south pole’ elf.”

            “Oh!” I said, picturing him in my mind, “Ooooohhhhh,” I said again, realizing what she was implying. 

            “Ooooohhhhh,” she said, her eyes shut, as she enjoyed my pole.

            “But Lo. . . ?”

            “So many fantasies about Snow White,” is all she said before she gushed gallons over me as I pulled my sword from her stone.

            When she was done anointing my blade with her holy water, she asked, “Weird, right?”

            “Whatever floats your boat, Lo,” I said.  “Speaking of which, I think we need to change these sheets.”

            Is there any fetish, kink, or taboo that she hasn’t been into?

Divine Destinies

            As you, dear reader, are well aware, I am of a different generation than Lo.  That doesn’t keep us from having fun.  Frequently I find myself at parties surrounded by people twenty years or more my junior.  For the most part, I’m a good sport about it.  However, there is one activity that these younger folk engage in that I simply cannot stomach: Playing “Cards Against Humanity.”  Call it a delicate sensibility or a prudishness of a bygone era, but I find this particular card game to be repulsive.  Luckily for Lo, I’m a good sport and see that, like all things on this big blue planet, there is something to be learned from it. 

            Perhaps due to my generational difference, not only was I of a dissimilar temperament than those enthusiasts of the game, but I found that I was also ignorant of some of its terminology.  Late one night, while playing this perverse pastime, I happened to pull the card that read: Anal Bleaching. 

What?

            I found myself having to inquire as to what the hell this meant and I was informed by my young companions that this is, indeed, a thing.  Women, it turns out, actually bleach their anus in order that it have the proper luminescent halo around it.  Ass angels, I suppose. 

            Well, my dear reader, allow me to tell you that one of the first times that Lo and I were engaged in a prolonged, pleasurable, and piquant entanglement of bodily parts with the lights on low (and on Lo), one facet struck me as particularly impeccable about her body. 

Later, in the delightful afterglow of my memory, I mentioned it to her one night as we were on the phone and separated by distance, but connected by desire. 

            “Did you like it?” she asked of our last tryst, as if there were any doubt.

            “Very much so,” I responded, seeing her in my mind’s eye.

            “What did you like?”  She’s a glutton for compliments.

            “Everything.”

            “Be more specific,” she demanded, needing to hear each dissolute detail. 

            “You really wish to know what struck me the most?”

            “I do,” she almost whispered in a seductive tone.

            “It’s a little embarrassing to say, especially over the phone,” I said, modest man that I was back then before Lo thoroughly corrupted me.

            “Say it.  The dirtier the better,” she instructed.

            “That’s the irony.”

            “What is?”

            “That it’s dirty, but it’s only dirty because it’s so clean.”

            “I don’t follow.”

            “What I want to tell you about.  What struck me when we were together,” I stumbled, “The thing that lingers in my memory,” I stuttered, “What I can’t get out of my mind is how incredibly clean your asshole is.”  There, I said it!  I could feel my face blushing.  Poet that I am, I could find no more refined way to tell her. 

            “Really?” she almost squealed. 

            “Yes.  Is that, er, inappropriate for me to say?”

            “No.  Not at all.” 

            Mind you, dear reader, this was early on in our relationship.  I had not yet discovered quite how debauched my little Ms. Down was. 

            “Do you want to know how I keep it so?” she asked.

            “I think some things about a woman should remain a mystery,” I answered. 

Lola

            Well, dear reader, now many years on, I can tell you that it was certainly not through “anal bleaching.” 

The Masturbation Gap


Lo Masturbating, Art by John Sky

            You, dear reader, already know that Lola is an inveterate masturbator.  You also know that I am forbidden from any onanistic activities, unless either explicitly given permission, or told to do so as a performance for my dear Lola.  The fact that there is a gap in our respective frequencies of masturbatory manipulation should come as no surprise to you, and writing about it here would simply be redundant. 

            However, what I do intend on explaining, or rather, complaining about, is the fundamentally unfair masturbation gap that exists between Lola, me, and her fans.  You see, I am not allowed to engage in solo pleasure, not even to Lola’s sexy photos, unless granted permission by Lo herself.  And she takes so much delight in my stymied suffering and enjoys my engorged balls so much, that she rarely gives me the green light.  But with her fans it is another story.  One might think that Lola has no say over what her admirers do in the privacy of their own homes with her pixilated pussy.  But that is incorrect.  One of Lo’s most enjoyable pastimes is to give specific instructions to her loyal lovers (both near and far) about exactly how they are to worship her image, pay tribute to her form, and pleasure themselves. 

One of Lo’s Long Admirers

            One adoring admirer writes to her and asks, “What’s up?” to which she replies, “If you’re looking at my pics, then, your cock.”  She’s not wrong. 

            Another writes to her and asks very politely, “Morning, Lola.  How are you?” to which she replies, “Horny, as usual.  Now jack it for me.” 

            They are more than eager to comply.  It matters not to them if they are at work, home, or, as Lola really likes, lying in bed next to their sleeping wives. 

A Very Happy Fan

            She commands some of them, especially the diminutively endowed guys, to go to a lingerie store, like Victoria’s Secret, and pick out various silk, satin, and lace panties for women.  Then she instructs them to put the panties on and jack it to her pics and cum in the sexy, sheer, tight material – taking pics of it, of course.  An even more intense kink of Lo’s is commanding those same fabric fetish guys to steal the panties from their wives or girlfriends in order to wear while jacking it to Lo’s photos.   

Lo Loves All Her Fans, Big & Little

            Those are the lucky ones.  There are some unfortunate fellas who are stuck in cock-cages and can only enjoy Lo’s photos without any self-pleasure. 

            And then there are the women.  It is such a complement to Lo when lovely ladies from around the globe take photos of themselves jillin’ off to her.  I will admit that I find it very flattering when the women also make a comment about “the steamy writing,” or say, “that story made me cum five times.”  It is nice to know that every once in a while the literary seduction I work so very hard to create from the raw material of Lo’s sexual exploits is appreciated, especially by the lonely women, the married but unsatisfied wives, and the other sexual insatiables out there like Lo. 

A Lovely Couple – He took the pick of her getting off to Lola

            There was a time, early on, when I actually had a small cadre of female fans who wrote to me regularly.  It was, not coincidentally, around that time that Lo took over the email and other social media outlets, telling me, “You do the blog, I’ll spread the word.”

Reading the Blog

            Spread the word. . . yeah right!  She meant, she’ll spread her legs and then disseminate her photos across the internet. 

            But I’m not complaining.  I am glad that our little corner, or crotch, of the blogosphere makes so many people happy, even if it means that I must deny myself the pleasures that others get from my hotwife Lo.  After all, I have to admit that I have nothing to complain about since fans and her lovers alike all tell me how lucky I am.  Can’t argue there. 

The Author After Cumming on Command

Cliterotica

[In honor of all our friends, such as Cara, Hy, Catherine, and of course, Michael & Molly, who are attending Eroticon this weekend, a little fantasy of what we envision our attending it to be like. Hopefully next year.]

Drawing of Lola by nglare

            “LOLA” – her name lit up the marquee.  As we approached the theater from the street, slick from the recent rain, Lo looked up and said, “Big, bright, beautiful, and inviting.  That’s me alright!”

            We were in England for the annual Literotica convention and somehow we were the headline event for this evening’s performances.  Lo was giddy with excitement. 

            Entering the theater from the side door for performers, there was a flurry of activity backstage.  Everyone was primping and preparing.  Lo, herself, had tried on three different outfits and five different pairs of shoes before settling on the glittery gold sequin top, the slinky green skirt, and the flashy four-inch heels.  “Green and gold,” I said, “the colors of money.”

            We were there to do a reading and book signing, but Lo had plans for oh so much more than that.  Her Marina Abramovic performance-art streak was activated and she had conspired with me to put on a show.  We were to be a Penn & Teller style duet.  She’d be Penn, the showman, and I’d be Teller, the silent sidekick.  She had her props: a little wooden lectern on which she put the book, some paints, paint brushes, markers, and a sign.  The sign read:

Match, Vol. I – $35

Match, Vol. II – $20

Match, Vol. III – $20

Complementary with your purchase:

Squeeze

Tease

Pull

Paint

Draw

Write

Kiss

Suck

Cum

NOT ALLOWED:

Penetration of any sort

Photos

(Mild BDSM is ok)

All prices USD

            After the opening acts, we were introduced to a loud round of applause.  I got butterflies in my stomach and I’m sure Lo did as well.  We took our places on the otherwise empty wooden stage under the hot spotlights.  I stood next to Lo at the lectern with three stacks of books and my portable credit card swipe device plugged into my phone.

            Lo opened the books to the places she had specially chosen for this event and read some select passages: The preface to Vol I, penned by her; the encomium to the color red; a few poems.  As she read each passage in her sweetly seductive voice, she slowly removed first one and then the other strap of her blouse and let it fall, revealing her breasts.  She then wriggled out of both the blouse and her skirt until she stood stark naked but for her sexy heels.  The poems were read in the buff. 

            When she was done the music began – selections of songs mentioned in the books.  I invited the audience members who had pre-purchased books to step up and have Lola sign them while they each took a turn participating in one of the activities mentioned on Lo’s sign. 

            The first ones in line were a bit shy and timid.  They ventured a kiss or a gentle tug on Lo’s nipples while she leaned over to sign one of the gloss nude photographs of her in the book.  A few others took up the Sharpie pen and wrote love notes to Lo on various parts of her body.  Some wrote “Slut” or “hotwife” or “cum here” with an arrow pointing to her puss. 

            As the audience saw the performance taking place, those without books were eager to get in line and I began selling our inventory.  Men took out their cocks and began stroking as they eagerly awaited their turn in line. 

            Some of them stroked it next to Lola as she signed the books and wrote cute comments about the men’s anatomy in the margins. 

            The first man to cum did so on Lo’s feet, filling up her shoes with warm jizz.

            The next man to cum had a powerful ejaculation and managed to hit Lo’s tits with remarkable aim.  He even got a bit of applause!

            A woman was in line and she gave Lo a very warm kiss on the lips and then slid her tongue down Lo’s neck to her glazed breasts and cleaned off the previous customer’s cumtribution. 

            This performance went on for some time, until we sold out of all our books!

            Unfortunately for Lo, all of this fun foreplay was merely a tantalizing orgasm tease.  She whispered in my ear and I briefly disappeared off stage to grab Lo’s favorite toy from one of the event sponsor’s display: The Hitachi Magic Wand.  We plugged it into an extension cord and I brought the large, white device to Lo who proceeded to use it on her clit while sitting in a high stool.  She spread her legs and, within only a few moments filled with tension and anticipation, Lo finally gushed with an torrential outpour of emotion, release, and fluid that covered the stage. 

            After her grand finale, some stage hands appeared at Lo’s side with warm, wet towels and they cleaned her off.  One of them gently removed Lo’s feet, one at a time, from her shoes and wiped them down.  Another person mopped the wooden floor.  Once Lo was cleaned off, she got dressed again and we walked off the stage.  Before exiting, though, Lo took a long bow, but not to the audience, but to the wings of the stage, thus giving the audience one last look up her skirt. 

            Congratulations were showered on Lo and me from our fellow literotica friends and authors and we got ready for the afterparty.