Masturbation Marathon

Lo and I were in the living room, sitting on opposite ends of the couch.  She was looking at her phone.  I sat with my laptop open, reading emails, when suddenly, up popped an email in our shared account.  Unlike most of our fan mail, it wasn’t directed to Lo, it was addressed to me.  And it had a few photos attached.  Sexy photos.  Of my female fan.

“What are you looking at?” Lo asked, never one to be unobservant.

“Nothing,” I clumsily lied.

“What do you mean nothing?”

“Just an email,” I said, telling the truth, trying to pass it off as nothing.

“Let me see,” she said, scooting over, closer to me, suspicious.

How does she do that?  How does she know when something is amiss?

My heart was racing.  She gets so jealous.

There was nothing to do but give in to the inevitable.

I showed her the email and the photos.

“Nothing huh?  Who is she?”

“I don’t know.  I really don’t.  Just a fan.  A connoisseur of fine literature.  A grateful reader.  A woman of exquisite taste in art.”

“You really don’t know who she is?”

“I swear.”

“She just wrote to you for the first time?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t carried on a correspondence with her?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“You like her?”
“What do you mean, like her?”
“You find her attractive?”

That is a very dangerous question.  The female author of the epistle in question was, in point of fact, appealing.  As her missive made clear, she was a wife and mother whose sex life had fallen fallow in the past few years as the children occupied more of her time and energy.  But reading about my sex life with Lola had rekindled something deep down inside her and she just wanted to show me exactly where it was rekindled.

“She’s not unattractive,” I said, attempting to be as neutral as possible.

“Let’s play a little game,” said Lo.  I was quizzical.  “I’ll go through photos of our fans and you tell me if you find them sexy.  But let’s do it in the bedroom.”

“What?”

“Yeah, just be honest,” she said as she walked down the hall.

“Are you trying to get me deeper in the hole?” I asked, following behind her.

“Depends on which hole you mean.”

GULP.

“Let’s start,” she said as she took out her computer and went to her special stash of emails and photos.  She unzipped my pants and grabbed onto my flaccid member as she pulled up photo after photo.  Honestly, I was too scared to get hard.

After about five or ten, she paused and looked at me a moment.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Lo, you know perfectly well what’s wrong.  For years now, you’ve made the nature of our relationship clear.  Now you want me to look at other women?  I think that I’m being set-up.”

“No no no,” she said with a smile.  “I’m just feeling like changing things up a bit.”

“You know, I could get just as hard looking at photos of men who’ve sent you cumtributes.”

“Well, maybe I’ll throw in a few of those as well.  But don’t be bashful.  Let’s keep on playing.”

She scrolled through scores of sexy photos and, for each one she gave me a bit of backstory, telling me the names of each woman and a bit of bio.

“That’s Floss,” she said.

“Yes, I know Floss,” I responded as she went through photo after sexy photo of her.

Floss and Match, Cinder & Spark

“And this is Karla.”

“I know Karla too.  In fact I wrote about her.”

Just Floss

“Yes, that’s right.  Did you know her hubby, Chris, gets off to me when he has her at home?”

Karla and Chris

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“This is the author, Larry Archer’s wife.”

“Is she a fan?”

“I don’t know, but I’m a fan of hers. . . and his!”

“And this is. . .”  The list went on-and-on.  With each new set of photos that Lo opened from her password-protected fap file, she grew a little more excited.  If she was a guy (and she sure acts like one), she would have had a raging hard-on at this point.  I have no doubt that her clit was fully tumid.  She was reaching for it.

Karla over the years

Karla’s husband Chris getting off to Lola

“Um, can you give me a minute?” she asked.

“What?”

“Here,” she said, passing me the Stoya Destroya vagina.  “You can use this if you want to wank.  But only use my photos.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna have me a wank too.”

“But you want me to leave.”

“Yeah, is that ok?”

“Um no.  Not really.”

Larry Archer’s wife

“Just give me a little while.”

She got out of bed to escort me to the door as she got out of her clothes.  She put her panties on the doorknob as if she had a paramour over, but it was just her and her fingers, toys, and binders full of women.

I went back to the living room, confused, carrying my vagina.  Well, Stoya’s vagina.  Carrying a vagina.

I returned to the bedroom and knocked on the door furtively.

“What?” she asked, not opening the door.

“Lube,” I said.  “You didn’t give me the lube.”

The door opened a crack.  I saw her standing naked.  She looked good.  Her arm extended, dropping the tube of lube in my hands.

“OK?” she asked, shutting the door.

Stoya front, Lola back

I walked away again.

Finding my way onto the couch, I began writing – this story.

Lo’s orgasmic arias were audible throughout the house.  They rose and fell, crescendo, decrescendo.  So many ups and downs I lost count.  I looked at the vagina sitting next to me and said, “It’s bad enough she needs more from me.  Don’t you just sit there and look despondent at me that she’s getting all the action.  It’s not my fault you don’t have arms, hands, or fingers to help yourself out.”

Finally, I made use of Stoya, more for her sake than mine.  She looked so sad there.

I came, one brief onanistic climax, looking at Lo’s photos on the internet while Lo, in the flesh, was having a grand old time fucking herself just down the hallway.  I got up to do the proper aftercare cleaning of Stoya in the second bathroom and saw Lo’s panties still prominently displayed on the doorknob as Lo went at it.

I returned to the couch and took a long nap.

I was woken up by the feeling of Lo’s lips on my flaccid cock.

“What are you doing?”

“Cock-warming,” she said as she lay naked on the couch between my legs, looking up at me.

“You want something?”

“No, Daddy.”

“No?”

“I’m sore.”

“What the hell was going on in there?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I started off jilling to the women I was showing you, but then I was into the cumtributes I’ve been getting.  I’m such a slut.”

“Agreed.”

“No, you don’t know why I’m saying that.”

“Do tell.”

“Well, I guess it’s bad enough that I am not faithful to you.”

“I don’t mind. . . usually.”

“But I have a sort of internet boyfriend.”

“What is that?”

“You know, like a work wife or a work husband.”

“You mean when people become overly chummy with people they work with?”

“Yeah, like that, but in my case, it’s with people I’ve met online.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I’ve been cheating on one of them with another guy.”

“I’m sure they don’t expect monogamy from you, dear.”

“Yeah, they’re both married themselves.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“That’s just it!”

“What?”

“Do you think I have a problem?”

“Other than being a nymphomaniacal, egomaniacal hotwife attention whore?”

“Yeah, other than that.”

“No, not at all.”

“Really?”

John Doe shrine to Lola

“If your biggest problem is that you’re sexting with someone behind the back of your long-distance lover while shutting me out of the bedroom so you can fist-fuck yourself because you’re turned on by your fandom, well, hey, we all should be that lucky!”

John Doe gets of to Lo

“I love you, Daddy,” she said, before returning to cock-warming me.

“Want to watch a movie?”

“Sure.  What?”

Northerngentleman

“How about Boogie Nights?  Have you ever seen it?”

Northerngentleman cums in his wife’s panties.

“No.”

“Oh, then you’re in for a treat.”

  • Photos used with permission.

Sweet Charity

Wedded Bliss

It was late and all through the house not a creature was stirring, only Lo, clicking her mouse.

I was on my side of the bed, facing away from Lo, but I could feel the side of her thigh up against my back and the gentle rocking of the bed.  I gave it a minute, or twenty.  But when the motions didn’t cease and the moans increased, I rolled over to face her.

She was sitting up in bed, naked, her legs bent at the knees, one of them had been resting against me.  Her computer was between her legs, as one of her hands manipulated it and the other manipulated her clit.  The thin white strings of her earbuds dangled over her bare breasts on their way to their hidden nooks under her thick dark hair.

“Daddy,” she complained, as if my rolling over interrupted her activities.

“You know I’m trying to sleep here, Lo, right?”

“Just a couple more minutes,” she said without taking her eyes away from the screen.  “I’m getting close.”  Her voice was unusually loud because of the sounds kept out by the earbuds and their volume in her ears.

“Your onanistic sessions are taking longer and longer,” I observed.

“Shhhh,” she hissed, unconsciously.  I don’t even know if she heard what I said.

I rolled back on my side, away from her in order to allow her her privacy while she finished.  She seemed put off by my lack of interest.

“Daddy.”

“What?”

“Don’t you want to know what I’m looking at?”

I was going to be informed either way I answered so I said, “Yes, Lo, what is it that has you all riled up?”

“My friend Sam.”

“Sam?  Who’s Sam?”
“I told you.  He and his wife are big fans.”

“OK.”

“Well, he just wrote to me.  You want to hear what he said?”

“I’m on the edge of my seat.”

“I’m on the edge too.”

“What did Sam say?”

“He said: ‘I had a sex dream about you the other night. We were having sex in my bed, next to Alia as she slept, and I came inside you four times before I woke up with a major hard-on and had to stroke to you until I came for real.’ And you know what I said?”

“What?”

“‘I’m so flattered!  It would feel soooo good to have you cum inside me four times!  I’d be oozing your cum all day.  Did you tell Alia about your dream?’”

“OK, and he said?”

“He said, ‘I didn’t tell Alia about the dream. It never came up.  I did use her as a cumdump last night though.  I was reading through your posts and got super horny, but she wasn’t in the mood for sex, so I asked her if she would mind if I came inside her pussy and she was fine with that.  I was so horny from reading about you that it only took maybe 30 seconds of pounding her before I blew my load deep inside her.  It was so hot using her as a cumdump.  I really enjoy giving women pleasure, but sometimes it’s nice to focus just on my own pleasure.’  Isn’t that hot?”

“Cumdump” Alia getting herself off to Match, Cinder & Spark

As she asked, her orgasm began to take over her body, causing her to twitch and convulse.  She moved her laptop just fast enough to avoid squirting on it.  I grabbed it from her and viewed the photos Sam had sent accompanying his little virtual postcard to Lo.

Alia

When Lo was done, she got up (and got me up) to change the soaking sheets.

“Sam says that Alia wants to be more like you.”

“I know!  Isn’t it flattering?”

“Lola Down – inspiring hotwives everywhere.”

“I like that.  Did you just think of it?”

Sam & Alia inspired by Lola

“A stroke of genius.”

“Did you say stroke?”

“I did, but not with the meaning that Sam has for stroke.”

“Can I stroke you, Daddy?” she asked, getting into the newly made bed with me and grabbing my cock.

“You still want more?”

“I’ve yet to find my upper limit when it comes to sex.”
“Fine.  Turn on your back and spread your legs.”

If there was a male equivalent to what Sam described his wife, Alia, as – a “cumdump” – then I was it.  I was a prop for Lo’s pussy to palpitate upon.

I was balls-deep into her soaked, sloppy pussy.  Her secretions slathered me from my crotch to my knees.  She was so slippery at this point that I could hardly feel anything as I repeated the motions that turned on her spigot.

“I want you to gift me,” she said, breathing heavily.

“What?” I asked, looking down at her face as it contorted with pleasure.  Her eyes were shut and she was clearly envisioning something with her imagination.

“Instead of just passively giving permission for me to fuck other people, I want you to give me —- as a gift.”

“To whom?”

“Anyone.”

She came yet again as she said it.

I pulled out, allowing her body to recover.  The sheets were drenched.  Her puss was gaped.  Her breaths were deep, long, and loud.

“Why’d you stop?” she eventually queried.

How to tell her that her extreme arousal made fucking her indistinguishable from dipping my cock in a widemouthed jar full of warm water?

“I’m old,” I said.  “I need a break.”  Not a lie, but maybe not the whole truth.

“That’s why I want you to gift me,” she replied.  “If you can’t handle me, then might as well give me to someone who can.”

“Can’t handle you, or can’t satisfy you?” I asked.

“A little from column A, a little from column B.”

“How about you gift me your ass and I’ll show you a column that will satisfy you, if you can handle it.”

“I thought you said you need a break.”

“Breaktime is over.  Show me the back door and I’ll get to it in the workroom.”

“Nah,” she said, nonchalantly.

“What do you mean, nah?”

“Not today, ole man.”

“But you ‘gift’ your ass to the brothers and they don’t ask, or even beg like I do.”

“I do that for you.”

“How is it for me?”

“It makes you jealous.  It’s practically the only thing I can do to make you jealous.  And when I don’t allow you to have my ass, it makes you even more jealous.”

“You know me too well.”

“Why do you want my ass so badly?”

Rather than tell her the actual reason – that her pussy had become too much of a bath for me, I said, “It’s like Peter Gabriel sings.”

“What?”

“Don’t you know the song?” I asked.  Her perplexed look indicated I had to recite it for her:

 

In your ass
The light, the heat
In your ass
I am complete
In your ass
I see the doorway to a thousand churches
In your ass
The resolution of all the fruitless searches
In your ass
I see the light and the heat
In your ass
Oh, I want to be that complete
I want to touch the light
The heat I see in your ass

“I don’t think those are the lyrics,” she said, laughing.

“Close enough.  Now show me the doorway to a thousand churches.”

“Do you have the church key?”

“That I do!”

“Fine, but only because you’re such a fool.”

“If that’s what it takes to have your ass, then I’ll be the court jester!”

“Hurry up and use your bauble and jingle your bells,” she said, rolling on her tum and spreading her ass cheeks for me.

Lo’s Temple of Venus

I slid right in and she repeated, “I want you to gift me.”

“Give you away, like a father giving away his daughter, the bride.”

“Oh my God, that would be even better.”

“What would?”

“If I wore a white wedding gown.”

“Maybe I could give you away in a church.  We’d call it Christmas charity.”

“FUCK!!!  I’m cumming. . . in my ass!”

Unlike her pussy, which squeezes me out when she squirts, her ass clenches, but just enough to make it feel even better, but not evict me.  She sprayed the newly replaced sheets beneath her as I ejaculated deep in her orifice.

I slid out of her slowly, taking my sweet time.

Wedding Shower

She was lying in her own puddle, panting.

“Are you going to clean me off or. . .”

“Come here,” she said, not moving.

I put my cock in front of her open mouth.  She took it in and sucked it clean.

“That’s my good girl.”

She smiled.

Giving Away the Bride

Victory Lap

As she made the ‘OK’ sign with her index finger and thumb, my hard cock filled the hole of that universal hand-gesture that indicates everything is alright.  And everything was better than alright.  She was lying under my arched, naked body, her left hand doing the bare minimum necessary to still qualify as a hand-job.  I was doing most of the work, thrusting in and out of her digital aperture.  She was lying naked on her back, her right hand doing more work on her clit than her left on my dick.  But, hey, it’s not a competition.  I was pleased.  She was pleasing – herself and me.

“That’s it, you big, bad dog,” she said in a sultry tone, referencing the taboo topic of her acquired technique.

She knew exactly what that would do to me.  She plays me like a fiddle with her nimble fingers, though I’m sure she’d rather play a long, black clarinet that requires both hands to get the proper fingering and also the use of a wet mouth and tongue to blow all those Ds loud and with proper dynamics.

Within seconds my baton was conducting the final climactic notes of this symphony.

As I write these tortured metaphors, I can hear Lo laughing and saying, “Symphony!  P’shaw, more like a minuet.”

Be that as it may, she was covered in pearlesque droplets from chin to chest.

Holiday Glaze

I fell back onto the bed, relishing the sweet release she uncorked for me.

But she, rather than lounge in the lethargic bliss I was enjoying, hopped out of bed, put on her jeans and a tank-top, and said, “Do you want to come walk with me?”

Or, at least that’s what I understood her to say.  What she actually said was, “Do you want to cum-walk with me?”

“What?” I asked groggily.

“Cum-walk.”

“I don’t want to walk.”

“No, Daddio, a cum-walk.”

“What’s a cum-walk?” I asked, finally understanding what she was articulating.

“It’s like a walk of shame.  A stride of pride, a victory lap, the trek of triumph, the Something About Mary hommage,” she said with a French accent.

“Since when is that a thing?”

“Oh, old man, hurry up, get dressed, and I’ll tell you as you accompany my for a strumpet stride through the neighborhood.”

“Ok, ok,” I said, laughing, “You’re killing me with these colorful combinations of colloquialisms for cum.”

“Say that four times fast!”

“Where’d you learn all those?

“Eskimos have forty different words for snow and I. . .”

“Forget it.  I don’t want to hear what precipitated your poetic euphemisms.”

When I was dressed, we walked outside, arm-in-arm.  She was proud to have the origin of her adornments accompany her as she displayed her latest accomplishment.

She said hello in a flirtatious voice to the others who passed us by on the delightful spring morning.  Out of the corner of her eye, she tried to spy if they looked carefully enough to discern what was glinting in the sunlight on her cheek, chin, neck, and shoulder.

“So, when did this become a thing?” I asked again.

“It’s always been a thing.  I mean, remember the time at the nude beach when you came all over my face and tits?”

“Which time?”

“Oh, Daddio.  The beach with the geriatric gentlemen who genuflected at my altar.”

“Right.  Yeah, so?”

“Remember, after you rained your love down on me, we walked together, saying hi to the beachcombers.”

“Yeah, I remember, fondly.”

“And the time I met that very nice athlete in the park.”

“You mean the big black guy who came on you?”

“You have a good memory for an old man.”

“That’s why I write these things down – to keep your paramours straight.”

“Oh, straight is ok, but I prefer kinky paramours.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Anyhow, after he came on me and I walked up to you dripping with his jizz.  That also was a cum-walk.”

“I see.”

“Are you going to write about this one?”

“Of course I am, even if no one believes me.”

“They don’t believe you, Daddy?”

“Lo, you can understand that a lot of people find you unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

“Morning,” said a passerby.

“Hi,” Lo chirped back in a perky voice.  Her tits were perky too in her see-through white tank-top.

Lo’s braless top

“Getting a lot of looks,” I remarked to her.

“Yeah, but I made the wrong choice.”

“How’s that?”

“They’re all looking at my chest, not my face.”

“Ah yes, the age-old dilemma.  What’s the reaction you’re looking for?”

“I’d just like a tall, dark, and handsome man to give me a long stare that says, ‘I know what you just did, you slut.”

“I think you take too much pleasure in this.”

“Oh, Daddio!  The only thing more pleasurable is when it’s leaking out of my puss through my panties and shorts at the same time as it’s on my face.”

“Do you have a special name for that walk?”

“The Double-Stuff Strut, The Cream-Pie Promenade, The Spit-Roast Saunter.”

“I should have known.”

admiration

Rear Windows

“Where are you going?” I asked.

She was dressed up in a blue dress and strappy wedges, looking like she was someone’s blue belle.

Blue Belle Lo

“I’m going to meet Meri.”

“Where this time?”

“Oh, her house,” she let fall from her lips as if that were no big deal.

“Her house?!” I asked, concerned.  “In COVID Times?”

“Don’t worry, silly.  We’ll be at a safe social distance from one another.”

“How’s that?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“When I’m older you’ll have to tell it to the funeral director.”

“Love you!” she said as she blew me a kiss and walked on out the door, hopped in her car and drove away with a little beep-beep.

I hadn’t expected to spend that Sunday alone.  It was beautiful out.  The sky was as blue as Lo’s dress and the sun as bright as her disposition.  The air was warm, but not oppressive, as it had been most of July.

Without plans or partner, I ventured to the local park with my folding chair, thermos full of G&T and ice, and the novel I had been reading, My Mother by George Bataille.

Simultaneously, as I was sitting in the park, reading, watching the youthful frolics of the people around me, reminiscing of my Lola in the park with Meri a couple of weeks prior, and comparing the scantily clad flirts around me with my slut, Lola (there is no comparison, really), Lo was off in the burbs engaged in the following activities.

She arrived at Meri’s picture perfect suburban home around eleven.  It was in one of the wealthy bedroom communities around our city, about a half-hour away from us.  She pulled up along the curb in the cul-de-sac and texted Meri, “I’m here.”

From the car, she observed the blue hydrangeas, the yellow black-eyed Susans, and the rose bushes.  She wondered, Did Meri tend those?  Hired help, probably.

Due to COVID, there was no going in the house, except for use of the bathroom.  Lo put on her mask when she saw Meri come outside.  Lo got out of the car and had that awkward moment when, during normal times, there would have been a hug and maybe a little kiss hello, but not now.  Not during COVID.  They just smiled, delighted to see each other.

Meri said, “I love your dress.  And those shoes!”

“Aw, shucks,” said Lo with faux modesty.

“And what do you have on under that dress?” asked an eager Meri.

“We’re tanning in your backyard, right?”

“Yep.”

“I’ve got on a bikini.”

“Perfect,” said Meri, smiling a devilish grin that looked even more authentic given her red hair.  “I’d give you a tour of the house, but. . .”  She didn’t have to say anymore.

She led Lo around the side of the house, through a little gate, to the backyard.

“Is anyone home?” asked Lo.

“Everyone.”

“Everyone?”

“Yep.  Scott and all three boys.”

“Oh,” said Lo, “I thought it was going to be just us.”

Meri didn’t answer.  She simply extended her hand to the lounge chairs in the backyard, separated by many feet from each other, and behind them, the blue inground pool.  “How’s this?” she asked.

“It’s lovely!”

“Come on in and get comfortable.  Can I make you a drink?”

“What do you have?”

“Anything you want.”

Lo looked at Meri and said, “Something wet that will make my head spin.”
“Coming up!”

Lo removed her shoes and walked around barefoot in the backyard.  She looked at all the flowers in bloom, the lush green grass, the tall trees in the distance, and then back at the house.  Soon she saw Meri emerge from the sliding doors in the center of the house that led into the kitchen.  She was carrying two tall drinks.  When she had gone in the house, Meri was wearing jeans and a blouse.  But now she was wearing only a tiny thong bikini bottom and a just as skimpy, matching solid yellow bikini top.

Bikini Babe Lo

“Here you go, Lo,” she said, passing her a glass filled with pink bubbly liquid and a red striped straw in it.

“Thanks,” said Lo, sipping and staring at Meri.

“Don’t you want to change?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Lo pulled her dress up over her head, revealing a more modest bikini than Meri was wearing and than Lo had worn the previous time they met in the park.

“If you feel like going for a swim, help yourself.  You can even skinny dip if you want.  None of the neighbors can see.  Not that that matters to you,” she added, referring to Lo’s exhibitionism in the public park.

“What about. . . ?”  Lo nodded in the direction of the house, indicating Meri’s family.

“Oh, them?”  She shrugged her shoulders.  “They’ve seen you naked already.”

“What?!”

“I told you.  Remember?”

“You said that you found me through your husband looking at the blog and that your son also discovered it, but you didn’t say everyone had.”

“Well, I don’t know that for sure,” said Meri, “but it wouldn’t surprise me.  It’s a house full of testosterone.  It is unbearable for me sometimes.  It’s nice to have another woman here for once.  You’re my first guest since COVID.”

They were lying down now and Lo couldn’t help suspecting that she was being watched by four pairs of eyes in the house.

“Is your husband going to come out and say hello?”

“Probably not,” said Meri.  “He’s shy.  He knows that you know and he’s embarrassed.”

“Do you think he’s watching?”

“I hope so.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah.  He’s been doting on me ever since he found out that I’ve been corresponding with you.  It makes him so horny.  Sometimes we put your photos on the computer so we can both see it and he goes at me from behind.  I’ve told him about how I’d love to have a strap-on to fuck you the way he fucks me.  That makes him give it to me even harder.  We’ve also been listening to your audiobooks.  Sometimes we pick a destination an hour or so away, just to get in the car and listen.  Then we pull over in the woods somewhere and I give him a blowjob while he listens to Jupiter Grant narrating those sexy stories about you.  Maybe one day she’ll be narrating about me!”

Lo was blushing.  She was not used to her life on the down low being out in the open, commented on, and even being pandered to in order to make it into the narrative.

Their lounge chairs were facing the pool, that is, away from the house, but, as they continued to talk, swapping stories and fantasies, the sun had repositioned almost behind them.  Lo stood up and said she was hot.  She was going to take a dip, if that was ok.

“Sure, it’s fine.  I’ll refresh the glasses,” said Meri, walking in the house.  Lo watched her strut inside and she liked looking at Meri’s sweet ass move in that thong.  She thought about how Meri was almost twice her age, had three sons, and still had an incredibly seductive saunter.  MILF Meri, she thought.

The thought of the three sons was gnawing at her conscience, however.  The oldest had to be almost Lo’s age.  The youngest. . . how old was he?  He must be at least eighteen, right?  I mean, Meri didn’t seem to have a problem with his reading the blog.

Lo walked out onto the diving board and dove into the pool.  The chilly water was refreshing and helped her clear her mind of all the dirty thoughts that were swirling in it.

When Lo saw Meri returning with the drinks, she got out of the pool and the two of them turned their chairs to be facing the sun.  Facing the house as well.

“I think I’ll take a dip too,” said Meri.

Lo was sorry that her chair was now facing the opposite direction from the pool because she couldn’t watch Meri without being obvious about it.  She didn’t want to gawk.

She sat and sipped her drink and looked at the vacant windows of the house in front of her, wondering behind which of them were her secret admirers.

When Meri returned to the chair, Lo was taken aback because, when Lo wasn’t looking, Meri had stripped out of the little that she was wearing.

Meri picked up a towel to dry off and then put it down on the chair under her and laid down on top of it, naked.  Lo liked what she saw.  It was clear that Meri usually tans nude.

Lo was about to say something when, from within the house bellowed a loud “Maaaahhh!”

Meri looked at the house.  Again, louder, “MAAAAAHHH!”

“Hang on a sec,” said Meri, walking quickly into the house.  Lo watched keenly as Meri’s naked ass jiggled in front of her.

Soon Meri came outside again, still naked, her large and slightly sagging breasts flopping without any constraints on them as she walked.

“Everything ok?” asked Lo.

“Yeah,” said Meri.  “It was just my son.”

“What did he want?”

“To be a pain in the ass.”

“Really?”

“He craves attention.  He was upset because I had put a parental control on the computer and on his phone.  He demanded that I unlock it.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

She was about to add something else when again was heard, “MAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!” even louder than before.  The sound, which reminded Lo of a foghorn, bellowed from inside the house.

Meri raised her index finger to say just a minute as she danced her way inside again.

This time she took a while.  Lo was left wondering at her absence.

When Meri finally returned, she didn’t look happy.

“What’s up?”

“He’s so spoiled.  It’s my fault.  I spoiled him.”

“Why?  What’s going on?”

“Never mind,” said Meri, taking a long sip of her drink.  “You don’t have kids, do you?”

Lo laughed, “No.  I don’t plan on it.”

“Grrrrr,” grumbled Meri, “I’m sorry.  They treat me like a house servant here.  It’s always, ‘Mom do this.  Mom, I need that.  Mom, take me here.  Mom, I want. . .’  Since COVID, it’s been even worse.  All three boys here twenty-four/seven.  Absolutely no privacy.  Scott works from home.  The kids are always home.  I’m used to everyone being out of the house for at least eight hours a day.  It’s bad enough that I’ve lost that me-time, but they are up to all hours at night.  I have to do something to take my mind off this.  Will you help me out?”

“Sure.  What can I do?”

“Will you turn towards me?”

“OK,” said Lo as she turned her chair toward Meri.

“Will you show me your pussy like you did in the park?”

“Ummm,” Lo was feeling uncertain.  “Where are your sons and your husband?”

“There, there, there, and there,” said Meri, pointing at the three bedroom windows on the second floor and the dining room window on the first floor.

“Are they watching us.”

“I don’t know.  Scott was on a phone call when I went in.”

“And the others?”

Meri shrugged her shoulders like it didn’t matter.

Very self-consciously, Lo slid her right hand under her bikini bottom.  She raised her leg that was closest to the house in an attempt to conceal what she was doing from the voyeurs within.  With her left hand she pulled the thin fabric to the side so Meri had an unobstructed view of what Lo was doing.

Meri moved her right hand down between her legs and parted her pursed lips with her fingers.  Slowly she moved her finger inside, stroking back and forth as she watched Lo digitally diddle her clit.

Lo was too aware of the eyes that might be watching to cum, but it didn’t take Meri long to climax quietly in the peaceful suburban sanctuary.

“Feeling better?” asked Lo when she saw the rush of blood to Meri’s chest begin to subside.

Meri just laughed quietly to herself and licked her fingertips.  “Thanks Lo,” she said.

Lo mustered up the courage to ask the question that was distracting her the whole time.  “You don’t have a problem with the kids. . . uh, seeing you?”

“Like I said,” began Meri nonchalantly, “there is no privacy around here.  I’ve given up on trying to hide it.  And so have they.  We just accept ourselves as we are and accept our sexuality.  We’re all sexual beings, Lo.  You should know that more than anyone.”

Lo was not at all clear as to what Meri meant by “accepting” things, the way Meri spoke about it.  Also, thought Lo, this house is huge.  How could you not have privacy?  But she didn’t ask questions.  She just listened.

“When I went inside, he wanted my help again.  He says he likes it better when I do it for him.  Spoiled brat.  You’d think he could do something for himself at that age!  But, it’s ok,” she added in a gentler tone, “He’s just a momma’s boy and I know that one day that will come to an end.  My husband calls him ‘Prince Hamlet,’ because his life is so easy, yet he is always seeing the sinister in everything.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come over,” said Lo, voicing her misgivings.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Lo,” said Meri, spreading her legs further on the lounge chair.

“But I think I’m just complicating everything.”  Lo’s head was spinning.  The drink, the sun, the sexual stimulation, the hidden intrigue, all culminated in a dizzy spell.

“He might be a little jealous, but I haven’t had a guest in four or five months!”

Lo didn’t know whom Meri was talking about, one of her sons or her husband.  Images of men’s faceless faces flashed in her mind.

“Can I, er, use your bathroom?” asked Lo.  She felt like she had to get out of the sun, out of the spotlight.

“Sure.  Straight in those doors and to the left,” said Meri, pointing.

Lo picked up her mask and put it on as she timorously walked toward the imposing house.

She slid the sliding screen door open and walked into a large, open-plan kitchen/dining room.

A large, rotund man was sitting at the dining room table looking into a laptop computer.  He wore cargo shorts and a short-sleeve button-down blue shirt, untucked.  He looked over at Lo when she entered the room.  Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the relatively dim light inside.

“Oh, you must be Lola,” said the man in an authoritative, booming voice.

“Yes.  And you’re Scott?”

“My wife is crazy about you,” he said, making Lola feel awkward.

“The bathroom?” asked Lo, timidly.

“Right there,” said Scott, pointing to a door at the end of the kitchen.  “Did you really do all those things H.H. wrote about you?”

“I’m here now, ain’t I?” was all Lo responded, before walking to the bathroom.

When she came out of the bathroom, back into the kitchen, behind the ‘L’ shaped kitchen counter, far at the other end of the room, by the dining room, was a young man, staring unflinchingly at Lola.

Lo walked towards him.  She had to if she were to exit the kitchen.

“Hi,” she said nervously.

He was shirtless.  No answer.

“You must be. . .” began Lo, realizing she had no idea the names of Meri’s sons.

“You’re even better looking in person,” he said, mesmerized.

Lo looked around the room for Scott.  He was nowhere to be found.  It was just this kid and Lo, staring each other down like the Sheriff and the Outlaw in some western.  But who was who?

“What do you mean?” asked Lo, knowing very well what he meant.

“You like my mom?”

“She’s very nice,” said Lo, flustered.

“Are you going to fuck her?”

“You should watch your mouth!” replied Lo.  He had the face of a cherub, but that just made it all seem more inappropriate.

“You’re one to talk,” he said in a joking manner that Lo found a little endearing.  “Can I see you without your mask on?”

Lo briefly pulled down her mask under her chin.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, seemingly unaware of the words escaping from his lips.

“Shucks, thanks.”

“So, are you and my mom going to. . . ?”

Lo walked toward the boy, her mask back on now.  “You have needs.  Your dad has needs.  Well, your mom has needs too,” she said, gently.  “You might not be aware of her needs because she’s always taking care of you and your brothers and your dad.  Her needs might not be as obvious.  But they are just as real and just as. . . pressing.”

The boy looked blankly back at Lo.  Then he said, “You don’t know my mom very well, do you?”

“Well enough.”

“Her needs come before everybody else’s,” he said.  Lo thought she detected a hint of word play when he said “come.”  Maybe it was just in her perverted imagination.

“From what I hear, she takes good care of you,” replied Lo.

The boy acknowledged the truth of that statement wordlessly, looking a little ashamed and blushing.  He added, “But we’re all clear that she has needs.”

Lo walked past him and out the door.  When she got into the backyard, she saw Scott talking to his naked wife.  The sight overwhelmed her for a moment.  When Scott was sitting inside, she had noticed his rather hefty size, but now he was standing over Meri and he seemed like a giant in comparison to her.  He was enormous, both in height and girth.  He was easily 300 pounds.

Scott & Meri

The two of them saw Lo as she reentered the backyard and they stopped whatever conversation they were having to smile at her as she returned to her lounge chair.

“I just met your son,” said Lo.

“Oh, which one?” asked Meri.

But before Lo could say she didn’t know, Scott chimed in with, “I hope he was polite to you.  You know, these boys – three of them – it’s like, I mean sometimes I feel like the animal trainer at a circus.  That’s the best we can expect of them at that age!”

“Oh no he was. . .” began Lo before being cut off yet again by Meri.

“Scott, will you go and back me up about the parental controls on the computer?”

“Enjoy the sunshine,” said Scott as he dutifully walked back into the house.

Lo settled into the chair and tried to see in the dark doorway to the kitchen to ascertain if any eyes were looking back at her.  She could make out nothing.  The brilliant sun outside made the door to the house appear as a rectangular void.

“He’s not wrong,” said Meri.  “Living with three teenage boys, well, it is like being a zoo keeper – constantly cleaning out their cages, feeding them, and trying to keep them in line.  It’s exhausting.  I can’t wait until this damn COVID thing is over and we can send them all to college.  I never thought I’d say that, but it’s true!  I was just getting used to having two of the three out of the house when this plague struck.”

“I can’t even imagine,” said Lo.  Then, pensively, Lo asked, “Has it always been like this?”

“Like what?”

“I mean, have you always been so, er, nonchalant around them?” asked Lo, referring to Meri’s non-concern for her nudity.

“I’ve never been ashamed of anything,” she said.  “But this COVID quarantine put all of us in closer quarters.  And, I have to admit, in the past year or so, my sex-drive has shot way way up.  Like through the roof.  I don’t know if it’s the onset of menopause or what, but I can’t seem to get enough.  And with the three boys always around and, well, frankly, Scott. . .”  She trailed off and then added, “I eventually gave up on the idea of me-time.  Sex and sexuality are completely natural.  We’re all sexual beings.  We all have needs and desires.  Believe me, I’ve had to clean up enough cum-covered sheets from these three boys to know that they’re not exempt.  So, why hide it?  Why pretend like it’s not real, for me, for you, for them,” she said, nodding at the house.  “Yeah, I’ve known for a long time that Scott looks at porn and that late at night, after I’ve gone to bed, he jacks off in his home office.  Frankly, he doesn’t try to hide it.  Or, if he does, he doesn’t do a very good job of it.  For many years, before my libido kicked into high-gear, I just didn’t care.  I mean, at least he wasn’t bugging me at midnight, so I got my sleep.  I didn’t like the lying or the deceit, but I put up with it.  It was a minor transgression.  As long as he wasn’t having an affair.  And I checked his computer and phone enough to know that that wasn’t happening.”  She paused to take a long sip of her drink.  “The boys?  I’ve known that they are self-pleasuring ever since the oldest hit puberty.  Fine by me.  I’d be a hypocrite if I said it was wrong.  I just ask that they use tissues rather than give me more laundry to do.  I also don’t want them watching all that extreme, violent, misogynistic, hyper-objectifying, crazy porn out there.  Women being choked, abused, spat on, peed on.  Women fisting other women anally all the way up to their elbows.  Women having their anus used as a cereal bowl.  Have you seen the porn out there?”

Lo was praying that the question was rhetorical.  But, in asking the question, Meri was, perhaps inadvertently or intentionally, giving away what she had seen somewhere.

After only a slight pause, during which Lo was silent and merely blinked, Meri continued, “It’s horrible.  Women being fucked by dogs, horses, drinking pee, you name it!  I mean really!  I don’t want my kids being raised on that.”

Lo was blushing by now.  She hoped Meri would think it was just the combination of the alcohol and the sun.  She couldn’t tell what Meri had seen of the blog.  Had she seen the more risqué posts?  Was she referring to those?  Did she want Lo to open up about all her naughty kinks, her taboo fantasies, her hidden shame?

“I don’t care if they get off on a naked woman’s body,” she said while applying more sunscreen to her breasts, “or lesbians, or even a blowjob scene.  Whatever.  But the internet is worse than drugs.  It will fuck with your head for years to come if you’re not careful.  So, as long as they’re under my roof, I insist on access to their search history and their phones.”

“And they agree to that?”

Meri was now applying the sunblock to her legs.  “Well, they used to, before college.  The older ones, I mean.  Now it’s a struggle.  ‘But Mom,’” she mocked, “‘I have a right to privacy.’  And I have a right to know what’s on the phone that I pay for and on the computer that I bought, and what you’re downloading from the internet that is in my name.”

Lo suddenly realized that Meri was drunk.  She was ranting.

“Does Scott know that you track his porn activities too?” asked Lo.

“Scott?” Meri asked with a laugh.  “Ha!  No.  Either he is completely oblivious to the fact that I can see everything in his search history, or he wants me to know.  Either way, it’s fine.  But, as you know, it’s not fine when the kids discover what he’s been looking at (or when they discover what I’ve been getting off to).  When my libido was resurrected, it actually was helpful.  If I saw that he jacked off the previous night to a woman fingering her ass, well, I knew what to do to get him turned on.  If I saw that he got off to photos of a woman’s feet, well, the next night I was feet-forward.  When I found out that Scott was reading your blog,” she continued, “I was actually relieved.  I mean, yeah, you’re half his age and only a little older than our oldest son, but you’re real.  You’re not some desperate young floozy from god-knows-where who has been coerced into making porn.  You’re not strung out on drugs and putting yourself out there on the internet for your next fix.  You’re in it because you want to be.  And it’s clear that HH loves you, worships you.  It’s a healthy, if unconventional, relationship.  It’s refreshing.  And if my son wants to read about it,” she laughed to herself, “ha! at least he’s reading!!!  Right?  I mean, it’s good writing.  It’s both intellectually and sexually stimulating.  If porn is junk food, then it’s a granola bar.  Sure, it’s got a few chocolate chips thrown in, but it’s not bad for you!”  She laughed again.

Lo laughed with her, though she was feeling uneasy being talked about in this way.

“Do you think that Scott is reading about me because he has a thing for a hotwife?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe he secretly wants to see you fucked by another man.”

“If only!” blurted out Meri, loudly.

“Have you talked to him about it?”

“No.”

“But surely you talked to him about me.  I mean, he was reading the blog.  You discovered that he was reading the blog.  You got into the blog.  Your son, or sons, got into the blog.  And now suddenly, here I am, in the flesh!  How did you explain that to him?”

It gradually dawned on Meri that Lo didn’t know the whole story.

“I told Scott that when I was checking our son’s browsing history, I came across your blog.”

“Oh.”

“He played dumb, like he had never heard of it or you before.  That night, before bed, I said to him, ‘Do you want to see what sort of smut our son has been looking at?’  He said ‘Sure’ as if he had no real interest in it.  I pulled up your blog on our laptop and we scrolled through it together.”

“No!” said Lo, incredulously.  (One of her greatest satisfactions is knowing that couples read the blog together.  Meri probably knew that already.)

“Yes, we did.  And I could see him getting aroused.  I said to him, ‘You like that?  You like that young slut?  That little nympho?  Do you wish you were with a cum-hungry cock-whore like her?’  He got all flustered.  He didn’t know what to say or what to make of me as my hand reached under the covers for his hard dick.  I stroked him off as he scrolled through your blog.  Then I gave him a blowjob.  And then I got on all fours and you won’t believe what he did.”

“What?!”  Lo was very interested.

“He put the computer on my back and fucked me from behind while looking at your photos.  He came like he hadn’t cum in twenty years!”

“Na-ah,” said Lo, incredulously.

“Yeah.”

“How’d that make you feel?”

“I was fine with it.  You and I had already had our date last year and so I was envisioning you in my mind as he fucked me.  I knew that I had one up on him.  Also, I was just glad to be fucked from behind.  You’ve seen Scott.  He’s huge.  Usually, when he fucks me, it’s missionary position.  I can hardly breathe.  He’s so big and heavy.  And, worst of all, he has a tiny cock.”

“No!”

“Yes.  He has to be really right up against me to get it in me at all.  I literally cannot remember the last time I climaxed with him.  I mean, I cum, but it’s always due to self-manipulation.”

Lo glanced down at Meri’s mons pubis and saw that there was a sparkle of light glimmering from her pussy because she was dripping wet again.

“How did you explain today to him?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how did you explain that you and I know each other and that I was coming over?”

“Oh,” said Meri as if it was no big deal to pull the wool over Scott’s eyes, “I told him a week ago or so that I wrote to you and it turns out you live close by.  I told him we had carried on an email correspondence and that we finally met up for coffee.”

“What was his reaction?”

“He was surprised, but he clearly tried to play down his excitement at the prospect of meeting you.  I’ll bet you anything that when you went inside and saw him at his computer, he was reading your blog, not doing work.”

“Does he know that you and I. . . that we. . . that you have bi tendencies?”

“Oh yeah.  I mean, he knows that I’m interested in women, or at least that I was in college.  You wouldn’t know it now, seeing me as a middle-aged housewife and mom in the suburbs, but in high school and college, I lived up to the reputation redheads have for being wild and crazy.”

“I can believe it.  So, he’s ok with that?”

“Well, he doesn’t know that we’ve fooled around, but yeah.  What hetero guy isn’t ok with that?”

“I’ve known a few,” said Lo, reminiscing about some past relationships.

“Anyhow, he can’t believe you’re here.”

Author’s Aside: This whole account reminded me of a wonderful Italian movie I saw years and years ago called The Icicle Thief in which a beautiful, buxom, blonde model from a color TV commercial intrudes upon the black-and-white realism film depicting an impoverished family.  The notion of Lola the nympho, hotwife, sex-blog star walking into the quiet, suburban family life of Scott and Meri was superimposed in my mind over the Italian film.

“Does he have any expectations?” asked Lo.

“What do you mean?”

“Is he hoping to sleep with me?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Meri.  She paused to think for a moment, gazing off at the house.  “I’m sure he wants to, but knows that he can’t without my go-ahead.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“Do you want to sleep with him?” asked Meri, incredulously.

“I’m just trying to gauge expectations.”

“Hmmmmm,” sounded Meri as she pensively looked off, picturing the scene in her mind’s eye.  “I guess I don’t really care.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.  I mean, he’s tiny.  I told you that.  And he cums in like five minutes, tops.  Would you really do it?”

“I’m not opposed,” said Lo.  “But I don’t want to create any problems.  You two should probably talk it over and make sure you’re both 100% on board.”

“I’ll let you know,” said Meri.  “He’s only slept with like three or four women, including me.”

“Poor guy.  And you?”

“How many people have I slept with?”

“Yeah.”

“Too many to count!” said Meri with a laugh.  “But no one new since getting married.”

“Oh, then do I have the boys for you!” said Lo.

“What?”

Lo went on to tell Meri about the brothers from across the street.  Meri was simultaneously intrigued and repulsed by her own excitement.  “They’re like the same age as my own boys,” she remarked.

Together, Lo and Meri discussed the myriad possibilities for the COVID quarantine cuckolding adventures.

Eventually, Lo and Meri bid each other farewell as Meri went to prepare dinner for her hungry family and Lo came home to me to get her fill of my love while she recalled to me the events with which I have just regaled you.

Sound

[This story, in case you don’t pick up on it, is dedicated to the incomparable, Jupiter Grant. You can find her work here, here, here, here, and here.]

“In physics, sound is a vibration that propagates as an acoustic wave, through a transmission medium such as a gas, liquid or solid. In human physiology and psychology, sound is the reception of such waves and their perception by the brain.”

Lola’s Tum

 

It had been a wet month.  The typical English spring attempted to outdo itself with unrelenting grey skies, showers, and sopping English gardens.  Jupiter Grant, or Jupi, as she likes to be called by her friends, had not gone out for weeks.  Her groceries had been delivered and her supply of wine was dwindling.  It had been months since she had seen her ersatz lover, H.  She referred to him only as H and thought of him as “ersatz” because he was a Husband to another woman and had a family in London.  Jupi was the proverbial “other woman,” the “mistress,” the “seductress.”  At least that’s the way the judging world would see her.  The judging world being the monogamous, heteronormative world.  Between Jupi, H, and H’s wife, there was an open understanding.  Still, that cozy relationship was of no use during the long COVID lockdown.

From Jupi’s point of view, she was the guest always late to the party.  She and H had chemistry that they both acknowledged.  Not just sexual, but spiritual.  They knew they were meant to be together, but their paths had crossed many years too late in life.  As a compromise to life’s cruel humor, they connected when and how they could; neither one demanding more of the other or disappointed by the other since they both knew that this was the best arrangement for all parties involved.  Yet Jupi was not late to the poly-party.  Thank goodness, she thought, that she lived in and was a part of the polyamory zeitgeist.

A Happy Fan

Yet the knowledge that they were two lost souls doing what they could to find joy in a largely painful and sad world provided little relief for Jupi when her deepest needs swelled up to fill her entire being with desire – desire to be held, touched, caressed, kissed, fondled, spanked, sucked, filled, and fucked.  At those moments, a quick fap merely whet her ferocious appetite.  She needed more.  She craved the comfort of H’s strong, firm flesh pressing down on her own soft, welcoming, warm body.

Unrelieved in her needs, she turned to compensatory pleasures and perversions.  Much of her sexual energy, she found over the years, could be diverted into creative power.  Writing erotica was her main outlet.  But lately she discovered a new medium into which she channeled her plentiful reserves of poetic and prurient lust and her craving to perform: her voice.  Through a series of happy coincidences, she discovered that not only could she narrate literotica, she could nail it with every ounce of sexy she felt swirling through her sensual spirit and her beautiful body.

Volume I

A manuscript had arrived: Match, Cinder & Spark: Nymphomania and the Single Girl.  “Hmmmm,” she thought, “this could be interesting.  Or, it could be a colossal waste of time.  Thousands of words, hundreds of pages of driveling, second-rate, even third-rate pablum ‘poetry’ for pubescent boys.”  She poured a glass of red wine and opened up the document on her computer.  She began reading:

 

“Tell me,” she said, “tell me what I am.”

“You’re a slut.”

“Yes,” she said, encouragingly.

“A whore.  A fucking sexmaniac.”

“Go on,” she moaned, biting her lower lip.  But I was too occupied with banging her from behind.  I needed to catch my breath.

“Tell me,” she demanded, “tell me what I am.”

“A cum-bucket.  A little cum-hungry tramp.”

“Yes,” she screamed.

“A sex addict.  A nymphomaniac!”

I slapped her ass hard as she screamed with delight.  Her wet little snatch secreted her luscious, warm juices all over my hard cock.

After she collapsed into the bed of blankets, I reached around her from behind and whispered in her ear, “Good girl.  That’s my good girl.”  She purred like a little kitten.

 

Artistic Tribute Photo

She felt a tingling between her legs.  She kept reading, taking small sips of wine as she felt her mouth watering.  As she continued, she felt something else getting wet.  She tried reading the words aloud, just to hear how they would sound in her voice.  Could she do the male lines?  It was narrated by Lola Down’s lover, H.H.  Was she the right voice for that?  Wouldn’t a man’s voice be more appropriate?  She tried it out, experimenting with various octaves and tones.  Clearly these two characters were American.  Should I pronounce “ass” the American way, or as I would pronounce it – “arse”?  Technical questions like these kept appearing, but she liked what she read.  She liked it a lot.  To her surprise, she especially enjoyed embodying the male narrator’s role.  Yes, she thought, yes, I’ll take this on.

A week later she was in her tiny makeshift “recording studio” – actually a closet with a light, a microphone, and her computer.  It was the most soundproof room of her flat.  She was in the middle of recording a story, “NYC,” about Lo and her raconteur’s trip to a strip club in Manhattan:

 

She slowly eased her way down Lo’s body, pressing her perky breasts and nipples directly in Lo’s face.  She took Lo’s hands and encouraged Lo to apply them to her body, caressing the dancer’s ass and legs.  As she slithered over Lo, she inconspicuously pulled Lo’s strapless dress down over Lo’s breasts, exposing them so that they could rub up against her own.  She then got down between Lo’s legs and gracefully pulled the hem of Lo’s dress up and up, rubbing her soft hands over Lo’s thighs and then sitting on Lo’s lap and rubbing her ass deep into Lo’s crotch.  All the while, Lo licked her lips and ran her tongue over her teeth in that sumptuous way that indicates that Lo is hungry.

 

 

Jupi found herself breathless.  She couldn’t continue with the narration.  There in the narrow confines of the darkened closet, she reached down under her skirt and panties and her fingers fondled the fount of her effulgent creativity.  She read the lines again and again in her mind and switched roles in her mind from being Lo to being the stripper to being H.H. observing it all.  The dance of subjectivity stimulated her mind as much as her digits released her pent-up puissance by penetrating her pulsating pink pussy.

Browsing the Literotica section

Wave after wave of relief and gratitude poured over her as her legs gave out and she slowly crumpled onto the now wet wooden floor of the closet, panting and heaving.  She opened the door to let in more air.  She desperately needed more air.

Eventually, she was able to finish recording the story.  She liked it so much that she wanted to share it, prematurely, with someone.  No, not with someone.  Not with anyone.  With H.  She needed to know his opinion of it.  Was it any good?  Was she any good as a narrator?  But there were so many doubts that accompanied her wish.  What if he didn’t like it?  What if he thought she was weird for even producing it?  What if he was turned on by Lola?

Ultimately her desire for validation and attention outweighed her insecurities and she hit “SEND” and immediately wished she could unsend it.

An excruciating day, then two days, then three days went by without a word from H.  She couldn’t record another page before hearing back from him.  She was in a frenzied state.  Why hadn’t he called, texted, emailed, something???

But, just when she thought she couldn’t take it any longer, there was an unexpected knock at her door.

A visitor?  No.  Couldn’t be.  Probably just a grocery delivery.  She hastily put on her robe and furtively opened the door.  There he was.  H.  Unannounced.  Unexpected.  Un-fuckig-believable!  She was ecstatic.  Jupi threw the door open wide and let him in.  But then she remembered the recording.  Was he here to break things off?

“Hi,” she said shyly, her nerves shot.

“Hi.”

“I wish I knew you were coming.  I would have. . .”

“I didn’t even know I was coming.  But I’ve been. . . I’ve wanted to. . . I just started driving and I found myself here.  I’ve been listening to your recording on repeat.”

“And?”

“Your voice is so fucking sexy.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.  I’ve been hard-up for days.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to.  But I wanted to see you and tell you.”

“Way to drive a woman crazy!”

“Who wrote this?  Who is this Lola?”

Suddenly Jupi felt nervous again.  She felt butterflies in her stomach.  “What if?” questions started forming in her mind like they did before.  Incessant, annoying, pervasive questions filled with self-doubt and fear.  Her anxiety ramping up again.  She needed to get grounded.

“Come on in,” she said, taking his coat.  “Want a drink?”

She took out the wine and two glasses.  She let her robe drop, revealing her bare body just beneath the sheer negligée she was wearing under the robe.  It was sexy, but it was also comfy.  He looked at her, soaking in her visage.  She was a shy hermit full of inner life – sensual, spontaneous, artistic, creative, smart, witty, emotional, and most of all, madly in love with him.  Seeing her filled him with passion, just as the sound of her voice speaking those salacious sentences had made him crazed for three days.  Her flesh.  He wanted it.

She sat down next to him at the small kitchen table and opened her laptop.  She clicked on mysexlifewithlola.com and scrolled through the plethora of Lola’s porno pictures.

“Oh. . . oh. . . my,” he said slowly with long pauses in between exclamations.  “Um, wow!”  Images of Lola naked were replete on the screen.  But not just naked – naked with her 12 inch dildo, with her princess plug, with pearls on a string streaming from her ass, with her man, H.H., sucking his cock, filled with his cum, overflowing with the cum of other men, and stretching herself wide with one of the largest replicas of a horse cock H had ever seen!

“Yeah, she’s a handful,” said Jupi, resigned to sharing H’s attention with Lola.

“She reminds me of you,” he said, looking up at her downcast eyes.

“What?  Really?”

“Yes, if I had met you ten years ago.  I think she’s the spitting image of you.”

“Ten years ago?” Jupi echoed.

“Oh, no.  Come on.  I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You sure you don’t want some young sexy thing like Lo?”

“No, Jupi, I want you.”  He leaned in to kiss her.  Her stomach’s butterflies flew in a flutter, suddenly startled by the unexpected availability of his lips and everything else he brought to the table.

“I was just about to record another chapter.”

“Really?  Can I listen?”

“I don’t think you’ll hear much.  I record it in the closet,” she said.

“Which closet?”

“In the bedroom.”

“Oh.  Well, go right ahead.  I’ll just be lying on the bed.  Maybe I’ll hear something.”

They got up to go to the bedroom.  She took the computer and disappeared into the walk-in studio.  “Wait here quietly,” she said before shutting the door behind her.

She was just finishing up the story, “Horsing Around.”  She read loud enough for H to hear:

 

I was in jeans and I could feel my cunt getting totally saturated, soaking my panties through and through.  I spread my legs and rubbed his cock back and forth until finally he exploded.  It was a ginormous shot of cum over my head, but, as his cock slackened, he dripped some remaining cum down into my hair and on my face.  I had to unbutton my jeans and pull them and my panties down as I got on my knees.  As I sat under his dangling cock, I stroked my pussy till I too came in a giant puddle on the cement floor.

 

 

When Jupi was done with the story, she emerged from the closet.  She found H lying on his back, his trousers down around his ankles, his massive hard-on clenched in his right fist which stroked up and down from tip-to-base and back again.

“Could you hear?” she asked, astonished.

“MmmmmmGrrrrrrrrrAaaaaahhhhhhh,” was all he could say as his member erupted like a spewing volcano sending its warm lava all over the surrounding countryside and dribbling down its sheer cliffs, covering his hand in goo.  “Fuuuuck!”

“Did I do that?” asked Jupi innocently.

“You have the most sexy voice,” he answered.

Though flattered by his visceral standing ovation, Jupi was at least slightly disappointed that she wasn’t going to get any of her man’s patronage that day.  Never one to miss an opportunity, she got between his legs and licked up the mess he had made.

“Can I get an advance copy of that audiobook?” he asked.

Jupi smiled, looking up at H from between his legs.  “Of course,” she said.

After he left, she sent the audio files to him via email.

A few days later he texted her and said, “Jupi, you have no idea how happy you have made me.  I know that we can’t see each other, but I’ve been listening to your recording in the car every chance I get.  It’s incredible.”

“Glad you like it.”

“I’ve even started listening to it in bed.  I told my wife that it’s just a guided meditation to help me sleep, but, in fact, it has the opposite effect.  After she falls asleep, I pull out my cock and stroke to your voice.”

A week later he was at Jupi’s flat again.  This time they had an actual date planned.  After a small meal, they went into the bedroom and, lying down on the bed, he asked, “Can we, uh, listen to the audiobook?”

“But I’m right here,” Jupi replied.

“I know, but it turns me on.”

She agreed.

He had another request.  “Can I have you doggy style?”

“Yes.”

“And. . .”

“And what?”

“Never mind,” he said as she got on all fours on the bed and he stood next to it, ready to enter her from behind.

“What?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Can I put your laptop here?”

“Really?”

“I mean, I won’t if you. . .”

“No, go ahead.”

He placed the computer on her back, opened it up to Lola’s photos, and, listening to Jupi’s narration, entered her wet and waiting pussy.

Not Jupi, but a fan photo

 

Lo picked up her head and said, “Stroke it again as I rub my pussy.”  Lo leaned back across from Bill in the back seat and spread her legs wide.  Her right leg was lying on top of Bill’s knee.  She still had her cute little heels on.  Bill stroked his cock as he looked on, salivating, at Lo’s spread pussy.  With her left hand, Lo spread her pussy lips wide and with her right hand she was fingering her clit and her cunt.

Bill was treated to a feast for the eyes.  Lo came and came again to her own digital manipulation.  She so love’s to see men jerk off, but the only thing she loves more than that is to see them jerking off to her.  This Bill did with enthusiasm and then he started asking Lo, “I bet you want me to cum on your pussy, don’t you, you whore?”

“Oh yeah,” responded Lo in her low, deep, sexy, guttural voice.

“You want me to shoot my load all over that hot pussy, don’t you?” he asked.

“Oh yeah, do it,” she said in response as she continued to spread her legs and finger-fuck her pussy.

He got up from the seat and almost stood over her, frantically yanking at his cock.

“Come on, come on,” Lo encouraged, “cum on my pussy.  Come on.”  And then finally, in an explosion of cum that fell like rain all over Lo and her dress and her stomach and her pussy, he came and came and came and came some more.  Lo was shocked by how much he came on her.  She had never been drenched that much by a guy in her life. . . and she loved it.

 

As they listened to the story, they too came together. . . and loved it.

Lying next to each other, sprawled out on the mess of a bed, the computer screen still displaying Lo’s cum-covered body, H said, “You know, my wife has been listening to the stories as well.”

Lo Bathes in Beauty

“No,” Jupi said incredulously.

“Yes.  She found me out.  She discovered it wasn’t a ‘guided meditation.’  And so now, whenever she’s in the mood, she puts in her earbuds and listens with her computer open in front of her, while I go at her.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Jupi.

“I’m sorry.  Does that upset you?  I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“No, I can’t believe that little trollop.”

“Who?”

“You know who: Lola Down.  She’ll be getting off all of London before long.”

“No, dear, you’ll be getting them off with your voice.”

Thank you Lola.  Thank you Jupiter Grant.  Thank you H.  Thank you everyone who reads, listens, and gets off to these words dripping with love and lust, jizz and juices.  Thank you.

The End

The Body Politic

[An excerpt of the following appeared today in Ethical Non-Monogamy Magazine, November, 2020 issue.  Waring, political stuff ahead.]

It’s November of an election year.  And not just any election year, but perhaps the most vitriolic, divisive, and ugly election year ever.  Well, except for 2016.  As I’ve stated before, this sacred, sexy space of ours, this small column in the vast expanse of contemporary writing, steers clear of politics, except for the fact that nothing is a-political anymore.  Writing about sex, celebrating sexuality, and depicting a strong, independent, sexually explicit woman like Lola Down is itself a political act.

Lola as depicted by Roman Doodle

But in this very politicized climate, it is nearly impossible to provide a playground where the ubiquitous partisan battles don’t bleed over the boundaries we have created.  People on the right have appropriated the term “cuck” as a pejorative for the left.  Queer men on the left have appropriated “Proud Boys,” to the consternation of that far-right group.  Just beneath the surface of these slogans and slurs is a swirl of sexual energy, frustration, confusion, and subliminal eroticism misdirected and perverted into hatred and violence.

Misogyny, racism, sexism, gender identity politics, transphobia, homophobia, xenophobia, and politization of polyamory are all interrelated issues, impossible to easily separate into isolated questions.

We live in strange times; times I never thought I’d see.  The President of the United States is a man married (his third marriage, mind you) to a woman born in a different country who had a career as a model, occasionally posing nude and with other nude women in homoerotic images.  And yet, he’s not a radical leftist liberal, but embraced by the conservative Christian right!  He has had numerous affairs with porn stars and other women, yet that hasn’t prevented him from gaining the backing of the Bible Belt.  But his exoneration by the religious right has not been equally applied.  Those who work in the sex industry were not similarly embraced or given the same shame-free-pass as the President.

In 2016 the first female presidential candidate was eviscerated, mainly for wearing a pantsuit.  Yet, in 2020, between Hope Hicks, Kayleigh McEnany, Ivanka Trump, Omarosa Manigault Newman, Mercedes Schlapp, Lindsay Walters, Zina Bash, the First Lady, and others, it is sometimes difficult to tell the difference between the White House and the Playboy Mansion.  Perhaps that is Trump’s appeal to many; he fills the void left by the death of Hugh Hefner.

Hope Hicks (Sorry Hope It's A Gentleman's Club) | Valentino gowns, Beauty, Hair

Hope Hicks gender bending at the W.H.

And all of this tumult and turmoil, not coincidentally, floats to the surface in the wake of eight years of an African American man occupying the White House.

I mention our current and past political theater as a preamble to confronting a porn/erotica trope as ubiquitous and with as long a history as that of the “Lolita” nymphomaniac figure.  I speak of the so-called “Mandingo Myth.”  This deep-seated belief, whose pedigree can be traced as far back as Ancient Greece and Egypt, holds that African men wield sexual appendages that dwarf those of fair-skinned Europeans.  Throughout the ages, the image of the hugely hung black man has been perpetuated as well as perverted in order to promote a racist agenda: The longer the penis, the more bestial the sex-drive, the less human the man and thus the greater the threat to white society, especially its womenfolk.  (See A Mind of Its Own: A Cultural History of the Penis, by David M. Friedman, chapter III, “The Measuring Stick.”)

Lo’s idea of a perfect date

Over the centuries, the long black appendage has been compared to a Priapus (that is, the male fertility god), a donkey, stallion, buck, and even a pre-Adam serpent of the Garden of Eden responsible for Eve’s seduction and the Fall.  Throughout the ages, but most prominently in America from Reconstruction onward, this archetype of the African American man’s exceptional endowment has been the focus of white fear and fetish, engendering multiple myths, none of them ending well for the African American man.  This theme is almost comically depicted in the various King Kong films, but most explicitly in the 1976 version.  Plot: The Petrox Oil Company seeks to plunder a remote island of its oil.  They find no natural resources to make their venture profitable, but they do find and trap King Kong, a preternaturally large black ape.  They return to the U.S. with their unusual cargo.  However, Kong has fallen in love with Dwan (a scantily clad, blonde woman played by Jessica Lange).  Unable to allow such an unfathomable relationship, Kong is killed.  (In the original 1933 version, he climbs the giant phallus, the Empire State Building.  In the ’76 remake, he climbs the World Trade Center buildings, thus doubling the phalli.)  The allegory is quite transparent: white colonialists set out for raw materials, they return with slaves from Africa whose unusual size threatens their white women and must be killed.

King Kong Jessica Lange 8x10 HD Aluminum Wall Art at Amazon's Entertainment Collectibles Store

Jessica Lange in King Kong 1976

A year earlier, in 1975, the same myth was played out, only without the allegorical trappings, in the film Mandingo, based on the 1957 novel by the same name, from which the “Mandingo Myth” gets its label, though its predecessors in white Western mythology predate it by millennia.

Lo and an admirer in the park

How do you measure up?

Unfortunately, today we still find this trope used as both the focus of taboo fetishes (“Blacked” porn, which fetishizes both black men with large cocks and white, usually blonde and petit, women) and phobias for political ends.  For instance, in 2017, Enrique Tarrio, the leader of the Proud Boys, posted a tweet in which he asked if white women would be more willing to donate $20 to Trump’s campaign or walk past a group of black men while wearing a sundress.  (The Daily Mail, 10/1/2020, “Leader of the Proud Boys is the State Director of Latinos for Trump”)

Lola’s fan

In today’s tribal public sphere, there is little we can agree upon, but one thing that is unimpeachable is, as David Friedman says, the one place where race and sex (and we can add politics) converge is the black penis.

Lola’s COVID Gang-Bang Datenight

The long black dong is the symbol of white, male fragility.  It signifies the fear of masculine inadequacy and the homoerotic desire for sexual prowess.  Both symbol and signifier are pointers and the thick, strong, dark schlong is frequently depicted as pointing at the helpless, weak, innocent white blonde.  Copulation by contrast.  This ubiquitous trope penetrates deep in the psyche of our culture.

Just as black men are often reduced to their primal virility as exemplified by the penis, so too women are subtly and explicitly made into a medium for the message communicated by the patriarchal culture.  In recent memory, the collective unconscious probably recalls images from silent black-and-white films of a damsel-in-distress tied to the railroad tracks by the sinister mustachioed villain.  This image is emblematic of an archetype that transcends time and space: the bound female.  Ancient stories span the globe of women tied up – as sacrificial victims, concubines, slaves – from the abduction of Sita in the Ramayana to the afore mentioned Dwan of King Kong and, of course, Princess Leia in her famous Jabba the Hut scene in Return of the Jedi (1983) – project and perpetuate the idea of women as victims in need of a hero.

Lola’s Sexy Shoes

From nude or nearly nude women dancing in cages at clubs, raves, and music concerts, to Taylor Swift reenacting the railroad scene in “Mean,” this trope is conspicuously depicted and sexualized, but there are far more nuanced ways of sending the same message.  What is the message?  Women are weak, needy, helpless, and their power, like Prometheus (an example of gender inversion of the architype) is under wraps.  Notice, if you will, women’s fashion, from undergarments to gowns.  What is a recurring theme?  Straps, bows, knots, strings, and all manner of imagery suggesting restraint while simultaneously revealing skin.  Beyond that, almost every article of clothing is designed to depict weakness, vulnerability, and impotence.  Watch your local or national news, for instance.  How are the men dressed?  Buttoned up shirts, ties, long sleeve jackets revealing the least skin possible.  They are formidable, as if wearing body armor.  And the women?  Blouses cut at the shoulder, plunging necklines, form-fitting soft colored tops.  Imagine for a moment what you would think of a male news anchor reporting in a halter-top made of thin, silky material.

Lola Upskirt

Beyond the blouses, there are the skirts.  Dresses were, perhaps, originally designed to conceal the shape of the woman hidden beneath all the folds and flourishes.  But today, dresses and skirts are designed to inhibit freedom of movement, conceal as little as possible, and leave the woman wearing them vulnerable to the inadvertent upskirt.

Lola in a cute little bow

Working our way down, we next arrive at women’s footwear.  High heels keep a woman off balance.  Not only do they prevent any aggressive action, they inhibit flight.  Women’s dress shoes, for the most part, make them a helpless victim in the face of any danger.  Beyond that, they continue the ligature leitmotif.  Straps, bows, chords, all depict the female foot in a shibari shoe.

Tied Up

It’s important to recall that liberating oneself from the cultural baggage one inherits by virtue of merely being born into a particular time and place is not accomplished by merely adopting the opposite position.  In the dialectical structure, inhabiting the antithesis merely reaffirms the thesis.  It does nothing to diminish the power of the thesis.  Rather, twisting free of the rigid and possibly oppressive cultural constraints is a tricky and subtle art.  It requires first understanding the nature of one’s servitude and then becoming master of it.

Lola is by no means exempt from our culture’s conventions any more than you or I.  However, she does like to play with the tropes and taboos just the way that a good composer doesn’t merely adhere to the rules of the times, but will surprise and delight by contorting them in unexpected patterns.

Lola’s Cock

Of course, in our relationship there is the patent hotwife – cuck/stag – bull roles to be played.  But we emphasize the play of that is inherent in any roleplaying.  Lo has her soft spot for knots (of all variety) and strappy heels, dresses, bras, panties, and even corsets.  She also has her wet spot for BBC.  But it also delights her to wear her strap-on, to wield her cock, and to fuck like a man.  Call her a switch if you wish.  She also oogles and drools over the many fan photos she gets from black bulls endowed with length, girth, and heft she has rarely met in the flesh.  But she also loves her male trans fans who send photos of themselves in their wives’ panties or cumming in their pantyhose.  For, when it comes to sex, the one rule that holds is that nothing is essentially anything.  Existence precedes essence, as the Existentialists mantra goes, meaning, before we had determined male/female, man/woman, straight/queer, black/white, there were just people doing stuff.  Their names, definitions, categories, and expectations of norms all came later.

TV fan of Lola

 

 

 

These observations are meant neither to condemn nor condone the complex cultural code with regard to BBC or BDSM as it manifests in veiled, seemingly innocuous symbols such as popular movies and fashion.  Rather, this thought piece is more along the lines of semiotics (the study of signs and symbols in culture) than a cultural critique.  Signs and symbols perform a function; they point at something.  In this piece, the sign/symbol with which we began was the black penis, which is, innately and ironically, also a pointer.  Perhaps it is pointing at our radical possibility for the future.  I simply wanted to point that out.

Smaller Big Fan of Lola

Bleach Bum

Lola, Image by Julie Hill

Lo’s date with MILF Meri was Easter Sunday.  By Lo’s account, both of them had a great time and were eager to make the magic happen again.  But then, inexplicably, Meri ghosted Lo.  No response to email, nothing.

“I think she might be having randy remorse,” said Lo one morning while we were pondering the odd disappearance.

“What the hell is ‘randy remorse’?”

“You know – she was all randy to have a lesbian encounter.  She did it.  It was hot.  But she has a husband, three sons, a conventional, bougie, suburban, soccer-mom lifestyle to maintain.  She can’t fuck that all up for a little labial action.”

“Don’t you think that that’s a tad narrow-minded?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don’t mean her lack of follow-up.  I mean your explanation.”

“What?”

“In this day and age, women aren’t as boxed in as you make it sound.  I mean, a lot of couples are open to the wife playing around, especially with someone like you.”

“What does that mean, ‘someone like me’?”

“I just mean, younger, already in a relationship and therefore not clingy or a threat to the Stepford Wife, picture-perfect, wholesome family-Christmas-letter lifestyle.”

“So I’m just a Manic Pixie Dream Girl to her?”

“Precisely.”

“I think you’re making her situation out to be too simplistic.  You have no idea what the family dynamics are, what pressures she may feel, or her reasons for dropping me.”

“And neither do you.  So why should we keep speculating about it?”

We let it go and, other than Lo occasionally recounting her one sexcapade with MILF Meri while masturbating or copulating with me, she was all but forgotten.

Until one day during quarantine.

“Lo, I just wanted to check in on you and make sure you’re ok.”

That was it.  A one sentence, no explanation, wellness-check email from Meri.

Lo wrote back and tactfully, without accusation or spite, inquired why it had been so long since she had last heard from Meri.

Instead of responding immediately, it was over a week before Lo received a terse email in return.

“It’s complicated,” was the enigmatic reply.  “I’ll write more later.”

Again, another week elapsed before Lo got the following email:

 

Dear Lo,

 

I’m sorry I never followed up with you after we met last Easter.  Believe me, you were on my mind constantly.  However, I was feeling guilty about the circumstances of how we met.  I know you thought I was just responding to your ad, but it’s more complicated than that.  Can we meet in person to talk about it?

 

Meri

 

“Guilty about the circumstances of how we met?” said Lo to me, perplexed.

“Will you meet with her?”

“I have to.”

“What do you mean, you have to?”

“Don’t you want to know the answer to this mystery?”

“I suppose.”

The following weekend Lo dolled herself up.  It felt like a uniquely special occasion since, during the COVID crisis, Lo hadn’t had much reason to dress the part.  Indeed, as she chose and then dismissed various outfits, that’s exactly what it felt like – like she was an actress choosing the right outfit for a role.  This day she was going for the ‘innocent little college student’ role.  After many attempts at the right combination, she settled on a short skirt, no panties, a white knit sweater, no bra, and her cute little pumps.  I realized, maybe not quite for the first time, that Lo enjoys the theatrics of her dates as much as the action.

“Good luck, Love,” I said as she was breezing out the door.

“Luck?  I don’t need luck when I got this,” she said as she lifted the back of her skirt to reveal her bare ass.

“That’s true,” was all I could say as I etched the image on my brain.  “Remember,” I called to her as she walked away, “social distancing!”

Later that day, Lo strolled up the street back toward our apartment as I sat outside reading a book and drinking a G&T in the front yard.  I soaked in the way she perfected the picture before me as she sauntered on the sidewalk, the incarnation of summertime: bright, cheerful, without a care in the world, lackadaisical, unhurried, and delighting in being enjoyed by those she passed by.

She stopped before me.  “Hi,” she said with a big grin on her face.

“Hi,” I repeated back to her.

“Want to fuck?” she said, getting to the point.

“Am I breathing?”

We went right into the bedroom.  She bent over the bed, lifted up her skirt and I slid right into her wet and willing pussy.

It took a few thrusts before she was ready to recall for me her socially-distant-dalliance with MILF Meri, but I knew she’d come around after she had cum around two or three times.

I pulled out of her dripping hot hole and, still hard up, was lying on the bed, panting as I sweat, despite the AC blasting.

“You ok, ole man?”

“Don’t worry about me,” I said, “I’ve got lots more loving left in me.  But let’s take a little break and you can tell me why, exactly, you’re so needy.”

“But Daddy,” she said, batting her eyelashes at me, “I’m always needy.  I’m a nympho, remember?”

“Cut to the story, Lo.  I can see you aching to regale me with your reverie.”

“OK,” she said.  “Lie back and I’ll tell you.”

She was sitting naked on the bed next to me.  Her legs were crossed under her and she gently stroked my wet, rigid manhood as she spoke.

“Close your eyes,” she instructed.

I obeyed.

I felt her lips ease down my shaft.

“Lo, you can’t tell me what happened with a mouthful of my cock.”

“I know, Daddy,” she said after pulling up and releasing me.  “I just wanted a taste.”

“Of a woman?”

“Of me.  Now listen with your eyes closed.”

She then told me the following:

 

 

We met at the park by the river.  She was already there when I arrived.  It was crowded.  A lot of families, people picnicking, suntanning.  You know.  The usual for a gorgeous summer day during a global pandemic.

She was sitting on a little picnic blanket, clearly nervous, tense with anticipation about seeing me again.

When I got there, I unraveled my blanket too, took off my shoes, and sat a safe distance away from her, but within earshot.

I so wanted to kiss her on her full red lips and put my fingers through her full red hair.  But I was good, Daddy.

I sat crisscross, like I am now, but with my skirt just covering my modesty.  I didn’t wear a bra and so I’m sure she could make out my nipples through my sheer sweater.  I know she could because every guy I passed on the walk to her was glaring at my chest.  I enjoyed teasing her.  In fact, I enjoyed the whole distance thing more than I thought.  The torture of it all was exciting, I think, for both of us.

Anyhow, she had packed a little picnic basket, complete with a couple of bottles of chilled champagne and plastic glasses.  She poured me one and, after a few pleasantries, she told me her story.

‘Lo, do you remember our first few email exchanges?’ she asked.

‘Yeah,’ I said, thinking nothing special had been in them.

‘Well, I wrote to you and you assumed that I was responding to your ad.’

‘Weren’t you?’

‘That’s just the thing,’ she said, pausing and thinking how to tell me the next part.  ‘I didn’t even know you had an ad.’

‘How did you get my email?  How did you hear about me?’

‘I feel terrible about this.  I’m really sorry I led you on, or at least didn’t tell the truth right away.  I really didn’t mean to lead you on at all.’

I was very confused and I’m sure she could see it on my face.

‘You see, it started with my husband.’

‘He saw the ad?’

‘No, he found your blog somehow.  One night he left his computer on and fell asleep on the couch.’

‘Nothing good ever follows those words.’

‘I knew he had just jacked it.’

‘How did you know that?’

‘We’ve been married twenty-three years, Lo.  I know when he’s jacked off.’

‘OK.’

‘So I was curious.  I just wanted to see what was getting him off now.  And, instead of the usual porn vids that he watches to relieve stress, I found your blog!’

‘Really?’

‘Yes!  And I was fascinated by what I was reading.  I think it was Bleach Bum or something like that.’

‘Oh, I know what you mean,’ I said, a little embarrassed because that’s the story where you talk about anal bleaching and you put up a very prominent photo of my perineum.

Lola’s Blue Gem

 

“I believe it was more a photo of your asshole.”

“Must you be so vulgar?”

“I believe it was a photo of your anus.”

“That’s not any better!”

“It was a photo of your posterior analytics.”

“That sounds better.  But a little sterile.”

“It was a photo of your sweet, sweet. . .”

“Don’t you dare say sphincter!”

“How about your bottom’s belly-button?”

“Too confusing.”

“Can we please get back to your story?”

She continued:

 

She went on, ‘I wanted to read more, but I didn’t want Scott, that’s my husband, to know I was looking at his search history, so I logged out and signed into my account on the family’s desktop.  I read and read and looked at the photos of you and, well, I felt sexually aroused like I hadn’t in a long time!’

‘I have that effect on people.’

‘Mmmm,’ she moaned, looking at me, a little fear in her eyes, ‘to be honest, it was a combination of you, your photos, and the writing.’

 

“HA!” I shouted.

“Oh, calm down.”

“The writing!”

“Do you want to hear my story so you can write about it or what?”

“Well, now that she knows about the blog, it’s sort of breaking the fourth wall, isn’t it?”

“I’ll leave the literary devices to you.”

 

 

Meri continued, ‘I couldn’t get enough and then I saw that you had your email right there on the blog.  So I wrote to you.’

‘And I jumped to the conclusion that you must have read the ad.’

‘Yeah.  I was a little confused at first.  And then, to find out that we live in the same city, or at least pretty close to it!’

‘So that’s why you didn’t follow up with me for over a year?  Because of that little misunderstanding?’

‘No, no,’ she said.  ‘By the way, I read the story that H.H. wrote about our Easter encounter.’

‘Right, I guess you did.  Sorry that he was such a spy.’

‘That’s ok,’ she said, laughing a little, ‘It shows how much he loves you.’

‘Or what a perv he is!’

She waived her hand like it didn’t matter. ‘He wrote that you liked it.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you?  Did you really?’

‘Of course I did.  Did you disappear because you thought I didn’t?’

‘No, that wasn’t it.  I was eager to do it again – and more!’

‘So what happened?’

At this point, it was getting warm and both of us had had about two glasses of Champagne.  I stretched out my legs and so did she.  Our feet were touching at the end of our blankets.  It was cute and quite erotic – just touching toes like that.

‘Um, well, uh,’ she stumbled, ‘it gets a little more complex.  A little more confusing.’

‘What does?’

‘For a while both Scott and I were reading and getting off to your blog, but separately.  He had no idea that I was reading it.’

‘OK.  Don’t tell me he wants to fuck me too?’

‘Well, he probably does.  That’s not the problem.’

I was so confused.

‘Lo, do you remember getting some fan mail a while ago?’

‘I get a lot of fan mail.’

‘Well, this was special.  It had an illustration.  It was from a mom.  It was about a shared computer and. . .’

‘THAT was YOU?!’ I shot at Meri when the pieces fit together.

Meri’s face had turned almost as red as her hair.  ‘Do you want to leave?  Do you hate me?  I’m so ashamed.’

At that moment, though she was much older, she seemed so scared, so vulnerable.  I just rubbed her feet more with my feet and consoled her.

‘Was it just that one time?’ I asked after a long pause.

‘I wish I could say it was.’

‘You mean you. . . ?’

‘He likes me to help him.  Other than you, it’s our secret.’

 

 

“Wait.  Wait,” I said in disbelief.  “You’re saying that Meri is the mom who wrote to us about finding the blog on her husband’s computer and fapping to it and then, later, when she was found out by her son, used it as ‘a teachable moment’?”

“One-and-the-same.”

“Oooooohhhhhh,” I said.  “That explains a lot.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Why’d she send that email and not say that it was from her?”

“I think she was embarrassed, but she was trying to tell me why she was M.I.A.”

“A little coded message?”

“Yeah.  Not the clearest communication.”

“Did she actually expect you to figure it out?”

“I don’t think so.  It wasn’t even from the same email address as she had used before.  I think she wanted to gauge my reaction to it.  When you wrote about it without being judgmental, I think it gave her a little more courage.”

“Well what happened next?”

“We talked a little more, just catching up on the past year.  I then lifted up my knees so that she could have a good, direct look at my smooth, gleaming pussy.  Very discretely she extended her leg between my legs and tickled my pussy lips with her toe.”

“That doesn’t sound like you were six feet apart.”

“She has long legs.  Anyhow, she was very turned on by it.  She wanted to touch herself, but couldn’t out there in public.  So we ended sort of abruptly.  We wanted to see more of each other, but she also wanted to cum.  I bet she touched herself in the car on the way home.”

“Lo, this is some fucked-up shit.  Back when you were fooling around with Hunter, a married man, you were playing with fire.  Now you’re playing with gasoline, tanks of oxygen, and matches.”

“I know, I know,” she said, actually distraught.  “But she’s so fucking hot!”

“Heat is the last ingredient you need with gasoline, tanks of oxygen, and matches.”

“OK!  I get it.”

“And what happens when they all read this entry of the blog together?  KABOOM!”

“You just won’t write about it.”

“To hell I won’t!”

“Well, you won’t publish it until I get myself out of this mess.”

“Agreed.  But you will get yourself out of it, won’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, reluctantly.

“Cause if you don’t, this will get you in the ass and it will hurt more than that ‘Bleach Bum.’”

We both laughed at Meri’s misremembering the title of that blog post.

“Kiss it, Daddy,” she said, bending over.  “Make me feel better.”

“You’re lucky I’m so madly in love with you Lo.  You know that?”

“You like my bleach bum?”

“Like it?  Love it!  Want it,” I said as I pulled her close to me.

Lola, Illustration by Jeremy Young

The Female Gaze

Lo at the Beach

It was a hot July day.  The entire week was heavy with humidity.  Lo, working from home, without any AC, had to, just had to, work in either only her panties and a bra or nothing at all.  It made for very interesting Zoom calls.

Finally the weekend was here and we were going to get out of the sticky stale air of the city and cool off at the beach.

As usual, we got a late start due to Lo cycling through all of her various bikini tops and bottoms to find just the perfect match.

I loaded up the cooler, full of ice, beer, and snacks into the car.

I packed away the folding chairs.

I took nearly as much time picking just the right reading material as Lo took choosing her outfit.

But we were on the road by ten.

The beach is about an hour’s drive from our apartment, but when we got there, the parking lot was already overflowing.  No more cars allowed.  The line was a half mile long to get in.

We pulled up on the side of the road and just looked at the scene before us.  Refreshing blue water on the horizon only a few hundred yards away.  A yellow strip of soft sand filled with weekenders like ourselves.  A narrow boardwalk.  Then the steamy blacktop creating a wavelike transparent curtain between us, waiting and baking in the near noonday sun, and the inviting scene.

As we waited there, perspiring, at a loss for what to do, two young women in bikinis and thongs showing a lot of cheek walked past us.

“Don’t look!” commanded Lo.

How was I to avoid the sight.  They were directly in front of where we were parked (illegally) and not going anywhere.

“Just don’t look,” she said.

The two women were at a watering stand where they washed the sand from their feet and sandals.  They splashed about cheerfully.  As I did my best to avoid looking at them, Lo reached down under her bikini bottom and began flicking the bean.

“Lo, what are you doing?”

Book Review

“You can’t look, but I can.”

“Look all you want, but. . .”

“What?  I’m not allowed to touch?  You can look at me if you must look somewhere.”

That I did.  I watched her watching the near naked nymphettes through the frame of the windshield.

Though Lo is significantly younger than I, she’s old enough to regard those two girls splashing around as mere “nymphettes,” as Vladimir would say.  Yet she’s also still young enough herself to make the thirty-something year old moms jealous.

I was sweating, even with all the windows down.  Lo, too, was perspiring.  I could see the beads of perspiration collecting between her breasts.  They grew into large dew drops and then collected together into a stream that ran down, under her bikini top, over her tum, and to the pool between her legs where her right hand was rapidly racing to the finish line.

“Hurry up, Lo, it’s hot,” I said.

“Shhhhhh,” she angrily responded.

I furtively looked up to see what the girls were doing.  They were still splashing in the water.  Minutes seemed like hours.

Lo’s hair was matting down with perspiration.  Her brow was dripping.  Her fingers still rapid-fire stroking.

I could see, as I looked at Lo in the passenger seat, two young men walking our way on the dirt path beside the road.

“Lo,” I said.

“I’m almost there.”

“Lo,” I repeated a little more urgently.

“I know, you’re hot, but just give me. . .”  She was fixated on the vignette of vaginas dancing in the cool water.

Lo playing

“Lo!”

Too late, the boys were at her window.

“Um, excuse me, but you can’t park here,” one of them said.  They were lifeguards and had the unfortunate job of patrolling the area.

As he gently spoke, Lo was startled and screamed, “WHAT?!”  Her hand was still down her bikini bottom, grasping her hooch rather than stroking it now.

“I’m sorry,” said the young man, almost putting his head in the window, “but we can’t let you park here.”

Lo looked up at him.  He was young, handsome, and fit.  His partner’s crotch in the Speedo bathing suit was right at the same level as Lo’s face and she had a full-frontal view of his bulge.

Her fantasy, or whatever was happening in her head, had to make an abrupt change of course from the two girls to the two boys.  If there were a soundtrack to our scenario, then you would hear the scratch of the needle as the music did a 180 from “Girl Crush” to Janet Jackson’s “All for You.”

Lo was simultaneously embarrassed and excited.  It was one of the few times she didn’t have any words for the occasion.  She just looked up, slack-jawed, panting in the heat.

Seeing the predicament unfold before me like a car wreck in slow motion, I took the initiative and leaned over and said, “She’s just getting off.”

“What?” asked the young man.

“I said, I’m just letting her off.  She’s hopping out now as I go park the car in town.  Right Lo?”

She looked at me.  She didn’t want to stop diddling, but she had no choice.  She pulled her hand out of her bikini bottom and smiled at the boys.  “Right,” she said.

“Don’t forget your phone, your towel, and your sunscreen,” I said as she got out of the car.

“Oh, that’s ok,” said one of the two fellas by the car, giving permission for something that was going to happen anyway.

Lo slowly got out of the car.  She opened up the rear passenger door to get the stuff and bent over to get it.  The bottom half of her body was outside the car, the top inside.  She looked at me and whispered, “I’m squirting!”

“Lucky boys,” I said.

She stood, frozen for a moment in the heat.  I could see her chest getting flush, as were her cheeks.  Probably her ass cheeks too.

She grabbed a few items and said, “Don’t be long.”

“Long and hard, Lo, I’ll be long and hard.  I’ll see you later Ms. Soggy Bottom”

She got out of the car and walked across the street.  I watched her, as did the boys.  I could see her bikini bottoms were soaked.  She got to the fountain where the girls had been and refreshed herself in it.  The girls had since walked away.

Forty-five minutes later, drenched in sweat, exhausted, I returned by foot to the beach after driving over a mile away to find a legal parking spot.

I found Lo on the beach, lying out.  “Hey Daddio,” she said to me, happy to see me, but with another request at the ready, “It’s pretty warm out here and I’m getting hungry.  Do you think we could get some lunch?”

I couldn’t believe it.  I thought I was going to pass out right there.

“Do you mind if I take a quick dip to cool off?” I asked, not about to wait for her reply.

I removed my shirt as she said, “If you must.”  She was only partly joking.

The water revived me, but it felt so good that I could have stayed in all day.

“I’ll wait here.  Call me when you get close,” she said as I began my walk to pick up the car.  “Don’t be long!”

“Long and soft, long and soft,” I thought, as I grumbled walking away.

Thirty minutes later, I picked her up and we went to our favorite restaurant on the water.  It has a roof deck bar.

Once we were seated and had ordered drinks, I asked Lo how her time on the beach (without me) was.

“It was ok.  A lot of voyeurs.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“It’s different with me.”

“How exactly?”

“The female gaze.”

“The female gaze is no different from the male gaze, especially if the female who is gazing at other females is simultaneously fapping off in public to the sight.  If I were to do that, I would have been arrested!”

“No, you’d be dead first because I would have killed you.”

“Yet you get away with it.”

“Exactly.  Now you’re catching on.  The female gaze, it’s just different from the male gaze.”

“Only because society treats it differently.”

“Well, there must be a reason for that.”

“There is.  It’s called patriarchy.  The laws are made, enforced, and interpreted by men.  And men are perverts who find the thought of a woman flicking her bean fascinating and the thought of a man stroking his cock criminal.”

“There you have it.”

“So you’re buying into the patriarchy?”

“No.  Never.  I’m contributing to its eventual demise by exposing its internal contradictions.”

“You’re exposing something,” I said just as our waiter brought out our cool, tall drinks.

“Anyhow,” said Lo after a long sip, “the voyeurs were laser focused on me.”

“I bet you had to beat them off with a stick!”

“I like that idea,” she said, daydreaming, “but no.  They all maintained a proper social distance.”

“Did you see the two guys who interrupted you?”

“No, I didn’t.  Maybe they saw me, but I didn’t notice them.”

“You liked that, didn’t you?”

“What, Daddy?” she asked with a faux innocence.

“Getting caught.”

“No, I was right on the edge!”

“I know.  And getting caught put you over the edge.”

“Well, I have the opposite problem from a lot of men.”

“How so?”

“I hear that men who masturbate too much. . .”

“What’s too much?” I interrupted her.  “This should be good coming from you.”

“Well, very frequently, let’s say.  Those men find it increasingly more difficult to climax.  But with me, the more I do it, the easier I cum.  It’s becoming a problem.”

“How so?”

“Remember the time in the gym?”

I did.  She had had an accidental squirting orgasm while working out.  “Has that happened again?”

“Not exactly, but it doesn’t take much.  It’s like I’m becoming incontinent.  Just walking down the street could result in a downpour.  A hairpin trigger.  And I’m not sure how to prevent it.  What do you think?”

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“No, Depends, the adult diaper.  That’s what I think.”

“Oh, Daddy.  Don’t be silly.”

“I’m the silly one?  Maybe you should stop your self-pleasure.”

“Don’t be absurd!”

“Then I have no solution for you.  Carry a bottle of water everywhere you go just in case.  You can always say you spilled.”

Our lunch was brought out and I continued the conversation, “Do you think you could make yourself accidentally squirt right now?”

“What about ‘accidental’ don’t you understand?  It’s involuntary.  If I try to do it, it’s not an accident.  But, just so you know, if I wanted to, I certainly could cum and squirt right now.  And I’m not talking some Meg Ryan fake orgasm.  I’m talking gushing waterfalls from between my legs onto the wood floor beneath my chair.”

“Do it,” I dared her.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because, I don’t want to.  I have agency, you know.”

“I thought that accidental squirting orgasms removed your agency.”

“Only in that one respect.”

“Well, I give you all due respect.”

“As you should.”

We ate our lunch and then, having properly patronized the restaurant and taking the receipt as proof, I chose to leave the car in the parking lot as Lo and I returned to the adjacent beach.  I carried all the chairs, towels, and drinks.  She walked like a goddess before me.

As we were walking to a secluded section of the strand, we happened across one of the lifeguards walking in front of us.  He was, like most lifeguards, in very good shape.  His bathing suit was nonchalantly drooping down, revealing a bit of his untanned rear.

“Mmmmmm,” Lo purred, audibly enough for me to hear her.

“Go after him, if that’s what you want,” I said.

“Oh Daddy,” she cried, putting her arm around me and squeezing my ass, “you’re the only one who gets my engine revving.”

“Really?  I couldn’t get you to turn over this morning.”

“Well, my engine doesn’t start before eight.”

“Half the day is gone by then.”

We continued walking toward the cool shore and we passed four young women, two of whom were, as Lo loves to say, ‘stick-skinny-blondes.’  She has always and continues to believe, mistakenly, that I would run with abandon after an upside-down straw broom in a bikini, thinking it was a ‘stick-skinny-blonde’ woman.

“You must be enjoying the three B’s,” she said to me.

“Three B’s?”

“Blondes, Boobs, and Butts.”

“I appreciate the scenery,” I said, purposefully looking out at the horizon and not at the women.  “I give thanks for beauty in all its manifold forms.”

“If you want them, have them.  Be my guest.  Go for it.”

“You propose to me one day and dispose of me the next.”

“Propose to you?!”

“Yes, you’re constantly asking me to marry you.”

“No.  I’m asking why you won’t marry me.”

“I’ve told you so many times already, if we never marry, there’s a zero percent chance of our getting divorced.”

“The only isle you’ll walk down with me is the chips and snacks isle of the supermarket.”

“Oh, don’t say that.  You know damn well that if I got down on one knee right here and proposed to you, you’d say no.”

“That’s true, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to try.”

I dropped everything I was carrying and got down on one knee in the sand and took her hand in mine.  “Will you marry me?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because, you’re not even looking in my eyes, you’re looking at my crotch.”

“That’s the part that I wish to enter into. . . holy matrimony.”

“Well, the clam shack is closed.”

I stood up again and we spread our towels and set up our chairs right on the spot that I proposed to her.  How romantic!  Finally, I was able to relax just a little bit.

She was still sore about the gaggle of girls we had passed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“I just feel so fat compared to them,” she said, grabbing her tummy roll and squeezing it.  “I feel like a Jell-O Jiggler.”

Lo Roll

“Lo, please.”

I reached over and grabbed her tum.

“What are you doing?”

“Touching my favorite part of you.”

“My least favorite part.”

“Agree to agree with me.”

We at least let the matter drop.

Once we were comfortable, Lo took out her phone, I took out my book.  She was lying on her tum, her feet dangling in the air, as she scrolled through whatever it was that had her attention.  A few moments later she turned to me and said, “Do you mind if Kaylee and her new boyfriend join us?”

“What?”

“Kaylee, remember Kaylee?”

Oh yes, I remembered Kaylee alright.  Lo had had a fling with her and her previous boyfriend.  I just didn’t understand how or why they would be joining us.

“She’s here!  On this beach,” Lo added.

“How do you know?”

“She just posted a pic of herself here and I reached out to her.”

“Oh, so you had already invited them to join us before asking me?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said in her conciliatory little girl voice.  “I thought you’d enjoy seeing her in what she’s wearing.”

“And what is she wearing?” I asked.

“Not much,” she said, showing me the image on her phone.

Kaylee was only in a very skimpy blue bikini.

“Well, I guess they can swing by,” I conceded reluctantly.  “But they need to be six feet away.  COVID Times, you know.”

“I know.”

As we waited for them to arrive, I taunted Lo with, “So, will Kaylee also come under your ‘female gaze’?”

“I don’t know if she’ll cum, but I might,” she retorted.

“Funny.”

“You know,” she said, schooling me, “the ‘female gaze’ isn’t simply when a woman oogles a man or a woman as an object the way men oogle women as objects.”

“Oh no?  What is it professor?”

“It’s a term of art to describe the point of view of a woman that gets at the interior life, thoughts, feelings, emotions of the woman.”

“That’s what the male gaze is too,” I said.  “However, it just so happens that men are simply one-dimensional, shallow, and single-mindedly focused on sex.”

“Does that include you?”

“Oh no.”

“No?”

“No, I am multi-dimensionally, deeply, and many-mindedly focused on sex.”

“That is true.  But how can you be ‘many-mindedly’?”

“It’s an expression, like, when one says, ‘I’m of two minds about such-and-such.’  I am of many-minds about sex.  All of them for it.”

“If only you had as many cocks for sex as you have minds for sex, I might be satisfied with only you.”

“I would look like some sort of Hindu god with that many cocks!”

“And I could be your consort.”

Kaylee and her new boyfriend, Keith, arrived.  You might remember both Kaylee and Keith from “The Love Elite,” the culminating story of the “Lust in the Dunes” series.  Well, since then, Kaylee broke up with Corey and started up with Keith.  Lo had been with all three of them, as you no doubt recall.

The two of them set up a pandemically prudent distance away from us, but not too far that we couldn’t talk.  They brought with them a cooler of beers that they willingly shared with us.

We caught up with each other, for it had been a long time since we had last seen them in person.

After about an hour of chit-chat, Lo and Kaylee were lying out.  Lo was reading a book and Kaylee said she didn’t have anything to read.  Lo reached into her bag and, to my great surprise, she pulled out the prototype of Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume II: MORE! that she had been reading and lent it to her.

“What’s this?” asked Kaylee.

“I know you liked 50 Shades,” said Lo.  “This is way better.  Let me know what you think of it when you’re done.”

A couple of hours passed as the sun descended in the sky, decreasing in intensity, mellowing to a warm, gentle ruddy hue.  We had swam and laughed, but now Lo said she had to pee.  Due to COVID, she was hesitant to use a public restroom.  And besides, the facilities were way down on the other end of the beach.

There was always the restaurant we had lunched in, but that wasn’t too close and the urge had snuck up on her.

“Go in the ocean,” coaxed Kaylee.

Lo shook her head ‘no.’

I knew what was in her mind.  She always likes to be sensational and provoke a reaction.  She’s secretly competitive and likes the partners of her friends to know that she is the most slutty, dirty, and depraved so that they secretly (or not-so-secretly) fantasize about her while with her friends.

“Does anyone mind if I, uh, you know, here?”

“Pee?” asked Kaylee with a laugh.

“Yeah.”

“In the sand?”

“Yeah.”

“You want us to go away?”

“Nah.  You can watch if you want.”

“Do it!” she said.

Lo sat on the edge of her folding chair, spread her legs wide, pulled her skimpy bikini bottoms slightly askew, exposing her silky-smooth pussy, and she let the stream pour into the fine golden sand.

A few seconds into her stream, I could detect that something was amiss.  I saw her fingers clench the edge of the chair, her legs begin to tremble, her breasts begin to heave.  And then, there it was, a seamless transition from micturition to hysterical paroxysm, complete with an uncontrollable emanation of fluid.  Unlike the first flow, this one was powerful and had an ascending trajectory.

Lo’s short shorts

Lo just bore down and said, “Fuck!” as she experienced the waves of unanticipated pleasure ripple through her flesh.

She was literally gushing with contradictory feelings: embarrassment, excitement, shame, pride, disgrace, abandon, power.  The complete loss of control of her bodily functions made her feel infantile, yet her almost superhuman ability to achieve an orgasm that spouts with greater force, volume, distance, and longevity than any man’s ejaculation filled her with a sense of superiority to both men and women.  All of her emotions occurred simultaneously and were expressed through her facial contortions, as though she were being deliciously tortured.

“Holy shit!” cried out Keith, for he had never seen anything like that in person before.

He got up and measured the distance from Lo to the end of the wet trail she left in the sand and calculated it to be about six feet.

“What just happened?” he asked.

“I’ve been having spontaneous squirting orgasms lately.  I don’t know why or what’s going on,” said Lo, blushing as red as the setting sun.  “I probably should see a doctor.”  Her pussy was still dripping like a leaky faucet.

“Or stop masturbating so much,” I added, almost under my breath, but not quite.

“Feel better?” asked Kaylee.

“No, that’s the thing.  It just makes me more horny for an intentional orgasm.”

There was an uncomfortable silence while we all contemplated what might happen next.  Then suddenly there was a strong, cool wind from the south that blew everything all over the place and kicked sand up in our faces.  We scrambled to collect our stuff and then we said a hasty goodbye as it looked like rain.

Back in the car, I looked at Lo.

“What?” she asked.

“You know what.”

“It was out of my control.”

“Not that.”

“Then what?”

“You gave her the book.”

“So?”

“So?!  I’ve written about her.  She’s in it!”

“Not in that volume.”

“Don’t you think that she can find the blog and quickly see that it’s you. . . and me?”

“So what?  I’m done with having to apologize for who I am.”

“If you’re fine with it, then so am I,” I said.

We were on the road for a bit.  The rain was thrashing against the windshield.  We sat, exhausted from a full day in the hot sun.  Silently we listened to the rhythm of the wipers and the crackle of the raindrops.  It was relaxing.

“What are you thinking about, Little Miss Puddle Pants?” I asked.

“Stop it.”

“Well?”

“I was thinking about the female gaze again.”

“Oh, reminiscing about the girls you jilled to?”

“No,” she said defensively.  “I was thinking how I like to be the object of the male gaze.”

“No kidding.”

“But that the way you write me, the way I am in the books, is much more of the female gaze.”

“How so?” I asked, glad to be talking of my writing.

“Well, yes, you portray me as a sex-starved, dirty, nasty, little nympho slut.”

“I. . .” I tried to protest.

“Don’t interrupt.  But, you also get me from the inside.  You see into me and portray how I see things.”

“A lot of people see into you,” I said, making a bad pun.  It took her a moment to get it.

“Not like that!  I’m serious.  You don’t write about me as one-dimensional.  You might depict one side of me more than the others.”

“And which side would that be?” I again quipped.

“But you portray me as who I am, who I really am.  And if Kaylee doesn’t appreciate that, then too bad for her.”

“And what happens when I, inevitably, write about today and she sees it on the blog?”

“Well, you wouldn’t write anything untrue about her, would you?”

“No.”

“So, she has nothing to get upset about.”

“Fair.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Will you fuck me when we get home?” she asked as she began to doze off in the car.

“You’ll be asleep when we get home, dear.”

“Fuck me anyway.  You must be in so much pain after all that today,” she said as she reached down between my legs.  “I’d blow you now, but I think I need a nap.”

[If you liked this beach story, you’ll love the stories in our books: Sexy Shorts, Shorter Shorts, and our forthcoming Slut Life]

Medicinal Masturbation

“Are you going to sleep, Daddio?” she asked, rubbing my flaccid member under the sheets.

“Guurerumph,” I inarticulately mumble.

“But what about me?”

“Sleep.”

She continued gently stroking my rod up and down with just her fingertips, ever-so-lightly.  I could feel my cock growing.  Her curious fingers moved lower, tickling my testicles.

“You’re so big.  So full.  Are you sure you want to sleep?”

No response.

After dallying on my scrotum for a while, she explored further down below, gently circling and prodding.

“Oh come on Daddy, I’m feeling randy!  What do I have to say?  What do I have to do?” she whined.

“Fine,” I said, groggy.  “Roll over and spread your legs.”

“But I’m on my period.  It’s heavy.  It will make a mess.”

“Grrrrrrr,” I grumbled.  “Now you’ve got me hard.”

“I didn’t do that.”

“You certainly had a hand in it.”

“Jack it for me.”

“Lo, I’m too tired to jack it.”

“I like seeing you jack it.”

“You like seeing anyone jack it, or jill it, or whatever it.”

“True, but I’m tired of being a boner donor and of just seeing cumtributes.  I want the full 4-D experience.”

“Four dicks?”

She laughed, “No, silly.  Though that would be nice.  Three dimensional, plus the added fourth dimension of the smell, taste, and feel of cum on me when you’re done.”

“Is that what they mean by 4-D?”

“That’s what I mean by it.”

By this point I was up and awake.

“Do you want me, Daddy?” she asked, despite having just told me I can’t have her.

“No,” I said out of frustration.

“Your Truth Stick says otherwise.”

“You can’t handle the truth,” I said.

“The truth is hard.”

“The truth is hard to swallow.”

She leaned over and looked up at me as her mouth descended on my ‘Truth Stick.’

“Fine,” I said.  “I’ll jack it.”

“You will?!”

“But only if you let me use Stoya.”

Now it was her turn to grumble.

“Why can’t you just jack it with your right hand like a real man?”

“Because I am a real man with real calluses on my hands.  Stoya feels better. . . and she makes you jealous.”

“Fine, I’ll take whatever I can get.  My fucking cramps are killing me.  You get Stoya all lubed up and I’ll be right back.”

She went into the bathroom and grabbed a heating compress.  She put it just above her Delta of Venus.

“OK, I’m ready to watch you now,” she said, her legs spread and her little tampon string dangling from between her pussy lips.

I stood over her, looking at her pussy, fucking Stoya’s.

Strings Attached

“That’s it, Daddio,” she said, encouraging me, her red tongue gliding over her white teeth.  She reached over the side of the bed and pulled out her glass dildo, ‘Glindo,’ as we call it, and her Hitachi Magic Wand.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Medicinal masturbation.  It will make me feel better.”

She applied the Hitachi to her clit as she inserted the dildo up, next to her tampon.

“Keep going,” she insisted.

Her various objects of sexual self-pleasure were blocking my view.  In order to enhance my excitement, she said, “You know what Kaylee told me the other day?”

I kept thrusting into Stoya, but I was listening.

“She said, ‘This guy I hooked up with told me that sometimes when he fucks girls, he pictures other girls in his mind.  But, when he is fucking me, he just pictures me.’  And you know what I told her?”

She didn’t really expect me to answer.

“I told her that when guys fuck other girls, they picture me.  In fact, they look at my naked photos to get hard for their wives and girlfriends.”

“What did she say to that?” I asked her.

“She called me a dirty slut.”

“Really?”

“She said I’m an attention whore and a nympho.”

“She knows you well.”

She dropped the Hitachi by her side.  “Fuck me, Daddy,” she said.

“What?”

“Fuck me.”

“You just told me not to because you’re on your period.”

“Shut up and get in me!”

I wasn’t in a position to argue with her.  I slid out of Stoya and into Lola, accompanied by her tampon and the dildo.

“Do you like to share me?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like it if there were two other cocks in me, instead of just this tampon and dildo?”

“Yes,” was all I could say.

“Me too,” she said and I could feel her begin to convulse under me.

It was so snug, yet so wet.  I was crushed, but I enjoyed the feeling of finally filling her up.

She could sense my body tensing in anticipation of cumming.  “Cum in me, Daddy,” she said.  “Fill me more.  Cum deep in me.  I’m your whore.”

I fulfilled her wish and then slid out.  I was still cumming.  She dropped her dildo and sat up and sucked everything she could out of me.  When she had extracted every last drop, she licked her lips and said, “You know what Joseph Campbell says?”

“That’s an odd thing to ask at this moment.  But I’ll bite.  What does Joseph Campbell say?”

“The demon you swallow gives you its power.”

“Do you feel powerful?”

“MmmmHmmmm,” she hummed.

She got up out of the bed and headed to the bathroom.

“Where are you going”

“I have to take out the fucking tampon you lodged in my throat!”

When she returned, I asked, “Did you get it?”

“Yes,” she said, “but I just remembered.”

“What’s that?”

“I have my OBGYN appointment first thing tomorrow morning.”

I pulled the covers over me and was quietly drifting off to sleep.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“You know what Benjamin Franklin says?”

“I’ll bite.  What does Benjamin Franklin say?”

“Early to bed, early to rise.”

“Well you better rise in the morning,” she said squeezing my cock with her hand, “cause I’m going to want more of this then.  It’s the only thing that relieves my cramps.”

“Don’t worry, the doctor will be in tomorrow.”

Illustrator Needed for Disney Damsel Lola Down

Belle’s Bestiality, Getting off to Lola Down together

 

“Daddy,” she complained, “diddling my bean is fine, but it’s not as much fun as when it’s diddled by someone else.”

“You want me to diddle your bean?” I asked.

“What I mean is, a surprise.  A stranger.  An unexpected diddle.”

“Oh, I see,” I said, “the serendipitous fappening that one finds unbidden upon the side of the road, in a bar, or wherever one may get one’s jollys jilled on a sunny spring day.”

“Without putting it quite so poetically, yes.  After all, it is May.  Masturbation Month.  Hooray!  Hooray!  The First of May!  Outdoor fucking starts today!” she sang.

“Sounds like you’re the poet.”

“Oh Daddio,” she pouted, as she continued stroking her smoothly shaved pussy on the bedside.  “That’s older than you are.”

“A relic from Chaucer’s time then.”

“Maybe as old as Beowulf.”

Her climax was building until she shot a small stream sprinkling up through the air onto the tile floor, much like a shot from a water pistol.

“And what, may I ask, put you over the edge that time?”

“The thought of meeting Grendel in the woods.”

“Grendel diddles Little Lo’s pink riding hood.  How literary.”

“Grendel, the Big Bad Wolf, I’d even take Gaston.”

“I bet you would!  Or all three, if you were in a crossover series.”

“I like that idea.  A Disney fairytale staring Lola Down.”

“Would you be the villain or the princess?”

“Both.”

“Both?  Disney stories are not that complex.”

            “It would be the story of how Princess Lola Down is usurped from power by the effigies that are made of her in the city because they all depict her naked, like Lady Godiva, but they come to life, like Galatea, and strip Lola of her throne and her clothes.  She wanders about the streets, a naked waif or harlot, until one day, through her own power of understanding, she relinquishes her claim to all the reproductions of herself, thereby releasing them from her true essence and allowing them to live on as mere likenesses.  By giving up her hold on them (or the hold that she wrongfully believed she had on them), she deprives them of the power they had over her and thus they yield back the throne to her once more.”   

Lady G.

 

Pygmalion and Galatea

“So, you’re victim, villain, and hero?”

“That I am.  And you know what else I am?”

“What?”

“Horny.”

“Well, have fun.”

“What?!  You’re not going to fuck me?  Give me your sword!”

“I’m going to go write that down.  You know what they say, the power of the pen is mightier than the sword.”

“Perhaps, but far more diminutive,” she said as she pulled out her huge dildo and held it up in the air as if commanding a great army to victory.

As I sat at the desk writing this story, she impaled herself several times with the wobbly weapon until, finally striking to the quick, she died a glorious death at her own hands.  La petite mort.

 

The Art Cums Alive