It was one of those weeks when I was feeling low rather than feeling Lo. A depression had settled in and, too depressed to do anything, I felt like trying to shake it was as futile as anything else I had tried to do in my life. Dark thoughts.
Lo had been trying to seduce me all week. “Fuck it out,” she’d say, “you’ll feel better after.”
“Lo,” I’d reply, “you know that depleting my Chi energy through ejaculation is a certain method for moving my mood from the ground floor into the basement.”
“Well, then just don’t cum. I’ll cum enough for the both of us!”
Though I found her determination amusing, it did little more than evoke a wry smile from my lips.
As a direct result of my lack of amorous affection for her, Lo felt no desire to keep herself primed and ready for a good romp – with me or anyone – and she let her hair-down-there grow out.
Coming to bed one night, I saw her lying naked over the covers. “Wow,” I remarked, unaware of the words escaping my mouth, “you’re looking very 1970’s!”
She immediately pulled the blanket up and over herself, saying, “I suddenly feel a cold draft.”
I can be cruel when in the throes of depression and so I responded with, “You shouldn’t be cold, you have a warm fleece.”
I climbed into bed and opened a book. Beginning to read next to her, she turned to me and said, “With that facial hair you look like a movie villain.”
“You know, don’t you, that the villain of every story is the hero of his own story?”
“Yeah, well you’re the villain – even in your own story.”
“I can live with that. You know that Milton’s great dilemma when writing Paradise Lost was that he had drawn the Devil in such a villainous way that he became the most compelling and interesting character. God didn’t have a chance when the Devil was on stage.”
“Really? Milton? Really? You are the most literary narcissist I ever did meet!”
“I take that as a compliment,” I said to her.
She reached over, more lovingly this time, and she said, “Daddy, you really do need to trim your beard.” She rubbed my rough beard with her hand and tugged a little on it.
“When did you masturbate?” I asked.
She looked guilty and then said, “A little while ago.”
“When?”
“Just before you came into the bedroom. How did you know?”
“I can smell you on your fingertips.”
“Well,” she replied, “if you’re not going to finger me, then someone has to.” As she said this, she moved her hand down to my crotch.
Never one to miss a moment to spoil the mood when my mood is foul, I called out, “Why are your hands so cold?! Were you giving the Ice Man a handjob before he cometh?”
She wrapped her legs around my bare legs and I felt her feet on my feet. I followed my first question with another, “A foot job too?”
“The Ice Man has a warmer heart (and bigger dick) than you!” she said, rolling away from me and grabbing her phone.
I fell asleep to the tap-tap-tap of her texting with someone.
The next day was Saturday and it was a beautiful spring day. Lo was up and about and I was lying on the couch in the living room. Lola approached me like a puppy and said, “Come outside with me!”
“No.”
“Yes. It’s so bright out there.”
“But it’s so dark in here.”
“Look,” she said, opening the blinds, “it’s the first beautiful day of spring! Let’s get out and enjoy it!” She proceeded to open all of the blinds and the windows to let the warm breeze flow through the room.
Like a vampire mortally injured by the light, I got up to leave.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Are you going to come in the bedroom? – Because I’m going to take a nap.”
“I’ll probably cum several times. . . anywhere.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” I said, as I went to the bedroom and locked the door. She followed and was nonplused at finding the door locked.
“Let me come in!”
“No, no! Go, go!”
“I’ll come in, you’ll cum in. It will be even!”
“No.”
“Then at least come out. Look, to get out of this depression you need to do something.”
“Well, I’m not doing you.”
“That was my first suggestion, but I’ll settle for going for a walk or to the gym. Physical activity will help.”
I unlocked the door. She entered the bedroom. “Fine,” I said.
Getting ready for the gym, I put on sweatpants and a sweatshirt.
“You’re not really going to wear that, are you?” she asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“You look like a senior-citizen mall-walker.”
“And? I’m just going to the gym, not a cocktail party.”
“And won’t you be hot? Aren’t you going to break a sweat in that?”
“Oh, gosh, I certainly hope not!”
She was naked and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Come here,” she asked seductively, spreading her legs and putting her hand between them, using her fingers to spread her pussy lips.
“No.”
“Don’t you want it, Daddy?”
“No.”
“But I want you. I can see the outline of your big, thick dick in those sweatpants.”
“Lo, what are you going to wear to the gym?”
“Come here and I’ll tell you.”
“No.”
“Please.”
I gave in and walked over to her, convinced she wouldn’t succeed in her seduction. As soon as I was between her legs, her knees clamped on my legs, capturing me and holding me tightly.
“Lo, you’re a human Penis Flytrap!”
“I think you must have Adult ADD. One of the symptoms is relentless bad puns.”
“You’re saying I have AADD?”
“If you want to put it that way.”
“Sounds like my report card from high school.”
“You see, perfect example!”
“I heard once that among entrepreneurs there is an inordinate proportion of people with Adult ADD. I heard that those entrepreneurs are good at multitasking and that they surround themselves with lots of competent people who stay on task. That’s what I do. I’m a captain and I have a lot of first mates.”
“Oh really?”
“Well,” I said more kindly, “my dear, you’re my first first mate.”
“I’m my own captain. I’m no one’s first mate,” she said, putting her thumb to her sternum, pointing to herself proudly.
“Captain, eh?”
“That’s right, and I like to be surrounded by lots of semen.”
“And you say I have bad puns.”
“Give me some semen, Daddy, please,” she asked, pulling my cock out from my sweatpants and putting it in her mouth, to no avail. Having failed in her attempt, she then got on the bed on all fours, flaunting her ass in front of me. “What do you think?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at me.
“Booty-full,” I said.
“Punny,” she said sardonically.
“Honestly, Lo,” I said, “I wish that I felt well enough to put my penis in your vagina.”
“Daddy!” she exclaimed, feigning shock.
“I’m sorry dear, I couldn’t think of a more poetic way of phrasing that.”
“That’s ok. I like the direct route.”
“Are we going to the gym or what?”
“Yes,” she said, “because if we’re going to go to a nude beach this year, then we have to get in shape.”
“We?” I asked.
“Yes, we. Us.”
“I’m in a shape. In fact, I think I look flabulous.”
“Flabulous?”
“Yeah. I might not have abs. I might have flabs, but they look flabulous.”
“Well, then,” she said, “at least I feel like I have to get in shape. I think I gained four pounds this winter. Does it show?”
“Lo, you know that I would be happy if you gained forty pounds!”
“That’s nice of you to say but. . .”
“You know, there’s a kink out there called feederism, or something like that, where gaining weight is considered sexually arousing?”
“So, I have to get fat in order to get you up?”
“I’m not saying that. I’m just saying all bodies are beautiful bodies.”
She rolled over on her tum and asked, “All?”
“Well, dear,” I corrected myself, “yours most of all.”
“That’s more like it.”
On the way to the gym, I remarked to her, “I was listening to Billy Joel the other day. Some of his lyrics are just brilliant.”
“Like, ‘I heard about sex but not enough’?”
“Of all his lyrics, that’s the one lyric that you remember?”
“It speaks to me.”
“Well, I was thinking about the song, ‘I Go to Extremes.’”
“What about it?”
“It speaks to me.”
When we got to the gym, Lo wanted to start in the weight room. Our gym is co-ed, obviously, and in the weight room there are lots of big, burly men who love to look at themselves in the full-length mirrors that surround the room on all the walls. Lots of mirrors. There are, of course, some women who, truth be told, also like to look at themselves in the mirrors. They just don’t make as big a show of it as the guys do.
Lo likes looking at everybody, including herself, and, this particular morning, I found out in the worst of ways, she liked to be looked at as well. She went right for the bench press and, asking me to spot her, she got on her back under the bar, her feet flat on the floor, her legs spread, and she asked with great deference, for my advice on lifting the twenty pounds (plus the weight of the bar, of course).
I gave her a few pointers and then stood behind her head, my hands cupped under the bar just in case she needed a little boost. She looked up from the bench where her head was perched perfectly between my legs. Had we been alone at home, she would have had a perfect angle for some fun play. Her tongue ran across her sparkling white teeth and she mouthed the words, “Oh, Daddy!” as her eyes roamed to my crotch.
I rolled my eyes, but soon saw that some of the guys in the gym were stealing glances our way. “Lo, try to get it up, will you?” I honestly didn’t mean to say that. I was talking about the bar, but it just came out that way.
“I’ve been trying all week,” she said. “I think that with this good, hard, steel rod, I can make some progress.” She went to lift the bar and lower it to her chest. With a controlled exhale, she pushed the bar back up. “That was good, right?!” She was very excited by her accomplishment.
“Excellent!” I said, trying to be encouraging. I looked up and noticed more guys’ eyes looking at her. Was it that her legs were spread? Was it that her face was down by my crotch? Was it her breasts heaving as she lay flat on the bench? I couldn’t tell what the interest was, but across the room the guys doing curls with free-weights, causing their already large biceps to bulge, were looking right at Lo. It seemed like she was giving them inspiration.
After bench pressing, we did a few other strength exercises and we didn’t exact quite as much attention. She told me that at the top of the hour a yoga class was starting and she encouraged me to join her in it. “Yoga will be good for you. It’s known to reduce depression.” Reluctantly, I agreed.
In the yoga studio, the mats were arranged in five rows of four deep. People gradually entered and chose their spots and began stretching out. Lola took the front-center mat in the room and told me to take the spot behind her. I did so. I tried stretching. Touching my toes was a challenge. When the room was full, the instructor came in and she stood right in front of Lo. We began easily enough and all was fine, until “Downward Dog.” That’s when I figured out what the guys in the gym were looking at – Lo wasn’t wearing any panties! Here little green yoga shorts were loose-fitting enough for her pussy to peek out when doing the bench press and now at yoga. She looked over her shoulder at me when she came out of the pose and she knew that I knew what a bad girl she was. Needless to say, part of my body was not as limber as it should be for yoga after that. I think that I wasn’t the only one to notice my little slut’s slutty ways. I played it off like I wasn’t with Lo. Who? Her? That one in the front row showing her joie de vivre to the class? Nope, don’t know her at all. I’m just right behind her for the best view.
When the hour was over, Lo made it clear to the class that I was her man and she was my hotwife by grabbing my arm and congratulating me on getting through the entire class. She looked down at the protrusion in my sweatpants and said, “I think you need to walk that off.”
I gave her a deriding look.
All the way home, she walked in front of me wiggling her little ass.
When we got home she said, “I’m so wet from working out.”
“I bet you are,” I replied.
“I’m going to take a shower. Care to join?”
“No. I’ll take one later.”
“Fine,” she said in a huff, “I was going to masturbate in there anyhow.”
“I figured.”
She was in there almost an hour. When she was done, she walked stark naked into the kitchen and began slicing a tomato.
Hearing her futzing about, I came into the kitchen and asked, “Did you take a shower?”
“Yes.”
“Did you jill it?”
“No. I made myself smooth.” She turned from the counter toward me and displayed her silky white skin of her mons pubis to me.
“Then why aren’t you bent over the bed?”
“Because I’m making you dinner.”
“Can’t I have an appetizer first?”
“Oh, now you want it? What happened to your depression?”
“I’m just asking for a small taste to whet my appetite.”
“Just a taste?” she asked, incredulously.
“Yes. April is abstinence month.”
“Really? Since when?”
“I just proclaimed it such.”
“Well, this month sure won’t last long.”
“I’m telling you Lo, it’s Celibate City for me.”
“Forget it, Daddio, it’s Vaginatown.”
