Finally a moment to relax. Some time to myself. A quiet interval to read for enjoyment before sweet sleep. I was deep into the Bukowski’s Notes of a Dirty Old Man, appropriately enough. As I tried to enjoy one of the short stories about a dissolute life, Lo lay next to me, naked, her legs spread, diddling her bean, clearly looking for attention. She spread her legs wider, putting her left leg up and over my legs. She inserted her finger and moaned. No response from me. She spread her legs even further until her left knee hit the cover of my book, knocking it out of my hands. She dipped all five fingers into her gaping pleasure patch.
Lo’s Bed Spread
“Hey,” I said, “watch it!”
“Clearly you’re not interested in watching,” she retorted.
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“Probably not,” she replied, cursorily, as she continued to fap with her five fingers.
“Then may I read in peace?”
“Why do you want to read now?” she asked.
“Well,” I said with some snark, “right now, I feel like it gives me a leg up, if you know what I mean.”
She raised her leg even further, across my chest.
“Watch out, dear,” I said, “you’re spreading yourself a bit thin there.”
“Thin?! Thin?! I’m a proudly thick woman,” she said.
“Look,” I said, “if you want me, then just use your words and ask for me to fuck you.”
“I shouldn’t need my words,” she said as she pulled out her fingers from her puss, “I’m using sign language.”
“And I’m using my ability to read lips.”
“See, we don’t even need words,” she said, “we can communicate perfectly well with body language.”
I got on my knees, pulled down my boxers, pulled out my hard cock and asked, “What does this body language express to you?”
Reading Notes of a Dirty Old Man
“Everything I want to know,” she said, “now dip your pen in my wet well and write your poetry all over me, you dirty old man.”
A
July vacation at a beach house for a week can be the perfect antidote to all of
your problems. Unless that vacation is a
family reunion and the beach house is for thirty people. And among those thirty people are married
dads in their forties and fifties who are in good shape. And your girlfriend is Lo. Then, you might have ninety-nine problems,
but Lo is the only one you have to really worry about.
That
was the case this week. Every seven
years or so my extended family decides that we should make a pilgrimage from
all the corners of the globe, rent one enormous house on the beach with enough
bedrooms and bathrooms to accommodate us all, and stay under one roof for seven
days straight. We have been doing this
for a few decades now, but we hadn’t had one of these since I started dating
Lola.
She
hadn’t met most of my family – only heard about them through various stories I
told her and, to be fair, with thirty of them, I doubt that she really could
tell one from the other without having met them in person. But this week, right in the middle of July,
we were all going to be up-close and personal with each other. Foolishly, I hadn’t thought of warning her
prior to our departure. This was my
family. Did I need to warn her? Apparently so.
You
see, if I do say so myself, I come from a very good looking family. My brothers and sisters and my cousins have
certain family features in common – features that drive Lo wild. I’d even venture to say that, of the lot of
us, I am probably the least physically attractive. My male relatives all have strong-cut jaws,
expressive eyes, and the classic broad shoulder tapering to a thin waist. They are very health conscious, for many of
them were athletes even through college.
My female relatives share many of the same good genes that have
preserved their looks into midlife. And
they are married to rather attractive spouses.
Throw
into this mix of middle-age men – all walking around topless, biking, kayaking,
swimming, cooking, and being dads to their respective kids – a twenty something
nymphomaniac with daddy issues wearing a skimpy bikini and you have just
brought all sorts of wrath down upon your head.
Such was my lot for a week.
It
began innocently enough. We were on the
beach with a few of my cousins. The sun
was blazing and the waves were rough and tumble. We had our boogie boards with us and, after a
beer, Lo said she wanted to ride the waves with me. We grabbed the boards and went into the
refreshing water, waded out past the crashing waves and waited for the right
moment. As we were out there, Lo turned
to me and said, “Daddio, I’m so wet!”
“We’re
in the ocean, Lo. Of course you’re wet,”
I replied.
“I
don’t mean like that,” she said with a devilish grin.
Before
I could respond, a wave came and soon she and I were soaring towards the shore
atop the white crest of the surf.
Conditions were just right for multiple sorties. She looked happy, like a little girl. I had never seen her see so happy. She was grinning from ear-to-ear. What I didn’t realize, since I was next to
her for most of the wet-n-wild rides, was that each and every time we caught a
wave and were carried in atop the undulating surge, Lo’s bikini top would be
pushed downward and, each and every time she stood up from the excursion, her
breasts were popping out, wet and glistening in the sun for all my cousins to
see.
I
only found out about this later, when, back in the house, she got naked in the
bathroom with me to take a shower. “Are
you mad, Daddy?” she asked.
“Why
would I be mad?” I said as I saw her perfectly tanned body before me.
“Because
of my ‘accidents’ at the beach.”
“What
accidents?” I asked, naively.
Then
she told me about her struggles with keeping her top on her tits.
We
got in the shower together and washed each other down with body-soap. It was one of those large shower/hot tubs
that had a comfortable seat to sit. I
told Lo to sit down below me and spread her legs. She did so, mistakenly thinking that I was
going to put my cock in her mouth. She
opened up to receive me, but, instead, I took aim and let lose, releasing the
golden stream formed from the many beers I had had on the beach. She relished in the warm stream I doused her
in, covering her tits and tum, puss and feet.
When I was good and done, she pulled my hand down and reversed positions
with me and, putting one foot up on the ledge, she took aim and allowed me to
get it just as good as I gave it.
Then
she got down on her knees on the floor of the shower and took my hard cock in
her mouth, fondling my balls with her right hand as her left rested on my
knee. Her long, wet, dark hair bobbed up
and down under the stream of the shower.
She wanted me to cum, that was clear.
She worked hard to earn my ejaculatory appreciation, but I denied her
the satisfaction of completion. Before
she got lockjaw, we got out of the shower and dried off.
She bent over the
bed, her ass beckoning me. It was my
turn to get on my knees and worship her tumescent pussy lips with my
tongue. She tasted sweet and I wanted
more. I buried the tip of my tongue as
deep as it would go in her cunt and then in her ass and back again and
again. She came multiple times, her cum
dripping down the sides of my mouth and saturating my beard as it streamed down
my neck onto my chest. I delighted in
making her so wet. Due to the cramped
living quarters, she had to bite her lower lip and swallow her orgasmic
screams. She buried her head in the
pillow to moan and groan.
At some point I
heard the sound of a radio playing from the pool area outside our window. AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” was narrating
the scene.
She was a fast
machine,
She kept her motor
clean
They sang as I
licked the smooth mons pubis of Lo from behind.
She could take it no longer and she crawled forward on the bed like a
wounded soldier out of the heat of battle.
She rolled over, exhausted already, and spread her listless legs.
She was the best
damn woman that I’d ever seen.
I slid in her
pussy with my aching rod and, honestly, I couldn’t feel a thing. Just wet.
So wet. At the very instant of my
shaft lodging deep inside her, she came in waves – waves like those of the
ocean that we were riding just a little while earlier. After her quick climax, she was suddenly
filled with new energy. She rolled me
over onto my back and slid her wet slit down the length of my solid pole,
kneeling on top of me as she pulled and pinched her nipples. I grabber by her hips and rocked her forward
and back, slishing and sliding over my hips.
She had a certain
size,
Telling me no
lies,
Knocking me out
with those American thighs.
She came
again. Again, all I could feel was
wetness cascading down upon me.
She dropped her
head down to bite on my neck and then she slid off of my rod slowly as her
tongue slid down my chest, over my abs, eventually resting at my cock. She took it all in her mouth and down the
back of her throat.
Taking more than
her share,
She had me
fighting for air,
She told me to
cum, but I was already there.
I filled her with
my pent-up power. But she wasn’t done –
no, not by a longshot.
She wanted no
applause,
Just another
course,
Made a meal out of
me,
And came back for more.
Had to cool me
down
To
take another round,
Now
I’m back in the ring
To
take another swing!
She
licked and sucked, bobbed up and down, and opened wide for my balls –
everything and anything she could do to get me back up and hard again. When she finally succeeded, she lowered
herself slowly on me once more and grabbed me, letting her nipples gently touch
mine as she let her body become enfolded in mine. I wrapped my arms around her and held her
tight.
Shower Time
From her state of
delirium, she began whispering in my ear.
“You know,” she
said in a hushed tone, “I think your family likes me.”
“I’m sure they
do,” I said.
“I mean,
especially your brothers. They really
like me.”
“I think they
really liked what they saw.”
“And I liked what
I saw.”
“What was that?” I
asked as I felt her excitement increasing with the taboo things coming out of
her mouth. I slowly moved my hands from
her back to her thighs, to her ass cheeks, and then I pulled them, spread them,
and placed my index finger on her special spot.
“They’re so
built,” she said enthusiastically, “so mature.”
“You mean old.”
“Not old.”
“Older than me.”
“Yeah, but in such
good shape.”
“I see,” I said,
knowing where she was going. . . and liking it.
“And so big.”
“Big?” I asked as
I entered her ass with my finger.
“Their cocks. Their balls.
Wearing a Speedo. . .”
She couldn’t
finish her thought. She was cumming and
cumming harder than any of the previous times.
My finger was deep inside her and I could feel her clenching up on it
and releasing multiple times.
When she was done,
all orgasms finally brought to fruition and her body exhausted, she said to me,
“That last orgasm, it felt just like I was riding that boogie board. It felt like I was riding that wave, topless,
the sea carrying me, lifting me, thrilling me, covering me with spume and salt
and sun.”
“Did you cum when
you were out there?”
“I think I might
have, a little bit.”
“You really are a
nymph, fucked by Poseidon himself.”
Mark and Stephanie came over for
appetizers before we all were going to go to see a play. Lo had planned this night for the four of us
months ago. She was very excited because
the play was one that she had heard great things about and she thought that Mark
and Stephanie were just the couple to invite to it. My guess was that she had designs on Mark and
was hoping to get him into a showdy corner of the dark theater and play a
little herself. But what actually
happened was way beyond my wildest imaginings.
Lo, as is her practice of primping
and prepping, spent most of that lovely summer Friday afternoon cleaning up the
house for our guests, making a special dip, stocking the bar, adorning the
small tables with bouquets of flowers, and then hopping into the shower. I, for my part, cracked open a beer and
watched Lo do all this work in her panties and bra. I hope you, dear reader, don’t get the wrong
idea about me. I’d be more than happy to
chip in with the chores, but Lo is such a perfectionist that I have learned the
hard way over time that it’s best to leave it to her.
As I sat on the living room couch, I
heard what could only be described as Lo’s mating call, if mating occurred for
her the way it does for komodo dragons, that is, through parthenogenesis, or
without the need of a male. Yes, this is
a very long-winded way of saying that Lo was fucking herself in the shower with
one of her many dildos and calling, to God, to me, to anyone, with her
distinctive, “OH GOD! YES! FUCK! YES!
YES! YES! YES!”
Not quite as poetic as the final paragraph of Joyce’s Ulysses, but the same sentiment. When she got out of the shower and found me
sitting on the bed, I wasn’t the only one who was long-winded. She was panting for air since her hot, steamy
shower only added to the heavy, humid air of our apartment.
“Thinking of Mark?” I asked
snidely.
“Mark, Mike, Matthew, Milton, it
doesn’t matter.”
“Allow me to rephrase. Thinking of dick?”
“Many, many dicks,” she said.
I got up off the bed to spank her
bottom as she was bending over the sink to wipe down the mirror when I caught a
glance into the tub and saw it was populated with not one, but four
dildos!
“What the hell did you need four dildos for in there? You only have three orifices to fill.”
“I like to feel wanted,” she said as
she set out to blow dry her hair.
“How many times did you cum?”
“Three or four or five.”
“Seriously?”
“No, deliriously. I used different dildos for different holes
and different sorts of orgasms. I used
this one,” she said, pointing at the one that was stuck to the tile wall by its
suction cup base, “for my puss. Then I
added this one in my ass,” she said, indicating her large red double-ended
dildo. “And then I used that same one on
both my ass and my puss before I used this one,” she said pointing to the horse
cock dildo on the floor of the tub.
“What about that one?” I asked,
pointing to the black dildo we call “Tommy gun” because it looks like a little
machine gun the way the ball sack is attached to it.
“Oh, that one I just held in my hand
for fun. You know my motto.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Be happy: jill off, jill often.”
“Well, you’d better clean up your
bathtub toys before our guests arrive.”
“Why, were they planning on taking a
bath?”
“You never know.”
“That would be fun.”
“I bet you’d like that. But, remember, Mark hasn’t had sex with Stephanie in over a year now.” We knew this from what Stephanie had told me at their Super Bowl party.
“First, that’s not
due to any deficiency on his part. And
second, even if it was, I know I could help him. I’m a cock whisperer.”
“I think you still
aim to ‘help’ him,” I said, knowing that Lo is terribly attracted to Mark.
“So,” she
responded, “Why do you think I have so many dildos in the tub? I like to get men hard. I like them to desire me. I like to be what gets
them up in the morning and what gives them sweet dreams at night. I want to be a vessel into which men drain
their lust.”
“Everyone but the
shoemaker’s wife,” I said under my breath.
“What?” she asked
as she slipped into her dress.
“Everyone except
the shoemaker’s wife,” I said more loudly.
“What the fuck
does that mean?” she asked.
I responded, “You have to clean up
your language, young lady.”
“Fine, I’ll clean it up. I’ll take out every word except ‘fuck.’”
“You know what I mean.”
“Fuck?”
“Stop it.”
“Fuck fuck.”
“You’re being vulgar.”
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.”
“OK, I’ll play your game. What do you want to do tonight?”
“Fuck.”
“I bet you do. Fuck Mark.
Like I said, everyone except the shoemaker’s wife.”
“That’s the third time you said
that, now tell me what the fuck it means before I shove this shoe up your ass!”
she demanded as she held her high heel in her hand.
“It’s a saying. Everyone gets a new pair of shoes except the
shoemaker’s wife. The shoemaker never
gets to her because he’s so busy making the shoes for everyone else.”
“And what does that have to do with
us?”
“You’re the shoemaker. Everyone gets to drain their lust into you
but me.”
“Oh, don’t give me that,” she said,
feigning playing the violin for me. “You
get more than you can handle. Nine out
of ten times you deny me. That’s why this shoemaker has to go all
around town like the prince letting everyone try on Cinderella’s slipper.”
“Now this metaphor has jumped the
shark.”
“Look, if you want some of this,”
she said, slapping her pussy over her dress, “all you have to do is ask for it,
or better yet, take it!”
“I want it!” I said, lifting up her
dress and noticing that she hadn’t put on panties.
“Not now! They’ll be here in a minute or two.”
“I only need thirty seconds. You know that.”
“And people say romance is dead.”
At that moment the doorbell
rang. I went to go answer it and Lo
called to me and said, “Tell them I’ll be right out. Oh, and put the chips out and the dip. Oh, and can you turn on the Bluetooth speaker
to some up-beat music?”
“Sure,” I said, trying to remember
all I was supposed to do.
I took out the chips and dip,
grabbed Lo’s phone and pulled up Spotify, and turned on the speaker so it
played in the living room. Then I let in
Mark and Stephanie.
I invited them into the living room
and we sat down. “Lo will be right out,”
I said as we made polite conversation.
They looked very dapper, all dressed
up for the theater. She was wearing cute
flats, tight jeans, and a very sheer white top.
She doesn’t have very big breasts, but they are perky and she has a cute
bob haircut. He was in nice jeans,
leather shoes, and a tight fitting black t-shirt under a blazer. It was a dated, slightly “Miami Vice” look,
but he can be forgiven since he is from Miami after all.
I offered them drinks and they both
gladly elected for the harder stuff, passing over the beer and wine. I was surprised. Before theater events I find I can’t have
anything too strong, except coffee, lest I pull a Jack Nicolson and fall asleep
during the performance and begin snoring.
As I was entering with drinks in
hand, Lo made her stunning appearance. I
had seen her little, short black dress, but to see her with the sexy, shiny
black heels, her full makeup on, and that smile of hers was really
something. I wondered if she was still
commando or if she had elected to wear panties.
Ah, those perennial philosophical questions that I ponder in my life
with Lo.
We sat in the living room talking
since we had plenty of time before we had to leave for the play and somehow the
conversation turned to the topic of tattoos.
I pointed out that neither Lo nor I have any tattoos and we were
discussing what and where we’d get them if we chose to do so.
“Do you have any tattoos?” asked Lo
of both of them, but she touched Mark’s arm as she asked it.
“Lo, don’t you remember? – We went
to the beach with them. I didn’t see any
tattoos on either of them,” I interjected.
“Actually,” Mark said, “I do have a
tattoo.”
“Na-ah,” said Lo in disbelief,
grabbing his arm. “Where?”
“Well, I’m actually not too proud of
it.”
“Come on,” she said. “Where?” she asked, turning to Stephanie for
a hint.
“There,” said Stephanie, pointing at
his crotch.
“Na-ah,” said Lo again. “On his. . . ?”
“No,” said Mark. “Not on
it. Just above it.”
“What is it, I have to know,” said
Lo.
“If you’re that curious, I’ll show
you,” said Mark, standing up and moving to undo his belt buckle, but obviously
joking. But Lo didn’t take it as a
joke.
“Really?!” she said, the word
escaping her mouth faster than her brain realized what she had said and with
how much enthusiasm she had said it.
“No,” said Mark. “You don’t really want me to show you, do you?”
Lo unwittingly licked her lips and
nodded her head “Yes.”
“Fine,” said Mark, “I’ll show
you.” He actually unbuckled his belt.
I suddenly got up and said, “I’m
going to refresh my drink. Can I get
anyone anything?”
I was met with no answer. I looked at the tableau. There was Lo on the couch on one side of
Mark, her head directly level with his pelvis, looking intently. Mark was standing, undoing his belt buckle, a
big smile on his face. And Stephanie was
sitting on the other side of Mark, almost unable to see the action, her legs
crossed, a slight frown on her lips, watching her husband’s movements in front
of this woman who was over ten years her junior.
I was in the kitchen and I suddenly
heard Lo’s admiring voice coo, “Wow!
Impressive!”
When I returned to the living room,
Mark was buckling up his belt.
“So, why an eagle?” asked Lo, now
touching his knee.
“I was in college, I was drunk, and
I thought that. . . now this is really embarrassing.”
“Out with it,” demanded Lo.
“I was into the symbolism of spirit
animals and I felt that the eagle was my spirit animal and this,” he said,
running his hand across the top of his pelvis, “was the seat of my spirit.”
Lo did her best not to giggle and to
really stroke his ego (though she wanted to stoke something else, I’m sure). But then she said abruptly, “Oh, fuck, I
forgot, I have to send a quick email for work.”
I was confused and I saw her grab
her phone and scurry off. “I’ll be right
back. Just five minutes. Promise.
I just have to take care of this little bit of business.”
OH!
I thought, Is that what she’s
up to now. You see, “TCB – Taking Care
of Business,” is our little code for her masturbating. That’s what she texts me when she can’t come
to the phone because she’s busy cumming to something else.
And just as quickly as that
revelation hit me, a second, more menacing one alighted, “She took her
phone. Oh, shit!”
But that second realization was just
a bit too late in arriving. She must
have already gotten into the bedroom or bathroom, took down her panties, if she
was wearing any at all, and already found a dirty little video to watch because
suddenly the music on the Bluetooth speaker switched to the sounds of two (or
more) people fucking. Yes. Right there in the living room, the pornographic
soundtrack filled the air like an ambient disembodied orgiastic orchestra.
“Ha ha,” I fumbled, “must be a
random connection crossing paths with our wireless.” I jumped to shut off the speaker and couldn’t
find the confounded button fast enough!
Finally, in the awkward silence, we sat just sort of looking at each
other as I struggled to fill the air that was now devoid of sex sounds but
pregnant with nothing. Small talk into
the void, I thought, not finding the words that would penetrate those deafening
drawn out moments of muted embarrassment.
And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, that shriek of Lo’s
climax cut the stillness with “Oh FUCK!”
“I’ll just go to check to make sure
everything’s ok,” I said, in haste to remove myself not only from the living
room, but, if possible, from the continent.
“LO!” I whispered as I entered the
bedroom and found her with her dress up over her waist, one of her dildos up
her crotch, on hand manipulating it as her other held her phone as she was
kneeling on the bed. She scampered to
make it look like she wasn’t up to no good, but there was no evading her
shenanigans.
“What?!” she angrily asked, also in
a whisper.
“They heard you. They heard everything.”
“What?”
“Yes. The porn, the orgasm, all of it. Now, put your toy down and get out here. Oh, and make up some sort of an excuse.”
I returned to our guests, looking as
if nothing was wrong and said, “Oh, Lo just, er, dropped her computer on her
foot.”
“Is she ok?” asked Stephanie, seeing
right through the ruse.
“Oh yeah,” I said, waiving my hand
as if to say, nothing to worry about.
No sooner had I done that than Lo
came out, in her heels, smiling, and she said, “Sorry about that, I just found
out that something terrible happened at work.”
“How’s your foot?” asked Stephanie.
“My foot?” asked Lo, perplexed. “Fine.”
“We were all worried,” I said,
“about the computer you dropped on it.”
“Computer I. . .” she began.
If I could have stepped on her foot
to give her the hint, I would have, but as it was, I think my eyes were saying
everything.
“Oh yeah,” said Lo, “my foot’s
fine. Just a little bruise,” she
said. “Will you rub it?” she asked me as
she sat on the couch and took off her heel and put her foot up on my lap.
“I thought you rubbed it.” I said,
accusatorily.
“Oh, I did. I did rub it, but it still hurts,” she
said. “It needs more rubbing,” she
added, and I could just hear her saying, “Daddio,” but she kept that to
herself, thankfully.
She shook her foot, as if to demand
my attention, and I said, “Wasn’t it your other
foot Lo?” just to mess with her.
“No, silly,” she said, “I think I
know which foot I dropped my computer on.”
So I began caressing her foot. We all continued our little chat, but this
time without any ambient music.
Eventually it was time to go and we
went to see the play.
Prior to that evening, I had no idea
what the play was about. I hadn’t even
heard of it. But ever since, that play
has been etched into my mind. In brief,
it is the story of a late 19th century doctor who treats women with
hysterical paroxysms. He used to induce
them digitally, but now he has discovered this newly invented medical device
that uses the also newly invented technology of electric power. The device?
A vibrator! The wife, who is
sexually frustrated, becomes curious about this mystery treatment and uses it
on herself, to her delight. I won’t give
too much of the wonderful story away here, lest you, dear reader, go to see it
– which I highly recommend.
But for the four of us to see that
play together, well, I can only surmise that this was the scheming of Lo’s
cunning mind. For, as you know by now,
Stephanie and Mark have been struggling with rekindling the sexual spark in
their marriage. In many respects, they
may have felt like they were watching their relationship play out on
stage.
Lo’s little foreplay at home may
have been an elaborate prelude to the main event. A little masturbatory appetizer for our
guests, only in order to fete them with a full course meal of onanistic
explorations. During the performance, Lo
was squirming in her seat as she sat, very conveniently and strategically
between me and Mark.
At intermission, Stephanie pulled Lo
aside, leaving Mark and me to get drinks at the crowded bar. I was thankful for the distraction, for I
honestly didn’t know what to say to him.
When we did have a moment of awkward interaction, he asked, “What do you
think of the play?”
I answered, “Wonderful, wonderful,”
ambiguously.
“I can see what Lo likes about it,”
he said, just as ambiguously.
“What wouldn’t she like about it?” I
asked rhetorically.
Just then the ladies returned and
the lights flashed off and on indicating time to return to our seats.
The final act was a very satisfying
one, especially if Mark and Stephanie saw themselves in the main
characters. After the final curtain came
down, Mark and Stephanie said hasty goodbyes, claiming they had to get home to
relieve the babysitter. But who knows
what the actual cause of their haste was.
When Lo and I were alone, I rebuked
her for her bad behavior.
“Are you angry, Daddy?” she asked.
“Lo, why did you give in to your
carnal desires when we had guests? Were
you just prepping them for the play or were you too much in lust after seeing
Mark unzip his pants for you?”
A couple getting off to “Match, Cinder & Spark” and mysexlifewithlola.com together
“A little from column A,” she said,
“and a little from column B.”
“More like a lot from column B,” I
added. “What exactly did you see?”
Earlier
that day, dear reader, we had gone to the beach with our friends Stephanie and
Mark. They’re a married couple in their
30’s, they have a couple of young kids, suburban house, everything – a quaint
picture of domestic bliss. Then you
throw Lo into the mix and, well, you’ll see what unfolds (or unzips).
Stephanie is a
work acquaintance of mine who has her office down the hall. Every so often she texts me little notes
like, “Lunch today?” followed by a winkface, a smileyface, or some other
emoticon that drives Lo crazy! Lo is
convinced she has the hots for me. But
it’s hard to stay seated atop her high horse when she is just as often on her
knees in front of a different man. As
you shall soon discover, Lo was in for a dénouement all her own. Lo, it so turns out, has more than your
casual fondness for Mark. In fact, she
has made it no secret how she feels about him.
The first time we
had dinner with them, when Lo first met Mark, Lo rushed us home and threw me
into the bed, jumping on top of me, humping me and, looking down at me from
where she lifted and descended at a rising trot’s pace, she asked, “Do you
think he wants me?”
“Mark?”
“Yes, Mark,” she
said, panting.
She didn’t even
let me answer before she finished.
Apparently just the mention of his name was enough to get her heart
palpitating.
She fell down next
to me and, caressing her soft lower lips, she said, “He’s hard-up.”
“How do you know?”
“Did you forget
that Stephanie and I had lunch together a few weeks ago?”
“And she told you
that?”
“I have my ways of
getting information. I know that they
have sex once every six months, if that.
And it’s not for his lack of wanting.”
“Do you think he wants you?”
“Fuck me and I’ll
tell you.”
She spread her
legs and I slid in.
“He’s so tall,”
she began, “and sitting next to him I could tell that he was looking down my
blouse at my tits all night.”
“I did notice
that.”
“And his long legs
touched mine under the table.”
“Did they?”
“And his cock!”
She was cumming again. “His cock
is huge. I could see it bulging right
through is pants. Oh, it’s such a waste
for her not to be on that every night!!!”
She came hard this time.
That dinner date
was a few months ago.
Now, we were at
the beach and I could tell that Lo was all riled up to see Mark in just his
swimming trunks. Knowing where Lo’s
attention would fall, I gazed at his crotch and had to admit to myself, she was
right – there was no disguising the size of that thing. It was truly amazing that the tip didn’t peek
out the bottom of those loose-fitting shorts.
As soon as we
staked out a spot for us to set up our chairs and blankets on the white sand,
Lo removed her sheer blouse, revealing her tiny bikini top and lovely tum. She had the confident air of a woman in her
twenties, showing off and prancing around her thirty-something
competition. And that self-assured
swagger sure got Mark’s attention.
Stephanie, who was
busy with the two kids, was oblivious to all the sexual tension coursing
between Lo and Mark. I watched,
contentedly. Lo was soon removing her
cutoff jeans-shorts, slipping out of them like a stripper on stage. Her bikini bottom left little to the
imagination, but I could see Mark desperately imagining what was left.
When she was down
to just her bikini, she got on all fours on the beach blanket in front of Mark,
who was sitting in a beach chair. She
roved around the blanket like a dog looking for its bone, but Lo was looking for
the sunscreen. Or so she said. I think she was just looking for attention. .
. and getting it.
“Where did you put
it?” she asked me.
“I don’t know,” I
said.
“He’s good for
nothing, Mark,” she said, jibbing at me.
As she was on all fours, her breasts hung down right in front of Mark
and then she turned and, searching her bag, her ass was up in the air right in
front of him. I’ve seen strippers on
stage who were more discrete than that.
“Oh, here it is!” she exclaimed as she pulled it out of her bag, looking
behind her to see if she was being watched.
She began applying
the lotion to her feet, legs, tum, chest, arms, shoulders, neck, face. “I missed a few spots,” she said, passing the
lotion to me as we exchanged looks – mine saying, “You’re pushing it.” Hers saying, “I want it pushed.”
I applied some
lotion to her back. “Lower,” she
said. I applied it to her lower
back. “Lower,” she said. I applied it to her ass and she pulled up the
bottoms into a thong and said, “Don’t take any chances.”
I applied it to
her ass cheeks as I looked at Mark and said, “The princess likes to be
pampered.” He laughed, but was clearly
thinking about pampering the princess in his own way. I enjoyed it.
A group of four
men strolled onto the beach with their cooler, chairs, volleyball, and
snacks. They set up camp right next to
us, attracted to Lo, no doubt. They were
all in their twenties, jacked, and looking to have fun in the sun. Lo’s attention was suddenly split between
Mark and the men. It looked like the numbers
won out – unless Lo was just toying with Mark now the way she had been toying
with me. Once she had the fish hooked,
she was content to throw it away and see what other catch she could accomplish
with her bait.
The guys, after
settling in and cracking open a few brews, set up the volleyball net and began
a game. Lo looked on enviously.
“Go play,” I said,
giving her permission.
“No, you come
too,” she said, ambiguously.
“I don’t want to.”
“Mark, will you
play?”
Mark was up for
it. The two of them approached the guys
and soon it was five guys and Lo bouncing the ball back-and-forth. Lo danced upon the sand, dashing here and
there, stretching to spike the ball, bending to pick it up, lunging to serve. She was clearly distracting to her teammates
and opponents alike. At some points her
bikini bottoms were showing her cute ass and at other points her breasts were
on the verge of flying out of their cups.
Stephanie talked
with me in between rebuking or cautioning the children. We discussed work and then leisure time. I had recounted some of the things that Lo
and I had done over the summer thus far.
“Wow!” she said, “You two do so much!”
“Well, if I had my
druthers, I’d probably just sit at home and read and write, but Lo is always on
the go-go-go.”
“One of the
downsides of dating. . .” she searched for the least judgmental words she could
find, “someone so young.” No matter how
she said it, it dripped with derision.
“She keeps me
young,” I said, simply, with a smile on my face as I watched my young nymph
flirt with the four guys and Mark.
The sun was
beating down and I could see all the players wilting in the noontime heat. They broke up their game and Lo grabbed some
cash from her bag and said she was going to get a snow cone.
“You were really
playing hard,” I commented.
Out of breath,
sweating, she just nodded.
“I mean, hard to
get,” I added sardonically.
“Daddio, I don’t
play hard to get. I play to get them
hard.”
She asked if we
wanted something. After putting in my
order, I watched as she and two of the young men walked down the path toward
the dunes, behind which was the concession stand. Just before they were out of eyeshot, I saw
Lo stop and untie the halter-top of her bikini and ask one of the men to fix it
for her. He was fixing it from behind
while the other guy was in front of her.
The guy fumbling with the stings “accidentally” lost his grip of them,
letting the top fall. Lo laughed as she
pulled it back up. Down it went again as
she tried to pass the string to Mr. Butterfingers. They all laughed as Lo covered her breasts
with her arm. They retied the knot and
walked on. They were away for a long
time.
When Lo got back
from the concession stand, Lo asked me to go into the ocean with her. “Where’s my snack?” I asked, expecting that
she would at least bring it back.
“Whoops!” she said
with a smile. “I got a bit. . .
distracted. Come with me in the water
and I’ll tell you about it,” she said, up to no good. I gave her an angry look, but she’s knows I
can’t be cross with her for long.
I followed her to
the deep blue sea. The water was
warm. We were relatively alone at that
part of the beach and I carried Lo in my arms.
When we got out to the point where I could still stand, but was lifted
as the waves crested, Lo kissed me passionately.
“Wow!” I said,
surprised.
“Feel me, Daddio,”
she said, moving my hand between her legs.
“Am I wet?”
“Lo. We’re swimming. In the ocean.”
She smiled. “Oh, trust me, I’m wet.”
“What were you up
to?”
“Nothing.”
She kissed me
again.
“Lo, I know you
were up to something. I saw your little
ploy to flash them your tits.”
“You
saw that, Daddio?”
“Yes.”
“What
else did you see?”
“That’s it. You disappeared behind the dunes. You were away for a long time, while I
patiently waited for my snack. No snack
came back.”
“Oh,
you’ll get your snack,” she said. “Your
snack will be coming soon.”
She
kissed me again. It was like she was
drunk on sunshine, shore, and attention.
“Finger
me, Daddio.”
I
put my index finger into her slippery hole underwater, beneath her bikini
bottoms.
“Oh,
yeah,” she moaned. “Hurry up. I have to cum.”
“What
were you up to?”
“Let’s
just say that the snow cone was dessert.”
“What
did you do?”
“Both
of them, with my mouth. Are you mad?”
“Oh,
that’s why you were so salty. I thought
it was just the sea water.”
She
moaned. Beneath the rolling waves I felt
her pussy clench on my finger. She
came.
“Do
you think Mark knows?” she asked when her momentary ecstasy was at an end.
“Why
would he know?”
“You
think he thinks I’m a slut?”
“He
has no reason not to.”
“Good.”
“Why
do you tease these poor married men?”
“I
just like being an inspiration to people.”
“You’re
so altruistic.”
“I
think so. I really hope that they’ll go
home tonight and fuck like banshees.”
“But
you know that she isn’t up for it.”
“Well,
then I hope they’ll go home and after she falls asleep, he’ll make himself cum
five times next to her in the bed to the thought of me today at the beach.”
“And
you’re going to cum to that thought at least five times in the shower tonight,
won’t you?”
“If
not before.”
Her
orgasm achieved, we swam back to shore.
She adjusted her bottoms as we emerged from the water. We walked up to our beach blanket and chairs
and as we approached I could see the guys next to us speaking in hushed tones
and looking at Lo. I could see them
making eye contact with her and her smiling back at them. The two who lucked out were gloating to their
two hard-up companions. I wondered if
Mark and Stephanie could hear them.
When
we got up to the group, one of the guys asked Lo if she’d like to play some
more volleyball now that she cooled off.
“The game was tied up. You’re not
going to leave it that way, are you?” he asked.
“What’s
wrong with being tied up?” asked Lo suggestively.
“I’m
game,” said Mark.
“OK,”
said Lo, “Let’s play.” She and Mark went
over and the six of them volleyed. I saw
Lo running and jumping, bending over in a set-stance like Kerri Walsh. At one point, she ran to hit the ball in the
far corner of the impromptu court. She
missed it. As she fell down and was on
all fours, she crawled to the ball and I thought I saw something that I
wondered if anyone else saw. I wondered
if it was what I thought it was. The
sand between her knees was wet. After
she tossed the ball to Mark she said, “I have to take a break,” and she came
over to me sitting on the towel.
Luckily, Stephanie had gone in the water with her kids and was swimming,
seeming to ignore the action of the court.
“Lo,”
I said, “did you. . .”
“You
saw?!” she asked, mortified.
“So
you did?”
“Yes. Accidentally.
Do you think anyone else saw?”
“Even
if they did, your bathing suit is wet from the ocean. They probably just thought. . .”
“But
Daddio, I gushed. I’m still gushing,”
she said, spreading her legs a bit to show me a burst of clear liquid spraying
onto the towel as she accidentally squirted.
“This is bad!” she said, adding, “But it feels so good.” A look of relief was on her face after her
release.
“Have
some water. Stay hydrated and take it
easy.”
Lo
rolled over on her tum and watched the five guys hitting the ball around.
“Lo,”
I said, “If you don’t want to have any more accidental orgasms, then stop looking
at the eye-candy.”
“I
wish I could,” she said. “Or I wish I
could just get good and fucked right now!”
Lo lay in her
agony only for a little while before Mark quit the game. The guys had lost interest once Lo bowed
out. Mark rejoined us.
Soon
thereafter, Stephanie and the kids came back up and all were ready to go home
for an early dinner.
We
went back to Mark and Stephanie’s place.
Stephanie changed into sweatpants and a sweatshirt and Mark manned the
grill, still in his bathing suit.
Lo
was back into her cutoff jeans-shorts and bikini top. No bikini bottoms or panties. She helped Mark with some food prep in the
kitchen before we all sat outside to eat.
The
kids were getting cranky and soon after dinner we left so they could deal with
the inevitable melt-down that we could see coming.
“Match, Cinder & Spark,” great beach reading
On
the ride home Lo said to me, “Did you hear what Stephanie said when Mark
commented about the curls of my hair?
She said, ‘You don’t even notice I have hair.’ But honestly, she doesn’t do anything to keep
herself up and attractive. And she
doesn’t even have a sex-drive.”
“Don’t
you see the pattern?”
“What
pattern?”
“The
pattern: Hunter and his wife, Mark and Stephanie, Carl and Hollis – so many of
them. These youngish hot guys with very attractive
wives and there is just nothing going on.”
“How
is it a pattern?”
“I’m
old enough to have seen the pattern.”
“What
pattern?!” She was getting impatient
with my teasing now.
“Lovely, fun,
free-spirited woman (or so she appears) locks that shit down, puts a ring on
it, gets married, and no sooner than the last piece of wedding cake is put in
the freezer, she chops off her loose long locks, gets a little bob-cut, and
then it begins.”
“What begins?”
“Well, with
different women the timing may vary, but give the domestic bliss a year or so
before she pops out one or two screaming poop-makers and then it’s all
sweatpants and sweatshirts all the time.
A few years of that and then she complains to her husband, ‘You wouldn’t
even notice if I died my hair purple!
You don’t even see me!’”
“You’re being
sexist.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, and I don’t
like it.”
When we got home
it was chilly out. “I’m going to get
into sweatpants and a sweatshirt,” said Lo, “Is that ok with you or won’t you
notice me anymore?”
“Lo, with you it’s
different.”
“How?”
“Cause I know that
you’re always naked under those clothes.”
“Naked and wet.”
“Go take a hot
shower, hop on the bed, put your beach bum up in the air and await your
punishment for your bad behavior today.”
“Really?!” she
said with great anticipation.
“Yes, really.”
“Punishment or
reward?”
“In my mind it’s a
reward. But I know you prefer to think
of it as punishment.”
I
was 44. She was 18. I was her professor. She was my undoing. She was a flirt. I was a letch. She was smart and sassy. I was pompous and sardonic. She loved to tease me with her sex
appeal. I loved being teased, but felt
like she brought me to my knees and knew it.
She was unrelenting. I was
unrepentant. She was the young spark
that reignited the flame hidden deep beneath my gray ashes. It was a match made in hell and I yearned for
the tongues of fire licking my loins. I
had been in purgatory for so long that it was either commit to my sins or admit
that I had copped out on life. I chose
to sin bravely. But not just yet.
Lola Reading her Fan Mail
It
would be another six years before my defenses melted. Six years of excruciating distance and
proximity that would prove both a delight and debilitating distraction. She would write me suggestive, alluring, and blithely
innocent emails. I would respond with
allusions and innuendo.
Back when
she was still my student, I was teaching Emily Dickinson and she wrote her final
essay on the poem, “The Angle of a Landscape.”
The poem reads:
The Angle of a Landscape—
That every time I wake—
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Upon an ample Crack—
Like a Venetian—waiting—
Accosts my open eye—
Is just a Bough of Apples—
Held slanting, in the Sky—
The Pattern of a Chimney—
The Forehead of a Hill—
Sometimes—a Vane’s Forefinger—
But that’s—Occasional—
The Seasons—shift—my Picture—
Upon my Emerald Bough,
I wake—to find no—Emeralds—
Then—Diamonds – which the Snow
From Polar Caskets—fetched me—
The Chimney—and the Hill—
And just the Steeple’s finger—
These—never stir at all—
Her entire essay focused on the
latent sexual content of the work. Her
exegesis was explicit. It read like
wordporn. The “ample crack” was
Dickinson’s pussy lusting for the “Vane’s Forefinger,” or the “Steeple’s
finger.” The Bough of Apples recalled
Eve’s biting into the apple, the first sin that aroused sexual desire. The chimney. . . well, you get the idea.
When
I asked to speak with Ms. Down about it, she said very directly, “If Emily
Dickinson had just gotten some action, the world would be bereft of some
beautiful poetry, but she may have been much happier for it.”
“Are
we speaking of Emily Dickinson, or were you, perhaps, projecting?” I suggested
heavy-handed.
“I
don’t need to write to achieve sexual satisfaction.”
“There
you and I differ,” I said under my breath, adding, “It seems to me that this
essay may have fulfilled a certain need of yours.” I was referring to her need to be noticed by
me sexually.
“Yeah,
getting an ‘A’ for the course,” she said bluntly. “It’s good and you know it. Freudian, Structuralist, with a dash of de
Beauvoir. Did you request I come to your
office in order to tell me how good it is, or to inquire about my sexual
proclivities?”
I
changed the subject, pointing out to her a typo. “Ms. Down, you misspelled the poet’s name.”
“No
I didn’t,” she said belligerently. “I
added a ‘g’ to it. It’s called poetic
license. This essay is a ‘Dick In
Song.’”
I
blushed.
On
yet another occasion, I had distributed a questionnaire to the class – a survey
that the administration had created and instructed us professors to have our
students answer. When I collected them
all at the end, I noticed something different on only one of the anonymously
written responses. The first three
questions read: Age, Sex, Location. One
of the students – and I could easily guess who – wrote: old enough, never
enough, I’ll fuck anywhere.
After
she graduated, we would occasionally meet and she instinctually knew all my
weaknesses and vulnerabilities. She exploited
them like a master chess player prolonging the ultimate denouement.
Once
we met for a walk along the shore. She
wore cutoff denim shorts, a button-down red and white gingham blouse that she
tied up like a bikini top and had her dark hair in pig-tails. She was, without doubt, the spitting image of
Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island. This
was too coordinated to be coincidence.
It was not Halloween.
I
remarked about the striking similarity and she said, “I like Mary Ann much more
than Ginger, don’t you?”
“Doesn’t
everybody?” I asked rhetorically.
“I
mean, she’s more of a secret slut and that’s what makes her so appealing,” she
added as if musing to herself.
“I
can’t disagree with you there.”
“But
I was always attracted to the Professor,” she said, biting her lip while just
thinking about him. “I’d love to
see him without that straight-laced Oxford blue shirt and khakis.”
It
just so happened that I was wearing a similar shirt and khakis. What two stereotypes we made!
“You’ve
thought about this a lot,” I remarked.
“I’m
irrationally attracted to intelligence. I’m
a deviant in disguise,” she said, “just like Mary Ann.”
“I bet you
are.” Little did I know then just how
deviant.
Another time
she invited me over to see her new apartment.
She was sharing a house with six people, all recently graduated from
college. Her “bedroom,” if you can call
it that, was meant to be a study or, perhaps a walk-in closet for the wealthy
person who built the old Victorian home.
As a result, it had no closet and it was the room through which the rest
of the house had to traverse in order to get to the wrap-around porch.
I
walked into her room with great trepidation and I saw strewn around the
closetless space her panties, bras, and dildos of various sizes on some
bookshelves, next to which were some of the classics of literature and a true
classic Underwood typewriter.
“Ms.
Down, you fancy yourself a writer?” I asked looking at the magnificent
machine.
“Oh
no,” she said, displaying some rare humility.
“I just like old things. A bit of
nostalgia.”
Quick
to correct, I said, “You can’t have nostalgia for an era in which you did not
live.”
“I
have an old soul,” she said, followed by, “encased in a young body.”
“Our
bodies are insufficient containers of our desires,” I said, quoting something I
read once, “but yours seems to contain all my desires.” Did I say that, or just think it?! I wasn’t sure anymore. I grumbled and made a banal comment. “You must get absolutely no privacy in
here!”
“It’s
true,” she said, “people walk through here all the time to get to the
porch. Luckily, I’m a bit of an
exhibitionist, so I don’t mind, especially when I’m having sex with my
boyfriend or someone else or sex just with myself.”
I
pretended not to hear her comment.
We
walked onto the deck and I just wanted to hold her tightly in my arms, but
instead I blurted out, “It’s big. Really
big, and wide!”
“Yeah,
I always liked a big deck,” she said, looking to see if I heard what she
thought I’d hear.
“Yes,
er, well,” I stumbled and took a seat overlooking the street below.
I
can only surmise that she found my awkward mix of desire and discomfort to be
adorable. Why the hell else would she
pursue me for so long?
She
sat across from me. Not for the first
time that day, I noticed her sexy strappy heels, her short skirt, and the
smooth lines and curves from her ankles to her thighs. But now, as I sat across from her, I had a
much better view of these nether parts.
I tried to focus my attention on her pretty smile and seductive eyes,
but perhaps out of embarrassment and feeling like she was penetrating my dirty
thoughts, my gaze continually fell to her legs, feet, and toes.
“Oh,
wait!” she suddenly exclaimed, startling me out of my salacious dreaming about
those parts of her I was soaking in with my eyes. She suddenly got up and dashed into her
room. She dove on her bed and was going
through a pile books next to it. In that
position I could easily see right up her skirt as she searched her stack. “Got it!” she said as she returned
triumphant.
It
was the book I had published years ago on art.
“What,
Ms. Down, are you doing with that?”
“I
was hoping you’d sign it,” she said, knowing exactly how to unlock my heart,
through feeding my ego.
She
was sitting on the edge of her seat, oblivious to the fact that her skirt was
now riding up by her hips.
“Do
you have a pen?” I asked.
“Oh,
right,” she said, as she got up again to rummage through the clutter on her
small desk.
She
returned and gave it to me. “What would
you like me to say?” I asked.
“You’re
the man of letters. Say something sweet.
. . and smart. . . and sexy,” she said as her tongue ran across her sparkly
white teeth.
I
wrote: “Dear Ms. Down, This book is all about beauty, but as Emerson observed,
no museum replica can compare to the sweet, smart, and sexy wit, charm, and
loveliness of an evening with you in the flesh.”
I
signed it and returned it to her to read.
She
batted her eyelashes and looked up at me.
I swear I saw stars in her eyes as she looked upon me adoringly. “Do you really think so?” she asked.
“That
no museum piece compares to you?
Yes. I do.”
“I’ve
always wanted to model naked for an artist, but. . .”
“In
my humble opinion as an expert on art and beauty,” I said pompously, “any
drawing or painting of you would be merely one dimensional because there is no
way an artist could capture the sparkle of your personality.”
“Do
you think you could capture me?”
“Um,
you mean. . .”
“In
words.”
“As
in a novel?”
“Yeah,
something like that.”
“I
think that the only way to come close would be to have words accompanying the
images. But it would take a very
talented writer to do that.”
“I
think you’re talented enough to come close,” she said very suggestively.
“I
would like to try. . . someday,” I responded.
She was mere inches away from me.
She had indeed come very close to me.
I could almost feel her breathy words as she spoke. “But I am an academic,” I added, “not a
novelist. I doubt that I would be able
to do you justice.”
“You
never know,” she said, “I might just inspire you to do me. . . justice.”
Just
at that moment about four or five people came bursting out through the door of
her bedroom onto the porch, carrying beer and a bottle of booze and a
joint. Lo and I immediately pulled away
from the intimate position we were in and the spell was broken.
Later
that night, when I was back at home, I received a text from Lo. It read, “I heard once that sex is energy
between people. What do you think?”
I
said, “Before tonight, I would have laughed at that as New Age crap. But now I know what they’re talking
about. Was it good for you?”
“What?”
she wrote back.
“Never
mind.” I felt embarrassed. Was she playing me for a fool? Was this her way of flirting? Did she want me to be more explicit? I don’t know, but I let it drop, though I
played and replayed in my mind the “sex scene” we had shared many times since
that night.
“You are beautiful.
Your eyes are beautiful. Your
mouth is beautiful. Your breasts are
beautiful. Your cunt is beautiful.”
Lola Down, spread wide
I was reading a message Lo received on her phone from
an admirer of the blog.
“A regular Shakespeare, that one,” I said.
“I think it’s sweet,” she responded, as her left hand
began to fondle her pussy lips under the covers.
“Sweet?! He
left out your hair, your nose, your neck, your shoulders, your tum, your ass,
your legs, your feet, and your toes!”
“I’m sure he was going to get there,” she said
matter-of-factly.
“Can I get there?” I asked, sounding a bit desperate
for affection, or her attention.
“Get where?” she asked, playing with me.
“Anywhere.
Between your legs, ideally.”
“Let’s see where this goes,” she said about her
internet friend, unfortunately, and not about my bid for her caress.
“I know where this
goes,” I said, putting her hand on my hard rod.
I was hard because her internet friend had sent a slew of photos of
himself jacking off to her pics and cumming all over them. She looked good in the sexy photos.
“Daddy,” she said, protesting, “I’m busy trying to
please my loyal fans.”
“I don’t mind, as long as you do it while spreading
your legs.”
“I’m spreading the love.”
“Can you spread the love wide enough for me to get in
on it?”
“Your pussy looks pretty and gorgeous,” wrote another
fan.
“It is pretty, gorgeous, wet and waiting to be
filled,” she wrote back.
“Me, me!” I said, “Pick me.”
“Calm down, Daddio,” she said, full of vanity fed by
her fans’ flattery.
“Tell me more about you,” wrote another internet
correspondent.
“Read the books,” typed Lo, “There’s
too much to tell and too many people to tell it to.”
“You’re hard, girl,” responded the inquirer.
“Funny, everyone tells me I’m easy,” quipped Lo, “and
that makes them hard.”
“I love your stories,” wrote one female fan.
“H.H. writes. I
inspire,” wrote Lo to her.
“Do you inspire with your body?”
“And my wit.”
“I’m inspired right now!” I said to Lo as I grabbed my
cock firmly. “They all are cumming to
you. Can I cum to you?”
“Cum to, on, in, with, over, under, around, beside – I
provide the pussy. You pick the
preposition,” she said, dismissively.
I got up on my knees and stood over her, jacking my
cock.
“Just don’t cum on my phone,” she said as she
continued to scroll through her contacts.
She continued to fondle herself beneath me for a while
before she said, “Daddio, lie down next to me.
I’ll help you.”
I lay down and she grabbed me by my shaft. “I’m your righthand man,” I said as she jacked
me off with her right and scrolled with her left.
“My wife is nothing like you,” wrote one desperate,
sad husband.
“You two should
read our blog together. It would open up
her mind. . . and pussy.”
“I could never
suggest it,” he wrote, “she’d freak!”
“But you like it?”
asked Lo.
“God yes,” he
sighed through the medium of type.
“Tell me what a young, sexy, slutty person such as
myself does for you.”
“I’d love to eat your yummy, sloppy, used, cum-filled
holes,” he wrote.
“Another bard!” I opined sarcastically.
“Shut up and cum,” commanded Lo as she tugged more
aggressively.
“Are you in a rush?” I asked.
“Both hands are full,” she said, “leaving nothing for
my snatch.”
“I’ll happily fill that gap.”
“You stay right where you are,” she ordered.
“Has she ever caught you jacking off?” wrote Lo to her
married man.
“No. It would
be a big deal if she did. It would be an
even bigger deal if she caught me jacking off to you and not to porn.”
“I am porn,” protested Lo.
“I mean, it’s one thing to get off to anonymous,
vacuous, impersonal, professionally produced porn and it’s quite another thing
to get off to you.”
“That’s more like it,” responded Lo.
“That’s it, I’m getting up and out of bed,” I said.
“But nooooo.”
“Yes. You’re
just treating my cock like it a joystick to your favorite video game.”
“A game I always win.”
She continued stroking.
“Are you into length or girth?” asked her internet
interloper.
“I’m into cock.
And cock gets into me.”
“Once again, I must protest!” I said. “You’ve got a very capable, compatible, and
coveted cock right here, but you’re not letting it into you!”
“What, ole man, my right hand isn’t enough for you?”
“Not when you’re teasing those guys about how fast and
loose you like to play.”
A new fan chimed in, “I
have to stop sinning. I’m religious,
that’s why I can’t go on doing this.”
“Sex is
spiritual. And I’m a sex goddess. Worship at my alter,” replied Lo.
“Now you’re
offering theology lessons?” I chided.
“No. Just encouraging them to be good
semenarians.”
“That was
terrible. Low hanging fruit,” I replied.
She cupped
my testicles and said, “Very low hanging.”
“Oh, does your wit never cease?!”
Now
she squeezed my balls to show me that I had better be careful about mocking
her.
Another
woman asked Lo if she liked taboo tales.
To which Lo responded, “How
taboo are we talking here?”
The woman said she was into watersports and bestiality.
Lo wrote back, “Let’s knot.”
“Don’t you mean. . . oooooh, I get it,” I said.
“Woof!” she said to me.
The woman, whose name was Mila Beijne., went on to tell a little story.
I was a model a
few years back and after doing a shoot I was talking a bit with the
photographer, the lighting guy and his assistant. They invited me to their home. I trusted them and liked them. We were all horny and I was willing, I admit. At the photographer’s home we had some drinks
and then they slowly undressed me. They
got naked too. They were all good looking men and one was really hung. They
kissed me everywhere and started fucking me in my mouth, pussy, and ass. I was very horny. After quite a long time,
they changed positions, each taking a different hole. Then they rotated again and fucked me a long
time again till I was exhausted. They
filled me up in every place they could. But
the fun was not over yet. One put me on
the floor and the other started urinating over me. Then the other two joined in.
It was a lot and all over my body and in
my long hair. There was no shower, so it
was a special experience driving home.
It was my first time doing that and I liked how the act showed their dominance
over me.
Mila asked to be included.Mila B. through the years
I could see Lo getting increasingly more excited as she read the short little story from Mila. She quickly wrote back, “Yeah, HH does that to me. I love it. Being below him, feeling his warm stream flow over my back and butt.”
“We haven’t done that in a while,” I
reminded her.
She ignored me because another fan
had written to her. This guy was
old. I mean, like twenty years older
than I and I’m in my 50’s! His name was
Bob and he wrote:
Hi Lola, and thank you!
You are an inspiration to me. I
hope you can give me some advice.
I’m in my 70’s and I’ve been in a relationship for over 25 years. No passion or sex for the last 20 years. I’m at a loss as it has become impossible to
talk about it with her. I’ve made the
mistake of combining our lives and living situations this whole time. It has become all about her for the last
several years. I feel I’m too old to
begin another relationship with a woman, yet I still admire all women and all
that I see on your blog. I’ve even
become curious about men as I feel that may be the only way to explore my
unresolved sexual fantasies. Yet I’m
still conflicted as I long for an intimate relationship that I’ve missed in my
life.
Do you have any suggestions??
Lola wrote back, “To tell you the truth, Bob, I’m just good wanking material, but I’m not a sex coach or a sex therapist. You might want to check out one of these trained professionals to get some expert advice on having more sex with spirit.” She provided a link. Then she added, “But if you’re looking for a real hotwife, cum to me.”
“What?!” I said to her, shocked that
she’d even offer that to him.
She ignored me and
typed, “I have a very soft spot for old married men whose wives no longer have
sex with them. Would you like to see
it?”
Of course he said
yes. Lo sent him a naughty pic of the
place between her legs that she was denying to me.
“Lo, that’s just
cruel!” I said.
“What? Soon you’re going to be that old and you’d
want the same from me. Wouldn’t you?”
“What’s cruel is
that I’m that old man who is being denied right now!”
“If what I’m
giving you isn’t good enough, then take matters into your own hands,” she
said.
As
she said it, another married man was singing her praises in a message that
read, “I’ve come to worship your holy holes.”
“See,”
she said, “I’ve got fans who know how to woo me.”
“Woo
you? They worship you!”
“What’s
the difference?”
After
some flirtatious back-and-forth, Lo asked to see a pic of the man’s wife.
He
asked why she wanted to see that and Lo responded, “I like to see who I’m
beating out when guys are beating off to me.”
The
guy sent a photo. His wife was
beautiful. But apparently she lacked the
‘personality’ of Lo. He wanted to know
more about Lo and he asked her questions.
“I’m
like an open book, there for anyone to read,” she responded, “You just have to
know where to find me. Are you familiar
with the Dewey Decimal system?”
“Like, in the library?”
“Yeah.”
“So, I can find you in my local
library?”
“If only,” wrote Lo, “I’m indexed
under XXX.”
“As in 30?” he wrote with a winkface
emoji. “Still pretty young.”
“Pretty, young, and slutty. I’ll tell you what, you can virtually finger
my folios at: mysexlifewithlola.com,” she said, “and you can also buy the books
there. I suggest you get a few copies of
each and donate the extras to your local library so everyone can spread my
centerfold for free.”
As Lo was typing, she guided my cock
to her mouth and wrapped her lips around the tip. She looked up at me as her hand continued to glide
back and forth from the base to her mouth.
I began to cum and she hungrily held me in place so as not to spill a
drop. I was so worked up that I couldn’t
control my convulsions. I began
breathing deep, heavy breaths. Lo looked
up at me and said, “What?! Are you having
a stroke?”
When I finally managed to catch my breath, I looked
down at her and said, “Yeah, I’m having a stroke. A really good stroke.”
Lo
wrote a final line to her fans: “Good night all you kinky sexy rogues. Dream of me in your debauched nocturnal
thoughts.”
She put her phone down, grabbed her Hitachi, lay back,
shut her eyes, and began vibrating until she was the one violently convulsing,
squirting, and gasping for air.
When she was done and had removed the Magic Wand from
between her legs, she grabbed my hand and placed it on her bare pussy for me to
feel how wet she was. She’s proud that
she can turn on the tap almost at will.
“Pull my pussy lips, Daddy,” she said. I stretched them. “Harder.”
I pulled more. “Harder Daddy,”
she complained.
“Lo, if I pull them any further they’ll be down to
your knees.”
“Try it,” she said.
She likes the pain or pleasure.
As I pulled I asked her, “What were you thinking about when you came?”
“I think about you.”
This line from her was as false as Marlow telling Kurtz’s
betrothed that Kurtz’s last words were her name.
“OK, that’s enough of that,” I said, calling
bullshit. “What did you really think about?”
“I think about you,” she said. “And I think about cock. I think about a lot of cock.”
“That’s it?”
“And pussy.”
I gave up there knowing that the
litany of licentious thoughts could go on endlessly. I sat silently and she mistook my silence for
judgment.
“You don’t know
what it’s like to be me!” she blurted out defensively.
“Oh yeah, you’ve
got it so hard,” I said sarcastically.
“I wish,” she said
even more sarcastically as she lifted up my flaccid member in her hand.
“You know,” I said, “your porn persona and your
personality are not consistent.”
“What are you talking about?”
“All those people out there thinking you’re a
nymphomaniac, thinking that I am so inundated with your pussy that I barely can
find a moment’s peace, yet the reality is that you denied me just now.”
“There’s no inconsistency.”
“How not?”
“Because I know you’re going to write about this and
so it will be part of my porn persona.”
My
good friend John from Seattle and his three sons (ages twelve through eighteen)
came over to visit while they had winter break.
They were in our town looking at colleges for the oldest and enjoying a
bit of vacation – skiing, museums, historical sites. I hadn’t seen John for a couple of years and
I was glad that, instead of booking a hotel, he asked to stay with us for the
four days they were here. I suppose I
should have known, however, that having all that testosterone under one roof
would drive Lo wild.
It’s
hard to keep Lo’s libido under wraps in the best of circumstances, but fill the
house with four male guests, three of whom need to sleep in the living room,
and, well, keep on reading.
One of the days that John and the boys were visiting, Lola came home from teaching her night class at the local community college where she has been guest lecturing on sex and sexuality in the Woman’s Studies department. She walked in the door in her knee-high black leather boots with the tall heels and her hip-hugging tight red dress. She looked. . . voluptuous. She said a quick hello and then grabbed a glass of Cabernet and joined us in the living room where the boys were sitting, playing games or texting on their smart phones or iPads, and John and I were quietly talking.
“I’m
so disgusted!” Lo began.
“What? What happened? Did class not go well?” I inquired.
“I
know it sounds ridiculous for a woman in her twenties to say it, but honestly,
kids these days!”
“What
happened?” asked John.
The boys turned their attention to Lo. Or, rather, they had looked up from their blue-glowing technology the moment Lo walked in the door and now Lo had their rapt attention. She sat on the couch and said, “Not that many years ago, when I was an undergrad, I wouldn’t have even thought of texting during class. I mean, yes, I would be on my laptop and not always taking notes, but isn’t it a sign of disrespect to openly text during a class?”
“Don’t
you have a policy against it or something?” I asked.
“Yes,
of course I do! But these two guys in
the front row – they are on their phones the whole time. They’re texting and even passing their phones
back-and-forth between them. I’ve said
something to them privately. I’ve called
them out before the whole class. Now I’m
done. I’ll just fail them.”
“It
would suck to fail at sex,” John quipped.
“You
teach about sex?” asked his middle boy.
“It’s
more than just sex – it’s about consent, the media, law, intersectionality,” Lo
began, but she lost his attention after the word sex.
We
talked a bit more and then the boys asked if they could watch some TV. To my great surprise, they wanted to watch
“Gilmore Girls” on Netflix.
“Really?”
I asked. “That show was popular like
twenty years ago.”
“Let’s
be real, it never was popular,” said Lo.
“You
used to watch it?” I asked.
“On
occasion.”
“So
why do you boys want to see it? Isn’t it
like a chick-lit show?”
“HH,
you’re so gender-conforming. Not
everything breaks down easily along gender-roles,” said Lo sarcastically, with
a hint of irony in her eyes as she spoke to me.
“Why
don’t you let the boys answer?” I shot back.
“Haven’t
you heard,” asked one of them, “they’re bringing ‘Gilmore Girls’ back.”
“What?”
I asked.
“Yeah,
like ‘Arrested Development’ and ‘The X-Files,’ it’s making a comeback on
Netflix.”
“Oh.”
I said, learning something new, “but that doesn’t explain the appeal to you,” I
said to the boys.
“It’s
a good show,” they said as they clicked it on.
“Watch and you’ll see.”
We
watched a couple of episodes together as we ate some Chinese food we had had
delivered.
Around
midnight we went to bed and, in the bedroom, Lo removed her tight red dress
revealing that all she had on under it was her bra.
“No
panties?” I asked.
“I
can’t take the chance of panty-lines in this dress – not with a room full of
students watching my every move.”
“Don’t
you think that that can be a bit distracting?”
“What
do you mean?” she asked as she slipped out of her bra and stood naked, looking
at herself in the mirror.
“You
know what I mean. You’re just fishing
for a compliment.”
She
batted her eyelashes at me and asked, “Aren’t I just the sort of bait that
would lure compliments?”
“That
you are.”
“Well,
what are you waiting for?”
“Don’t
you think that the class will be studying your every curve if you wear dresses
like that?”
“Like
what?”
“Let’s
just say that a dress like that on a body like yours should be enough to
distract anyone from their phones.”
“I
have no idea what you mean,” she said disingenuously.
“Haven’t
you ever read ‘The Scarlet Letter’?”
“Yes.”
“Well,
that’s The Scarlet Letter of dresses my dear.”
“So,
you give my dress an ‘A’?”
“Ugh.”
“What
do you think of me without my dress?”
“Can’t
you tell?” I asked, displaying for her my member standing at attention.
“Though
your sign language is easy enough to interpret, tell me. I like your words.”
“I
think your breasts look pretty and perky.”
“Go
on,” she said as she pulled and twisted her nipples, running her fingers over
them to make them even more erect.
“And
your shoulders are incredibly strong and sexy.”
“More.”
This
went on for some time with me complimenting the small of her back, her smooth
legs, her elegant feet. Then she said,
“You haven’t even mentioned my butt. I
mean, even I want my butt. If I could be with me, I would fuck my
butt.”
Finally
she got into bed and said, “Don’t you want to fuck my butt?”
“That
I do!”
I
got behind her as she was on all fours and she licked her finger and ran it
round her special spot as if pointing out the target. “Go ahead, Daddio, but be slow and gentle.”
As
I began to penetrate her, she moaned aloud.
“Lo,
shhhh. We have guests.”
I
ran it in deeper. She moaned louder and
said, “Gentle!”
“Right. Now Shhhh.”
I
lodged myself deep inside her extremely tight spot and she said, “Stay right
there. Does it feel good?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now let me do the work.”
I
remained still as she lunged forward and back, slowly at first, but increasing
in speed like a locomotive beginning to pull away from the station.
“You
know, Lo,” I whispered, “I have a distinct image in my mind.”
“And
what’s that?” she said as she was slowly churning away.
“Those
two boys sitting in the front row of your class, showing each other the texts
on their phones that you told us about. . .”
“Yeah?”
“I
like to think that they found your photos on the internet and now they’re
looking at them as you teach.”
“RED!”
she said, referring to our fantasy rule of The Raunchy Game. Red means, nope, you just crossed a
line. “That’s my worst nightmare,” she
said, “stop right there.”
Despite
her words, I could feel her orgasm beginning to surface. Not wanting to lose the moment, I said,
“Well, I can also imagine them sitting in the front row surreptitiously taking
your picture with their phones or their computers or something and then saving
the pics for later and jacking off to them in their dorm room.”
Lo
was coaxing the orgasm and sliding on-and-off my cock, forward-and-back. “Yessss,” she moaned. “Do you think they jack off to the pics
together?”
“I
wouldn’t doubt it,” I said. “I bet they
do it every night after class.”
“My picture’s
worth a thousand orgasms,” she said as she came, quite loudly.
When she was done,
the two of us were lying on our backs looking up into the darkness of the
room. “Can I ask you a weird question?”
I asked.
“I love your weird
questions.”
“When we were
watching ‘Gilmore Girls’ tonight, did you sense something odd about it?”
“Besides the fact
that it’s always Friday, the town has
five people that live in it, Emily and Richard Gilmore are cliché cutouts of
‘rich people’ and that every problem on the show is a privileged white-person
problem?”
“Yeah, besides all
that.”
“Like what?”
“Well, Rory has
these two boyfriends, Jess and Dean, and what are they? – sixteen, seventeen?”
“I guess,” she
answered, lying on her back, her eyes closed.
“And each of them
keeps ending up in scenes alone with her mother, Lorelai, who’s all of
thirty-two.”
“What are you
saying?” Lo asked, her fingers clearly moving up and down under the covers
between her legs.
“I’m saying that I
think there’s some subtext going on.”
“Fuck me and tell
me,” she insisted, spreading her legs as she lay on her back.
I got between her
wet thighs and entered her. I held her
tightly and whispered, “Lorelai was a MILF before that term was invented.”
Never one to miss
an opportunity to correct me, she said, “Darling, I think MILF was invented
then. You just hadn’t heard about it until much later.”
“Whatever,” I
said, “the point is, that’s exactly what she’s supposed to be and then these
strapping young men have all these one-on-one scenes with her in the house,
alone. Don’t you think they’re
suggesting something?”
“I’d like to see
that play out,” she said as her breath quickened. “When I reach my thirties, I hope I’m a
MILF.”
“Darling, you
don’t have kids and you’re already a NILF.
A nymphomaniac that I’d. . .”
“Do you think
that’s how they see me?” she asked, ambiguous as to whom she meant, but it
didn’t matter, she was already cumming.
Successful in my
duty, I gave myself permission to climax with her, but, sensing my imminent
orgasm, she said, “No! Don’t cum!” She insisted that I save it just as I was
about to reach the pinnacle of my performance.
I
kept on keeping on in her.
“I
said no!” she yelled, pulling her body away.
“What
the fuck?!” I said in an angry whisper, very frustrated, very aggrieved. Whereas I am frequently all for edging,
keeping my Chi to myself, sometimes I need a release and releasing in Lo is the
best release.
I
turned over, lay flat on my back on the bed, tried to catch my breath as Lo,
who had already cum twice, grabbed my member, licked it clean, and then kissed
her way up to my mouth.
“Why
can’t I cum?” I asked.
“Don’t
you know by now?”
“No.”
“I
like you to stay hard because you never know when I’m going to need your dick
again.”
“Oh,
I know all right.”
“You
do?”
“Yes. You always need it.”
“That’s
true. So, keep it cocked and ready so
that it is fully loaded at a moment’s notice.”
Sure
enough, she needed it again later that night.
She woke me from a sound sleep as she was watching some MILF porn on her
phone.
Fap. Jill.
Vibe. Flick the bean. Solo time.
T.C.B.
However
you call it, Lo does it. And she does it
more than any woman I’ve ever met and more than most women whose rumored
self-pleasure sessions have reached my ears.
That
said, it came as no surprise to me when I heard. . . well, just sit down, get
comfortable, and I’ll tell you.
Lo had gone on her date. I was home, alone. At least she had had the courtesy to jack me off before leaving. But what to do with my time? You see, dear compassionate reader, when Lo goes off like that, it puts me in the greatest state of tension and anticipation. If only I could be there on all of her dates, sitting at the bar, watching from afar.
But
Lo needs, deserves, and wants her space.
I get that. And, to be fair, the
eager expectation is more than half the fun.
The other half is hearing her tell the tale to me in bed.
Still,
that gap between her departure and arrival must be filled. A hard, very hard task.
I
can’t just go out with friends. My mind
would be preoccupied. And what if I
missed Lo’s return?
Reading
is futile. My every wandering thought is
of Lo, and the thoughts wonder frequently, just like Lo.
Writing? Well, sometimes that is a good pastime.
But
on this occasion I got up to some mischief.
You,
my faithful reader, are well aware from long ago that Lo is insanely
jealous. Not just of my attention, not
just of other women, but of literally anyone who might remotely rival her in my
eyes. Hence, she was frequently frowning
upon my watching Weeds, and
especially Mary-Louise Parker, whose character, Nancy Botwin, not only
intrigued me, but reminded me of Lo in a number of ways.
Mary Louise ParkerFrankie Shaw fapping to MySexLifeWithLola – Can you believe it?!
Somehow,
during Lo’s late night adventures most likely, I managed to get through all the
episodes of that series. And for a good
long time, nothing replaced it. . .
.
. . until SMILF came along with its
very Lo-like star, Frankie Shaw.
Frankie Shaw of SMILF – Lola’s Fantasy
Lo
and I had watched the first episode together, but when Frankie got down and
dirty, Lo hit the power button and said, “Nope.
No more for you.”
“But.
. .” I tried to protest.
“But
nothing. If you’re getting hard
watching, then I’m shutting it off and you and I can go to the bedroom and get
fucking.” And that’s just what we did.
Now
that Lo was out, and most likely getting fucking with someone else, the image
of Frankie Shaw on the “recently watched” option of the T.V. menu was calling
to me and I thought, “This is ridiculous.
This is more than a double-standard.
This is cruel and unusual punishment.”
So I hit “Play.”
My
suspicions were borne out; Frankie Shaw is just like Lo. When she frantically scrolls through the
photos on her computer with one hand down her panties, it was a replay of a
vignette I had seen so many times with Lo in the starring role. In my mind, though, Frankie Shaw was fapping
it to mysexlifewithlola.com, scrolling through all the desultory images of Lo
fapping it to who-knows-what – probably to Frankie Shaw, if I’m being honest,
since Lo loves to condemn with me that which she condones privately.
I
only got through another two and a half episodes before I saw the headlights of
a car out front stop and let out a passenger.
It was Lo. I could tell by the
swivel of her hips as she walked. The
T.V. was off before she was in the house.
“Hello,”
she called from the door.
“Hello,”
I called back.
She
peered in the unlit living room.
“Sitting in the dark?”
“It’s
my best light and greatest comfort.”
“Well,
it can be dark in the bedroom too,” she said, walking down the hall, her
leather boots on the wood floor sounding like seductive music to my ears.
I
got up and followed her and said, “You bring the light,” as I turned on the
nightstand lamp to see her. Upon
reflection I added, “You know, that’s where Lucifer gets his name.”
“What?”
she asked, looking at me quizzically.
“Lucifer,
it literally means, ‘carrier of light.’
It is said that he, like Prometheus before him, had stolen the holy
light of God and ferried it to humans.
Artists for millennia have understood that light to be metaphoric for
creative inspiration, not literal light.
That’s what you are, my Lucifer.”
“Well,
get in bed if you want to fuck like the devil.”
I
waisted no time. I hopped under the
sheets as she stood next to the bed looking at herself across the room in the
full-length mirror.
“Good
date?” I inquired.
She
took off her black leather jacket and removed her shirt. No bra.
She was wearing a bra when she left.
It must have been a good date.
She
bent over, took off her boots, and then slid out of her skirt. Still no panties.
Her
naked body eased up next to me and she whispered in my ear. “Did you miss me, Daddy?”
“I
always miss you when you’re gone.”
“Did
you wonder what I was doing?’
“Of
course.”
“What
did you do while I was out?”
“I’m
more interested in what you did,” I
said. (See what I did there?)
“Slide
in me and I’ll tell you,” she said.
As
I complied, she moaned and said, “I missed you, Daddy.”
I
guess I have a type.
I
entered her and, truth be told, all I could feel was how very wet she was. It made me think of the scene from SMILF where Frankie Shaw is having sex
with the tall, big, basketball player, surrounded by all the other guys from
the team, and he says, “Am I in you?”
Just
as I thought that, Lo said, “Can you feel me, Daddy? Am I loose?”
“So
loose,” I said, “Like the opening of a tent flapping in the wind.”
“Well,”
she said, “you don’t have to be so explicit about it.”
“I
wasn’t explicit,” I said, “it was a simile.”
“Here’s
a simile: Get in my ass, it’s just like my pussy, only tighter.”
I
laughed and followed her instruction.
She moaned.
“Your
ass is a vice,” I said. “That’s a
metaphor.”
“I
thought you meant that my ass is a vice, like gambling or liquor,” she said
over her shoulder.
“It’s
that too, and so many other things.”
“Oh
yeah, what else?”
“It’s
the seat of my love for you.”
“Look,
Daddio, I want to get fucked good, hard, long, and hard. I want cock, right now, not poetry, so get up
there and give it to me.”
“You
said hard twice.”
“I
want it twice as hard.”
I
gave her what she wanted and said, “And I want to hear about your date.”
Once
she was good and pumped, she began talking in between gasps for air.
“I
showed up, looking slutty, smelling sweeter than cotton candy, and wetter than
a flower in the rainforest.”
“Who’s
the poet now?” I asked.
“Shut
up and keep pounding.”
“Keep
cumming and carry on,” I said, feeling her gushing.
“He
was a perfect gentleman. He stood when I
approached him.”
“I’m
sure he stood at attention.”
“And
he had saved me a seat at the bar. I sat
down and after he got me my drink, I swiveled toward him and spread my legs so
he could see, very clearly, what I was wearing under my skirt.”
“As
I recall, you weren’t wearing anything.”
“That’s
right, not even a merkin, as you had suggested.”
“I
still think the merkin was the way to go.”
“Maybe
next time, dear, but this time I was quite exposed.”
“Quite
the exposé.”
“But
not quite the big reveal. Not yet
anyway.”
“I’m
listening.”
“Yeah,”
she said, “but not fucking. Deeper
Daddio.”
I
grabbed on to her ass with both hands and spread her as far as she would go for
maximum insertion. She moaned
deeply.
“Don’t
get lost in your orgasm,” I warned, “I’m just as deeply invested in your
story.”
“I
asked him if he felt like eating.”
“The
ambiguity of your question is delicious.”
“He
paid the tab and we walked out of the hotel bar. I thought we were going to go to his car, but
as we were in the lobby, we saw the guests of a wedding filtering into the
ballroom. He stopped me and said, ‘I
have an idea. You look too good not to
show off. Let’s go.’ And then he took me by the hand and we
crashed the wedding party.”
“Very
impulsive.”
“We
danced for a good hour before the food was served. He twirled me and dipped me, sweeping me off
my feet.”
“Giving
great views of your gams, I’m sure.”
“My
what?”
“Never
mind.”
“From
there we went to the hotel room he had ready.”
“Just
for a nightcap.”
“In
the elevator up to the room, he kissed me passionately and his right hand began
going up my skirt.”
“I
bet the elevator wasn’t the only thing going up.”
“In
the hotel room he sat me down in the chair and asked if he could make a
request.”
“What
was that?”
“He
wanted to watch.”
“What?”
“He
wanted to watch me finger myself, with my clothes on. He said that his wife has a fear of fapping. She never does it. And it’s one of his favorite fantasies –
women masturbating.”
“Well,
he found the right woman, alright.”
“That
was no coincidence. He had been reading
the blog for a long time. He tried to
get his wife to read it, to open her up to new ideas.”
“And,
did it?”
“He
said it didn’t. I told him, ‘Well, I’m
wide open.’ That’s when he could resist
no more and he fucked me good, hard, long, and hard.”
“There
you go again,” I said.
“What?”
“You
said hard twice.”
“Well,
he was hard. I was easy.”
I
couldn’t take it any longer and I ejaculated deep inside her.
“Lo,
you are the poet here,” I said as I slowly pulled out. “You pain such vivid images in my mind.”
“And
now that you’ve dipped your pen in my inkwell, I’m sure you’ll write all about
it.”
[In honor of all our friends, such as Cara, Hy, Catherine, and of course, Michael & Molly, who are attending Eroticon this weekend, a little fantasy of what we envision our attending it to be like. Hopefully next year.]
Drawing of Lola by nglare
“LOLA”
– her name lit up the marquee. As we
approached the theater from the street, slick from the recent rain, Lo looked
up and said, “Big, bright, beautiful, and inviting. That’s me alright!”
We
were in England for the annual Literotica convention and somehow we were the
headline event for this evening’s performances.
Lo was giddy with excitement.
Entering
the theater from the side door for performers, there was a flurry of activity
backstage. Everyone was primping and
preparing. Lo, herself, had tried on
three different outfits and five different pairs of shoes before settling on
the glittery gold sequin top, the slinky green skirt, and the flashy four-inch
heels. “Green and gold,” I said, “the
colors of money.”
We
were there to do a reading and book signing, but Lo had plans for oh so much
more than that. Her Marina Abramovic
performance-art streak was activated and she had conspired with me to put on a
show. We were to be a Penn & Teller
style duet. She’d be Penn, the showman,
and I’d be Teller, the silent sidekick. She
had her props: a little wooden lectern on which she put the book, some paints,
paint brushes, markers, and a sign. The
sign read:
Match, Vol. I – $35
Match, Vol. II – $20
Match, Vol. III – $20
Complementary with
your purchase:
Squeeze
Tease
Pull
Paint
Draw
Write
Kiss
Suck
Cum
NOT ALLOWED:
Penetration of any
sort
Photos
(Mild BDSM is ok)
All prices USD
After
the opening acts, we were introduced to a loud round of applause. I got butterflies in my stomach and I’m sure
Lo did as well. We took our places on
the otherwise empty wooden stage under the hot spotlights. I stood next to Lo at the lectern with three
stacks of books and my portable credit card swipe device plugged into my phone.
Lo
opened the books to the places she had specially chosen for this event and read
some select passages: The preface to Vol I, penned by her; the encomium to the
color red; a few poems. As she read each
passage in her sweetly seductive voice, she slowly removed first one and then
the other strap of her blouse and let it fall, revealing her breasts. She then wriggled out of both the blouse and
her skirt until she stood stark naked but for her sexy heels. The poems were read in the buff.
When
she was done the music began – selections of songs mentioned in the books. I invited the audience members who had pre-purchased
books to step up and have Lola sign them while they each took a turn participating
in one of the activities mentioned on Lo’s sign.
The
first ones in line were a bit shy and timid.
They ventured a kiss or a gentle tug on Lo’s nipples while she leaned
over to sign one of the gloss nude photographs of her in the book. A few others took up the Sharpie pen and
wrote love notes to Lo on various parts of her body. Some wrote “Slut” or “hotwife” or “cum here” with
an arrow pointing to her puss.
As
the audience saw the performance taking place, those without books were eager
to get in line and I began selling our inventory. Men took out their cocks and began stroking
as they eagerly awaited their turn in line.
Some
of them stroked it next to Lola as she signed the books and wrote cute comments
about the men’s anatomy in the margins.
The
first man to cum did so on Lo’s feet, filling up her shoes with warm jizz.
The
next man to cum had a powerful ejaculation and managed to hit Lo’s tits with remarkable
aim. He even got a bit of applause!
A
woman was in line and she gave Lo a very warm kiss on the lips and then slid
her tongue down Lo’s neck to her glazed breasts and cleaned off the previous
customer’s cumtribution.
This
performance went on for some time, until we sold out of all our books!
Unfortunately
for Lo, all of this fun foreplay was merely a tantalizing orgasm tease. She whispered in my ear and I briefly
disappeared off stage to grab Lo’s favorite toy from one of the event sponsor’s
display: The Hitachi Magic Wand. We
plugged it into an extension cord and I brought the large, white device to Lo
who proceeded to use it on her clit while sitting in a high stool. She spread her legs and, within only a few moments
filled with tension and anticipation, Lo finally gushed with an torrential
outpour of emotion, release, and fluid that covered the stage.
After
her grand finale, some stage hands appeared at Lo’s side with warm, wet towels
and they cleaned her off. One of them
gently removed Lo’s feet, one at a time, from her shoes and wiped them
down. Another person mopped the wooden
floor. Once Lo was cleaned off, she got
dressed again and we walked off the stage.
Before exiting, though, Lo took a long bow, but not to the audience, but
to the wings of the stage, thus giving the audience one last look up her
skirt.
Congratulations
were showered on Lo and me from our fellow literotica friends and authors and
we got ready for the afterparty.
Recently,
a new phrase has been popping up in various articles on sex, relationships, and
women: The Orgasm Gap. Sometimes it’s
referred to as “The Gender Orgasm Gap.”
It is the result of various studies’ data showing that women in
heterosexual relationships have far fewer orgasms than their male
partners. This gap disappears in gay
relationships.
There’s
plenty of literature out there for you to do your own reading into the matter,
but what I would like to discuss here is the orgasm gap that exists between Lo
and me. In our relationship there is
undoubtedly an orgasm gap, but it is the inverse of the one referred to above.
I’ve
conducted my own non-scientific study.
One October a few years back (I deemed it “O-month,” for “Orgasm Month”)
I did my best to count the number of orgasms achieved by Lola (either during
coitus or on her own) and the number achieved by me, your faithful author. The results were 70+ for Lo (not exactly sure
of the actual number because I was relying on her reportage of her solo
sessions and often she lost count), to my 18.
That’s approximately a 4:1 orgasm gap in favor of the female.
Now,
in our relationship there are many “understandings.” I am not allowed to jack it unless
specifically instructed by Lola. That
usually means in her presence, so she can enjoy it. I am not allowed to have sex with anyone
outside our relationship. Lo, on the
other hand (so to speak), has no strings attached. Solo sex, sex with others, accidental orgasms
– all are fair game for her.
But
a while back, when Lo was cross with me about something and thus withholding
her pleasures from me, I took matters into my own hands, literally. I got myself a Stoya Destroya
Fleshlight. It served the purpose at the
time. It also came in handy (can’t seem
to get around that double-entendre) one night when Lola was too inebriated to
give consent.
Lola Fingering Stoya
Lo
doesn’t like my using Stoya’s pussy. Her
jealousy reigns supreme. It matters not
that it is literally just a pussy and not a person. But the other night. . . .
I
had to work late. I was at the office
around 7 pm and I got a text from Lo saying that she was going out to dinner
with her friend Candice. Lo and Candice
had become close friends over the past few months. Candice is a self-described “thick”
woman. I would describe her as
lusciously zaftig. She is heavier than
Lo by at least fifty pounds. When they
met, she was in a committed relationship, but that fell apart very
suddenly. Lo became her go-to confidante
and wing-woman. They went to clubs,
bars, restaurants together about three or four times a week. I think Lo enjoyed the singles scene and
having someone to share it with. Candice
frequently found fuck-buddies, but was longing for a man who would be a
dedicated daddy. She admired Lo and was
particularly envious of our special relationship.
Candice
would often come over for brunch after her one-night-stands and dish the
details about it to both of us over mimosas.
And
then the other night. . . .
As
I was saying, Lo went out to dinner with Candice. I thought nothing of it since it had become
part of their repertoire. I figured that
Candice was horny and looking to find a cock to bring home for the night and Lo
was going to help her, as usual.
(A
little aside here: If I were granted permission to have sex with just one of
Lo’s friends, it would be Candice. I
find her voluptuousness very attractive.
But, either out of respect for Lo or lack of interest, Candice has never
reciprocated my flirtatious banter with her.
Unless, of course, the juicy stories she tells us about her sexcapades
are intended to rouse me, which they do.)
But
when I got home, I found Lo in bed, jillin’ herself silly. She had all her toys on the bed and it looked
like she had used each and every one. Currently
she was banging with the largest of the bunch.
It was stuck to the headboard and she was sliding her ass back, taking
it all in, and then sliding forward.
Back-and-forth, slapping her cheeks up against the wood and then easing
off. She didn’t stop when she saw me
enter the room. I sat and waited,
patiently by the foot of the bed. She
looked at me as she fucked her dildo.
Our eyes were locked as I saw her desperately trying to get off. When she finally climaxed, slid off the
dildo, and sprawled out in the sheets, legs spread and sloppy, I kissed her
hello.
“Are
you mad, Daddy?” she asked.
“Why
should I be mad?” I responded.
“Get
naked and I’ll tell you.”
I
did as she requested, got in bed next to her, and listened as she told me the
following story:
I went to
the restaurant to meet Candice for dinner, but I was early and she was
late. I sat at the bar and ordered a
drink while I waited for her. As I
waited, a handsome, young, black man came in and sat next to me. He was very good looking, very fit, and I
suddenly found myself getting very wet.
Candice
finally arrived and as I was finishing my drink, the young guy got up and went
to the bathroom. I turned to Candice and
told her how hot I thought he was. She
admitted to me that she thought so too.
When he
came back, he paid his tab and got up to go.
But Candice immediately went after him.
She told him what I had told her in confidence, and he returned to the
bar and sat between us. He started up a
conversation with me and I found out that he’s a football player for the
college.
As we
talked, he began rubbing my thigh and moving slowly further and further toward
my crotch. I didn’t protest.
Eventually
he came very close to me and kissed me.
I reciprocated. But then I pulled
away and told him that I was there for Candice – her wing-woman. She wasn’t supposed to be mine.
I think he
liked that. He showed an interest in
both of us and the thoughts that went through my mind. . . .
She
didn’t elaborate, so I asked her, “What thoughts would those be?”
I
was fully expecting her to say, “Get in me and I’ll tell you,” but she
didn’t. After a pregnant pause, awaiting
her command, I finally got between her legs, poised to strike, but she covered
up her crotch with both hands and protested, “No, Daddy! I can’t.
I’m sorry.”
“Why
not?” I asked, frustrated and eager.
“I
did myself a little too much. I’m
swollen and sore.”
Not
only did I want her, badly, but I also wanted to hear the conclusion of her
story just as badly. I asked her
politely if I could use the Stoya Fleshlight.
She said, “Why don’t you just use your fist like a
real man?”
“I
could ask you the same thing. Instead of
using your Hitachi, your 18” dildo, or your Remus, why don’t you just use your fist like a real slut?”
She
laughed despite her anger as she threw a pillow at me.
“Fine,
get her out,” she said.
“You’ll
hold it for me?”
She
didn’t answer. I rummaged through the
back of the closet and pulled out Stoya.
I grabbed the bottle of lube from the nightstand drawer and I got both
Stoya and me nice and slick. Lo took the
hefty contraption in two hands and I slid right in.
“Comfortable?”
she asked.
“Yes,
very,” I said, making her more jealous.
“Go on with your story.”
“You
like fucking her, don’t you?” she asked.
“Not
as much as fucking you.”
“You
like fucking Stoya. You like that she’s
a porn star. You like thinking about how
many men have fucked that pussy already, how many men have cum in it.”
Stoya’s Lovely Lady Parts
I
was getting very turned on by her dirty words.
“Nothing
would be hotter than seeing you make a porno,” I replied. “I would stand in the wings while the
director, the lighting crew, the sound engineers, and of course, the four or
five male porn stars stood around your naked body as two or three of them
fucked you on camera.”
“Do
you want me or do you want Stoya?”
At
this point, I admit, in my mind, Lola and Stoya were fused into one person as I
imagined the set of the film.
“Fuck
her! Fuck her good and hard! Come on,” she demanded. “Fuck that used, slutty pussy. Cum in her.
Cum deep in her,” she commanded.
I can never resist her commands.
I came and I came hard as Lo pressed the Fleshlight down on my shaft,
licking her lips as she watched me crumble as if struck by an arrow of pure
pleasure.
I
never did get to the end of her story that night.
Lola’s Lolvely Lady Parts
I
have no idea how many times Lo came before I got home, but this is just one
example of the so-called “Orgasm Gap” in our relationship.
