Category Archives: hotwife

Sore, but not Satisfied

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We watched Boogie Nights up until the scene where the newbie pornstar, Dirk Diggler (Mark Wahlberg) is filmed by the seasoned director, Jack Horner (Burt Reynolds), making love to his wife, Maggie/“Amber Waves” (Julianne Moore).  At that point, Lo was too turned on from watching the movie while cock-warming me to continue.  We retired into the bedroom where she proceeded to ask me, “I bet you’d like to film me auditioning all those men who want to be pornstars, wouldn’t you Daddy?”

“I thought you were sore?” I asked her, referring to her masturbation marathon earlier in the day.

“Sore, but not satisfied.  Fuck me.  I like it when it hurts.”

I slid in her slippery snatch and she moaned with pleasure and pain.

“I think you’d like to be auditioning them,” I responded to her.

By the way her eyes rolled to the back of her head, I could tell that the image of her being the older seductress, seducing young, aspiring actors, getting them to break through the role and into the authentic enjoyment of her body, was turning her on.

While her fantasyland role was screening in the adult theater of her dark and dirty mind, my own thoughts were scrawling across my cerebrum.  Since I had cum on my own earlier that day, my stamina was augmented.  I had plenty of time, while Lo bounced up-and-down on my rod to the beat of her own drum, to explore the following musings.

I began with Boogie Nights and the thought of how, yes, Lo was right, I could easily see myself in the role of the director, Jack Horner, filming his own wife as she slept with various pornstars.  Turning her lustful liaisons into works of art was already my forte.  My mind then turned to the late, great Orson Welles and his love affair infatuation with Oja – his muse, mistress, and movie star of films such as F for Fake, and The Other Side of the Wind.  A documentary about the making of the latter movie came out a couple years ago and in it, those who were on set with Welles recalled how he wanted to film, at great length, a pornographic sex scene starring Oja with Robert Random (actual actor’s name).  Perhaps the aging Welles (he was between 55 and 61 while making it) took delight in seeing his young mistress (she was between 24 and 30 while making it) getting delight from a younger man who could give it to her.  Sounds familiar.

“Deeper, Daddy, please,” she whined as she rode me, startling me out of my musings.

I opened my eyes and saw her pulling at her nipples over me.  “Am I your pornstar?” she asked.

I tried to meet her descending hips with ascending thrusts of my own.  She needed to feel the tip of my shaft on that magic spot deep inside her.  If I were larger, longer, harder, I would press that button without even trying.  But, alas, that was not the case.

Frankie Shaw

 

Frankie Shaw

 

Frankie Shaw using her Instagram to expose herself

Her question turned my thoughts from directors making their muses the material of art, to that wannabe pornstar who used her creative powers of writer, director, and actor to live out her clear fantasy of being fucked on camera.  Frankie Shaw, in her series SMILF, used every opportunity to get naked, get laid, and get herself off in her show.  I wondered how her husband, Zach Strauss, enjoyed watching her perform completely gratuitous sex scenes on the show.  Let’s be clear, none of her sexpoloits were essential to the story – from her fantasy gangbang in the pilot where she is fucked by a basketball team of black men, to her seducing the boy she babysat, to the creepy scenes of her naked in a bathtub with her fictional child.  None of that advanced the plot in a way that it couldn’t have done without those scenes.  But, given the creative license she had, she used it to be as licentious as she could, making her the star – the pornstar.

Frankie Shaw from her Instagram being exhibitionist in her neighborhood during COVID

Lo wasn’t cumming.  She got up, off of me and commanded, “Get behind me and fuck me, hard!”  She was on all fours on the bed and needed me to stand up, perpendicular to her, as she looked in the full-length mirror before her, watching us fuck, as she might watch a porno.

“Come on, Daddio!  Really ram it home,” she called over her shoulder.

I thrust at her with all I had.  I was panting, sweating, wondering if my back was going to be sore for a week.

Mercifully, she began to cum.  I could feel her pussy clenching, preparing to eject me and ejaculate.  Her voice was insistent.  “Cum!  Cum!” she demanded, knowing that there were mere seconds left before I wouldn’t be able to remain deep inside her.

Enjoy your erotic reading.

“Where do you want me to cum?”

“Inmeinmeinmeinme!”

I don’t do well with cumming on command.  If she had said, “Whatever you do, don’t cum,” then there would have been no problem.  Besides, I had, at her recommendation, already cum once that day.  I was near my limit.

Frankie Shaw gets nailed by the boy she baby sat in SMILF

It was already too late.  The torrent had been unleashed.  The spillage had gushed down her legs and now the dam was about to break, flooding me right out of her.

Frankie Shaw stars in a porno

Her legs were quivering and she was pounding the bed with her fist as she screamed “FUCK!  FUCK!  FUCK!”

I backed up and watched the demonic possession take hold as she lost control of her faculties, senses, bodily movements, and sanity.

Her orgasms are simultaneously a full-body and out-of-body experience.  They are sublime to watch, in the full sense of that word: terrifyingly beautiful.

The bed covers were drenched; her body lifeless on top of the mess she had made.

Frankie dreams of Lola

Scene from SMILF
Not necessary, Right?
How did this get approved?

 

Slowly, her breathing steadied and resumed regularity.

She rolled over as if she had been hit by a Mac truck.

“Wow!” was all she said.  And then, a little while later, “I won’t be able to walk, sit, or cross my legs tomorrow!”

Frankie Shaw getting off to Lola Down

“I guess you’ll just have to lie in bed all day.”

“That’s ok, it’s my favorite place to be and my favorite position.”

She got off the bed and began cleaning up the sodden bedding, throwing all of it in the laundry basket.

“Feeling better?”

“You didn’t cum,” she had the gall to complain.

“I did, just not with you.”  I knew that remark would piss her off.

She gritted her teeth and growled at me.

“You told me to fuck Stoya, remember?”

“But on these short days in January, I really needed an injection of vitamin D, if you know what I mean.”

“It would have just come out in the wash anyhow.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

She thought for a moment.  “I like to have the power to make you ejaculate on command.”

“Talk about a control freak.  I did ejaculate on command – your first command.  You told me to jack off while you masturbated to oblivion.”

“But I thought you knew the Golden Rule: Love thy woman as thyself.”

“Oh, is that the rule?  I thought you said it was: Love thyself and often.”

“That’s my rule.  Not yours.”

“So, why did you tell me to go away instead of letting me watch?”

“Well, you made me jealous when looking at all those women.”

“You’re the one who wanted to look at them with me!”

“Fiddle-dee-dee,” she said, dismissively.  “I wanted to make you jealous.”

“Oh, so it had nothing to do with being turned on by them?”

“There was that too.  But now I feel so slutty.”

“You should.”

“No, Daddy.  I mean, not only was I cheating on you. . .”

“It’s not really ‘cheating’ if I know about it and condone it.”

“I was corresponding with a guy online.”

“Today?”

“Yeah, well, like every day.”

“And?”

“His name is John.  I call him my internet boyfriend.”

“I think you mentioned him to me.”

“And I was cheating on him with another guy.  Or maybe I was cheating on the other guy with John.  I don’t know.  It all gets so confusing.”

“Let me see your other boyfriends.”

She showed me their cumtribute photos.

“Looks like I have stiff competition!”

Lola

Masturbation Marathon

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

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

“Nothing,” I clumsily lied.

“What do you mean nothing?”

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

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

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

My heart was racing.  She gets so jealous.

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

I showed her the email and the photos.

“Nothing huh?  Who is she?”

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

“You really don’t know who she is?”

“I swear.”

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

“Yes.”

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

“No, absolutely not.”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Depends on which hole you mean.”

GULP.

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

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

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s Floss,” she said.

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

Floss and Match, Cinder & Spark

“And this is Karla.”

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

Just Floss

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

Karla and Chris

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

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

“Is she a fan?”

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

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

Karla over the years

Karla’s husband Chris getting off to Lola

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

“What?”

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

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna have me a wank too.”

“But you want me to leave.”

“Yeah, is that ok?”

“Um no.  Not really.”

Larry Archer’s wife

“Just give me a little while.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“OK?” she asked, shutting the door.

Stoya front, Lola back

I walked away again.

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

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

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

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

I returned to the couch and took a long nap.

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

“What are you doing?”

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

“You want something?”

“No, Daddy.”

“No?”

“I’m sore.”

“What the hell was going on in there?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

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

“Agreed.”

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

“Do tell.”

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

“I don’t mind. . . usually.”

“But I have a sort of internet boyfriend.”

“What is that?”

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

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

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

“Go on.”

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

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

“Yeah, they’re both married themselves.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“That’s just it!”

“What?”

“Do you think I have a problem?”

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

“Yeah, other than that.”

“No, not at all.”

“Really?”

John Doe shrine to Lola

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

John Doe gets of to Lo

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

“Want to watch a movie?”

“Sure.  What?”

Northerngentleman

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

Northerngentleman cums in his wife’s panties.

“No.”

“Oh, then you’re in for a treat.”

  • Photos used with permission.

Sweet Charity

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Wedded Bliss

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Daddy.”

“What?”

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

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

“My friend Sam.”

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

“OK.”

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

“I’m on the edge of my seat.”

“I’m on the edge too.”

“What did Sam say?”

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

“What?”

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

“OK, and he said?”

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

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

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

Alia

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

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

“I know!  Isn’t it flattering?”

“Lola Down – inspiring hotwives everywhere.”

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

Sam & Alia inspired by Lola

“A stroke of genius.”

“Did you say stroke?”

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

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

“You still want more?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To whom?”

“Anyone.”

She came yet again as she said it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you said you need a break.”

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

“Nah,” she said, nonchalantly.

“What do you mean, nah?”

“Not today, ole man.”

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

“I do that for you.”

“How is it for me?”

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

“You know me too well.”

“Why do you want my ass so badly?”

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

“What?”

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

 

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

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

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

“Do you have the church key?”

“That I do!”

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

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

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

Lo’s Temple of Venus

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

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

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

“What would?”

“If I wore a white wedding gown.”

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

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

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

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

Wedding Shower

She was lying in her own puddle, panting.

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

“Come here,” she said, not moving.

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

“That’s my good girl.”

She smiled.

Giving Away the Bride

COVID Birthday

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“Happy birthday!” said Lo in a sing-song tone.

Lola’s Gifts

I rolled over.  It was early.  Earlier than Lo gets up in the morning.  She wanted to make the day special for me since she knew that we couldn’t have a party or celebrate in any way that resembled birthdays past.

“Wanna have birthday sexy?” she said, rubbing her large breasts up against my bare back in bed, swinging her right leg up and over my hip and sliding her pussy up and down my hip.

“Not now,” I said like a real ingrate.

“Oh, don’t be like that.  Let’s get it on.  You’ll be the oldest person I ever fucked.  Again.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah.  Why?”

“Just checking.”

I slid my legs over the side of the bed and sat up.  I sat for a while contemplating the day before me.  I’m not a very social or sociable person.  That’s Lo’s department.  But this COVID thing did drive home just how much I actually enjoy being with people.

This year there would be no party, no rowdy crowd, now carousing.  Just a few cards.  Maybe a phone call or two.  I had already told Lo, absolutely NO Zoom party.

I stood up slowly and made my way to the bathroom.

“Leave it open!” Lo called, as usual.  She has a fetish for seeing a man pee.

I shut the door behind me.

When I emerged from the privy, I found Lo on the bed, legs spread, finger placed between her labia.

“Ready Daddio?”

“Not now, Lo.”

She rolled over and stuck her bum in the air.  “Birthday spanking?”

I patted her behind gently as I walked by it, exiting the bedroom to go make my coffee.

It was a weekday and so I went through my usual morning routine to get ready for work.

Lo, to my surprise, got dressed and was ready to go out the door before I was.

“Forget to buy a card?” I asked sarcastically.  It was cruel.

“Yeah,” she said, “I’m going to buy a condolence card since you seem to be set on mourning everything you don’t have.”

She left and I suddenly felt very alone.  Having Lo around to spout off my spoiled whining to was better than having no one around.

I ate breakfast, got dressed, hopped in the car, and drove to the office.

There would be no one at the office, again, thanks to COVID.  Everyone was working remotely.

I climbed the stairs to the floor that my office is on and turned to walk down the long hall to it when, looking up, I saw that the door to my office was open and, sitting there, framed by the doorway, was a sexy blonde wearing, it appeared, nothing but her black facemask.

I practically rubbed my eyes thinking I was still dreaming.  Was this a femme fatale straight out of a fifties’ movie?  Was I going to walk up to my office and she’d sit there, light a long cigarette in an even longer black filter, and speak to me in a sultry voice?  “Mr. H.  I would like to hire you to sue my husband.  It’s a hard case.  Do you like it when it’s hard?  I know I do.”

I walked slowly down the silent hallway.  Her eyes were trained on mine.  I got to the doorway.  She uncrossed her legs and spread them wide.  I could see now she was wearing merely an extreme micro bikini.  I stopped at the threshold.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“Happy birthday, Mr. H,” she replied.

Before I could ask how she knew it was my birthday, how she got into my office, or even who she was, she added, “Why don’t you come inside and shut the door behind you so we can have some privacy?”

I took a step in and closed the door.  It was then that I saw, inside my office, just out of sight from the doorway, was Lola, sitting in the waiting room chair.  Oh, thank God!

“Lola,” I said in my Ricky Ricardo voice.

“Hi Daddy!  Surprised?”

“What’s going on here?”

“This is Candie.  She’s a strip- er. . . exotic dancer, and she’s here to perform for you.”

“For me?”

“Well, for us.”

Candie stood up and just smiled.  She stood in the middle of the reception area on the hardwood floor in her tall stripper heels.

Lo turned on some music, Candie’s playlist, I imagine.

 

 

I smell sex and candy here
Who’s that lounging in my chair
Who’s that casting devious stares
In my direction

Mama this surely is a dream

Very appropriate, especially since her long blonde hair did smell like candy – cotton candy.  I sat down in the leather club chair where Lo had been and enjoyed the show.  She danced for a bit in her teeny-bikini, and then the top came off.  I saw her nipples were very hard.  That’s when I realized it was chilly in the office.  Lo had opened the windows to keep the air circulating.  Can’t be too careful.

To my surprise, Candie’s bottoms, what little there were of them, also came off.  As they did, Lo found her way to me and slid me out of my jeans.  She reached down to see how hard I was.  Very.  She got between my legs and went down on my rod like it was her candy.  I put up no resistance.

Lo looked up at me and said, “You like, Daddy?”

I looked down at her and said, “I do.  But I’d rather have you.”

That didn’t take much convincing.  Lo stood up and, as if she were on stage with Candie, removed her blouse, bra, skirt, and panties.  She kept her heels on.  Then she sat on my lubricated lingam and I eased into her dripping yoni.  She was facing away from me, toward Candie.  Lo put her right hand down to her crotch and made small circles on her clit while gently rising and lowering, as if riding a horse English style.  Candie was clearly performing for Lola and only secondarily for me.  She seemed to like what she saw and, judging from how wet Lo was, Lo enjoyed Candie’s performance just as much.

Candie sat on the floor and diddled her own pink parts.  Her breasts were small and perky.  She was probably Lo’s age or maybe a little younger.  She was confident in her performance.  I whispered in Lo’s ear, “Where’d you find her?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” said Lo.

“I am older, today!”

“Sit back and enjoy the show.”

I did just that.  I was too self-conscious to cum.  But Lo wasn’t.  Thank goodness the chair was leather and the floor hardwood.  Easy clean-up.

When her performance was over, Candie again wished me a happy birthday and thanked Lo.  She said, “I haven’t worked in months.  This was really helpful.  And I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

She got dressed as Lo used paper towels and all-purpose cleaner on the chair and floor.

Candie let herself out, wearing a long leather trench coat like a character out of The Matrix.

“Well, well, well,” I said to Lo.  “Do you have any more surprises up your sleeve for me today?”

“You’ll have to take off all my clothes again to find out.”

“All your clothes are off!!!”

“Does it look like I have anything up my sleeve?”

“I imagine you have more creative places to hide my birthday gifts.”

Victory Lap

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holiday Glaze

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

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

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

“What?” I asked groggily.

“Cum-walk.”

“I don’t want to walk.”

“No, Daddio, a cum-walk.”

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

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

“Since when is that a thing?”

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

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

“Say that four times fast!”

“Where’d you learn all those?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which time?”

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

“Right.  Yeah, so?”

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

“Yeah, I remember, fondly.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure you do.”

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

“I see.”

“Are you going to write about this one?”

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

“They don’t believe you, Daddy?”

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

“I’ve been told that before.”

“Morning,” said a passerby.

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

Lo’s braless top

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

“Yeah, but I made the wrong choice.”

“How’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should have known.”

admiration

Redoubled Effort

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Lo’s Dinner

“Is that the doorbell?” I asked, just as I was sitting down to eat dinner.

“Oh!” said Lo, getting up quickly from the table and rushing to the door.

“Oh what?”

“It’s the boys.  They’re here to fix the leak.”

“What boys?  What leak?”

“You know, Roy and Gary.”

“Oh, the brothers.”

“Yes,” she said, opening the door, letting them in.

They waved awkwardly at me.

“What leak?” I asked again.

“Oh, it’s not leaking yet, but it will be.”

Lo led the boys down the hall to the bedroom.  I waited a couple of minutes.  When I heard the moans of pleasure, I decided I’m not waiting any longer.  I’m eating my dinner.

Suddenly I heard the Beatles playing, drowning out Lola’s voice.

About fifteen minutes later the boys were leaving.  As they left, I saw them adjusting the crotches of their pants.  They waved goodbye as awkwardly as they had greeted me.

Then Lola reentered the dining room, her face slathered in cum.

She sat down and looked at me, “Are you mad, Daddy?”

“I’m confused.  What leak?”

“Oh,” she said, “me.  I’m leaking, now.”

Lo Sprung a Leak

“I see.  Lo, what is this all about?”

“What Daddy?”

“Having them drop by like this.”

“Well, they need a release.  Their mom doesn’t let them see anyone.”

“So you let them in your bubble?”

“I sure did.”

“Lo, they’re so much younger than you.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“I mean, I thought you liked older men.”

“I like to be their sweet release.”

“You’ll get them in trouble with their mother.  In fact, you might get in trouble with their mother.”

“She thinks that they’re just being handymen for me.”

“Very handy.”

“And the music?”

“I asked them both to ‘Cum together, right now, over me.’  And they did.”

“I thought you said you were leaking.”

“At that age, they’ve got such needs and. . .”

“And what?”

“And they’re so full!.  They both came twice in that short time!  Once over me, once in me.  And they could have gone for more, I’m sure!”

“Still hungry?”

“Seeing two brothers jackin’ it like that over my naked body. . . YES!  I’m soooo hungry!”

“I mean, for dinner.”

“Oh, no.  Was it good?”

“You could have told me they were coming over!” I blurted out, not realizing that I was inadvertently speaking a double entendre.

“I didn’t know until they did.”

“But you invited them.”

“Yes, but they both came much faster than I expected.”

“Are we talking about the same thing?”

“I don’t know, are we?”

“How about some dessert?”

“Ok,” she said, “in the bedroom or here?”

The Origins of the Mercy Fuck

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A while ago, when Lo and I first met up with the protégés, Zach and I had a nice little chat about our sexual proclivities.  My theory was and is that the things we obsess about as adults have their origins in our formative sexual experiences.  While talking with Zach, I was reminiscing about the girl who stole my virginity and then proceeded to crush my loving heart.  (“Stole my virginity” is hardly an apt phrase.  I was eager to get rid of it!)  It had not occurred to me at the time that there may be other, more subtle seeds that were sown in my libido that blossomed into an infatuation with nymphomanical women drawn to living the lifestyle of a hotwife.

hotwife hotty

But then Lo took pity on our friend, Professor Smith.  One night, when I was making passionate love to Lo and she was whispering in my ear about helping dear Dr. Smith to find release from his long sexual frustration, an image and snippet of conversation buried deep in the recesses of my memory was triggered.

It was the same year I had lost my virginity.  There I was, fifteen, and out with my two buddies – Ryan and Peter.  They were both seniors and I was a sophomore.  I looked up to Ryan with unquestioning admiration.  Ever since I was a freshman, my first day of high school, he kindly took me under his wing and showed me the ropes.  He taught me how to cut class, the shortcut to the convenience store to grab a sandwich and smokes, he let me drive his car in the parking lot, instructing me in the basics.  When it snowed, he would take us out into the same parking lot and we’d do donuts for hours on the slippery surface, fishtailing and skidding around like kids in their big, motorized toboggan.

To this day, I have no idea why he was so kind to me.  He had a generous nature and there was no one in the school who had a bad thing to say about him.  His best friend since childhood was Peter – also a senior.  Peter was, in many respects, the opposite of Ryan.  Whereas Ryan was good looking and “cool” – whatever that meant to us back in high school – Peter was quite unattractive and a “nerd.”  Peter had some terrible acne, he was about forty pounds overweight.  He dressed slovenly, showed no personal attention to grooming, and, to complete the picture, he played the tuba.  He didn’t just play the tuba.  The tuba was his life.  He was an award winning tuba player.  Such accolades, however, didn’t make him any more attractive to anyone.

Yet Ryan, unfazed by the court of public opinion – even in that most harsh and unfair court called high school – stuck by his buddy and stuck up for him.  It was a true bromance that was lovely to see.  Somehow, for reasons unfathomable to me, these two seniors were more than happy to include me, a mere freshman, in their little club.

In addition to Ryan and Peter, by the time I came on the scene, there was also Jackie, Ryan’s girlfriend of about a year.  Jackie was a tough, rough, brunette who was the star of the girls’ soccer team.  She played trumpet and also was on a girls’ rugby team.  I’ll admit, I had a crush on this sexy senior.  I’m sure it showed.  But I wasn’t alone; Peter also had a crush on her.  She was, in so many ways, “one of the guys.”  She hung out with us and reveled in our adolescent humor and poor manners.  She accepted everyone for who they were, perhaps because her tomboy persona set her apart from the other preppy girls of the school.  She wasn’t going to be one to judge since she was frequently on the receiving end of judgment from her peers.

Now that I’ve introduced you to all the players of this stroll down memory lane, I shall relate the inciting moment.  It was a dreary autumn day.  Ryan, Peter, and I were in Ryan’s car, getting high in the parking lot of a state park.  Peter was monologing about his unpleasant family situation.  His parents would have been better off divorced and they treated him and his siblings as so much extra baggage.  As Peter’s rant continued, he touched upon all the other aspects of his life that sucked – his failing grades, his lack of money, his unseemly appearance, being overweight, being a virgin.

And that’s when Ryan said the words that I, a fifteen-year-old virgin myself at the time, could not believe I was hearing.  “Do you want to fuck Jackie?”

“What?” asked Peter.

“Do you want to fuck Jackie?”

“No.  I mean, yes, I do.  But, if you’re really asking, no.”

“I’m really asking.”

“Stop fucking with me.  I’m high and this is a mind trip.”

“No.  I talked to her about it.  And. . .”

“Talked to her about what?”

“About fucking you.”

“You what?!”

“Yeah, I asked her if she would fuck you.”

“Why the hell would you ask her that?!”

“Because, I think you need to pop your cherry and move on.  It would be a real confidence boost for you.  Plus, she’s fucking amazing in bed.”

“I’m sure she is – don’t think I haven’t imagined what she’s like in bed.”

“OK,” I said, “this is getting weird.”

“But she’s your girlfriend,” continued Peter.

“So?”

“So?!  Don’t you think that would, like, fuck everything up?”

“What would it fuck up?”

“Our friendship, your relationship with Jackie, I don’t know – those are the two biggies I can think of.”

“No,” said Ryan nonchalantly, “it wouldn’t fuck up anything.  It would unfuck you up.”

“Fucking your girlfriend would unfuck me up?  That’s the most nonsensical thing you’ve ever said, on so many levels.”

“All I’m saying is, if you want to, you can.”

“It is tempting,” said Peter.

“Then do it.  I’ll talk to her tonight and I’ll let you know when and where.”

“Fuck you!”

Well, I don’t remember the rest of that day, but the next weekend I was out with Peter and I asked him, “So, did you take Ryan up on his offer?”

Embarrassed, he said, “MmmmHmmm.”

“You did?!  Tell me about it!”

“He asked Jackie again and she said, ‘Sure.’  Ryan came back to me and told me that she’ll be at his house after school on Friday.  He’d go out for a couple of hours and she’s all mine if I want.  I was tortured by the choice.  He told me this on Wednesday.  I kept going back and forth in my mind.  Eventually Friday came around and I thought, ‘Well, I’ll just go over there and talk with her.’  I showed up at Ryan’s house and there she was, wearing only her panties and bra.  I tried to talk with her and she just led me into the bedroom and got on her knees.  She looked up at me and said, ‘I’ve always wanted to be the first with someone.’  When she pulled out my pud, she put it in her mouth.”

He stopped talking.

“And?” I asked, on the edge of my seat.

“And, with one lick I came all over her.”

“Oh my God!  No!”

“Yeah.  I couldn’t help it.  I’m lucky I didn’t cum in my pants before she undid them.”

“So, that was it?  You’re still a virgin?”

“No, that wasn’t it.  She was very good about it.  She smiled, licked what she could, cleaned up, and then we lay in bed.  It didn’t take long before I was hard again – especially because she got completely naked in bed – and, well, I had her.”

“You did?!”

“Yeah.  She was amazing!”

In retrospect, I probably could have had Jackie too, but at the time I was too proud for a pity fuck.  I wanted my first time to be with someone I loved.  Silly me.

All’s well that ends well – Jackie and Ryan continued dating until she went off to college.  Ryan and Peter remained the closest of friends.  And I found my first love and she ripped my loving heart right out of my chest, but that’s a tale I’ve already told you.

 

Sticky Fingers

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Work on Top, Party on Bottom

“MmmmmHmmmm. . .  Yeah. . . That’s right.  Yesssss.”

These are the words I heard Lo saying as I walked in the door for lunch.  I turned the corner and entered the living room where I saw Lo at her makeshift home office desk in front of the open window that looks out onto the street from our apartment.  She was business on top, naked on bottom.  Her legs were spread.  She had a small oscillating personal fan on the floor under her desk blowing on her bare mons Veneris.  She held her phone with her left hand and was stroking her air-cooled puss with her right.  There was a small puddle on the hard wood floor beneath her task chair.

She looked over her shoulder at me and interrupted her self-pleasure just long enough to communicate to me in primitive sign language that the computer screen in front of her, on her desk, was on for a Zoom call with work.  She covered up the speaker of her phone and whispered, “It’s on mute.”

“You sure about that?” I asked.

She gave me the finger before going back to finger herself.

“MmmmmHmmmm.  Yeah, I’m here.  Yeah.  Tell me again what you are doing.”

I walked away from the sight and left her to her own coping strategy for remote work.

I was on a mission: Lunch.

I went to the kitchen and grabbed some bread, lettuce, tomato, and. . .

“FUUUUUKKK!”

I dropped everything.  Startled for a moment that Lo fell off her chair or that she lost all her work on her computer, I stopped cold in my tracks.  Then I quickly recalled what she was up to in the living room.

I walked in to find Lo in the same spot, larger puddle under chair, phone hung up, and her panting.

I looked out the windows onto the street and there definitely were people looking into the building trying to ascertain the source of the alarming scream.

“Lo,” I began to rebuke her.

“Get me a paper towel, a mop, something!”

I returned with a whole roll of paper towels.

“Can you clean it up?” she asked.

“What?”

“Can you clean it up?  Just stay out of sight of the camera.  I’m still on this Zoom call for work.”

“Multitasking?”

“Yeah, I’m very talented.”

I surreptitiously got on my hands and knees and cleaned up the mess under her chair.

“This is all from you?” I asked, incredulous.

“Well, I started with an ice cube on my puss, then in my puss.  But it melted.  The rest, yeah.  An artesian spring.”

“Maybe we should bottle that stuff. We could make more money than San Pellegrino.”

“Shhhh, I have to unmute.”

She clicked a button and then said, “Yes,” in a very professional voice – so different than the voice she was using with her paramour.  “I think that sounds good,” she said to some pixilated person in the ether.

I took the wet towels and left Lo to her work.

As I sat eating my sandwich and drinking a cold beverage, Lo sauntered into the room, still pantless.

“Thanks Daddio,” she said, sitting across from me.

I grunted and continued to chew.

She could tell I was displeased with what I found.  She tried to explain it away.  “It’s just so hot in here.  I don’t have central air like you at your office.  I had to improvise.  The fan and the ice cube helped.”

“And your phone-a-friend?”

“Well, that Zoom call was just so long and boring!”

“It’s called ‘work,’ Lo.  Not every moment of every day is filled with magic pixie dust and populated with penises for your own personal pleasure party.”

“Oh, but why not?” she asked in her little girl voice.

“Who was on the call?”

“Who do you think?”

“Robert.”

“Nope.”

“One of the brothers.”

“Nope.”

“Both of the brothers.”

“Wrong again.”

“MILF Meri.”

“Getting warmer.”

“I’m out of guesses and I’m almost out of time and patience.”

“Oh, you’re no fun!  It was Scott.”

“Scott?!  MILF Meri’s husband?”

“One and the same.”

“You called him or he called you?”

“Neither.”

“Someone called somebody.”

“Well, he sent me an email and asked if I could talk.”

“Did you talk or did you listen?”

“A little of both, Daddio.  You wanna know what was said?”

“I know what you’re up to and I’m going to tell you, I have to get back to work.  No hanky-panky.”

“You use the oddest, oldest phrases.”

“I’m odd and old, so I can get away with it.”

“Well, you’re going to have to wait anyhow.  I have to hop on another Zoom call.”

“You going to put on your pants?”

“What’s the matter, don’t you think work on top, party on the bottom is home-office appropriate?”

“Is this call for work, or are you sex-camming with an admirer?”

“I told you, I don’t do that anymore.”

“Well, the times, they are a changing.”

“Would you like it if I went back to it?”

“I’ve told you, Lo, you’re free to do whom or what you want whenever you want.”

“I know, Daddio, but I like to hear you say you want me to.”

“Would you do it?” I asked.

“Oh, gotta dash!” she said, returning to her makeshift desk.

She sat back down and I let myself out of the house to return to work without interrupting her work or pleasure call.

I wasn’t back at the office for more than ten minutes before I got a frantic call from her.  “Daddy, Daddy!”

“What’s the matter Lo?”

“I need you!”

“Is this a mid-day booty call?  Because I just. . .”

“No,” she interrupted, “come home right away!”

I returned to the house as quickly as I could and I found Lo on the living room couch, her panties around her ankles, her right hand on her pussy.

“Lo,” I said, suspiciously.  “What’s this all about?”

“I’m stuck.”

“What?”

“I’m stuck.”

“How’s that?”

“I accidentally broke the handle off of my favorite teacup and I was trying to fix it with superglue.”

I’m a little teacup

At that moment I noticed the cup and the superglue tube on the coffee table in front of her.

“And?”

“And somehow my index finger got stuck to my clit!”

“Somehow?”

“This is not the time to tease.”

“I’m not teasing.  I just don’t know how that’s possible.”

“It’s very possible.”

“Only if your diddling the bean while engaged in a repair job.  Were you diddling the bean?”

“That’s not the right question now.”

“Seems like a very pertinent question.”

“The question is how I unstick myself.”

“Maybe I should just let you stay stuck.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” she growled, anger in her eyes.

“I might.”

“Grrrrr!”

“I might even invite the neighbors over.  Maybe I’ll charge five dollars admission.  ‘See the nympho who got caught with her hand in the cookie jar!’” I feigned being a circus barker.

“You’re mean and cruel.  I don’t know why I love you.”

“You love me because I’m mean and cruel and I’m the only person on this planet who puts up with your hijinks.”

“What are you going to do about this?” she asked, indicating her sticky situation.

“Let me look up home remedies for girls who superglue their fingers to their clit.”  I pulled out my computer and added, “Or maybe I should post on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram and ask the hivemind what they think.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Woudn’t I?”

I Googled it.

“Do you have nail polish remover?”

“Why?”

“It says to soak a cotton ball in nail polish remover and apply to the stuck spot.”

“DON’T YOU DARE apply nail polish remover to my clit!!!”

“No?”

“NO!!!”

“OK.  Let me look up other remedies.”

I continued searching.  “Ah-ha!  You’re in luck!”

“What’s it say?”

“There are two mildly erotic ways we can go about undoing your masturbatory mess.”

“I wasn’t masturbating!”

“Of course you weren’t.”

“What’s it say?”

“We could either soak you in a nice warm bath with some soap.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Or, apply some vegetable oil to the affected area.”

“Hmmmm, that could be fun too!”

“Let’s do a little of both.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Follow me.”

I led her to the bathroom and got her in the empty bath.

I went to the kitchen and grabbed some vegie oil and returned to her, dripping it on her hand and pussy, soaking both.

Then I turned on the warm water and let it fill up the bath.  It only took a few minutes before she was unstuck.  I poured more oil over her pussy and slid my fingers over her clit.

“Is this where you were stuck?”

“Yes Daddy.”

“How’s that feel?”

“Good Daddy.”

I slid in a finger.  Then another.  Then three.  Then four.  Then my thumb as well.  They all slipped right in without resistance.

Lo moaned.

“What were you doing?”

“When, Daddy?”

“When you got so attached to yourself.”

“I did it unconsciously.  I didn’t even know I was touching myself.  I swear.”

She reached down and pushed my hand from the wrist.  In it slipped, a full fist inside her pussy.

“Yeah, Daddy.  That’s it.”

The water was up around her ankles.  She slowly stood up in the bath and bent over, keeping me inside her the whole time.

“Put your other hand in,” she said.

I slowly wedged my left hand in until it was clasped with my right hand inside her pussy.

“Have you ever been double-fisted before?”

“Noooooooo,” she said, cooing.

Her hips were rhythmically rocking forward and back, humping my two hands until she came.  I felt her Kegel muscles clench, but, unlike when my cock is in her, she couldn’t possibly squeeze my hands out with her orgasm.  I waited until she was good and done before I slid them out slowly.

“That was fun,” she said, sitting down in the bath, putting her legs up on the wall, letting the water splash down on her pussy.

“You may go now,” she said dismissively as she let the waterfall bring her to another climax.

I didn’t leave though.  I dropped my pants and did what she always longs for me to do.  I stroked my cock, using the vegetable oil as a lubricant.   I stroked it over her naked body as she let the water run over her clit.

“You know,” I said, “Cleopatra used to bathe in a bath filled by her slaves with semen.”

“You’re so hot,” she said.

“I bet you’d like to have enough men surrounding you, stroking to the sight of your naked body, to fill your bath with their warm, pearly cum.”

“You know me too well, but right now, if you’d give me just enough for a nice facial, I’d be a happy girl.”

I needed no further encouragement.  I provided the beauty cream she requested and she, in turn, reached orgasm #3.

“There’s nothing like learning history while masturbating,” she said.

“I hate to break it to you, but that story of Cleopatra is an urban myth.”

“Really?!”

“Sad, but true.  Its origins are unknown.”

“Hmm,” she said, pensively.

“What?”

“I wonder if two thousand years from now stories about me will make a loving couple orgasm together.”

“If the reports of your contemporaries are any indication, then, yes, it’s very likely.”

“Good.  Maybe they’ll report that you were able to fill up the tub with your semen single handedly just by looking at my face.”

“It sure feels that way.”

“I’m sure it does, to you anyhow.”

Wet

Spread the Love

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“But Daddy, it’s Thanksgiving,” whined Lo.

“COVID Thanksgiving,” I reminded her.

“Exactly.  All the more reason.”

“Lo, though I admire your generosity of spirit. . .”

“More like horniness of flesh.”

“Whatever.  The fact is that this Thanksgiving isn’t going to be like Thanksgivings past.”

“I know, but maybe I could just. . .”

“Absolutely not.”

That, as they say, was that.

Lo had wanted to continue with her ‘lock-down panties-down’ frolics.  Since the beginning of COVID she had been the goto girl for the brothers across the street, MILF Meri and her merry band of horny men, and Professor Robert Smith.  For her, this was a reduction in her socializing and she was complaining about it.  She envisioned a very thankful Thanksgiving Day meal with her as the main course.

But reality was not accommodating.  COVID numbers were up.  Though Lo likes it when things go up, this was not one of those things.

“So, it will just be the two of us?” she asked meekly.

“I’m afraid so.  Am I not enough for you?”

“Oh, Daddio, you’re the world to me.”

“That’s more like it.”

“But you know, our blog always has higher viewing on holidays.”

“True.”

“And that’s because so many people feel alone on the holidays.”

“Also true.”

“And we help them to feel better.”

“We?”

“I.”

“True.”

“So, maybe we could do something special for all of our fans.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.  You’re the creative genius.  I’m just here to inspire.”

“That you do.”

I had been thinking lately about the phrase “a social art form.”  I wonder, is every form of art social?  I mean, there are a few outliers, like Emily Dickinson scribbling poetry in her bed for no one to read.  Or Franz Kafka, who instructed his literary executor to burn all of his writings after his death.  But these few notables are exceptions who prove the rule.  Most, if not all art is created to be shared.  In one way or another it is created for others.

Never had I really thought about that until COVID times struck and all the things that I had taken for granted were taken away from me: going to the movies, attending the theater, live music concerts, poetry readings, museums, art galleries, dancing!  It has dawned upon me that ART IS SOCIAL!  Yes, this blatantly obvious fact was hidden from my view because I am a rather solitary sole who is content to sit, like Thoreau, in his garret and write away the hours for my own entertainment.  But, in the end, I have to admit that even these scribblings of a madman are a social art form.  They live, breathe, and exist in the public sphere.  If things were otherwise, I wouldn’t post them, they wouldn’t be published in books, you wouldn’t be reading this.

Perhaps writing and reading are less social art forms than performing in a rock band for thousands of people, but they are social activities none-the-less.  And, as if this introvert’s idea of himself wasn’t turned upside down enough by this realization, then the fact that I write erotica rounds off the perfect circle for, of all the literary art forms, isn’t erotica the most social?  I mean, erotica stems from the erotic – Eros, the god of desire and intimate congress.

So, maybe at heart, I am a social being after all and my art is also a social event rather than an artifact existing under glass tucked away in a hermetically contained vault for no one to see.  Even the plethora of papers I have written that you have never seen and are not likely to see, are part of this social ecosystem because the mere mention of them puts them in play.  Like J. D. Salinger’s unpublished works, you probably are more interested in that stuff than the published pieces.  (Am I right?)

Understood this way, Lola and I are not so very different from one another.  Though our relationship and my writing about it has played off of our counterpointal conflicts, it turns out that, on a deeper level, we are far more similar than I had suspected.  She likes to express herself through her social art form – sex – and I like to express myself through mine – writing.  Together, we make an incongruent pairing that is more harmonious than discordant.

“I’ve got it!” I said to Lo.

“Yeah?  What?”

“For Thanksgiving this year, let’s do what Hermann Hesse did during the war.”

“What was that?”

“He sent books to prisoners of war.  This is going to be a tough COVID winter.  Everyone is going to feel like a prisoner.  Starting on Thanksgiving and ending on December 10, why don’t we send a free copy of one of our books or audiobooks to anyone who asks?  Can you picture it, books with your image on the cover being unwrapped all around the world on Christmas morning?!”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea!”

“Really?”

“Yeah.  A tangible way to spread the love.”

“And we know how much you love to spread.”

“If only it could be more tangible.”

[For your free copy, please write to us at: downloladown@gmail.com]

Grist for the Mill

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Tanning while reading Match, Cinder & Spark

Strolling through the park on a bright summer’s afternoon.  “What a glorious day,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said lasciviously.

I looked at her eyes and followed her line of sight.  She was watching two sunbathers.

“Lo, what are you thinking about?”

“Nothing, Daddy, I just can’t wait to get home and bang you,” she said while biting her lower lip.

The female sunbather turned over, revealing that she was wearing merely a thong.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, accusatorily.

“Darling, the difference between you and I is that I am an aesthete.”

She rolled her eyes.  “This again?”

“And you are a hedonist.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  Quite so.”

“What makes me a hedonist for looking at the exact same thing you were looking at?”

“I was looking at the entire composition of the sun, the clouds, the green grass, the spatial relations of the various persons and trees upon the sward, the mathematical ratio of the low lying buildings to the rectangular outline of the park’s boundary.  I could go on.”

“I’m sure you could, you pompous ass-thete!”

“While you, my dear,” I continued, ignoring her invective interruption, “were simply thinking about the heat of the sun, the cool of the breeze, the tingling between your legs stimulated by the physical appearance of those two bodies over there, going home, fucking and eating.  That’s what makes you a hedonist and me an aesthete.”

“You are unbearable!”

“Why do you take such offense?”

“Because you’re basically saying that I’m a simpleton with animalistic cravings and you are a cerebral demigod!”

“Darling, but don’t you see – that’s why we’re are made for each other.  You admire that about me and I admire you for your primal desires.  You wish you could be more like me and I wish I could be more like you.  That is the law of attraction.”

“Primal desires?!”

“I don’t mean it in a value-laden sense.  It’s merely descriptive.  As the great philosophers of Utilitarianism – Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill. . .”

“Oh boy, here we go!”

“As the originators of that philosophy of pleasure, Bentham, in contrast to Mill, put no greater weight on the enjoyment derived from eating bonbons than that derived from reading Balzac.”

“If you could shut up for ten minutes, I’d love to eat your sword and fondle your ball sack.”

“Darling, when I said ‘sward’ earlier, it was with an ‘A,’ meaning a green pasture.  And the Balzac to which I just now referred was to the French author Honoré de. . .”

“Please, please give it a rest!”

“All I’m saying is that the utils that you get from. . .”

“The what?”

“Utils.  The unit of measurement of pleasure in Utilitarianism.”

“Oh, back to that are we?”

“The utils that you get from seeing a curvaceous and scantily clad female are no better or worse than the utils I derive from viewing a Kandinsky painting.  I’m much more sympathetic to Bentham’s egalitarian theory than Mill’s hierarchy of pleasures.”

“Really?  You?  Mr. aristocrat himself?”

“If, by ‘aristocrat,’ you mean that I subscribe to a ranking of merit, then guilty as charged.  But one can excel in merit while still deriving pleasure from the simplest of things.”

“You are such an asshole!”

“But if pressed,” I said, again overlooking her impulsive outburst, “I would have to admit that I do not subscribe to Utilitarianism at all.”

“OK, I’ll bite.  What do you subscribe to?”

“I think Nietzsche understood that humans are not such simplistic beings as brute beasts, merely out to diminish pain and increase pleasure.  Observation of any great artist shows that the highest exemplars of the human race make great sacrifices and endure terrible suffering for the sake of art.”

“Oh, and what sacrifices and sufferings have you had to endure?”

“The subheading of our blog is ‘the trials and tribulations of dating a nymphomaniac.’”

“I am the source of your suffering?!”

“The source of my art, and thereby, the source of the suffering that I go through for it.”

“What suffering is that?  Having sex with a goddess multiple times a day?”

“No, no, no dear.  It’s the, the, um, creative process.”

“What does that mean?”

“Like this conversation, for instance.  It’s all just grist for the mill.”

“So, conversing with me is a source of suffering for you?”

“No, no.  You take my meaning all wrong.”

“I really don’t see another possible interpretation.”

At this point, we were at our front door.  Just as we arrived, a sun-shower began.

“What a weird season,” said Lo.  “It’s wet like spring, hot like summer, and beautiful like autumn.”

“You just described yourself: wet, hot, and beautiful.”

Lola Down – Wet, Hot, and Beautiful

“What about smart?”

“Lo, you know how I admire your intelligence.”

“Do I?  You just performed an oral dissertation about how I am a hedonist given over to carnal desires.”

“There’s wisdom in that.”

“What does that mean?”

“You are wise beyond words.”

“I know what you’re saying.  You wish I’d shut up and you could simply enjoy my beauty without having to listen to me talk.  You think you’re so smart.”

“No.  I’m just wise beyond your years.”

“I don’t need your stamp of approval.  I know I’m smart,” she said with a grin indicating just how content she was with herself.

“Then why do you get so upset when I talk?”

“Because you say the dumbest things.”

I must have looked mortally wounded by her words because she followed that up with, “I mean that with love.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“The dumbest things for someone so intelligent.  That’s what I meant.”

Once we were inside, I sat down at my computer to transcribe this little conversation of ours.  She was in the bedroom, naked no doubt.  She hollered down the hall for me to join her.

“Can’t you see I’m writing?  Why do you keep distracting me?” I called back.

“You think that life is just writing and that everything else is a distraction.”

I heard the quiet purr of her Hitachi start up, followed by her moans of pleasure.

When I had completed the reporting of our peripatetic discourse, I sauntered down the hall to check on her, following the sounds of her self-copulatory female vocalizations.

Her right hand held the mechanism between her legs as her left held her phone and scrolled through various images.

Lo’s Little Friend

I turned to leave.

“Hey,” she called to me, “where are you going?”

“It seems that you have matters well in hand,” I said.  “You give no indication of needing assistance.”

“For many species, masturbation is the mating call,” she responded.

“Oh, so you want me?”

“If your superior intellect can deign to do me – a mere mortal full of base desires.”

“Like the immaterial Nous infusing the nether pleroma with its animating spirit.”

I had penetrated her as I spoke those words.

“You’re lucky I’m such a sapiosexual, or else I’d take offense at that,” she said, looking up at me.  “But the mere fact that you not only know what those terms mean, but can use them when fucking turns me on.  And, I might add, your emanation is hardly immaterial.”

Within moments she had reached the apogee of her venereal excitement.

I slowly removed my sword from her scabbard and stood over her recovering body.

“What?” she asked.  “You’re not going to cum?”

“That was strictly for your pleasure, my dear,” I said.

“You got nothing from it?” she asked, insulted.

“Your enjoyment gives me satisfaction.  Now, back to my writing.”

“Good grief!  You’re lucky you have me or you’d have nothing to write about except ideas!”

Cum-Covered

Later that day, a friend sent an email asking, “How are you two?”

Lo responded, “We’re doing fine.  HH is writing.  I’m masturbating.  Once in a while he puts down his pen and picks up his penis and gives it to me.  But mostly he gives me his stories to edit.”

I turned to her and said, “You know, my writing makes you immortal.”

“And my body makes you mortal.”

“Are you saying that without your body I’d live forever?”

“No, I’m saying that without my body, you wouldn’t even live once.”