How to Practice Ethical Non-Monogamy Under Lockdown

[Hi everyone! We hope that you boys & girls reading this from home are all safe and healthy. We know you’re sexy! We’re interrupting our usual programing of the mini-series “Mount Bliss” to bring you this story. You, our longtime readers and fans, probably know that most of the stories you read here are true, but HH takes a long time to craft them and so they are not usually about what is happening NOW. This is a little different.  It was featured in the May edition of Ethical Non-Monogamy (ENM) Magazine (p. 38).  It’s appropriate not only because it tell you how we are dealing with life under lockdown, but also it’s appropriate since May is Masturbation Month!  We hope you enjoy and we love to hear your stories of how you are doing: downloladown@gmail.com]

How to Practice Ethical Non-Monogamy Under Lockdown

“Fuck me,” she said, “Yeah, like that.”

I looked in the slightly ajar door to see just whom Lola could be fucking during a mandatory lockdown in a global pandemic.

“Oh, yeah,” she cooed as she lay, splayed out on the bed, one hand up inside her, the other squeezing her tits.

She was fucking herself and, apparently telling herself just how much she enjoyed it.

Desperate times, I suppose.

We had been in lockdown for two weeks.  It wasn’t so bad.  We were in Florida, by the beach, which eventually got closed down.  But we had a pool.  That too got closed the second week.  Now, all we had was each other and our health – a lot to be thankful for, no doubt, but not nearly enough for Lo.

We were both working remotely.  It was a little past one in the afternoon.  I was trying to do a conference call to Ms. Gale, my secretary, and one other person, but the moans and groans, gasps and grunts from the bedroom could be heard throughout the small apartment we were renting.  When she transitioned to actual words like “Fuck me.  Yeah, like that,” I had to make an excuse to hang up and go check on my nympho in the bedroom.

I politely waited until she was done – or at least taking a pause from her self-pleasure.

“Lo, come on!”

“What Daddy?”

“It’s one-fifteen.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Don’t you have work to do as well?”

“I’ve always had an hour of me-time scheduled every day on my work calendar, even before this whole Coronavirus thing.  Everyone knows not to bother me for this hour.”

“Do they know what you’re doing on your ‘me-time’?”

“Oh no, Daddy.  Well, I mean, I guess some of them probably have their suspicions.”

“Let me tell you, if you’re as loud in your office as you are here, then everyone knows.”

“I’m sorry, Daddio.  But I wouldn’t have to do this if you’d just fuck me.”

“We fucked last night and this morning.”

“So, why not this afternoon?”

“If I fucked you as much as you want it, then I certainly would die during this pandemic, but not from the virus!”

“It’s good exercise.”

“It seems like the only exercise you’ve been getting.”

“Well, the gym’s closed.  Besides, the CDC said that the safest sex anyone can have right now is with themselves.”

“The CDC did not say that!”

“Someone said that.”

“Probably you.”

“That doesn’t make it untrue.”

“Good grief!  Well, try to keep the sound effects to a minimum.  OK?  I have calls to make.”

While I work the day away, Lola plays.  She carries on about five to ten affairs from afar with various men and women.  Her friend, Nero Black, posted about jacking to her photos while his wife, who rarely gives up her goodies to him, jills it in the next room to taboo incest literotica.  Yet, the married boy best beware if she happens to walk in on him in the onanistic act of worshipping Ms. Down.  Lo has frequently suggested (nay, more than suggested, demanded) that Nero direct his partner’s web browser to mysexlifewithlola, or, at the very least, put the two of them in contact with each other.  But, as of yet, he has refrained.  Many-a-night I’ve had to hear from Lo about how she would have treated the two of them if she were their couples counselor.

Lo is friends with a lovely married couple from NJ, Mike and Danielle.  Mike has been a stay-at-home-dad to his two young daughters while Danielle has done the 9-to-5 at the office.  This has left Mike with time to chat with Lo and fap to Lo when the girls are down for a nap.  Luckily, unlike with Mr. Black, this has all been on the up-and-up with his wife Danielle.  In fact, not only with her blessing, but her encouragement.  She loves to come home and see the cumtributes her husband made to and for Lola.  Then, after the kids are put to bed, they turn on Lo’s pixilated pussy and fuck each other while looking at Lola.

Sharing Couple from NJ Hubby’s Cumtribute to Lola

Sharing Couple of NJ Enjoying the Stories

Sharing Couple of NJ Getting off to Lo

 

Of course, for Lola this is more fodder for the fapper.

Then there’s Floss and Nikki of FlossDoesLife and LoveIsAFetish, respectively.  They both have written raving reviews of the Match, Cinder & Spark books and, what gets Lo going even more, took sexy pics of themselves getting off to the printed page.  What else are you going to do in isolation?

Floss & Lola

Nikki of LoveIsAFetish getting off to Match, Cinder & Spark

Both Matt and Nelson of tehben.com have also written glowing, yet critical reviews of the audiobook, narrated by the inimitable Jupiter Grant.

The Beautiful Jupiter Grant

Not only do the reviews get Lo riled up, but Lo listens to Jupiter recite tales of Lo’s ribald antics just about every night, which causes her to alternately laugh and lunge in the bed next to me.

Then there’s the various women Lola’s attempting to seduce via sexy chat: Chelle Silverstein, Francesca Demont, and a woman who goes by the cyber-chat name of Warm Skin. 

Warm Skin Getting off to Lo

Don’t get me wrong, this whole ordeal has taken its toll on all of us in so many ways, and Lo is not exempt from that.  There are the nights that Lo can’t sleep due to anxiety about losing her job.  Afternoons that Lo returns from food shopping and has a full-blown panic attack that she has contracted the virus and is certain to pass it on to me.  Lo’s greatest fear? – dying alone.  That means, if I die first, which is more than likely given our age difference, then who will be there for her?  So, worse than her getting sick, in her mind, is my getting sick and dying!  There is the frequent fretting about family members who are already fighting this virus in far-flung points on the map.  Yes, we don’t talk about family too much here, but we do have relatives who are now among the ever-growing statistics you read about in the news.

For Lo, the go-to stress relief from all this ever-higher mountain of seen and unseen woe is found right between her legs.

Lo practicing Social Distancing Stress Relief, pass it along.

Finally, of course, there is just your straight-up porn that Lo has been watching.  Lo has a penchant for amateur porn and her latest infatuation is with the couple Lindsey and Mike Love.  Just as Lo and I fulfill the fantasies of many of our fans, I believe, Lindsey and Mike live out the fantasy life of Lo.  A married couple who enthusiastically got into porn together from the tender age of eighteen and rise to amateur stardom, getting rich and having fun.  I think the thing that Lo likes the most about the pair is that they have a real relationship, a story, and that they are very open to exploring sex with all genders, together and solo.

An hour later, Lo emerged from the bedroom.  “Daddy, it’s hot in there.  Will you help me open the window?”

I entered Lo’s lair of self-love.  I opened the window with ease to let in the ocean breeze, but it immediately deflated downward.

“Is it broken?” asked Lo.

“I don’t know.  It definitely doesn’t stay up like it used to.”

Without missing a beat she quips, “I’m sure you can relate.”

Stay safe everyone and we’ll see you on the internet.

Lola in all her glorly!

Slut Seminar

[We take a break from our regularly scheduled programming of “Mount Bliss” in order to bring you this brief story that was published in the April Issue of ENM Magazine (Ethical Non-Monogamy). ENM only launched in January of this year and now, due to COVID-19, is struggling. Please stop by and support them. Thanks.]

“It is hard to imagine ‘slut’ being reclaimed the way ‘queer’ was, as a respectable label for academic programs and cultural centers.” (“Slut: The Other Four Letter S-Word,” on Fresh Air, WHYY, NPR, March 13, 2012)

The course was only open to graduate students and doctoral candidates.  They were mostly from the Women’s Studies department, but some were from English and/or Comp. Lit.  One or two were from the Philosophy department and one from the Religious Studies/Theology department.  It didn’t matter where they came from; what mattered was that they came.

Slut Seminar

This was the cutting edge of academia: Slut Studies.  The syllabus was a stroll down all the dark, forbidden stacks of the salacious, suggestive, censored and censured, prurient, perverted, plucky and poetic pornographic literature of the centuries.

It culminated with an in-depth reading and analysis of Match, Cinder & Spark.  The professor was only a few years older than the students, if that.  The student body was female and most of them either lusted for or loathed the professor because she was either the woman they wanted to bed or the woman they wanted to be.

They listened intently to her lectures and were eager to contribute to the lively debate about the nature of the nympho.

The English Lit student, Yael, said, “I think that Lola is a metaphor, a symbol, maybe even a mythic archetype.”

“Of what?” replied the professor.

“Of the receptive, open, accepting, and limber principle of life.  The Great Feminine.  And her squirting episodes are emblematic of the fluidity of life.”

“Like Yin in Taoism?” inquired the professor.

“Or it could be the other way around,” chimed in the Theology student.

“What do you mean by that?” asked the professor, genuinely confused.

“I mean. . .” began Sarah, the seminarian, searching for the right formulation of her thoughts, “that maybe we need to reimage our notion of God.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” said the professor.  “How does that relate to the text?”

“Well, for millennia, God was understood as a stern, strict, father figure.  Or, even if we look at the New Testament, a chaste, pure, abstemious saintly sufferer.  There’s little room for pleasure, sex, sexuality, or love that borders on desire in those paradigms.  Without a sex-positive godhead, how can you be sex-positive giving head?”

There were some chuckles in the classroom at that comment.

“No, seriously,” she implored, “maybe Lola is the avatar of a sex-positive spirituality.”

“That seems to bring us right back to Plato’s Diotima,” the professor said, trying to reframe the discussion and put it on an academic foundation.

“I don’t see why we have to contextualize the cunt in such highfalutin imagery,” interrupted one Marxist from the class.

The professor wasn’t sure if her use of “cunt” was literal or synecdoche.

“I mean,” said Mandy the Marxist, “there’s a direct correlation between the pussy and the personality.  It’s that simple.  Open, warm, welcoming, easy, or tight, closed, and constricting.  One either gives and receives or one is greedy and rejecting.”

To that comment, there was a big uproar in the class.  It seemed everyone wanted to criticize Mandy.

One voice eventually won out over the din.  “That is so black and white!  So dualistic!”  It was Penny, the philosopher.  “You Marxists are just Hegelian dialectical materialists.  It’s either/or with you.”

“Please, please,” refereed the professor, “There’s no need to be so personal.”

“I’m not being personal,” said Penny.  “I’m not attacking Mandy.  Just her philosophical assumptions.”

“Well, let’s make sure that we’re all clear about that,” the professor said, trying to keep the calm.

“Lola is more complex than goddess/whore, open/closed, yin/yang.  Yes, she has a lot of sex, with herself and others.  But, ultimately, she’s just human with human foibles, human desires, and she’s flesh and blood.”

“She’s a literary character,” interrupted Yael.

“I mean,” said Penny, “she’s depicted like a human of flesh and blood.”

“Actually,” said the professor, “she is a human of flesh and blood.”

“What?” gasped many of the women.

“Well, yeah,” said the professor, a bit embarrassed that she let the pussy out of the bag.  “I know her.”

“You know her?!” one of the students asked in disbelief.  “I thought this was fiction.”

“It says right on it ‘roman à clef,’” she said.

“Meaning?” asked one of the students.

“That’s a look-it-up question,” shot back the surly professor.  She had no patience for graduate students who don’t use the incredibly convenient tools at their disposal, like the internet.  “It means a text in which the characters are based on real people, but their identities are slightly concealed.”

“So Lola is a real person and you know her?”

The professor nodded.

They were all on the edge of their seats waiting for her to reveal more.

“I think now is a good time to take a break,” said the professor.

Hotwives in Training

While outside the classroom, the students chatted, musing amongst themselves, “Do you think she is Lola?” one asked, referring to the hot professor.

“No way,” said another.

“Could be,” pondered a third.

“I bet she is Lola,” said a fourth.

“You’re totally wrong,” said another.

“How do you know?”

“Because, it’s a ‘look-it-up question’,” she said, mimicking the professor’s snide tone.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I looked up Lola Down and found so much!”

Everyone took out their phones and started looking her up.

Ooos and Ahhhs were heard before they were stifled as the professor walked by and all the women compared what they saw on their phones to the professor’s curvy figure in her tight dress as she pranced past them.

They followed her in, each formulating a theory about the fount of her personality.

Yael Wolfe

 

[This story was inspired by Yael Wolfe (@yaelwolfehowls). Lola & HH also are very thankful to the gentlemen at Tehben.com (Matthew Burroughs and Nelsen Rockingham) who have thoughtfully reviewed three of the Match, Cinder & Spark books. We avidly welcome other scholars, such as John of astijake.wordpress.com and Dr. Kasey Butcher of phdsandpigtails.com, to write a scholarly review.]

Kasey Butcher, Ph.D.

A Report on the Nymphomaniac Condition

“A Report on the Nymphomaniac Condition” first appeared in ENM (Ethical Non-Monogamy) Magazine, March, 2020 issue.

It was said by the renowned sex researcher, Alfred Kinsey, that “A nymphomaniac is someone who has more sex than you do.”  It would seem that modern psychology has caught up with Kinsey’s insight.  The dictionary of psychological disorders, the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM), removed nymphomania from its list in 1980.  But does that mean Nymphomania no longer exists?

In popular culture “sex addiction” has been used as a catch-all for a number of “disorders” that have been named and described: hypersexuality, compulsive sexual behavior, erotomania, hyperfilia, etc.  But the DSM puts almost all of these under one listing: Sexual Disorder Not Otherwise Specified.  This heading is as ambiguous, amorphous, and as slippery as the subject itself.

However, let’s keep in in mind that no matter how something is categorized or listed, it’s not a “disorder” unless it is distressing to the person exhibiting it or has detrimental effects in one’s life.  If the result of the behavior is a net negative, then it could be labeled a disorder.  That net negative could be manifested psychologically, as in feelings of guilt and remorse, or could result in actual physical harm to oneself.  Other net negatives could include weakening of relationships, loss of a job, or other harms external to oneself.

Fan, getting off to Lo at work

In modern European and American culture, nymphomania has as checkered a past as the women diagnosed with it.  Even though there is a male correlate to it – satyriasis – the two labels have been employed in radically different ways.  Historically, the ascription of “nymphomaniac” has been applied to women who, had their gender been ascribed to men and the behaviors described as those of men, rarely would they be described as afflicted with satyriasis.  In other words, historically, women exhibiting the same healthy and robust sexuality of men would be diagnosed with a disorder while their male counterparts gained the praise and admiration of others as Don Juans.

But, in the last decade or so, with the rise of internet porn, the term “sex addict” has been increasingly utilized in less stereotypical and gender specific, patriarchal ways.  Famous actors such as Rob Lowe, David Duchovny, and Charlie Sheen all have come out as being sex addicts, making it easier for others to do so.

Despite the DSM debunking the myth of nymphomania and our modern society’s willingness to embrace a more gender-neutral term applicable to men and women, the term “nymphomania” and its connotations continues to live on in the culture’s consciousness and the collective unconscious.

Fan, getting off to Lo

Nymphomania is a concept that has a history to it almost as old as civilization itself.  In Jewish lore there was Lilith, the contemporary or predecessor of Eve, who refused to be subservient to Adam and, supposedly, insisted on taking the “top” position during sex.  Her name is derived from the Hebrew for “night” and she is associated with other female night demons who seduce men.  As such, she is a succubus.  This tale probably has its origin in explaining men’s nocturnal emissions.

Throughout history, assertive women and sexually promiscuous women have been associated with the demonic.  Accusing a woman of being a witch was one way of marginalizing or eradicating powerful and lustful women.  In more recent times, diagnosing them as hysterical was another.  Perhaps if we rewrote history as “hystery” (from the Greek, hyster, meaning “womb”) we would have different stories to tell.  But, from the ancient Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh, in which the goddess of love, Ishtar, unsuccessfully tries to seduce the hero, and the temple prostitute, Shamhat, successfully seduces and thereby defiles the natural man of the wild, Enkidu, to Helen of Troy, whose face and unfaithful figure launched a thousand ships, to the Sirens and Calypso, all the way through to Gatsby’s fair Daisy Fay Buchanan, wanton women have been revered and rebuked by the West’s confused attitude toward female sexuality.

In the West, only Virgins, like Mary, and doting, devoted wives, like Penelope and Henry James’ Isabel Archer, get univocal approval.

(The East, by contrast, is not as uncomfortable with strong, sexual, and wise women.  From Cali to Guan Yin, not only are they revered and worshiped, but even the gender ambiguity of Vishnu is given prominence.)

Even in the contemporary medium of myth-telling – movies – the nymphomaniac is never depicted as anything but pathological and her fate is always a morality tale told from the point of view of the negative exemplar.  Lolita, the touchstone of our modern-day horny heroine, has been made into a movie twice: once in 1962 by Kubrick and once in 1997 by Adrian Lyne.  Based upon the classic book by Nabokov, the films and the book stand in a league of their own.  The ultimate fate of Nabokov’s Lolita (spoiler alert) is morally ambiguous.  Clearly a letdown to the pedophile protagonist, Humbert Humbert, when he finds his life-long love at the end of the book, we are never given any insight into mature Lolita’s feelings of fulfillment in family or lack thereof.  However, it is, perhaps, too hasty to say that there have only been two Lolita films made.  One of the most popular tropes in porn is Lolita.  In this way the myth of the nymph lives on and on.

Lola Down, 21st Century Lolita

Other films, such as Lars von Trier’s Nymphomaniac and Craig Brewer’s Black Snake Moan, put nymphomania front and center.  However, in both, the female protagonist is depicted as pitifully damaged and pathologically in need of redemption.  In the latter film, that redemption takes the form of Christina Ricci, dressed only in her panties and a cutoff t-shirt, being chained to a cast iron heating radiator by a strong black man (Samuel L. Jackson).  As psychologically dubious as this “treatment” might be, it could be said that the film gets to some deep, underlying archetypical images and fantasies buried in the American collective unconscious by playing on race, gender, and slave tropes.

The former film, Nymphomania, as drab and sexually non-stimulating as it is, does get to some diagnostic characteristics.  As Robert Weiss, founder of the Sexual Recovery Institute, has discussed in his “Thoughts on Nymphomaniac: Volume I,” in the Huffington Post, March 20, 2014:

Nymphomaniac: Volume I is “sex addiction accurate.”

  • Joe’s sexual exploits start out (rather early in life) as innocent and fun-seeking, but before long she’s using them less for enjoyment and more for escape. This is typical. Simply put, addicts of all types engage in their addictions not to feel better, but to feel less.
    • Joe views men as objects — a means to sexual gratification — rather than seeing them as equals and potential partners in emotional intimacy. When her lies actually ruin one man’s life, she feels nothing for either him or his wife and kids. Nor does she change her behavior.
    • Joe spends nearly all of her free time pursuing sex. She has no other interests or hobbies.
    • Joe’s sexual activity escalates in both amount and intensity. She has more and more partners as her addiction progresses, and she engages in ever-more risky behaviors.
    • Joe’s response to any sort of emotional crisis is sex. When her father is terminally ill in the hospital, she has sex with an attendant. Later, she experiences sexual arousal at his deathbed.
    • Joe seeks a sense of control and power through sex. For instance, she ‘allows’ or ‘forbids’ certain activities. At one point she speaks to Seligman about ‘privileges’ granted to one of her regular sex partners. Using sex to feel ‘in control’ is common with sex addicts, especially with female sex addicts.
    • Joe appears to have not bonded appropriately with her ‘cold hearted bitch’ of a mother, relying on her father for kindness and nurture. Her childhood flashbacks show that she learned ways to ‘please’ her father, and that doing so was incredibly important. Even though their relationship does not appear to have been sexual or otherwise abusive, it is clear that she learned early on that the way to get love from men is to please them. This type of dysfunctional childhood bonding is common in sex addicts of both genders.
    • By the end of the film, Joe’s entire life (not just her sex life) has become ‘monotonous and pointless.’ She compares her daily movements to those of a caged animal. Everything she does is rote and repetitious, and nothing has any meaning — especially not the sex. At one point she says to a partner, during sex, ‘I can’t feel anything,’ and it is clear that she is talking about both physical numbness and emotional numbness.

Though Weiss points out in the article that female sex addicts are often ascribed “highly shaming labels” such as nympho, slut, tramp, and whore, “that society routinely attaches to women who have a lot of sex, regardless of whether they do so because they enjoy it” or not, he does not in any way discuss the possibility of a positive nymphomaniacal experience in which those labels are coopted into accolades.

The linguist Geoff Nunberg has pointed out that many one-time derogatory and profane words have been coopted and reappropriated by the subjugated, marginalized, and oppressed populations against whom the slurs were originally leveled.  As he says about the term “slut,” “after a Toronto police constable told a crime prevention meeting that women should avoid dressing like sluts if they don’t want to be victimized,” “slut walks” served as a way “to protest the whole culture of slut-shaming.”  He points out that, “it is hard to imagine ‘slut’ being reclaimed the way ‘queer’ was, as a respectable label for academic programs and cultural centers.” (“Slut: The Other Four Letter S-Word,” on Fresh Air, WHYY, NPR, March 13, 2012)

This sort of reevaluation of values is exactly what Lo is literally embodying, pushing psychology today to free itself from the prejudices of patriarchy.  She wears the labels “slut,” “tramp,” “whore,” and yes, “nymphomaniac” proudly (and she often wears little else).  Between us, we use the words “nymphomania” and “slut” as honorifics rather than stigmatizing terms.  Every slur can be reclaimed and used subversively by the oppressed.

There is some evidence that lustful, liberated women are making inroads into the tyranny of normativity.  Thinkers such as Rollo May have proposed a theory of the daimonic, hearkening back to the origin of “demonic” as coming from the Greek “daimon.”  For the Greeks, daimon meant something more akin to a personal deity; a guiding angel, you might say, rather than a guardian angel.

May uses the term “daimonic” to denote a drive that is not univocal in nature and, in one word, is akin to Freud’s dual Eros/Thanatos drives.  As May says of the daimonic, it “has the power to take over the whole person.  Sex and eros, anger and rage, and the craving for power are examples.  The daimonic can be either creative or destructive and is normally both.”  (May, Rollo, Love and the Daimonic, p. 123)  It is worth mentioning here that, before May and Freud, there was a theory of human psychology in Judaism that posited two chambers in the heart: the yetzer tov and the yetzer ra.  The former, “the impulse for good,” and the latter, “the impulse for evil,” worked in tandem and the rabbis believed that neither was “evil” (unlike the proverbial Christian good angel and devil on one’s shoulders), but that the yetzer ra was a force that propelled humans to creativity and sexual union, but it needed to be bent toward the yetzer tov in order to avoid its destructive tendency and be sublimated into socially acceptable expressions and activities that benefited society.  One can easily see the parallels between that and Freud’s Eros/Thanatos theory.  Perhaps “parallel,” is too benign.  Maybe Freud was more plagiarizing from his own tradition.  In line with this theory of complementarity, May has said, “The daimonic (unlike the demonic, which is merely destructive), is as much concerned with creativity as with negative reactions.”  (Diamond, Stephen A., Anger, Madness, and the Daimonic: The Psychological Genesis of Anger, Madness, and the Daimonic, from the Forward by Rollo May, p. xxi)

In the nymphomaniac, the daimonic drive has been described as a propensity toward indiscriminate, compulsive, and often risky sexual behavior.  To the extent that this is dangerous, harmful, and results in negative net results, it is “pathological.”

But that’s not the whole story.

As was mentioned above, the daimonic is also the engine driving creativity and the nymphomaniac can use her prurient powers for good, positive, “healthy” outcomes.  As Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, the pioneer psychologist in the study of “flow” or “optimal experience,” has said, “One manifestation of energy is sexuality. Creative people are paradoxical in this respect also. They seem to have quite a strong dose of eros, or generalized libidinal energy, which some express directly into sexuality.”  (Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly, “The Creative Personality,” Psychology Today, 1996, p. 38) I believe that the reverse of this is true as well: One manifestation of sexuality is creative energy.  Perhaps that is because, as Csikszentmihalyi also says, “a certain spartan celibacy is also a part of [the creative person’s] makeup; continence tends to accompany superior achievement. Without eros, it would be difficult to take life on with vigor; without restraint, the energy could easily dissipate.”  (Ibid.)  Of course, the nymphomaniac is characterized by her lack of “continence,” but that does not mean that her prodigal participation in pleasure isn’t also a creative, artistic, and perhaps even a performative act.  Seeing sex and art as two separate realms is the fundamental error in this analysis.  Sex can be every bit a creative endeavor, full of “flow” and genius as a Picasso or Pollock painting.  The only difference being that the “results” are fleeting, ephemeral, perhaps even “dissipated.”

In my particular case, I would say that writing about Lola Down, my own personal high priestess of porn and beloved nymphomaniac, is also a result of the daimonic and the writing often flows of its own accord in peak moments, like autographia.  According to Csikszentmihalyi, flow is the experience of intense concentration during creative endeavors.  For me, that describes the act of writing.  For Lo, that describes the act of fucking.  For me, the restraint and “continence” is crucial to produce just the right amount of effulgent energy.  But for Lo, her creative power may be more akin to “the woman who identifies with the archetypal role of Muse or femme inspiratrice, providing sexual love to artists.” (Diamond, Stephen A., “What Motivates Sexual Promiscuity?” Psychology Today, 2011)

This is not to say that Lo doesn’t have her own creative endeavors, her own talents, interests, and areas of outstanding achievement.  Far from it!  But she does love being celebrated as muse, not only by me, but by all the artists who have been inspired to draw or paint her, as well as those who have written lovely verse and prose to her and about her.  In addition, she frequently hears from women and men and couples who credit her as an inspiration in the bedroom.  Frequently these accolades are accompanied by “tribute” photos of the men, women, and couples cumming to her inspiring images.

As much as all this worship is proudly welcomed by Lo, it is also of concern how many people – mostly men, but some women – write in to lament that, for them, the nymphomaniac is akin to some sort of mythical figure, a unicorn, a phoenix, or the Holy Grail.  These awestruck admirers cannot believe that one actually exists, in the flesh, as it were.  They had heard rumor of such creatures, but had never met one or received confirmation of their reality.  Lo, like the Holy Grail, is for them a receptacle into which they can pour forth all of their hopes and dreams (and bodily exuberances) and also a cup that runneth over, spilling forth for all who thirst for her baptismal water.

Is this perceived paucity of nymphos due to the stigma attached to the term, repression of sexuality, or a failure to recognize and reclaim the term in a positive light?  I don’t have the answer to these questions, but one thing was clear early on in my relationship with Lo – I was unable to find anyone writing about their nymphomaniacal girlfriend and the great challenges such relationships entail.  So I began writing about it in a public forum in order to inform others and also to find out if others could inform me.  It’s been a fun and enlightening journey and I thank all of you for your words of wisdom, encouragement, and envy.  But most of all, I thank Lo for opening me up to all new vistas of life’s possibilities.

email downloladown@gmail.com for more info

Flawless

The Artist, Manu3l Beauty, Drawing Lo, as Drawn by Manu3l Beauty

 

In the first volume of Parerga und Paralipomena I read again that everything which can happen to a man, from the instant of his birth until his death, has been preordained by him.  Thus, every negligence is deliberate, every chance encounter an appointment, every humiliation a penitence, every failure a mysterious victory, every death a suicide.

 

Jorge Luis Borges

Labyrinths, from the story, “Deutsches Requiem” p. 143

Ever since I first read Henry James’ The Portrait of a Lady, I knew what I wanted to write: the antithetical portrait.  I wanted to write a response to the ever upright, ever virtuous, ever socially acceptable Isabel Archer.  I was young when I read Portrait, still, it had a profound effect on me.  I found it a struggle to read each and every painstaking page.  The rectitude of the protagonist grated on me.  Her compliance to social norms caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end.  Her pathetic powerlessness at the hands of the pervasive patriarchy outraged me.

By the time I had read Portrait, I had already loved and left my lusty slut to whom I had lost my virginity.  Her nymphomaniacal ways were beyond my limited abilities to assimilate into my concept of the world at that tender age.  But, as I read Portrait, I knew, with every fiber of my being, that I wanted to strip Isabel of her honor and her clothes.

The idea remained and germinated in my mind over many years.  When, at a more advanced age, I had read the collected works of the Marquis de Sade, I thought at first that I was too late.  Someone had written the great work I envisioned since reading Henry James.  However, the more I read of Sade, the more I realized that no, this is not the work I envisioned.  Sade is brilliant, imaginative, subversive, and powerful.  He was an important voice for his time and, despite many detractors, he actually offers a harsh critique of religious institutions, monarchy, marriage, and all the other permutations of patriarchy.  He spares none in his scathing evaluation of oppression in all its forms.  But his protest is essentially a resounding No!  That was important for his era, but what he lacks, probably because it was unimaginable at the time, was a heroine who could proclaim a resounding Yes!

All of Sade’s fictional female figures are victims.  They may also be villains, but they are so only because they were first victims.  Hurt people hurt people, as the saying goes.  They were formed by the social, political, religious, judicial, and educational systems, hierarchies, and prejudices of their culture.  What Sade was really up to is open to debate, but a charitable reading could be that he was shining a light on the gender injustices of his day and, even if his medium of doing so was “sadistic” (a term that was invented because of him), it also was sympathetic to the plight of women.

But I longed to write The Great American Novel that told a different story.  Not the story of Justine, not the story of Juliette, and certainly not the story of Isabel Archer!  I wanted to write the story of a sex-positive woman who claimed her own sexuality, her female form, her feminine facticity, her healthy desires, her sexual conquests, her orgasms, her self-pleasure, and her liberal lending of her labia as her own in a way that was not the result of victimhood and was not wielded as vindictiveness.  In other words, I wanted a sexual heroine, not an anti-heroine, despite how some retrograde segments of our modern society might still view such a character.

Perhaps that deep-seated vision of a new dawn was responsible for drawing me into Lo’s orbit and then, ultimately, for my “drawing” her in my writings as the woman of my dreams.  I cannot deny that Lo, when I met her, was not already without scars from the injustices of society, family, and past sexual partners.  But she was not a victim.  She was, even then, well on her way to inhabiting her own power.  She was healing.  Through obstacles, with love and support, encouragement and empathy, she (re)claimed her puss and her prowess.

Lo might not have escaped the perils of being born a woman, but she has transformed her trauma into a personal triumph.  I endeavor to portray Lo not as a perfect portrait of feminine form, but as a realistic rendition of a flawed, fallible figure; made all the more beautiful by her unique imperfections.

I love Lola not because she is flawless, but because of her wabi-sabi character.  I love her the way Woody Allen loved New York City of the ’70’s.  Back then, the city was far from perfect.  She had her many ugly sides.  But he was in love with her and wanted to tell her stories to the world, to get the world to see her the way he saw her.  To get the world to fall in love with her just as he had.

Writing about Lo is not only my love letter to her, but, as so many who have read about her have told us, her story is also a vehicle to help others become as daring, confident, and self-actualizing as Lo, because perfect people don’t perfect people, but healed people can heal people.

Pre-Release! Match, Cinder & Spark – Audio Book!

Dear Readers,

The definitive drop date for Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I: Nymphomania and the Single Girl on audio through audible.com is February 14, 2020.  But, thanks to the incredible work of Jupiter Grant (narrator) and the production team at Audible, Match, Cinder & Spark is available for pre-release NOW!

Madelaine Loves Match, Cinder & Spark, Vol. I

That’s right, for only one Audible.com credit or $13.96 in America or £18.29 in the U.K., you can get all six hours and 18 minutes of steamy listening.

Lola, Jupiter, and I are all very excited about this new project and we think you are going to love it!

Get yours today right here:

 

US – Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I

UK – Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I

Live, Learn, & Listen

When we published our first book together, Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I: Nymphomania and the Single Girl, it was quite literally a novel experience.  We had never done anything like that before and we both delighted in the editorial process – rereading the stories, selectively choosing sexy photos to accompany the tales, deciding on the font size and type.  The entire experience was a sensual exploration on so many levels.

After Marxism, “materialism” became a bad word.  But now that the world has gone digital, I find that I indulge in the material universe: Books made of paper with pages that you can turn with your thumb and index finger; Magazines that are glossy and clearly have had thought put into the layout design; Oil paintings and marble statues.  All these mediums of reproduction that are tangible delight me, perhaps because, in the age of the internet, they are becoming endangered.  There is the possibility of pixels putting print out of business.

Lola Down in digital and print media

However, during that maiden voyage into publishing, there was something we did not consider nor realize until the long and arduous work was over: price.  After compiling twenty-nine chapters and an introduction, organizing the 221 pages and including numerous full-color, glossy photos, when we finally hit the “publish” button, the entire project weighed in at a whopping $74.95!  That was far more expensive than we ever contemplated.

Oh well, there was no going back now.  We figured we’d put it out there and maybe it wouldn’t sell like other pulp, but it would become a collector’s item.

Someone Enjoys the Glossy Photos of Lola Down

Luckily for our readers, but completely defeating my materialistic motivation, the entire book could be digitalized and easily downloaded as an e-book at the very affordable price of $1.99.  To date, this has been our top seller, with thousands of copies being read on devices around the world.  Unfortunately, at the time the technology was not available to include all the spicy photography that accompanied the hard-copy text.  But at least our dedicated fans were able to get this collection of stories all in one place.

Enjoying the digital image of Lola Down while on a date with his gf.

But now, we are very pleased to announce that a different form of material immersion is possible for Match, Cinder & Spark.  Thanks to the magic of technology and the talent, dedication, endurance, and sonorous sexiness of Ms. Jupiter Grant, the entire first volume is soon to be released as an audiobook.  That’s right, all 6.1 hours of steamy stories will be yours to hear.  Though the immersion into the senses that is provided by the hard-copy is, in my humble opinion, a wonderful medium through which to experience Lola in all her glory, I have to say, after listening and re-listening to Jupiter Grant’s marvelous performance of the spoken word, I feel as I have suddenly discovered new and relatively unexplored dimensions of sound and sex.

I hope you will give it a listen. (Stay tuned for the release!)

The Sexy Jupiter Grant!

Here’s what people are saying about the e-book:

 

 

Reviews of Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I: Nymphomania and the Single Girl

 

 

About the book: The story of Lola Down, your average nymphomaniac next door. This roman-a-clef tells the story of how she and the author, H.H., survive the trials and tribulations of life with her libido.

Rodin: Lola looks at this absorbing topic with such sexy passion. A great read. 5 stars!

Kathy K: HOT! HOT! HOT!
Calling all Nymphomaniacs
All wannabe Nymphomaniacs
All fantasy Nymphomaniacs
Any type of Nymphomaniacs.
This is THE book for you.
An extremely explicit detailed account of Lo’s sexcapades told in blog post form from her beginning preteen sexual awakening through the years to her current Nympho state.
Erotically told by the author, her lover, her Daddy.
Sexual experiences you couldn’t even imagine told, in truthful, frank detail.
A must read!

And the perhaps biased review from Ms. Jupiter Grant herself:

Intelligent and thoughtful erotica.

I have had the recent pleasure of reading Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I for the upcoming audiobook version, and I can honestly say that it has been a very sexy, delightful read. H.H. tells us about his beautiful muse, Lola, and her insatiable desire for sex and pleasure. As well as recounting plenty of hot scenes, the book discusses nymphomania, stigma, non-monogamy, sexual exploitation, and numerous other issues.

If you want your brain to be enticed as well as your body, grab a copy of Match, Cinder & Spark.

Always come prepared and prepared to cum.

Review: A Horny Halloween by Jupiter Grant

A Horny Halloween by Jupiter Grant

Everything old is new again.  I’m old.  Maybe I too am new again.  I’m old enough to remember being too young to have lived through the age of the radio play, but eagerly wanting more whenever, on those rare occasions, I had the chance to hear a rebroadcast of one of the classics from the ’30s or ’40s back in the ’70s and ’80s.  But now, through the magic of the internet and the exciting new era of low-budget production reaching mass audiences and those in the audience getting to directly and immediately communicate to content creators what they want and putting their money where their demand is, we now have a whole new Golden Age of audio.  Audio books, podcasts, even old-timey radio dramas.  It’s all making a comeback and I couldn’t be more thrilled!

Because of this resurgence of the spoken word, and, perhaps even more recently, the proliferation of it among kinky sex-bloggers, Lo and I have become acutely aware of the power of sound to leap off the page and excite, every bit as much as the visual image accompanying sexy stories is able to do, if not more so.

In addition to this exciting new dimension of sexy sound, coincidentally, one of our fans has recently been corresponding with Lola earnestly requesting us to put our stories to sound because this avid “reader” is blind.  He is able to hear our stories through the generic computer-generated voice software that he has or that some websites, such as Medium.com, offer.  But he wanted to hear the stories told in a voice that was equal to their imagery.

Eager to please all of our enthusiasts, we actively sought someone with the right sound, sensibility, and savoir-faire, to narrate our naughty roman à clef.  After much searching, we finally found someone who was truly magnificent.  A sex-blogger herself, she wouldn’t blanch at the profane passages.  Highly educated and well-versed in eclectic religious lore, history, and philosophy, she followed where the story took to cerebral flights of fancy.  A lover of literature and, we think, a natural thespian, she made the dramatic dialogue of Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I: Nymphomania and the Single Girl come to life.  And, as a woman of deep feelings, she made the climactic crescendos cum to life as well.

Match, Cinder & Spark

All of this praise is prologue in order to say that the following review is somewhat biased, but biased by previous knowledge of the author and narrator’s talents.

I speak here of the incomparable Jupiter Grant, whose A Horny Halloween (e-book $4.99), is, as the title suggests, at turns scary and sexy.  The six chapters clock in at two hours and eleven minutes on the audio version, as read by the author herself.  The tales are chock full of nearly equal parts sex, spunk, blood, and more blood.  But most of all, the stories all display a very vivid imagination that begins with the common light of day and gradually grows darker and more mysterious until we find ourselves caught between two worlds – light and dark, familiar and mysterious, mundane and magical.  There is a distinct echo of Edgar Allan Poe, but, unlike Poe’s magical realism,  these tales touch on religious rites, cults of initiation, and, in the last (and by far the best) chapter, a very incarnate experience with the narrators personal God and Savior.

Ms. Grant’s narration, as always, is a very pleasant British accent that leaps off the page with dramatic flurries as well as undulating deep tones where the text necessitates a baritone pitch.  Be sure to listen to these spooky stories with someone you can squeeze tightly because you won’t want to be alone for either the scary or the sexy bits!  But, whatever you do, make sure you give this collection from Jupiter Grant a listen.

Ms. Jupiter Grant of Jupiter’s Lair

When Writing, You Gotta Have a Point

“You should do it,” said Lo.

“I don’t think so,” I replied.

“No, you definitely should do it.”

“It’s not really my thing,” I said.

Now, dear reader, before your imagination gets the best of you, we were not talking about any of the things you may have thought we were talking about.

I had been invited to give a talk at a Moth reading.  As many of you probably already know, a Moth reading is a storytelling event where each speaker is given about five minutes to tell a tale without a script.  No notes.  Just ad lib, though the performance can be prepared and rehearsed like an actor’s monologue.

“I’m a writer.  I’m not a performer, a thespian.  And I’m awful at memorization.  It becomes stale to me.”

With a “Peshaw,” she dismissed my objections.  “You can tell a story!  You’re made of stories.  You ooze stories.”

“A little too graphic,” I muttered.

“You want to ooze some stories into me?” she asked suggestively.

“Lo, that’s the problem!  All my stories are about you!  About sex!  This has to be PG.  And also, I notice that good stories, like the one’s that win at Moth competitions and get the most applause on Medium, have a point, a sentimental little piece of wisdom, a surprising ah-ha! culminating conclusion.  My stories don’t have that.  They’re just stuff we do, things we say, everyday life.  There’s no point to them at all.”

“Well. . . ,” she cooed, “I wouldn’t go that far.  You have a nice little point.”  She reached down and grabbed at my crotch.

“Little?”

“Why don’t you point me in the right direction and maybe a story will come to you.”

She got on the bed and slid out of her panties, leaned back and spread her legs.

I positioned myself above her.  She reached down between her legs and rubbed her pussy. “Mmmmm, that feels good,” she said.

I hadn’t even touched her yet.

She raised her hand from her crotch to her mouth and licked her fingers.  She didn’t do this in order to lubricate, but to taste her own lubrication.

“Fuck me, Daddy.”

Before I entered her, she was back to caressing her pussy – pulling her labia and slapping her hole, making popping sounds with her hand.

She came.

“That felt good,” she said.

“Lo, you know that I. . .”

“I know, Daddy.  The point wasn’t to make you cum.”

“Then what was the point?”

“You figure it out.  You’re the writer.”

One sexy reader

 

For All and None

Recently it was the 200th anniversary of Herman Melville’s birth and just about every report of the event included the phrase, “died in near obscurity.”  This phrase, “near obscurity” has been bouncing around in my head.  What is meant by “near” exactly?  I understand obscurity.  By far, the vast majority of authors die in obscurity, that is why, other than those whom I have personally known, I cannot name any of them.  But what constitutes near obscurity for an author?  Nietzsche, too, died in near obscurity.  One might even say that Thoreau died in almost complete obscurity.  Same with Zora Neale Hurston, Emily Dickinson, and Sylvia Plath.  For each of these luminaries of literature, at the time of their deaths, either the light of their past glory had faded or, like Kafka, they never had any fame during their brief tenures above ground but, due to unforeseen assistance from the universe, their stars began to rise only after their mortal flames had expired.

Like you, I have frequently seen the bumper sticker advice of: Dance like no one is watching.  Recently, though, I came across someone whose blog bio read: Write like no one is reading.  (Unfortunately, that author’s name has escaped me, and so she must remain, to me at least, obscure.)  That quip really stuck with me, just like the phrase “near obscurity.”  These two adages knocked around in my brain like billiard balls.

Writing as if no one is reading is a liberating thought.  It is permission.  It is license.  It is dangerous and risky.  And so, perhaps, living, writing, and even dying “in near obscurity” isn’t so bad after all.

(It’s also important to recall that “obscurity” has a second meaning as well: unclear, difficult to understand, complex.  Maybe that characterization doesn’t apply so much to this blog, but much of my writing would be aptly described as “almost totally obscure” in both senses of the word.)

When I look at our blog stats and I see that there are over one million views and over a thousand comments on the blog, not to mention all the other eyeballs watching Lola and me in our most intimate prose in other platforms around the blogosphere, and leaving out all the books we have sold over the years, I suddenly realize that there certainly are readers of what I’m writing.  Yet, when you compare the numbers, it is easy to feel as if no one is reading.  Various sources state that in there are approximately 500 million blogs in existence as I write this.  That means that even if we round up all the various platforms upon which we appear to five million views, then that doesn’t even comprise 1% of just the writers out there, let alone the readers!  Yes, multiple blogs may be owned by one person and writers are also readers, but you get my mathematical point, right? – Though people are reading the blog, it is “nearly obscure,” given the vastness of the virtual universe.

But the injunction to write like no one is reading is not saying that I shouldn’t have any audience at all.  It’s saying to write as if the audience didn’t exist, just as I might dance as if all of you beautiful people on the dance floor with me weren’t judging my awkward movements.  If the music so moves me and it gives me joy to dance, however I might express that joy, then, by all means, I dance as if no is watching.  Same with writing.

Yet you million or so people out there, and especially you lovely likeminded literary leches out there who write to us – you do read us and thereby keep us from the cold uninhabited reaches of the blogosphere where we would be in complete obscurity.  For that we thank you.

Compersion


Richard Prince – Girlfriend

            My good friend, Dr. Robert Smith, thought I was unaware of the time Lo sucked his cock, but there he was wrong.  Lo may cheat, but she doesn’t lie.  In fact, she brags.  Furthermore, I find her regaling me with tales of her infidelity arousing.  And Lo found Robert’s erectile dysfunction not only endearing, but a personal challenge. 

            The next time we saw him, at a fundraiser reception in an art museum, Lo affixed herself to him.  Arm-in-arm they strolled the corridors, pausing in dimly lit corners.  It was a nighttime event and the university spared no expense and was eager to show off its faculty to the wealthy alumni and other donors.  Because of the book I published long ago on art, I was one of the featured speakers.  After a brief hello exchanged with Robert, I was left to review my notes and consult with the university president about the order of the program.  However, every once in a while, I’d catch a glimpse of Lo leading Robert about, taking delight in the whispers and scandal that she was causing among our petty and gossipy colleagues.  I’d be lying if I said it didn’t irk me a little bit.  It would have been a totally different story if I could have been with them, observing, commenting, and teased by Lola’s cuckolding up close. 

            As it was, they disappeared out of my sight.  I only heard later, while horizontal with Lo in the darkness of our bedroom, impaling her with my rock-hard rod, between her gasps and groans, what happened. 

            “I walked with him as he politely escorted me through the various galleries: Impressionists, Expressionists, Cubists, and so on.  At each one he attempted to explain to me what I already knew, but I flattered him with my oos and ahs and reallys? – as if he were telling me something new.”

            “You’re bad,” I said.  “I bet you do that with me too.”

            “No, Daddy, never.”

            Her lies are transparent.

            She continued, “I knew the museum very well, of course, and I eventually led him to the contemporary art gallery.  I asked him if he liked contemporary art and he admitted he didn’t really understand it.”

            This was a rather intellectual conversation for pillow talk.  But I was willing to follow her lead. 

            She said in her sultry, seduction voice:

            When we got to the contemporary, I brought him to see Richard Prince and his ‘Girlfriend’ series.  He looked very confused and asked, ‘How can this possibly be art?’

Richard Prince, “Girlfriend” closeup

            I asked, ‘Don’t you find it beautiful?  The artist was so in love with his girlfriend that he chose to photograph her nude and put her up in an art gallery for all to see.’

            ‘That’s exploitation,’ he said.

            ‘Not if she likes it,’ I said.

            ‘A good feminist like you? –  How could you like it?’

            ‘How could I like being photographed naked and put on display for all to see?’ I asked to clarify his meaning.

            ‘I mean, how could you think that she likes it or that a woman likes it or. . .’ he stammered uncomfortably, ‘how could you like this,’ he said, indicating the large photograph.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘HH does the same for me.’

            ‘What are you talking about?’

            ‘He likes to photograph me nude and then share it with the world.’

            ‘What?!’ he asked, shocked. 

I looked down at his crotch to see if he was getting hard.  I think he was.

            ‘It’s called candaulism.  It’s a kink.  I’m surprised you don’t know of it – an educated man like you,’ I said, gripping his bicep.  ‘It comes from an ancient Greek story about Candaules, the king of Lydia, who was so proud of his beautiful wife, he arranged to allow his minister, Gyges, to see her naked.’

            ‘Is that so?’ he said, as if he were only academically interested.

            ‘Yes.  It turned out that the queen, Nyssia, was aware of the spying eyes and, according to legend, in order to teach her husband a lesson, summoned her husband to come to the bed and pleasure her.  Of course she knew that the figure in the shadows was not her husband, but, unable to escape, Gyges obeyed the command of the queen and, in the dim light, approached the bed.  All the while Candaules was secretly watching with a curious mixture of arousal and jealously.  Gyges entered the bed and then entered the queen.  She said all sorts of salacious things as they made love in order to drive the point of her lesson home, and that she did, wounding the suffering king with her cries of passion.  Finally, at the climactic moment, the king could hold back no longer and he made himself known to both Nyssia and Gyges.  Drawing his royal sword, the king made to slay the dutiful minister, but Gyges narrowly avoided the steel blade and, removing it from the king’s hands, impaled the king with his own sword.  A tragic tale, don’t you think?’

            ‘Yes, yes indeed.  And it should serve as a cautionary tale for HH.’

            ‘Oh, but that is all ancient history,’ I said, waving my hand.  ‘What HH and I do together is very fun.  Its proper term is ‘compersion.’  That is, the delight of seeing one you love pleasured by another.  Would you like to see?’ I asked, pulling out my phone. 

            ‘Perhaps later,’ he said just as we approached the Koons’ sculpture.  ‘Dear Lord!’ he exclaimed as he saw the porcelain rendering of Woman in Tub, ‘What is this gallery?!  The Museum of Pornography?!’

Not Koons’ “Woman in a Tub,” but Lola in a Tub – the inspiration

            ‘Oh, don’t be so rigid, and hardened in your ideas of beauty,’ I said to him as I patted him on the chest.  ‘This is a classic.’

Jeff Koons “Lady in a Tub”

            ‘Oh yeah, right up there with the Mona Lisa,’ he said sarcastically. 

            Having my phone out, I snapped a shot.  ‘It should be,’ I said.  ‘You’re just priggish in your stodgy ole professor way.  Don’t be such a prude.’

Art Appreciation

            “I bet you weren’t a prude, were you,” I said to Lo as I continued my steady rhythmic forays in and out of her puss with my cock. 

            “I got 99 problems, but being a slut ain’t one.” she said. 

            They returned to the courtyard of the museum where I was to give my talk and I watched them sitting in the audience next to each other.  Lo’s legs were crossed and she was proudly displaying her beautifully shod foot.  At one point I saw them passing notes. 

            “What did you write to him?” I asked her.

            “I just wrote that I found it incredibly sexy to see you up there at the podium in the museum giving your talk.”

            “Really?”

            “True, Daddy,” she said.  “Do you like that?”

            “I do.”

            “And then I wrote that I was getting too wet to sit still.”

            “You didn’t!”

            “I did, Daddy.  That’s when I got up.”

            I remembered seeing her walk out on my speech.  The thought of the reason why was too much for the erogenous zone of my brain to handle and I unleashed a torrent of my pent-up desire inside her. 

            “Oh Daddy,” she said, surprised, “Stay in me while I tell you the next little part.”

            “OK,” was all I could mutter as I caught my breath.

I went to the Ladies Room and quickly took care of my craving.  When I returned, I sat next to Robert and asked if I missed anything.

He said, ‘No, but I feel like I missed something.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘What’s that?’

‘You,’ he said.

‘Me?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said.  ‘I missed you when you were gone and I’m supremely curious as to where you went and what you went to do.’

‘Come with me,’ I said, ‘and I’ll show you.’

We got up and I took him to the Medieval room of the museum, and there, in the dim light, surrounded by the muted reds and blues of the stained glass windows, I sat with him at a pew and took out my phone to show him all the photos of me from the blog, most of them of me masturbating. 

‘Robert,’ I said, ‘Here we are in a place of devotional art and you see all these beautiful images and the illuminated manuscripts over there?’

Lola Down – 21st Century Devotional

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Well, this,’ I said, indicating the images on my phone, ‘is HH’s devotional literature for me.  This is the illuminated manuscript of the 21st century.  Sex is no longer sinful.  Sex is spiritual. And I am a sex goddess.’

            “How extraordinarily pompous of you!” I said. 

“You would have said the same,” she retorted.

“You know me too well.  But I think I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Rub off on me, Daddy!  Rub off on me!” she pleaded as I was still firmly sheathed in her dripping cunt. 

“What happened next?” I asked as I leaned into her, pressing my now tumescent cock deeper.  She came and she came in massive orgasmic waves.  Clearly the memory of being the object of worship was pleasing to her. 

            “Then he took the phone and looked at it as he leaned toward me.  Our lips touched and he held me tightly in his arms as our tongues entwined.  I saw that, as he was kissing me, he was looking over my shoulder at the phone he held in his hand, staring at my sexy photos.  I reached down and grabbed his cock and it was rock hard.  His other hand reached down and felt my soft leg all the way up to my panties.  I wanted so much more, but the event had just let out and we had to look presentable.”

            “That’s when I found you with him walking over to me with that devilish grin on your face.”

            “I thought I looked angelic.”

            “A devil is a fallen angel,” I reminded her.