Sound

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

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

Lola’s Tum

 

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

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

A Happy Fan

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

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

Volume I

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

 

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

“You’re a slut.”

“Yes,” she said, encouragingly.

“A whore.  A fucking sexmaniac.”

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

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

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

“Yes,” she screamed.

“A sex addict.  A nymphomaniac!”

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

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

 

Artistic Tribute Photo

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

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

 

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

 

 

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

Browsing the Literotica section

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi.”

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

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

“And?”

“Your voice is so fucking sexy.”

“Really?”

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

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

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

“Way to drive a woman crazy!”

“Who wrote this?  Who is this Lola?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?  Really?”

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

“Ten years ago?” Jupi echoed.

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

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

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

“I was just about to record another chapter.”

“Really?  Can I listen?”

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

“Which closet?”

“In the bedroom.”

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

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

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

 

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

 

 

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

“Could you hear?” she asked, astonished.

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

“Did I do that?” asked Jupi innocently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Glad you like it.”

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

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

“But I’m right here,” Jupi replied.

“I know, but it turns me on.”

She agreed.

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

“Yes.”

“And. . .”

“And what?”

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

“What?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Can I put your laptop here?”

“Really?”

“I mean, I won’t if you. . .”

“No, go ahead.”

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

Not Jupi, but a fan photo

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

Lo Bathes in Beauty

“No,” Jupi said incredulously.

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

“I can’t believe it,” said Jupi.

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

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

“Who?”

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

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

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

The End

Compersion Perversion

[As published in the October issue of Ethical Non-Monogamy Magazine, Lola goes on a date with MILF Meri.]

Lo Casually Masturbating

It was a Thursday.  I was at the office.  All alone again.  During this pandemic and sweltering heatwaves of the summer, working from the office alone actually provided both cool central air (as opposed to our poorly air conditioned apartment) and much valued quiet, alone time, conducive to creativity and, if necessary, work.  Ms. Gale was working from home.  My other employees were working remotely as well.  I was under the impression that Lo, too, was working from home.  That is, until I received an email from her.

It’s unusual for me to get an email from Lo.  Text, phone call, even the unexpected in-person appearance for a booty-call are all to be expected.  But rarely an email.  Unless something is wrong, or the landlady has written to her demanding the rent, asking for a favor, or passing along complaints from the neighbors about the volume levels, frequency, and inconvenient late hours of Lo’s orgasmic operatic arias.

But this email was different.

“Guess where I am,” it read, enigmatically.

“At home, doing work,” I replied, unimaginatively.

“Nope.”

“Is this Twenty Questions, or can I just ask, where are you?”

“I’m in the park.”

It was another sunny, hot as hell day in the city.

“OK.” I wrote back.

“I have my computer.  I’m ‘working remotely’ from here.  That’s why I’m using my email.”

“Why do you put ‘working remotely’ in quotes?”

“Guess who I’m with.”

“Bill Murray.”

“No silly!  Meri!!!”

“Oh, that’s why you put ‘working remotely’ in quotes.”

“Yeah.  She wrote to me this morning and said that she told her husband she can’t take being cooped up in the house with the kids any longer.  She’s going to the park to get away and work.  But she had invited me and so we’re both here, pretending to work, but doing a lot more suntanning than working.”

“Which park?” I asked.

“Guess.”

“Lo,” I wrote, in the tone of voice I take with her when she’s being naughty, “I actually have work to do.”  These multiple, terse emails were not conducive to getting anything done.

“Fine,” she replied, “the park next to your office.”

My office faces out onto the street, but my employee’s office, in the back of the building, looks out onto a small oval park in the midst of the other businesses.

“Do you want to come by the window and see what I’m wearing, or not wearing?”

How could I resist?

I walked across the reception room area where Ms. Gale has her desk, into the back office.  I glanced out the window and sure enough I saw my little Lo, ass up, her computer in front of her, her admirer behind her, seated about ten feet away.  There were streets hemming in the small sward, but full sun upon my nymph and her MILF.

Allow me to paint the scene for you.  Unlike the last time these two met in the park, this time Lo came prepared to bask in the sun.  She was lying on her tum, her legs bent at the knee and her feet dangling in the air.  She had her computer in front of her.

Behind her, sitting in a beach chair, was Meri, watching.  She sat, ostensibly reading a book, but she was really just spying on Lo.  The way the two of them were in relation to each other, it did not appear that they were together or knew one another.  And I was spying on both of them.  I don’t know if Lo or anyone could see me watching from above.  If Lo noticed my presence, she made no sign of it.

Lo was wearing nothing but a very tiny bikini top and a pink thong bikini bottom.  It literally was no more than a spaghetti strap covering basically none of her ass.  I was familiar with it because she had bought it on sale last fall and was so eager to wear it that she tried it on for me at home, pretending to be on the beach showing off.  A fun little game for both of us!

Lo’s Thong Askew

It wrapped around from her crotch and, when placed just so, concealed only the bare essentials of her letter ‘i’ – if you know what I mean.  From a distance, it looked as if she was wearing nothing at all on the bottom.  And I was not the only one to think that.  Sitting around the two of them on the shaded park benches were old ladies and moms with strollers and the occasional businessman out for air or a stolen glance of Lo’s delectable derrière.  I could tell that the lecherous men interspersed with a few lascivious women were all trying their utmost best to give the appearance of doing something, anything else besides what they were doing – watching Lo.  It takes one to know one, I thought.

Lo was keenly aware of her audience, but she was performing for only one.  Meri, for her part, sat slightly askew to Lo.  She wore heels, a pink skirt that stopped just short of her knees, and a grey tank-top that accentuated her large breasts, revealing lots of cleavage and that she was wearing no bra.  She wore a baseball cap and dark sunglasses in addition to her mask, as if she were a movie star trying to stay incognito.

Lo’s performance was exquisite.  Every once in a while she would reach back behind her and ‘adjust’ her bikini bottom, as if it was riding up her ass uncomfortably.  She would pull at it so nothing was concealed, at least not to Meri, and then let it go again with an audible snap.  Occasionally she would put sunscreen in her hand and run her index finger from her pussy over her balloon knot, as if to insure that those delicate parts wouldn’t burn.

From my vantagepoint, I couldn’t help but think that the sun shines from 94 million miles away for one reason only: to illuminate, warm, and tan Lo’s perfectly spherical double-orbed bronzed rear.  It was as if Helios himself was looking down intently upon Lo’s sexy little ass and the oppressive, powerful rays of light were his enormous erection aching to feel the pleasure of that posterior, but burning hotter because infinitely frustrated by the impossibility of a non-material substance’s concupiscence being quenched by the corporeal object of its affection.

Lo pretended to be oblivious to it all, typing away on her computer as if deeply engrossed by her work emails.

Even in my airconditioned office, I was growing warm from the sight.  Since no one is allowed to come to my office due to the pandemic, I don’t even bother putting on a suit anymore.  It’s strictly t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops for me this summer.  That’s not my office attire, that’s my everything attire.

I also was growing hard in my khaki shorts.  Seeing Lo nearly nude in the middle of the pedestrian and otherwise non-nude plaza, literally the center of attention in the circle of voyeurs, and me, up there, voyeuristically observing from on high, with who-knows-how-many-others lurking in the windows, was appealing to my compersion perversion.

Just when I thought the scene could not get any better, an older gentleman (I use the term loosely) wearing slacks and a button-down sky-blue casual long-sleeve shirt walked over the green grass directly towards Lo.  He squatted down to talk to her.  She turned her head toward him and then rolled over on her back, propping herself up with her elbows.  Then, for the first time I saw that she had on the bikini top with adjustable cups and she had adjusted them to a very narrow setting, exposing most of her breasts, her side-boobs bulging out.

She looked up at the man and struck up a conversation with him.  I could see practically her entire chest falling out from where I sat and I’m sure that that man had a close-up view of it.  I could see Lo smiling at him in her flirtatious way as he continued to engage her in whatever small talk they were pursuing.

I’m sure this gave Lo the triple pleasure of teasing the man while simultaneously making Meri jealous and me mad with admiration of her hotwife hospitality.  I could see Lo glance from her interlocutor to Meri, making sure that the latter was catching it all.  And I could see Meri watching with great interest.

As Lo continued to talk to the man, she seemingly absentmindedly spread her legs, revealing the tiny triangle of material covering her smooth mons pubis, and she thoughtlessly placed her hand down there as if adjusting the bathing suit or scratching an itch.  This allowed Meri a direct line of sight into Lo’s labial lodestar.

I guess Lo’s male conversationalist eventually ran out of things to say.  I saw him pass Lo something that looked like a business card and then say his adieu.  He walked away and I saw Lo smile like the scapegrace she is at Meri and Meri smiled back.  They were like two schoolgirls pulling one over the teacher.

Lo reached down between her legs and quickly pulled back the bikini bottoms for Meri to get an unobstructed view for a brief moment of bliss.  In return, Meri spread her legs and, though I couldn’t see it, flashed Lo a glimpse of her crotch, unadorned by any panties.  (I did later confirm this with Lo.)

From my perch I could comfortably enjoy all of the sexual psychological angles: between Lo and Meri; the older women on the periphery and Lo; the younger women on the sidelines and Lo, the men and Lo; as well as Lo’s basking in the attention of all of them just as she basked in the bright sunlight as if it were her spotlight on the stage.

HH – Hot & Hard

The psycho-sexual dynamics had me rock hard in my shorts and just as I was contemplating relieving the tension, I heard the faint sound of keys and then the turning of the lock on the office door.  Before I could scramble to see who was there (especially when no one was supposed to be there), in walked Ms. Gale wearing denim shorts and a gingham button down shirt, tied up in the middle to reveal her midriff.  It covered only her shoulders and breasts, though it was unbuttoned enough to reveal much cleavage.

“Ms. Gale?” I almost shouted in shock.

“Mr. H?!” she shot back.

I was keenly aware that I had a huge erection in my shorts and that Lo and her special lady friend were frolicking outside the window by which I sat.

“Why are you here?” we both asked simultaneously.

“This is my office,” I said, authoritatively.  Though, actually, I wasn’t in my office.

“I thought you put on the calendar that you were on vacation this week.”

“Oh, I had, that’s true,” I said, “but COVID put an end to our travel plans.  So, here I am.  And you?”

“It was too hot in my apartment to work.  I only have one window unit and with the temperatures in the hundreds, it doesn’t get much colder than about eighty-seven.  I just couldn’t take it anymore.  I thought that, since you were away, I’d work in the office and utilize the central air.”

“I see,” I said, still too hard to stand up.

“Why aren’t you in your office?” she asked.

“Well, I, uh,” I stumbled for a plausible answer.  “I got bored of the view,” I said.

“Oh, is the view from that window better?  I thought it just looked out onto the park,” she said as she moved toward the window to look out.  I desperately didn’t want her to do that!

She did and we both looked outside.  To my great surprise, there was no sign of Lo and Meri!!!

“It’s just a different view,” I said casually.

She looked out the window, bending over, displaying her round rear to me in the tight shorts.

“You like the view?” she asked, enigmatically.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.  “I rarely see it like this,” I said, looking at her ass.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said.  “You should take more time to smell the roses.  You’re always working,” she added as she returned to standing in front of me.  Little does she know that more often than not, when she thinks I’m assiduously working on a legal brief, I’m actually writing this torrid encomium to Lola.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” I said like a judge.  “But for now, I’ll let you have the office to yourself.  You know, we must be socially distant.”  I said it as if I were explaining to her that we need to be sexually distant.

“You don’t have to go,” she said.  “I mean, you could just work in a separate office.  I don’t mean to push you out.”

I was eager to catch up with Lola.

I put away the files I had been working on before Lo’s email and headed toward where I thought I’d find Lo and Meri.  Five minutes into my walk, I was already drenched in sweat.  I felt like I was suffocating due to the high temperatures and humidity.  Making matters worse, I had to wear that asphyxiating mask!  But I was determined.

I walked up the busy street from my office and was about to despair of my loss, but then I spied the two women sitting in front of the ice cream shop.  They each were seductively eating their treats from cups.  I took a seat not too far away from my nymph.  I didn’t worry about being discovered.  I had on dark sunglasses and my bandana mask.  Very little of my face could be seen and, as an added benefit, Meri had never met me.  To the best of my knowledge, she had no idea what I looked like.

The two of them were engrossed in conversation.  I watched for as long as I could, but the sun was baking me.  Eventually, convinced that I wasn’t missing anything of great import, I decided to return home, take a cool shower, and await Lo’s return.

I was on the couch in the living room when I heard the front door abruptly open and close.  I heard Lo scamper down the hall to the bedroom and master bath.  She too hopped in the shower first thing, but not to engage in the usual self-pleasure that she frequently enjoys in there.  No, it was a quick rinse and then, from the living room I heard her masturbatory moans.

I quietly walked down the hall.  The AC was on in the bedroom and so Lo didn’t hear me.  I slowly opened the bedroom door and couldn’t believe my eyes!  Instead of pounding her pussy with a dildo of enormous magnitude, she was sliding my Stoya Fleshlight up and down her lower lips, pressing Stoya’s labia into her own, dripping her wetness all over the prosthetic pussy.  Her eyes were closed and with her free hand she was plucking her nipples.

“Lo,” I said in a gentle tone.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” she screamed as she jumped a mile.  “What the hell are you doing home?!”  It was almost an accusation.

“I’m sorry, Darling,” I said before explaining the surprise visit by Ms. Gale and then asking her, “What the hell are you doing with my Fleshlight?”

“I hate the COVID bullshit!” she lamented.  “I want a pussy.  I want Meri’s pussy.  I want to fuck someone who is not you.  No offence,” she said after realizing what she had said.  “I just want. . .”

“No offence taken,” I said sarcastically.  “How could that possibly be offensive?”

“You know what I mean.  Of course I want to fuck you too, but I also want to be able to fuck others as well.”

“You have,” I reminded her.  “The brothers.  Remember?”

Stoya Licking her own Pussy

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, putting Stoya back on her cunt.  “That’s for them, not for me.  They’re young men, full of testosterone and they need my sweet release, especially in this pandemic.  I spread my legs, they slip in my honeypot and unload.  That’s all for them.”

“Oh, you get nothing out of it?” I asked sarcastically.  “You’re just a simple orgasm donor?”

She laughed, “I get something out of it.  I mean, I cum, yes.  And it pleases me to be their goto girl, their flesh-and-blood Fleshlight.  I won’t deny, that turns me on.  I like being their easy access.  Their cum dump.  The thought of guys’ balls aching for my cunt and unloading into me because I can provide for them what they so desperately need is an incredible turn-on.  But I want a woman.  I want someone who will take time to pleasure me, give me what I want, know what I want.  Not just ram it in deep and hard to prove how big and strong they are.  I want Meri.”

She returned to sliding and pressing the Fleshlight’s lithe labia up against her own swollen and supple lips, causing a suction sound as her own secretions lubricated the point of contact.  She reached down with her free hand and began circling her clit with her index finger.  She did all this as if I wasn’t even there.  Oblivious to me and all else but her imagination and the feel of her pussy slip-sliding against another pussy, she was soon squirting a stream of climactic juices directly into the parted prosthetic pussy.  The receptacle, upside down, simply dribbled out the contents back onto and into Lo’s already soaked and dilated source.

She took a few deep breaths.  I stood silently awaiting her command, request, or even insinuation to fill her with my meat.  But, instead she reached for her phone.  She made a call and said, “Hi.  Yeah.  Another leak.  Can you come over and fix it right away?”

She turned to me and asked, “Will you let them in?”

“Who?”

Then the doorbell rang.

I walked down the hall and admitted the two brothers.  It was the same uncomfortable silence between us as it had been before.  Merely sheepish grins and a little nod of the head as they walked toward their destination.  They no longer needed to be shown the way.

They walked into the bedroom, saw Lola splayed out on the bed naked, Fleshlight beside her body, sheets soaked, and they immediately dropped their pants.  They didn’t even bother to take off their shoes or their shirts.  Kids these days.

Lola: “Fuck me.”

“Fill me, fuck me, pump me, pound me, use me, abuse me, whip me, worship me,” said Lo, spreading her legs further, bending her knees and slapping her cum-slathered pussy.

One of the boys pulled her to the edge of the bed and penetrated her.  She briefly looked up at me, her head upside-down, from the bed, before her eyes rolled back.  The boy was rock hard and eager.  His brother stood by the bed watching, cock in hand, stroking, and patient.  Within moments, the first reached his climax inside her.

Pulling out, he stepped aside for his brother to have his chance.  Lo rolled over onto her hands and knees, raising her ass for him to have her.  He easily slid into her soaking holes.  I saw her wince just a little as he entered the tighter of the two.  But soon he was alternating back-and-forth at whim.  Now the other brother watched and, to my amazement, grew hard as he did so.  What amazing recovery time!

Lola: “Fill me.”

After the more active brother drove his point home in Lo’s rear, he pulled out and they both watched as Lo oozed, cooed, and creamed.

Then the first returned to the pole position.

I could see that Lo, by this point, was almost bored.  Her head was resting on her hands and she looked up at me, unconcerned about what was happening beyond her shoulders.

“Daddio,” she said, “will you pass me my phone?”

Her phone was on her nightstand on the other side of the bed, by the boys.  I walked around the bed, past the brother who was slamming his shaft deep into my hotwife’s pussy at the time, past the other brother who was eagerly awaiting his chance for another deep dive in her, and grabbed the phone.  I walked back around to the side of the bed by the door and passed it to Lo.

She pressed some buttons, preoccupied with the phone and not at all occupied with the activities behind her, and looked up at me again.  “If I order a pizza, what would you like on it?” she asked in a quiet voice, as if the boys and her bum were in another room and she didn’t want to disturb them.

It seemed a most unusual question for the moment.  I must have looked puzzled.  “I’m hungry,” she added by way of explanation.

“Mushrooms and onions,” I said unthinkingly.

“Oh, hi,” Lo said into her phone.  At the very same time, the first brother finished, ejaculating in long shots on Lo’s back.  I guess Lo was put on hold briefly because she was quiet for a moment.

The second brother asked Lo, “Do you want more?”  He was clearly confused by Lo’s phone call.

Lo turned her head over her shoulder and said, “Go ahead.  You can have it.  Try to be quick.”

I heard a voice from the phone ask, “Yes, can I help you?”

Lo’s attention was back to her pizza order as the boy behind her grabbed her hips and pulled them towards his erect phallus.  “Yeah, could I get one sausage pizza and one with onions and mushrooms?”

Lo Placing an Order for Pizza

The boy behind her returned to his favorite alternating ass/puss, ass/puss plunging.  I could see him spreading her cheeks with both hands as he pulled out and pressed in.

“Medium,” said Lo into the phone and then looking up at me she asked, “Medium big enough for you?”

I nodded.

“Yeah, two mediums,” she said into the phone again.  “OK.  Yes.  Delivery please.  Great.  Thank you.”  She hung up and put the phone by her side.

Allowing her head to fall into the pillow, she reached back and pulled her ass cheeks apart, allowing her paramour to use his hands in other ways.  He reached under her and grabbed her doughy tum and squeezed.

“You going to cum?” Lo asked.

He grunted.

I guess she could feel him building.  “Come on.  You got two in you, don’t you?  You like my ass?  You like it,” she said.  She moved her fingers to her ass and felt him sliding in and out of her.  He was ready.  She was giving him a hand-job as he entered and exited her posterior.  Lo’s instincts kicked in and she turned abruptly and opened her mouth to receive his fill.  He grabbed his cock with one hand and her head with the other, pulling her mouth onto his shaft.  He began to cum and then pulled out of her mouth and sprayed the rest on her face.  She was drenched.

She looked up at him and asked, “Feeling better?”

The first brother already had his pants on.  The second, who had just finished, reached down to pull up his from around his ankles.

“Thanks Lo,” he said.

“Say hi to your mom,” Lo said.

“Enjoy your dinner,” he replied.

They let themselves out.

Lo fell backwards and, lying on the bed, she looked up at me and asked, “Will you get the pizza and tip the delivery guy?”

“Maybe you should.”

She contemplated that idea.  “Like I am?”

“Exactly.”

Lola Filled, but not full

When the bell rang, she walked to the door, dripping from the boys’ icing on her face and shoulders, and, opening the door, took the two pizzas in hand and gave a few dollars in tip.

I awaited her return in the dining room.

“What was his reaction?” I asked as she placed the pizzas on the table.

She laughed.

“What?” I asked.

“It was a woman.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“What was her reaction?”

“A cross between shock and disgust.”

“Too bad.”

“Why?”

“I thought you were going for shock, awe, and arousal.”

“I’ll take disgust.”

She grabbed a slice of pizza.  No plate.  She didn’t even sit down.  She stood by the table, naked, and ate it with fervor.  “Sorry, Daddy,” she said, mouth full.

“Sorry for what?”

“What I said before.  You understand, though, don’t you?”

“Yes Lo,” I said, sincerely, not sarcastically.  I felt love, compassion, and patience.  “But,” I added, “you need to clean up Stoya and the sheets.”

“I will,” she said, obediently.

I had a slice of pizza and cracked open a beer.

“Is there a reason you had the boys rather than me?” I finally asked.

“Yes,” she said, with no explanation.  She continued eating.

“Care to enlighten me?”

“I like to be used.”

“You didn’t even cum.”

“No, because I wanted Meri.  But, I’ll cum later to the thought of them and this afternoon.”

“With me or without me?”

“If you’re lucky, both.”

After dinner, she strutted to the bedroom to clean up.  I followed.

“What a mess!” she said at the sight.  “Isn’t it wonderful?!”  She dove into the bed.  “It smells like sex.”

“Just like you,” I said sarcastically.

When she got up to strip (the bed that is, since she already was naked as the day she was born) I asked her, “Who was that man talking to you in the park?”

“Oh, him?”

“Yeah, him.”

“Just a creep.  He just wanted a closer look at me.”

“You sure gave it to him.”

“You saw?” she asked, flattered that I took in her stunning act.

“Yes, I saw.  What did he give you?”

“His business card.”

“What sort of business is he in?”

“He says he’s a photographer and he asked if I would be interested in any boudoir photography done of me.”

“Really?  Where’s his card?”

She bent over by the side of the bed and dug through her little beach bag.  “Here it is.”

She gave it to me.

“I see,” I said, reading it.  “You going to take him up on it?”

“I don’t know.  Do you want me to?”

“Let me think about it.  Did you and Meri have a good time?”

“What do you think?”

“I think she’s at home doing exactly what you just did.”

“Eating pizza?”

 

Illustrator Needed for Disney Damsel Lola Down

Belle’s Bestiality, Getting off to Lola Down together

 

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds like you’re the poet.”

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

“A relic from Chaucer’s time then.”

“Maybe as old as Beowulf.”

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

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

“The thought of meeting Grendel in the woods.”

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

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

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

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

“Would you be the villain or the princess?”

“Both.”

“Both?  Disney stories are not that complex.”

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

Lady G.

 

Pygmalion and Galatea

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

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

“What?”

“Horny.”

“Well, have fun.”

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

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

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

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

 

The Art Cums Alive

Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume II: MORE! Audio Sample

More Cumming Soon

If you have not heard the talented, seductive, incredibly sexy voice of Jupiter Grant, then just scroll down to get a sample that will make you swoon!

She has just completed the audio of Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume II: MORE! It’s even more steamy than the first volume.

Below is a little sample as well as an image of the cover with all the chapters listed.

You can purchase your copy HERE or, if you’re in the UK, HERE.

And be sure to check out Jupiter Grant’s blog and her other audio delights!!!!

Much Love,

Lola & HH

From the story, “H.H., You Slut!”

All the pent-up heat, heartbeat, and seductive sweets of Lo are expressed in one color as well: red.  The red of her lips parted with a red tongue tip touching the white of her teeth tell the tale of love and lust, longing and life lived fully.  A lush life filled with libidinous conquests.  The red of her areolae upon her perky breasts, pinched and almost panting for attention and pleasure, pulled and protruding like little buoys beckoning to the passing sailors as they lift and heave upon the bosom of the undulating sea.  The glossy red of her pained fingernails pulling at her red nipples, licked by her red tongue, lightly separating her red labia.  Her pink pussy lips parted and revealing the lush red lining of her luscious labia minora.  The fire engine red of her pedicured toes curling with tense expectation of love’s consummation.  Lying there on the sheen of her red satin sheets, in her sheer red silk negligée, swaddled in the sea of red blankets, she brings herself to a shrieking climax.  Like a siren singing from the darkness, her voice reverberates with pleasure up and down the octaves as her convulsing body rhythmically dances to the command of her virtuosic finger on her clit.

Red, the symbol of the forbidden district.  Red, the enticing sign of danger and vitality.  Red, the fruit’s color of poison and fertility.  Red, the color of flame.  Red, the color of caution and calling.  Red is the apple tossed to Paris.  Red is the sea – wet and parted to receive the host.  Red is the sky in the night and morn.  Red is the blood when the finger is pricked by the red rose’s thorn.  Red is my Lo’s mind filled with diabolical thoughts.  Red is the devil whose brimming brow spouts thorns.  Red is life when it is born.  Red is the cheek when it is warm.  Red is my heart when for Lo it longs.  Red are all things forbidden – from knowledge’s treats to vulgar porn.  Red is the color of this song.

Lo, look at how you entrance me!  How you bewitch me!  How you have me in your spell!  I have gone mad!  I write my book of love and inscribe each page with your refulgent image.  I sing your praises to Heaven’s foundations that the angels might find respite from their constant bliss and repent their having not been remiss.

Cover of the Audio Book with chapters

Match, Cinder & Spark, Vol. II – MORE! Now on Audiobook

To all of you who downloaded Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume I: Nymphomania and the Single Girl and loved it, thank you!!!!

Cover of the Audio Book with chapters

It was, and continues to be, a big success, especially since the hard-copy book is so damn expensive. (We make almost nothing off the sale of that book because it was our first and we didn’t know that so many pages and glossy full-color images would have such a high base price.  We’re smarter now.)

Well, BIG NEWS, Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume II: MORE! is out now on audio, narrated by the sexy and seductive Jupiter Grant!

Here’s a selection from the story, “H.H., You Slut!”

:

Every narrator is an unreliable narrator.  No.  Scratch that.  A narrator can be reliable, but should not be identified with the author.  The author is unreliable.  Trust me.

Melville had his Ishmael.  Ishmael had his Captain Ahab and Ahab had his Moby Dick.  I have H.H.  H.H. has the monomaniacal Lo and Lo has her dick.  Yes, I just compared this to the greatest novel of the American canon.

Nick Carraway had his Gatsby and Gatsby had his Daisy.  I have my Lo and Lo has her ladies.

Never since Melville discoursed on white has there been a passage in the English language that expounds in such poetically puissant tones the multivalent meanings of a color until Fitzgerald’s passage on Gatsby’s green light.

Nabokov had his Humbert Humbert.  Humbert Humbert had his Lolita and Lolita had her Humbert Humbert.  I have my H.H. and H.H. has his Lo and Lo has herself.

What Lo is to Lo has been hinted; what, at times, Lo is to me has remained yet unsaid.

All the horror and evil of the White Whale was conveyed in its whiteness.  All the goodness, promise, and fertility of Daisy beamed across the sound from the green beacon upon which Gatsby doted night after night.

All the pent-up heat, heartbeat, and seductive sweets of Lo are expressed in one color as well: red.  The red of her lips parted with a red tongue tip touching the white of her teeth tell the tale of love and lust, longing and life lived fully.  A lush life filled with libidinous conquests.  The red of her areolae upon her perky breasts, pinched and almost panting for attention and pleasure, pulled and protruding like little buoys beckoning to the passing sailors as they lift and heave upon the bosom of the undulating sea.  The glossy red of her pained fingernails pulling at her red nipples, licked by her red tongue, lightly separating her red labia.  Her pink pussy lips parted and revealing the lush red lining of her luscious labia minora.  The fire engine red of her pedicured toes curling with tense expectation of love’s consummation.  Lying there on the sheen of her red satin sheets, in her sheer red silk negligée, swaddled in the sea of red blankets, she brings herself to a shrieking climax.  Like a siren singing from the darkness, her voice reverberates with pleasure up and down the octaves as her convulsing body rhythmically dances to the command of her virtuosic finger on her clit.

Red, the symbol of the forbidden district.  Red, the enticing sign of danger and vitality.  Red, the fruit’s color of poison and fertility.  Red, the color of flame.  Red, the color of caution and calling.  Red is the apple tossed to Paris.  Red is the sea – wet and parted to receive the host.  Red is the sky in the night and morn.  Red is the blood when the finger is pricked by the red rose’s thorn.  Red is my Lo’s mind filled with diabolical thoughts.  Red is the devil whose brimming brow spouts thorns.  Red is life when it is born.  Red is the cheek when it is warm.  Red is my heart when for Lo it longs.  Red are all things forbidden – from knowledge’s treats to vulgar porn.  Red is the color of this song.

Lo, look at how you entrance me!  How you bewitch me!  How you have me in your spell!  I have gone mad!  I write my book of love and inscribe each page with your refulgent image.  I sing your praises to Heaven’s foundations that the angels might find respite from their constant bliss and repent their having not been remiss.

 

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