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.
“Come,”
I heard her yell from the bedroom down the hall as I walked into the house
after a long Friday at work. She might
have been saying “Cum!” to a lover.
There’s never any way to tell from the sound of her voice – only on the
page.
I
cautiously walked down the long hall to the bedroom. What would I find?
The
door was open a crack. I peeked in. She was naked, on her tum, her round rump
nicely illuminated by the setting sun.
Her legs were bent at the knees and her bare feet dangled up in the air,
twined around each other. In her hand
she held her phone.
“Come
in, Daddio,” she said without turning her eyes from the screen in front of
her.
I
walked in and removed my jacket and tie.
“What
you up to?” I inquired.
“I
bet you’d like to know.”
“That
is why I asked,” I said flatly as I removed my shirt and undid my belt.
“Get
naked, get hard, and get in me,” she commanded.
“I’m
already hard,” I said.
“As
you should be,” she replied, moving her hand to her mouth, licking her fingers
and then moving her hand to her ass and circling her wet fingers around her
special spot.
“Oh,”
I commented, “You want it like that?”
“No,
Daddio,” she said, “I’m just enjoying myself.”
Always
coy when it comes to her ass. Always for
someone else, or for her own pleasure, but never for me.
I
got behind her and tried to look at her phone by leaning forward over her back
and seeing over her shoulder.
“Get
up there and fuck me,” she instructed, her finger still rounding her sweet spot
as I slid into her puss. “I’ll tell you
what I’m looking at.”
I
did as she said and she told me that a fellow blogger, a woman named TJ, wrote
to us saying, “I love reading your blog.
It gets me so wet.”
“Really?! Do I know this TJ?” I asked as I thrusted
harder.
I
slowed down a bit trying to remember which erotic blog that was.
“Don’t
stop!” Lo said as her hand grabbed the girth of my cock and she pushed her ass
back into my hips, bouncing off of my bare bodkin.
I
resumed my powerful, pleasurable, pelvic pounding.
“Look,”
she said, putting her phone up on her back for me to read the email. It said:
I love how
accepting you are of Lola’s magnificent sexuality. You guys seem to have ‘it’
don’t you? I wish I could masturbate as openly as you do, Lola. I feel
self-conscious, like an addict or something. But I fucking love fucking myself.
. . it’s the best. I am more autosexual than anything else I think. Keep
celebrating each other.
Fan mail like that makes it all
worth it. Well, that’s not completely
true. I know that I would be writing all
this whether no one read it, or only one person read it – Lola. But knowing that others read it, enjoy it,
and get off to it is the icing on the cake.
Speaking
of icing, as I read the email, Lo began to climax as one hand worked her ass
and the other, from underneath, worked her clit. Her Kegel muscles contracted and I was
squeezed out of her as she curled into a convulsing, throbbing ball, squirting
uncontrollably. The more she pushed her
knees up to her breasts in a tightly bound fetal position, the more she sprayed
the bed and my knees. I lifted up her
phone to prevent it from being ruined by the liquid.
TJ, author and model of The Lustful Empress, getting off to Lo
“Fuuuu-uuuuck,”
she groaned as the last bit of lady juice spurted out of her.
When
she regained control of her limbs, she slowly got up and pulled the soaked
sheets with her, dropping them in the laundry basket. “I’ll clean up, Daddy, but right now I have
to get ready.”
“Ready
for what?” I asked, holding my throbbing, hard rod in my hand.
“My
date.”
“Date?”
“With
Robert. I told you, didn’t I?”
I
just looked dumbfounded.
“We’re
going to the movies.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“And
what are you seeing?”
“The Favourite.”
“Is
he your favorite now?” I asked, demoralized.
“No,
Daddio, she said, caressing me and looking up at me with those beautiful big
brown eyes. “That’s the name of the
movie. It’s a period piece.”
“Really? Not a porno?”
“Well,
I hear it has a lot of woman-on-woman sex scenes.”
“I
knew it!”
“But
that’s not why we’re going to see it.”
“You’re
going to see it to have sex in a crowded theater.”
“Oh,
Daddy, you always impute to me the most debased of motives.”
“So
why are you going to see it?”
“It’s
historical. It has great sets, acting,
and costumes.”
“And?”
“And
probably to fuck in a dark theater.”
“Don’t
get caught.”
“But
getting caught is at least half the fun.
Does that make you jealous?” she asked, as her hand stroked my hard
cock.
“So
you’re leaving me home alone on a Friday night?”
“Not
totally alone,” she said, “You have TJ.”
“Who?”
“TJ,
the woman from the blog.”
“Oh,
right,” I said to my consolation prize.
Lola
made the bed and I watched her tits droop as she bent over to tuck in the
sheets. Her naked body moved like a
delightful dance as she unfurled the blanket.
“Look,”
she said, as she hopped back in the bed and took up her phone. I sat next to her. Her left hand stroked my hard erection up and
down as she scrolled through TJ’s blog with her right hand.
We
read and looked at the photos together.
Lola
TJ of The Lustful Empress
“She
sounds like she could be your twin sister,” I said as I read about how TJ
becomes aroused by her own naked body.
“Hold
this,” she said, giving me the phone.
Now,
with her right hand she was stroking her pussy and I scrolled through the
blog.
“Oh
boy,” I said, “You want her.”
Lo
bit her lower lip.
“Lo,”
I cautioned, “You just made the bed. You
don’t want to. . .”
Before
I could finish my sentence, she had jumped off the bed and ran to the bathroom,
barely making it to the toilet before releasing her ejaculate all over the tile
floor with a scream.
When
she had regained her composure, she got some paper towels and got on her hands
and knees to clean up the mess.
“What
time is your movie?”
“Eight,”
she called back. “But we’re meeting for
drinks first.”
“Well,
you’re going to be late,” I told her.
She
jumped in the shower and I continued to look at the blog, hard up.
“Hey,”
she called to me, “you’re not allowed to cum.
You know that, right?”
“I
still don’t understand how that is fair,” I said, taunting her.
I
got up and looked at her in the shower.
“Get!”
she screamed. She hates when I see her
in her shower cap.
“How
is it fair that you get to cum twice and then go on a date with another man and
I’m not allowed any autoerotica myself?”
“First,”
she said from behind the shower curtain, “it’s not autoerotic if you use
someone else’s pictures. Second, you
didn’t count the three times I came before you got home.”
“Lo,
now you’re just. . .”
“And
third,” she cut me off, “this has nothing to do with fairness. It has everything to do with me.
What I want. What I allow
you. Got that? Don’t forget it.”
Lo
jumped out of the shower and hastily dried off before slipping into a blue
dress and blue heels. No panties.
“You’re
going to be cold like that,” I cautioned.
“I’m
planning on things heating up quickly,” she said.
Soon
enough she was out the door, leaving me alone.
I
scrolled through TJ’s blog, which I recalled I had seen before, and I thought
to myself, “She said no cumming, but she didn’t say no edging.”
I
spent about an hour going through each and every post before I thought to
myself, “If I don’t stop this right now, I’m going to explode!”
Stoya Left, Lola Right
In
order to take the edge off, I switched to photos of Lo, which are always fair
game, and I pulled out the old Stoya Fleshlight. Lubing up Stoya and myself, I imagined what
Lo was up to with Robert. I didn’t even
need to see Lo’s photos. Soon enough I was
cumming and cumming hard and deep in Stoya’s pussy, just thinking about Lo in a
dark theater, legs spread, and Robert discretely moving his hand up her smooth
thigh until reaching that wet pussy, pulsating with anticipation. Gently he would rub and flick her pussy lips,
clandestinely making her cum. I pictured
her hands gripping the seat and her upper teeth biting down on her bottom lip
to prevent the scream from escaping her mouth.
That was enough to bring me over the edge and release me into a deep
sleep.
I get in bed. I think Lo’s asleep, but she isn’t. She unbuttons my pj bottoms and pulls out my
cock and grips it tightly with one hand.
Her other hand is between her legs.
She begins stroking my rod up and down.
She spreads her legs and moans. I
begin to maneuver myself over her body in order to penetrate her, but she says,
“No, Daddy.”
“No?”
“No. Just lie on your back.”
“But,
don’t you want me?”
“I
want dick. I want to hold it. Just stay just like that,” she says. I give in to her request to lie on my back as
she grasps my member with her left hand while stroking herself with her
right. Her eyes remain closed. Her breathing accelerates. Her breasts heave. After ten minutes or so, she begins
convulsing. She lets go of my phallus
and grabs the sheets beneath her with her left hand as her right hand is
plunging in-and-out of her gushing pussy.
She moans, screams, and cums in waves.
After
she has a moment to catch her breath, I ask her, “What were you imagining?”
“It’s
bad, Daddy.”
“I
like bad.”
“I
was envisioning us,” she says enigmatically.
“Us
how?”
“I imagined that we were going to the Erotica convention and that we were headlining for a reading ofMatch, Cinder & Spark. It was at a dingy theater in a foreign town. Up on the marquee it read, in big red letters, ‘LOLA DOWN READS XXX.’ We were backstage. I had you peek out from the wings at the audience. It was slowly growing in number – men and women. Finally, about five minutes after the show was supposed to start, the host or MC for the evening took the stage and announced the rules, ‘No photography! No recording! Yes, masturbating, as long as you don’t make a mess of the seats. Please turn off your cell phones and give a warm, wet welcome for Lola Down and H.H.!’ The place erupted with applause. You and I walked out onto the stage. There was only a rectangular table and two chairs. On the rectangular table was a microphone and a tall glass of water and a pitcher of water. We bowed and sat in the chairs. I opened Match to one of my favorite passages and began reading. I was wearing only a sexy red dress with strappy heels. No panties. No bra. I began with my legs crossed. I continued reading and I uncrossed my legs. I gave the audience a quick flash of my puss. I continued reading. I spread my legs again. I dropped one hand down to my crotch and began masturbating. With the other hand, I held yours. I paused for a moment. I took a sip of water and looked out into the audience and said in a breathy voice, ‘It’s getting hot in here.’ You lovingly pulled the shoulder straps of my dress off of my shoulders and I pulled my arms through them. I continued reading. You slowly pulled down my red dress to reveal my breasts. I continued touching my puss as I wiggled and wriggled out of the dress until it lay on the floor at my feet. Finally I was naked and I continued reading the passage but, at a certain part I stopped. I was beginning to climax. You took over. At the sound of your voice I came and I came hard – screaming and squirting. You finally finished the passage. You invited people up to the stage to have their copies of Match signed by the two of us. As each person came up, they stopped before me with the book open to the page they wanted signed. Usually it’s opened to a full color picture of me doing something naughty. Some of the men asked if they can masturbate to me. ‘Now?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ they said, politely. I agreed. They pulled out their cocks and they began jackin’ it over me as I sat naked in the chair. You sat and watched. They came. They came on my body, on my face, in my mouth, in my hair, everywhere until I was cum-covered. After everyone got what they wanted, you took me backstage. There, some women who were part of the convention were waiting and they got clothes and a bucket of warm water and they cleaned me off. ‘Was I good, Daddy?’ I asked you as they were tending to me. ‘You were wonderful,’ you said.”
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.”
Recently
our financial situation improved. In no
small part, Lo’s getting a full-time job has certainly contributed to our
recovering fiscal health. Now that we
aren’t always scraping by to pay the rent or put food on the table, we actually
have a little bit of money that we can set aside for a rainy day. So, trying to be the responsible adults we
pretend to be, we created a joint savings account. I know, nothing says sexy like money in the
bank. Walking home from the bank,
feeling a sense of accomplishment, I said to Lo, “We’ll call our account ‘The
Community Chest.’”
“Community
Chest! – That’s what they called me in college!” she blurted out with a
smile.
I thought she was
joking and said as much.
“No,” she said,
“that’s really what they called me.
There’s a long story there that I’ll tell you when we get home,” she
said, grabbing hold of my hand and pressing her palm into mine.
When we got home,
I started to make myself a sandwich in the kitchen. “So,” I said to her, “what’s the story from
college?”
“What story?” Lo
asked, playing dumb. She loves to tease
me and see that she has succeeded in piquing my interest.
“You know what
story,” I said, taking out the pickles, “the ‘Community Chest’ story.”
She reached down and
slid her hands from her waist up and under her bust, pushing upwards so that
her cleavage bulged out of the neckline of her black tank top. “You like, Daddy?”
“Yes,” I said,
“but I want to hear the story.”
“Kiss them,” she
instructed.
I wagged my pickle
at her (literally, no pun), and said, “Look here, Lo, if you’re trying to get
me to hop in the sack with you and forego this lovely lunch I’ve just made,
you’re in for some disappointment.”
“I’ll be your
lunch,” she said, standing up, unzipping her skirt and letting it fall to the
kitchen floor. She stood in her little
black lace panties and her black boots.
“Lola,” I said
plaintively.
“You know,” she
paused and thought and then said, “I’m hungry too.” She sauntered over to the fridge like a stripper
on the stage. She bent over, putting her
ass in the air, standing on her tiptoes, and took a long look at the
contents. “I know what I want to eat,”
she said, turning and walking toward me.
What is there to eat?
“Lo. Lo, I see that look in your eye. Lo.”
It was no use. She dropped to her knees on the kitchen
floor. She undid my belt, unbuttoned and
unzipped my jeans, pulled them down, pulled out my hard cock and filled her
mouth with meat.
Snack
“Fuck my face,”
she asked, looking up at me. “Put your
hands here,” she said, moving my hands to her head, “and push me, use me, fuck
my mouth.” I followed instructions. “Harder, Daddy!” she said before I forced her
back on my rod. I had passed the point
of no return and soon I was filling her up as she ravenously swallowed all I
gave her. It all happened in the matter
of a few moments. Then she got up, took
my plate with the sandwich that I had so carefully prepared, and sat at the
table, taking a big bite of it.
“Mmmmmm,” she said, “can I have a glass of seltzer to go with
this?”
“Lo! That was my
sandwich!” I rebuked as I pulled up my jeans.
“I just wanted a
bite. Here you have it.”
“No, it’s yours,”
I said dejectedly as I got her a drink.
“No, I feel
bad. Have half.”
“Fine.” I sat across from her and we ate. “Now,
tell me the story.”
“Well,” she began,
chewing, “you remember Ryan?”
“No, I don’t
remember Ryan.”
“Ryan, the boy
from college.”
“I’m going to need
a little more to go on than that. There
were a lot of boys from college.”
“I told you about
how one night after watching a movie in a friend’s dorm, he and I crashed there
on the sectional couch.”
“I vaguely recall
that.”
“You just want me
to tell you again.”
“Indulge me.”
“Well, we got to
talking in hushed tones about sex.”
“And who initiated
that topic?” I asked sarcastically.
“He was curious
about my masturbatory practices,” she said, ignoring my question. “I told him that I jill it once a day – at
least.”
“Oh yes, I
remember that story now.”
“Well, there’s
more to it than that. Come to the bedroom
and I’ll tell you the rest.”
I followed her
sexy ass to the bedroom, got naked, and climbed into bed with her.
She got on her
back and spread her legs. Putting her
hand down there, under the covers, she continued in breathy tones. “I was masturbating under the covers, like I
am now, as I talked to him in the dark.
I imagined that he was masturbating too.
I asked him about his girlfriend – someone I didn’t really know. He said that he wasn’t too happy with her and
I asked him why he didn’t break up with her.
He said, ‘because she gives really good blowjobs.’ I said, ‘Oh yeah? Tell me how you like it.’ He told me about what she does, adding, ‘but
I don’t think she really enjoys it.’”
Lo was pulling on
her nipples now and squirming in the sheets.
“I was sad to hear
that.”
“I’m sure you were
broken up about it,” I added full of sarcasm.
“I told him, ‘You
should try getting a blowjob from someone who really enjoys it.’”
“Did you give him
one?”
“I really really
wanted to.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“But he was too shy.”
“Too shy?!”
“Or
something. Maybe he felt bad cause of
the girlfriend. Whatever the reason, I
didn’t get to give it to him. I just
masturbated till I came. After that
night, there were many nights when I’d be in my dorm, chatting on Facebook, and
he’d pop up and quickly turn the chat into something sexual.”
“So you had
virtual sex with him?”
“You could say
that.”
“But that still
doesn’t explain how you got the nickname.”
“I’m getting
there. Give me a minute,” she said as
she climaxed.
I
waited for the waves of pleasure to subside.
She
flipped over and lifted her ass up.
“Fuck me, Daddy, and I’ll tell you the rest of the story.”
“Lo,
you just blew me in the kitchen.”
“Come
on! You can do better than that. Can’t you get it up again?”
Her
belittling comments didn’t help the situation.
“Get
behind me and fuck me,” she demanded.
I
got behind her, but I wasn’t hard. She
reached under the bed and passed me her glass dildo. “Use this for now,” she instructed. I slid the smooth, hefty sculpture into her
slippery puss and she continued talking in spurts.
“He
was a gamer and I think he told his nerdy friends about me. Soon they were inviting me over their dorm
rooms to play with them. They each
wanted me to jiggle their joysticks.”
“I
bet they did.”
“They
were all computer geeks and none of them had much sexual experience. Anyhow, I didn’t actually do anything with
them.”
“Nothing?”
I asked in disbelief.
“Not
much, but they made up stories about me.
They each claimed that they fucked me and so they began calling me the
community chest, bragging that they each made a deposit.”
“And
you let them get away with that?”
“Let
them, I got off on it.”
All
this time I was almost mechanically pushing and pulling the glass object in and
out of her puss as she was backing up and pulling forward on her hands and
knees. Now she said, “Harder,
Daddy. Pay attention to what you’re
doing!”
I
tried to give more attention to her puss, but I had more questions for
her. “So,” I asked, “what did you do with them?”
“Well,”
she said, ramping up again, “like I said, they didn’t have much sexual
experience and when I did try to blow one of them he. . .” she broke off and
began her howling orgasm.
I
pulled the dildo out from her and she squirted, involuntarily, all over the
sheets. She thrust her hands between her
legs, trying to stop the sprinkler, and she exclaimed, “Wow! I feel like a fucking Slip-n-Slide!”
“You’re
more fun,” I said.
Collapsing
in the bed when she was done, I brought a towel over and applied it between her
legs and to the sheets. I asked her
again, “What happened?”
“I
squirted,” she said, annoyed at my ignorance.
“No, silly. I mean, what happened with the geek?”
“Oh, well, I was
on my knees and I unzipped his pants, but when I opened up his fly, I saw that
he had already cum. I said to him, ‘Let
me blow you. You can take my tits out of
my top and suck on them,’ but he was so embarrassed that he just zipped up and
left.”
“And
the thought of that made you cum just now?” I asked.
“No,”
she said, “the thought of making all of his friends cum the night that I went
over there to play video games and they watched me finger myself – that made me cum.”
“Tell
me that story.”
“Another
time, Daddio, when I actually have a shot of getting fucked by you,” she said,
closing up shop for the day.
“What’s there to eat in the fridge?” I call to her
through the bathroom door. I had just
gotten home from work and I was famished.
“Nothing,” she calls back as I hear the squeak of her
opening the valves to take a shower.
“Nothing?! I
saw a cucumber in the bottom right drawer.”
“Oh, that’s not for eatin’,” she says. “Come to think of it, will you bring it to me
darling?”
Good grief. I
get the green gourd from the fridge for her and a cold beer for me. I pass her the vegetable when she extends her
hand through the narrow opening of the door.
“Can’t I see you?” I ask.
“No.”
“You do know that I’ve seen you naked before? Most of the internet has seen you naked
before. Probably most of our neighbors
have seen you naked before.”
“I have my shower cap on.”
“Oh, well then.”
The door shuts.
I sit down to read and sip my beer and await her exit from the
bathroom. And wait. And wait.
After her repeated cries to God and profanities that I imagine were
directed at her pleasure-bearing plant, I hear the waterspout squeak off.
Finally she emerges.
Lo is very wet
I whistle at her.
“You look half as good in your clothes as you do out of them.”
“That’s insulting!”
“Would you prefer the opposite: You look twice as good
in your clothes as you do out of them?”
“How about you just say I look fabulous.”
“You look fabulous, darling. And delicious. I had no dinner. Can I please eat you from bottom to top?”
“Oh, Daddy, I have to catch my breath,” she says,
lying naked on the bed next to me.
“You do that and I’ll caress your snatch with my
tongue.”
She puts her laptop over her shaved triangle and opens
it up.
“Darling,” I ask, “what are you doing now?”
“Just checking some email and sprucing up some social
media accounts.”
Dejected, I get up off the bed.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m taking off my work clothes and. . .”
“Getting naked?” she asks, licking her lips.
“If that would please you.”
“Will you lie next to me?”
“As you wish,” I say, somewhat sarcastically.
I sit next to her, reading my book as she scrolls
through pages with her right hand. Her
left hand is resting on my cock. It
grows in her palm. I put down my book
and turn on my side, rhythmically fucking her fist. Unconsciously, she allows it, but doesn’t
enthusiastically respond to it. She’s
engrossed in whatever it is she’s reading.
After a couple of moments, I look at what is on her
screen. It’s a page of nearly naked
women.
Just as I was enjoying seeing her in the naked flesh
next to me, and also her pixilated portrait resting just above her pink vulva
on her laptop computer, she scrolls away from the page. And, to make matters worse, she removes her
hand from my hard rod.
“Now what are you doing?” I ask.
“It’s well known that lists create
web traffic and a fan asked me to list six facts about my body.”
“Clickbait,” I respond.
“You can call it that,” she says,
but I think I’m the real bait.
Clitbait, you might say.” She
strokes her bean under the computer as she says it.
She returns her hand to the keyboard
and writes:
Six Facts About My Body:
It is an instrument of pleasure.
It is a canvass for cum.
It inspires creativity.
It drives people crazy.
It drives me crazy.
I love it.
“Not bad,” I say.
She ignores my compliment because now she is engaged in
answering emails.
One guy asks, “Who are you?”
“Cum and find out,” writes Lo, followed by, “Wait, reverse
that.”
Another guy sends a dick
pic. Lola tells him that if he is going
to do that, he has to send one with her photo in the frame. He replies, “I don’t usually send dick pics.”
“I bet you say that to all the
sluts,” she replies snidely.
I can see that she is getting excited. Her right hand moves to her chest and she
pulls at her nipples, making them erect.
“Looks like you’re ready to give
some pointers,” I say.
Another fan read the story, “Divine Destinies,” about Lo’s immaculately pure pink posterior flower. He wrote to Lo requesting some steamy chat, adding that, “I love to talk about dirty things.”
Lo, taking offense at this, replies,
“Are you suggesting that the pinnacle of my success is ‘dirty’?”
“Lo,” I say, “turn over and I’ll
take a pic of my tongue deeply penetrating your perineum and we’ll show him how
you’re more beautiful than Charlene and Mr. Clean.”
She chuckles and asks, “How the hell
do you know that song?”
“My brain isn’t as old as my body.”
“If by that mean you mean that
you’re immature, then you’re right.”
“Roll over.”
She closes her laptop and I think I’m in luck, but
then she takes out her phone. She does
turn onto her tum and begins going through photos from fans. “I just need a little something to wet my
whistle, if you know what I mean,” she says, as she puts her right hand down
between her pussy lips and strokes, then, using that natural lubricant, moves
to her porn star.
She passes me the phone and says, “Look what I found
in my in-box!”
I, looking at both her boxes intently at that moment,
take the phone from her.
“Read it aloud,” she says, “I’m all ears. . . and
vagina.”
I see a long email from a fan, a woman named “Jen X.” It reads:
As I read the lusty letter, Lo is
having finger fun time between her legs and her feet are working in tandem to
stroke my cock. The words are so poetic
and prurient that I very nearly cum. Lo
can feel it and she turns and says, over her shoulder, “I just got out of the
shower. I didn’t wash my hair and I
don’t intend to today. If you cum, don’t
cum in my hair.”
“Do
you think Audrey Hepburn ever said that to Gregory Peck?”
“Look,
I aim to please, so please be sure to aim.”
Just
as she says it, I take aim and hit my mark, right between her shoulder
blades.
Painting on Canvas
After
I recoup, I get up and go to the bathroom to clean myself off. There, on the sink, is her giant
cucumber. “Do you think this is still ok
to eat?” I call to Lo.
“What,
your cock?”
“Well
that too, but I was referring to your veggie vagina filler.”
“Oh,
I’m not done with it yet. Toss it here.”
I
do so and I also return to the bedroom to get dressed.
“Where
do you think you’re going?” she asks as she stuffs herself full of the jolly
green giant.
How about this?
“To
the store to get something for dinner.
Do you want anything?”
“How
about an eggplant. This is not nearly
enough to feed me.”
Just found out that the good people at tenben.com reviewed Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume II: MORE!
They said, “Lo is the sort of woman that always gets what she wants.”
“What will probably sell this book from a particular standpoint is that it is chock FULL of photos of the pair serving as story illustrations. There’s a lot of care being put into this.”
“Match, Cinder & Spark Volume II: More! by H.H. is an earnest expression of a couple’s sexual energy…and that energy contains the white hot passion of one thousand suns. Each individual story along with its accompanying pictures is equal parts fun and sexy, but to attempt to mentally splice the smut with the real life antics of this power couple would be a fool’s errand. If you and/or your partner have a wild sexual side you’d like to explore on paper, to explore your wildest fantasies in the comfort of your own bedroom, you’d be doing yourself a favor by starting with this dynamic duo.”
Finally a moment to relax. Some time to myself. A quiet interval to read for enjoyment before sweet sleep. I was deep into the Bukowski’s Notes of a Dirty Old Man, appropriately enough. As I tried to enjoy one of the short stories about a dissolute life, Lo lay next to me, naked, her legs spread, diddling her bean, clearly looking for attention. She spread her legs wider, putting her left leg up and over my legs. She inserted her finger and moaned. No response from me. She spread her legs even further until her left knee hit the cover of my book, knocking it out of my hands. She dipped all five fingers into her gaping pleasure patch.
Lo’s Bed Spread
“Hey,” I said, “watch it!”
“Clearly you’re not interested in watching,” she retorted.
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“Probably not,” she replied, cursorily, as she continued to fap with her five fingers.
“Then may I read in peace?”
“Why do you want to read now?” she asked.
“Well,” I said with some snark, “right now, I feel like it gives me a leg up, if you know what I mean.”
She raised her leg even further, across my chest.
“Watch out, dear,” I said, “you’re spreading yourself a bit thin there.”
“Thin?! Thin?! I’m a proudly thick woman,” she said.
“Look,” I said, “if you want me, then just use your words and ask for me to fuck you.”
“I shouldn’t need my words,” she said as she pulled out her fingers from her puss, “I’m using sign language.”
“And I’m using my ability to read lips.”
“See, we don’t even need words,” she said, “we can communicate perfectly well with body language.”
I got on my knees, pulled down my boxers, pulled out my hard cock and asked, “What does this body language express to you?”
Reading Notes of a Dirty Old Man
“Everything I want to know,” she said, “now dip your pen in my wet well and write your poetry all over me, you dirty old man.”
July 1st is the release date for Volume IV of “Match, Cinder & Spark.” It’s called “Sexy Shorts” and it contains 40 quick, sexy, funny stories about Lola Down and her sexcapades. It also has 30 stunning images by top artists and graphic designers, including a great cover by Ismolius!
If you reblog this post on your blog, I’ll send you a free copy. Just send me the link: downloladown@gmail.com or comment below with the link.
Mark and Stephanie came over for
appetizers before we all were going to go to see a play. Lo had planned this night for the four of us
months ago. She was very excited because
the play was one that she had heard great things about and she thought that Mark
and Stephanie were just the couple to invite to it. My guess was that she had designs on Mark and
was hoping to get him into a showdy corner of the dark theater and play a
little herself. But what actually
happened was way beyond my wildest imaginings.
Lo, as is her practice of primping
and prepping, spent most of that lovely summer Friday afternoon cleaning up the
house for our guests, making a special dip, stocking the bar, adorning the
small tables with bouquets of flowers, and then hopping into the shower. I, for my part, cracked open a beer and
watched Lo do all this work in her panties and bra. I hope you, dear reader, don’t get the wrong
idea about me. I’d be more than happy to
chip in with the chores, but Lo is such a perfectionist that I have learned the
hard way over time that it’s best to leave it to her.
As I sat on the living room couch, I
heard what could only be described as Lo’s mating call, if mating occurred for
her the way it does for komodo dragons, that is, through parthenogenesis, or
without the need of a male. Yes, this is
a very long-winded way of saying that Lo was fucking herself in the shower with
one of her many dildos and calling, to God, to me, to anyone, with her
distinctive, “OH GOD! YES! FUCK! YES!
YES! YES! YES!”
Not quite as poetic as the final paragraph of Joyce’s Ulysses, but the same sentiment. When she got out of the shower and found me
sitting on the bed, I wasn’t the only one who was long-winded. She was panting for air since her hot, steamy
shower only added to the heavy, humid air of our apartment.
“Thinking of Mark?” I asked
snidely.
“Mark, Mike, Matthew, Milton, it
doesn’t matter.”
“Allow me to rephrase. Thinking of dick?”
“Many, many dicks,” she said.
I got up off the bed to spank her
bottom as she was bending over the sink to wipe down the mirror when I caught a
glance into the tub and saw it was populated with not one, but four
dildos!
“What the hell did you need four dildos for in there? You only have three orifices to fill.”
“I like to feel wanted,” she said as
she set out to blow dry her hair.
“How many times did you cum?”
“Three or four or five.”
“Seriously?”
“No, deliriously. I used different dildos for different holes
and different sorts of orgasms. I used
this one,” she said, pointing at the one that was stuck to the tile wall by its
suction cup base, “for my puss. Then I
added this one in my ass,” she said, indicating her large red double-ended
dildo. “And then I used that same one on
both my ass and my puss before I used this one,” she said pointing to the horse
cock dildo on the floor of the tub.
“What about that one?” I asked,
pointing to the black dildo we call “Tommy gun” because it looks like a little
machine gun the way the ball sack is attached to it.
“Oh, that one I just held in my hand
for fun. You know my motto.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Be happy: jill off, jill often.”
“Well, you’d better clean up your
bathtub toys before our guests arrive.”
“Why, were they planning on taking a
bath?”
“You never know.”
“That would be fun.”
“I bet you’d like that. But, remember, Mark hasn’t had sex with Stephanie in over a year now.” We knew this from what Stephanie had told me at their Super Bowl party.
“First, that’s not
due to any deficiency on his part. And
second, even if it was, I know I could help him. I’m a cock whisperer.”
“I think you still
aim to ‘help’ him,” I said, knowing that Lo is terribly attracted to Mark.
“So,” she
responded, “Why do you think I have so many dildos in the tub? I like to get men hard. I like them to desire me. I like to be what gets
them up in the morning and what gives them sweet dreams at night. I want to be a vessel into which men drain
their lust.”
“Everyone but the
shoemaker’s wife,” I said under my breath.
“What?” she asked
as she slipped into her dress.
“Everyone except
the shoemaker’s wife,” I said more loudly.
“What the fuck
does that mean?” she asked.
I responded, “You have to clean up
your language, young lady.”
“Fine, I’ll clean it up. I’ll take out every word except ‘fuck.’”
“You know what I mean.”
“Fuck?”
“Stop it.”
“Fuck fuck.”
“You’re being vulgar.”
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.”
“OK, I’ll play your game. What do you want to do tonight?”
“Fuck.”
“I bet you do. Fuck Mark.
Like I said, everyone except the shoemaker’s wife.”
“That’s the third time you said
that, now tell me what the fuck it means before I shove this shoe up your ass!”
she demanded as she held her high heel in her hand.
“It’s a saying. Everyone gets a new pair of shoes except the
shoemaker’s wife. The shoemaker never
gets to her because he’s so busy making the shoes for everyone else.”
“And what does that have to do with
us?”
“You’re the shoemaker. Everyone gets to drain their lust into you
but me.”
“Oh, don’t give me that,” she said,
feigning playing the violin for me. “You
get more than you can handle. Nine out
of ten times you deny me. That’s why this shoemaker has to go all
around town like the prince letting everyone try on Cinderella’s slipper.”
“Now this metaphor has jumped the
shark.”
“Look, if you want some of this,”
she said, slapping her pussy over her dress, “all you have to do is ask for it,
or better yet, take it!”
“I want it!” I said, lifting up her
dress and noticing that she hadn’t put on panties.
“Not now! They’ll be here in a minute or two.”
“I only need thirty seconds. You know that.”
“And people say romance is dead.”
At that moment the doorbell
rang. I went to go answer it and Lo
called to me and said, “Tell them I’ll be right out. Oh, and put the chips out and the dip. Oh, and can you turn on the Bluetooth speaker
to some up-beat music?”
“Sure,” I said, trying to remember
all I was supposed to do.
I took out the chips and dip,
grabbed Lo’s phone and pulled up Spotify, and turned on the speaker so it
played in the living room. Then I let in
Mark and Stephanie.
I invited them into the living room
and we sat down. “Lo will be right out,”
I said as we made polite conversation.
They looked very dapper, all dressed
up for the theater. She was wearing cute
flats, tight jeans, and a very sheer white top.
She doesn’t have very big breasts, but they are perky and she has a cute
bob haircut. He was in nice jeans,
leather shoes, and a tight fitting black t-shirt under a blazer. It was a dated, slightly “Miami Vice” look,
but he can be forgiven since he is from Miami after all.
I offered them drinks and they both
gladly elected for the harder stuff, passing over the beer and wine. I was surprised. Before theater events I find I can’t have
anything too strong, except coffee, lest I pull a Jack Nicolson and fall asleep
during the performance and begin snoring.
As I was entering with drinks in
hand, Lo made her stunning appearance. I
had seen her little, short black dress, but to see her with the sexy, shiny
black heels, her full makeup on, and that smile of hers was really
something. I wondered if she was still
commando or if she had elected to wear panties.
Ah, those perennial philosophical questions that I ponder in my life
with Lo.
We sat in the living room talking
since we had plenty of time before we had to leave for the play and somehow the
conversation turned to the topic of tattoos.
I pointed out that neither Lo nor I have any tattoos and we were
discussing what and where we’d get them if we chose to do so.
“Do you have any tattoos?” asked Lo
of both of them, but she touched Mark’s arm as she asked it.
“Lo, don’t you remember? – We went
to the beach with them. I didn’t see any
tattoos on either of them,” I interjected.
“Actually,” Mark said, “I do have a
tattoo.”
“Na-ah,” said Lo in disbelief,
grabbing his arm. “Where?”
“Well, I’m actually not too proud of
it.”
“Come on,” she said. “Where?” she asked, turning to Stephanie for
a hint.
“There,” said Stephanie, pointing at
his crotch.
“Na-ah,” said Lo again. “On his. . . ?”
“No,” said Mark. “Not on
it. Just above it.”
“What is it, I have to know,” said
Lo.
“If you’re that curious, I’ll show
you,” said Mark, standing up and moving to undo his belt buckle, but obviously
joking. But Lo didn’t take it as a
joke.
“Really?!” she said, the word
escaping her mouth faster than her brain realized what she had said and with
how much enthusiasm she had said it.
“No,” said Mark. “You don’t really want me to show you, do you?”
Lo unwittingly licked her lips and
nodded her head “Yes.”
“Fine,” said Mark, “I’ll show
you.” He actually unbuckled his belt.
I suddenly got up and said, “I’m
going to refresh my drink. Can I get
anyone anything?”
I was met with no answer. I looked at the tableau. There was Lo on the couch on one side of
Mark, her head directly level with his pelvis, looking intently. Mark was standing, undoing his belt buckle, a
big smile on his face. And Stephanie was
sitting on the other side of Mark, almost unable to see the action, her legs
crossed, a slight frown on her lips, watching her husband’s movements in front
of this woman who was over ten years her junior.
I was in the kitchen and I suddenly
heard Lo’s admiring voice coo, “Wow!
Impressive!”
When I returned to the living room,
Mark was buckling up his belt.
“So, why an eagle?” asked Lo, now
touching his knee.
“I was in college, I was drunk, and
I thought that. . . now this is really embarrassing.”
“Out with it,” demanded Lo.
“I was into the symbolism of spirit
animals and I felt that the eagle was my spirit animal and this,” he said,
running his hand across the top of his pelvis, “was the seat of my spirit.”
Lo did her best not to giggle and to
really stroke his ego (though she wanted to stoke something else, I’m sure). But then she said abruptly, “Oh, fuck, I
forgot, I have to send a quick email for work.”
I was confused and I saw her grab
her phone and scurry off. “I’ll be right
back. Just five minutes. Promise.
I just have to take care of this little bit of business.”
OH!
I thought, Is that what she’s
up to now. You see, “TCB – Taking Care
of Business,” is our little code for her masturbating. That’s what she texts me when she can’t come
to the phone because she’s busy cumming to something else.
And just as quickly as that
revelation hit me, a second, more menacing one alighted, “She took her
phone. Oh, shit!”
But that second realization was just
a bit too late in arriving. She must
have already gotten into the bedroom or bathroom, took down her panties, if she
was wearing any at all, and already found a dirty little video to watch because
suddenly the music on the Bluetooth speaker switched to the sounds of two (or
more) people fucking. Yes. Right there in the living room, the pornographic
soundtrack filled the air like an ambient disembodied orgiastic orchestra.
“Ha ha,” I fumbled, “must be a
random connection crossing paths with our wireless.” I jumped to shut off the speaker and couldn’t
find the confounded button fast enough!
Finally, in the awkward silence, we sat just sort of looking at each
other as I struggled to fill the air that was now devoid of sex sounds but
pregnant with nothing. Small talk into
the void, I thought, not finding the words that would penetrate those deafening
drawn out moments of muted embarrassment.
And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, that shriek of Lo’s
climax cut the stillness with “Oh FUCK!”
“I’ll just go to check to make sure
everything’s ok,” I said, in haste to remove myself not only from the living
room, but, if possible, from the continent.
“LO!” I whispered as I entered the
bedroom and found her with her dress up over her waist, one of her dildos up
her crotch, on hand manipulating it as her other held her phone as she was
kneeling on the bed. She scampered to
make it look like she wasn’t up to no good, but there was no evading her
shenanigans.
“What?!” she angrily asked, also in
a whisper.
“They heard you. They heard everything.”
“What?”
“Yes. The porn, the orgasm, all of it. Now, put your toy down and get out here. Oh, and make up some sort of an excuse.”
I returned to our guests, looking as
if nothing was wrong and said, “Oh, Lo just, er, dropped her computer on her
foot.”
“Is she ok?” asked Stephanie, seeing
right through the ruse.
“Oh yeah,” I said, waiving my hand
as if to say, nothing to worry about.
No sooner had I done that than Lo
came out, in her heels, smiling, and she said, “Sorry about that, I just found
out that something terrible happened at work.”
“How’s your foot?” asked Stephanie.
“My foot?” asked Lo, perplexed. “Fine.”
“We were all worried,” I said,
“about the computer you dropped on it.”
“Computer I. . .” she began.
If I could have stepped on her foot
to give her the hint, I would have, but as it was, I think my eyes were saying
everything.
“Oh yeah,” said Lo, “my foot’s
fine. Just a little bruise,” she
said. “Will you rub it?” she asked me as
she sat on the couch and took off her heel and put her foot up on my lap.
“I thought you rubbed it.” I said,
accusatorily.
“Oh, I did. I did rub it, but it still hurts,” she
said. “It needs more rubbing,” she
added, and I could just hear her saying, “Daddio,” but she kept that to
herself, thankfully.
She shook her foot, as if to demand
my attention, and I said, “Wasn’t it your other
foot Lo?” just to mess with her.
“No, silly,” she said, “I think I
know which foot I dropped my computer on.”
So I began caressing her foot. We all continued our little chat, but this
time without any ambient music.
Eventually it was time to go and we
went to see the play.
Prior to that evening, I had no idea
what the play was about. I hadn’t even
heard of it. But ever since, that play
has been etched into my mind. In brief,
it is the story of a late 19th century doctor who treats women with
hysterical paroxysms. He used to induce
them digitally, but now he has discovered this newly invented medical device
that uses the also newly invented technology of electric power. The device?
A vibrator! The wife, who is
sexually frustrated, becomes curious about this mystery treatment and uses it
on herself, to her delight. I won’t give
too much of the wonderful story away here, lest you, dear reader, go to see it
– which I highly recommend.
But for the four of us to see that
play together, well, I can only surmise that this was the scheming of Lo’s
cunning mind. For, as you know by now,
Stephanie and Mark have been struggling with rekindling the sexual spark in
their marriage. In many respects, they
may have felt like they were watching their relationship play out on
stage.
Lo’s little foreplay at home may
have been an elaborate prelude to the main event. A little masturbatory appetizer for our
guests, only in order to fete them with a full course meal of onanistic
explorations. During the performance, Lo
was squirming in her seat as she sat, very conveniently and strategically
between me and Mark.
At intermission, Stephanie pulled Lo
aside, leaving Mark and me to get drinks at the crowded bar. I was thankful for the distraction, for I
honestly didn’t know what to say to him.
When we did have a moment of awkward interaction, he asked, “What do you
think of the play?”
I answered, “Wonderful, wonderful,”
ambiguously.
“I can see what Lo likes about it,”
he said, just as ambiguously.
“What wouldn’t she like about it?” I
asked rhetorically.
Just then the ladies returned and
the lights flashed off and on indicating time to return to our seats.
The final act was a very satisfying
one, especially if Mark and Stephanie saw themselves in the main
characters. After the final curtain came
down, Mark and Stephanie said hasty goodbyes, claiming they had to get home to
relieve the babysitter. But who knows
what the actual cause of their haste was.
When Lo and I were alone, I rebuked
her for her bad behavior.
“Are you angry, Daddy?” she asked.
“Lo, why did you give in to your
carnal desires when we had guests? Were
you just prepping them for the play or were you too much in lust after seeing
Mark unzip his pants for you?”
A couple getting off to “Match, Cinder & Spark” and mysexlifewithlola.com together
“A little from column A,” she said,
“and a little from column B.”
“More like a lot from column B,” I
added. “What exactly did you see?”
