You,
dear reader, already know that Lola is an inveterate masturbator. You also know that I am forbidden from any
onanistic activities, unless either explicitly given permission, or told to do
so as a performance for my dear Lola.
The fact that there is a gap in our respective frequencies of
masturbatory manipulation should come as no surprise to you, and writing about
it here would simply be redundant.
However,
what I do intend on explaining, or rather, complaining about, is the
fundamentally unfair masturbation gap that exists between Lola, me, and her
fans. You see, I am not allowed to
engage in solo pleasure, not even to Lola’s sexy photos, unless granted
permission by Lo herself. And she takes
so much delight in my stymied suffering and enjoys my engorged balls so much,
that she rarely gives me the green light.
But with her fans it is another story.
One might think that Lola has no say over what her admirers do in the privacy
of their own homes with her pixilated pussy.
But that is incorrect. One of
Lo’s most enjoyable pastimes is to give specific instructions to her loyal
lovers (both near and far) about exactly how they are to worship her image, pay
tribute to her form, and pleasure themselves.
One of Lo’s Long Admirers
One
adoring admirer writes to her and asks, “What’s up?” to which she replies, “If
you’re looking at my pics, then, your cock.”
She’s not wrong.
Another
writes to her and asks very politely, “Morning, Lola. How are you?” to which she replies, “Horny,
as usual. Now jack it for me.”
They
are more than eager to comply. It
matters not to them if they are at work, home, or, as Lola really likes, lying
in bed next to their sleeping wives.
A Very Happy Fan
She
commands some of them, especially the diminutively endowed guys, to go to a
lingerie store, like Victoria’s Secret, and pick out various silk, satin, and
lace panties for women. Then she
instructs them to put the panties on and jack it to her pics and cum in the
sexy, sheer, tight material – taking pics of it, of course. An even more intense kink of Lo’s is
commanding those same fabric fetish guys to steal the panties from their wives
or girlfriends in order to wear while jacking it to Lo’s photos.
Lo Loves All Her Fans, Big & Little
Those
are the lucky ones. There are some
unfortunate fellas who are stuck in cock-cages and can only enjoy Lo’s photos
without any self-pleasure.
And
then there are the women. It is such a
complement to Lo when lovely ladies from around the globe take photos of
themselves jillin’ off to her. I will
admit that I find it very flattering when the women also make a comment about
“the steamy writing,” or say, “that story made me cum five times.” It is nice to know that every once in a while
the literary seduction I work so very hard to create from the raw material of
Lo’s sexual exploits is appreciated, especially by the lonely women, the
married but unsatisfied wives, and the other sexual insatiables out there like
Lo.
A Lovely Couple – He took the pick of her getting off to Lola
There
was a time, early on, when I actually had a small cadre of female fans who
wrote to me regularly. It was, not
coincidentally, around that time that Lo took over the email and other social
media outlets, telling me, “You do the blog, I’ll spread the word.”
Reading the Blog
Spread
the word. . . yeah right! She meant,
she’ll spread her legs and then disseminate her photos across the
internet.
But I’m not complaining. I am glad that our little corner, or crotch, of the blogosphere makes so many people happy, even if it means that I must deny myself the pleasures that others get from my hotwife Lo. After all, I have to admit that I have nothing to complain about since fans and her lovers alike all tell me how lucky I am. Can’t argue there.
[In honor of all our friends, such as Cara, Hy, Catherine, and of course, Michael & Molly, who are attending Eroticon this weekend, a little fantasy of what we envision our attending it to be like. Hopefully next year.]
Drawing of Lola by nglare
“LOLA”
– her name lit up the marquee. As we
approached the theater from the street, slick from the recent rain, Lo looked
up and said, “Big, bright, beautiful, and inviting. That’s me alright!”
We
were in England for the annual Literotica convention and somehow we were the
headline event for this evening’s performances.
Lo was giddy with excitement.
Entering
the theater from the side door for performers, there was a flurry of activity
backstage. Everyone was primping and
preparing. Lo, herself, had tried on
three different outfits and five different pairs of shoes before settling on
the glittery gold sequin top, the slinky green skirt, and the flashy four-inch
heels. “Green and gold,” I said, “the
colors of money.”
We
were there to do a reading and book signing, but Lo had plans for oh so much
more than that. Her Marina Abramovic
performance-art streak was activated and she had conspired with me to put on a
show. We were to be a Penn & Teller
style duet. She’d be Penn, the showman,
and I’d be Teller, the silent sidekick. She
had her props: a little wooden lectern on which she put the book, some paints,
paint brushes, markers, and a sign. The
sign read:
Match, Vol. I – $35
Match, Vol. II – $20
Match, Vol. III – $20
Complementary with
your purchase:
Squeeze
Tease
Pull
Paint
Draw
Write
Kiss
Suck
Cum
NOT ALLOWED:
Penetration of any
sort
Photos
(Mild BDSM is ok)
All prices USD
After
the opening acts, we were introduced to a loud round of applause. I got butterflies in my stomach and I’m sure
Lo did as well. We took our places on
the otherwise empty wooden stage under the hot spotlights. I stood next to Lo at the lectern with three
stacks of books and my portable credit card swipe device plugged into my phone.
Lo
opened the books to the places she had specially chosen for this event and read
some select passages: The preface to Vol I, penned by her; the encomium to the
color red; a few poems. As she read each
passage in her sweetly seductive voice, she slowly removed first one and then
the other strap of her blouse and let it fall, revealing her breasts. She then wriggled out of both the blouse and
her skirt until she stood stark naked but for her sexy heels. The poems were read in the buff.
When
she was done the music began – selections of songs mentioned in the books. I invited the audience members who had pre-purchased
books to step up and have Lola sign them while they each took a turn participating
in one of the activities mentioned on Lo’s sign.
The
first ones in line were a bit shy and timid.
They ventured a kiss or a gentle tug on Lo’s nipples while she leaned
over to sign one of the gloss nude photographs of her in the book. A few others took up the Sharpie pen and
wrote love notes to Lo on various parts of her body. Some wrote “Slut” or “hotwife” or “cum here” with
an arrow pointing to her puss.
As
the audience saw the performance taking place, those without books were eager
to get in line and I began selling our inventory. Men took out their cocks and began stroking
as they eagerly awaited their turn in line.
Some
of them stroked it next to Lola as she signed the books and wrote cute comments
about the men’s anatomy in the margins.
The
first man to cum did so on Lo’s feet, filling up her shoes with warm jizz.
The
next man to cum had a powerful ejaculation and managed to hit Lo’s tits with remarkable
aim. He even got a bit of applause!
A
woman was in line and she gave Lo a very warm kiss on the lips and then slid
her tongue down Lo’s neck to her glazed breasts and cleaned off the previous
customer’s cumtribution.
This
performance went on for some time, until we sold out of all our books!
Unfortunately
for Lo, all of this fun foreplay was merely a tantalizing orgasm tease. She whispered in my ear and I briefly
disappeared off stage to grab Lo’s favorite toy from one of the event sponsor’s
display: The Hitachi Magic Wand. We
plugged it into an extension cord and I brought the large, white device to Lo
who proceeded to use it on her clit while sitting in a high stool. She spread her legs and, within only a few moments
filled with tension and anticipation, Lo finally gushed with an torrential
outpour of emotion, release, and fluid that covered the stage.
After
her grand finale, some stage hands appeared at Lo’s side with warm, wet towels
and they cleaned her off. One of them
gently removed Lo’s feet, one at a time, from her shoes and wiped them
down. Another person mopped the wooden
floor. Once Lo was cleaned off, she got
dressed again and we walked off the stage.
Before exiting, though, Lo took a long bow, but not to the audience, but
to the wings of the stage, thus giving the audience one last look up her
skirt.
Congratulations
were showered on Lo and me from our fellow literotica friends and authors and
we got ready for the afterparty.
The following interview was just published on the very elite blog: AuthorsInterviews by the wonderful Fiona Mcvie!
Hello and welcome to my blog, Author Interviews. My name is Fiona Mcvie.
Let’s
get you introduced to everyone, shall we? Tell us your name. What is your age?
LOLA:
Hi, my name is Lola Down. I’m in my
mid-twenties. My man, H.H., the author,
is in his mid-fifties.
Fiona:
Where are you from?
LOLA:
We’re both from the U.S. The North East
to be more specific. But that’s about as
specific as we get.
Fiona:
A little about your self (ie, your education, family life, etc.).
LOLA:
We’re both well educated with graduate degrees.
My family background is rather tattered and filled with pain. His is all American Apple Pie, so far as I
can tell, but I’m sure that there’s lots beneath the surface. He doesn’t talk much about it, so it’s a bit
of a mystery to me. We met when he was
my art history professor. I was a
freshman and 18. He was in his late
forties.
Fiona:
Tell us your latest news.
LOLA:
Latest news is that soon we will be publishing the third book in our series of Match, Cinder & Spark. The first volume, subtitled “Nymphomania and
the Single Girl,” included a lot of stories about me when I was single. The
second volume, subtitled “MORE!” included more stories. The third volume, subtitled “Writing Under
Cover,” included a story about living a double life: of normal folks by day,
and sexplorers by night. The next volume
is subtitled “Sexy Shorts” and will only be two-three page stories.
Get all of the books, hard-copy for best results.
Fiona: When and why did you begin
writing?
H.H.:
I began writing in high school. Short
stories, mostly of a sci-fi genre. In
college I tried a bit more, but it wasn’t very good. It wasn’t until I was in my late twenties,
early thirties and going through some very tough times in my personal and
professional life that I turned to writing as a form of escape, release, or
therapy. That’s when it began to go much
better.
Fiona: When did you first consider
yourself a writer?
H.H.: I never really felt like a writer and certainly never
introduced my self as such because it seemed so pretentious and false. But at a certain point I just had written so
damn much that it was undeniable that that was what I was. A tiny fraction of it had been published, but
it wasn’t until starting the blog, mysexlifewithlola.com, that I really felt
like a writer. That’s when our
readership just went up and up and people from all over the world began writing
to us saying how much the writing (and Lola) inspired them. That felt great!
Fiona: What inspired you to write your
first book?
H.H.:
After a few years of regularly writing and publishing for the blog, the
manuscript of stories was into the hundreds of thousands of words. Currently, as of today, the word count of
only the published stories is 476,472.
That doesn’t include the words in the hopper ready for publishing on the
blog, or the notes that have incomplete stories and fragments. So, even though the stores didn’t have a
narrative arc, and they were mostly a collection of stories with two main
characters in each story, I thought, this is a good way to make access to the
stories easier for people. The blog
navigation can be as confusing as it is easy, if that makes sense. I didn’t spent time shopping the manuscript
around since we already had a built-in fan base of over many thousands. Unfortunately, the first volume, Match, Cinder & Spark: Nymphomania and
the Single Girl, was rather lengthy and, in the hard-copy, we included a
lot of high-quality, glossy photos. That
shot the price really high. I didn’t
realize how expensive it would be until the project was finished. By that time, after all that work, I decided
that I was just going to publish it as is, let the buyer pay for the book. It
is a collector’s item, after all. And,
with some more work, I could publish an e-book version and sell it for
literally 1/70 the price. Unfortunately,
at the time, the technology was not available for the photos to be included in
the e-book, but that also meant that people all over the world could safely
read it in public places, like the subway or on a plane or the airport, without
fear that Lola’s pussy would suddenly pop up on the screen. And if they wanted to see Lola’s va-jay-jay,
they could always just do a Google search of mysexlifewithlola.com.
Fiona:
How did you come up with the title?
Lola: Match, Cinder & Spark – He’s the
“cinder,” that is, the fire that has passed its prime. I’m the “spark”; the catalyst that sets things
aflame. Together, we’re a match. I won’t say a perfect match, but one that is
highly combustible. . . and hot!
Fiona: Do you have a specific writing
style? Is there anything about your style or genre that you find particularly
challenging?
H.H.:
The writing usually comes very easy. It’s mostly quasi-autobiographical. Lo provides the inspiration and a lot of the
raw material for the stories and then I just take artistic liberties to craft
it into a story that has some form. But
every once in a while I try to switch it up by trying out a new narrative
style. I once wrote a story called “Fuck
Noir” and I tried, not too successfully, to adopt a detective novel narrative
voice. I was particularly fond of the
last line, but that was all Lola’s doing.
Fiona:
How much of the book is realistic and are experiences
based on someone you know, or events in your own life?
H.H.:
Like I said, almost all of the book is based upon something in our lives,
either individually or together. We take
pains to protect the innocent as well as the guilty, and I use poetic license
to intersperse scenes out of sequence in order to tell a better story, but
there’s very little there that didn’t actually happen.
Fiona: To craft your works, do you have
to travel? Before or during the process?
H.H.:
Travel provides great material. There has never been a trip that we have gone
on, either separately or together, that hasn’t produced at least one fun
story.
Fiona: Who designed the covers?
H.H.:
I once wrote a story called “How My Girlfriend Became an Amateur Internet Porn
Star” which is all about the design of the cover of our first book, Match, Cinder & Spark: Nymphomania and
the Single Girl. I had chosen some
stock photo for the cover and when Lo saw it, she freaked. “I go
on the cover. No one else. Me.” Well, from then on, I knew that any promo for
the book or the blog had to be of Lo. It
meant a lot of photo taking by me (and some sexy selfies), but it’s truly a
labor of love.
Fiona:
Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?
H.H.:
Love yourself. Love the one you’re
with. Love each other. And if you’re single: Love yourself and love
our blog and books.
Fiona: Are there any new authors that
have grasped your interest? Who is your
favorite writer, and what is it about their work that really strikes you?
H.H.:
There are a lot of bloggers in our blogging community whose work I really
love. Too many to name them all, but a
small sample includes: Cara Thereon of CaraThereon.com, Hyacinth of
adissolutelifemeans.com, Nilla of Vanilla Mom’s Blog, just to name a few.
Lola:
Also, lately I’ve really enjoyed TJ of The Lustful Empress, Nero Black and his
eponymous blog, and lots of writers on Medium.com, most especially MyErotica
run by Rose, and the columns by Madelaine Hanson.
Madelaine Hanson
Fiona: Outside of family members, name
one entity that supported your commitment to become a published author.
Lola:
Actually, none of our family members know about this blog. But I’d say that
Medium.com has done the most in that they pay their member authors for the
content they create based upon some mysterious formula. I’m sure that they
somehow make far more than the authors, but it’s more than other platforms
provide.
Fiona: Do you see writing as a career?
H.H.:
Outside of the erotica that I write, I have a whole host of other works under
my real name. One day, maybe after I’m dead, the truth will out and then it
will become the unenviable task of others to reconcile the “legit” writing with
the “scurrilous” works. That is, of course, if anyone cares.
Fiona: If you had to do it all over
again, would you change anything in your latest book?
H.H.:
Well the latest book is just on the cusp of being published and so I’m trying
to insure that it will be the best yet.
Fiona: Did you learn anything during the
writing of your recent book?
H.H.:
I learned how much I love Lola, not because she’s so incredibly sexy, so dirty
in her thoughts, but because she is so incredibly funny. Writing dialogue with her is so easy because
our day-to-day lives together are full of amusing banter. We like to think of
ourselves as like Nick and Nora Charles from The Thin Man movies.
Fiona:
If your book was made into a film, who would you like to play the lead?
H.H.:
Jeremy Irons. I think he is wonderful in the remake 1997 of Lolita. But he’s probably a bit old for
the part now (though he’s in great shape).
Maybe Jeff Goldblum.
Lola:
Amanda (Donaghey) George. She looks just like me. Or maybe Sasha Grey, because she looks a bit
like me and is willing to do anything.
Amanda GeorgeSasha Grey
Fiona: Any advice for other writers?
H.H.:
Never take advice from a fellow writer.
They’re all full of shit.
Fiona: Anything specific you want to
tell your readers?
I write erotica. No. Scratch that. What I really write is love poems to Lola. Really, really, really long love poems. So long that, to the untrained eye, they read like prose.
Niel Gaiman once said, “If you’re only going to write when you’re inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet,but you will never be a novelist — because you’re going to have to make your word count today, and those words aren’t going to wait for you, whether you’re inspired or not. So you have to write when you’re not inspired.” I don’t have a problem with this advice in general, but part of the problem is that when I’m not inspired, a certain detached, disinterested, distant feeling comes over me with regard to my writing. I hesitate to say “objective,” because that implies a truth to the judgment and, for the life of me, I pray that that cold view of my writing is not true.
I struggle to capture exactly the feeling I get at these moments of disenchantment, but there are a few readily available examples of how I feel about my work that I can offer. If you’ve ever seen The Big Lebowski, then you may recall the “modern interpretive dance” scene where The Dude watches his landlord, Marty, perform. It is painful and comic to watch. But it means so much to Marty. That’s certainly part of it – if Marty was an author and not a dancer.
Another analogy is thinking thoughts when very stoned as compared to reading those thoughts when sober; some crucial élan vital is missing. A third analogy is that of being naked. One can be nude with one’s lover and that can be magnificent, or one can get caught naked in public, as often happens in humiliation dreams. The difference between nude and naked is as great as the difference between consent and coercion.
Being nude is easy. Writing is not.
But then there are also times like now. Last night Lola and I went out to a party with some friends. She wore her jack-pot top that prominently displays her cleavage and she wore her tight jeans with heels. She looked good and I wasn’t the only one to notice. Most of the evening her eyes sparkled and her teeth twinkled as she chatted and laughed, throwing back her long hair and touching the arms of those she liked. She flirts. And I love seeing it. I watched her from afar and occasionally I sidled up next to her sliding my right hand over her round butt. I wanted her all evening and the longer we stayed the more I wanted her. But I’m not as young as I used to be. The witching hour approached and my energy for performance and social settings dwindled. I felt fatigued on the ride home. Lo and I were traveling in the back of a cab and she was clearly not ready for the night to end. She kissed me and reached down between my legs. She reached between her legs and she enjoyed the thrill of being just out of sight from the driver as she made small-talk with him.
We got home and I got in bed, loving her, but needing sleep. She joined me, naked, and feeling dejected by my drowsiness, pulled out her Hitachi, phone, dildo, and began her nightly bedtime ritual of self-pleasure.
In the morning I awoke before she. She was curled in the fetal position facing away from me. I was wrapped around her, holding her tightly for it was a chilly morning and we needed each other for warmth. My hand roamed over her soft skin from her shoulder down to her breast, feeling the flesh of her tum and over her round hips. I wanted her. My rod was stiff between my legs, protruding into her. She was down for the count.
Desirous of her, but respectful of her sleep, I snuck out of bed, washed up, made my coffee, and set up my little writing nest on the couch and began to compose this lustful literary tribute to her, my muse. I know that when she wakes she will be full of passion for me as I will be for her. And when I read these words to her, she will find them flattering, beautiful, and inspired. That will make up for all the disenchanted moments when I look upon this massive encomium to Lola as if written by someone else. My love, my longing, my lusty imaginings and my self-critical eye will all be aligned. All shall be well, at least until the next wave of despair, alienation, and disenchantment plumes within me. But, until then, I’ll take what I can get – of Lo and of writing.
The latest book of the stories from mysexlifewithlola.com is now on sale. Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume III – Writing Under Cover is only $9.99 for the soft-cover. This book contains 35 chapters of the sexiest, naughtiest, funniest smut since, well, since Volume II was published.
It also is replete with original erotic artwork of Lola (and H.H.) by five renowned artists. Because this volume is itself a work of art and a collectors item, unlike past versions of Match, Cinder & Spark, this one will NOT be coming out in an e-book edition.
“Oooohhhh, you mean the hockey team that I met on my trip.”
“Yeah, that hockey team. Why? Is there another I should know about?”
“There are a lot of hockey teams in the world.”
“And you’re just the gal for each of them, aren’t you?”
“If you say so,” she says, batting her eyelids.
“Just tell me about the hockey team you began telling me about the other night.”
She had begun telling me about it the night she returned from her business trip, but I was so primed and ready for our reunification that I didn’t last long enough to hear any more than the teasing preview. Now a few weeks had gone by of my living in ecstatic mystery wondering about her little hints and jibes and I felt ready to hear the full-length tale.
“First,” she says, “get naked and lie on your back.”
I follow instructions.
She pulls out the massage oil and drips it over my cock. She begins to rub as the starts up where she left off.
“I told you, I was on my way back up to my hotel room when I got in the elevator with a bunch of guys who had arrived in town for a hockey tournament. I think they positively could smell how horny I was. They began to make small talk with me and I flirted back. They told me that they had the entire ninth floor of the hotel. I told them I was on the eleventh floor and I asked if they were up for coming up.”
“Let me guess, they were all very hard-up.”
“Oh yeah,” she says, caressing my member with both hands. “Just like you. . . only bigger.”
“And?”
“Well, they invited me to their floor first and so I got off.”
“Off the elevator?”
“Well, I got off on my floor, went to my room, got myself off, freshened up, and then went to their floor. All the doors were open on their floor and everyone was coming and going like in a dorm room. I flitted here and there and some of them were changing or walking around with their shirts off and a few had just gotten out of the shower and had nothing on but a towel around the waist. They were all gorgeous.”
“I bet. I bet you didn’t even see their faces.”
“Oh, no. I saw their faces and their arms, their chests, their lovely sculpted legs. I saw just about everything.”
“But you wanted more.”
“More is my favorite amount. So I invited five of them down to my room.”
“You did what?”
“You heard me. A select five.”
“Oh, I’m glad to hear that. How did you select them?”
“I had the whole team stand at attention in a row naked and I selected the five longest cocks.”
“You did not!”
“No, but a lady can dream, can’t she?”
“Anyhow, I selected the five nicest guys and we went down to my room and I told them a bit more about me before slipping off my panties. I had my little black cocktail dress on and I bent over the side of the bed and let them take a look under it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And I encouraged them to pull out their cocks and jack off behind me, which they did willingly.”
“I bet.”
“And then I said, ‘Go on, slap it.’ And one of them gave me a good, solid whack.”
“They were so kind and considerate.”
“I thought so too! My fingers were down between my legs, caressing and pulling my long pussy lips. They could see as they took turns slapping my ass. First they were timid, but then they grew more confidant as I moaned and said ‘Yes.’ Then I asked who wanted to be first in. One of the guys immediately got behind me and began thrusting as hard and fast as he could. It was rough and manic like a jackhammer horizontally placed in my cunt.”
“And you loved it, I bet.”
“You wouldn’t be wrong. But he came so quickly, deep inside me. I crawled up on the bed and let the next guy in. He was slower, more loving.”
“Loving?”
“Well, more gentle. I turned over my shoulder and said, ‘You can do better than that,’ and his friends encouraged him. They each had their puds in their hands, except for the guy who had just cum in me. But guy number two couldn’t finish. I guess it was a lot of pressure. He pulled out and a lot of cum from the first guy dripped out of me. One of them snapped a photo of me from behind just before the third guy went in me. After that, I sort of lost track of who was where because then one of them got under me and entered me so that they were double penetrating my pussy just like I always wanted. And later one was fingering my ass and then he let himself in there, cumming deep inside while a different guy was under me in my puss. I have no idea who came where or how many times I came. One of them even got in front of me and came in my mouth and on my face. In the end, let’s just say that everyone had scored at least once.”
“Who says that hockey is a zero-sum game?”
“Right? Win-win!”
“Any chance I can get a shot on goal?”
“It’s wide open,” she says as she gets on top of me and slides her puss down my pole.
“How’s it feel,” she asks.
“Smoother than ice, and a whole hell of a lot warmer.”
“Did you see this?” she said, holding a piece of mail in her hand and waiving it in the air. I could tell by her tone and the scowl on her face, we hadn’t won the Publishers Clearing House prize.
“What?”
“You bounced our rent check! That’s what.”
“I bounced it?!”
“Yeah, you.”
“Well, it’s our checking account.”
“Yeah, well you’re the one responsible for balancing the books.”
“Oh, so because I do more than my fair share of work, I am also responsible? No good deed ever goes unpunished in this house!”
“You’re not responsible because you take on the balancing, you’re responsible because you fucked up the balancing.”
“How the hell am I supposed to balance a checkbook when you have the debit card and spend through our cash?”
The fight went on like this for some time before I finally walked out the door.
My phone rang. I didn’t answer. I was in the car with no particular place to go other than away.
The phone rang again. Again I didn’t answer. I just grew even more heated. Why should we talk when we’re both angry?
A text came through, “You’re being conflict-avoidant again.”
At a red light I texted back, “And you’re being annoying again.”
The light had changed and the guy behind me honked his horn before I had time to hit send. I gave him the finger. Asshole.
I drove to my office – my refuge from the storm.
She called again.
“What?!” I said, answering the phone.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a contrite voice.
I wasn’t expecting an apology. I was expecting a continuation of the fight. My tone was completely over-the-top. But I wasn’t ready to apologize yet. Her apology was met with silence.
“Are you there?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“And?” she asked.
If she was looking for a reciprocation of an apology, then she was sorely mistaken.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Come home,” she said.
“No.”
“Are you going to the bar?” she asked.
“I wasn’t planning on it, but that’s a good idea.”
“No! Come home!”
“I might. It depends on if I’m coming home to a hornet’s nest or not.”
“You won’t! I promise. You’ll come home to a horny-nest!”
“Lo, sex isn’t the answer to every one of life’s problems.”
“I’m not looking for answers, I’m looking to get off.”
I returned home, a little more calm.
We talked about money a bit more in quieter tones. I explained that our finances are just a bit short right now, “but I’m confident things will be better next month.”
“That’s just the problem,” Lo said, exasperated, “you always think that next month will be better than this month. What if it’s the same? What if it’s worse?”
“So you’re saying that my worst quality is that I’m an incorrigible optimist? – I can live with that.”
“No! I’m not saying that’s your worst quality, but that’s what you hear because you are an incorrigible optimist.”
I fixed myself a whiskey on the rocks.
We talked some more before agreeing to revisit the problem another day. She suggested going out that night.
“Out?!” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s go out and have a good time. Maybe you can watch me flirt with someone.”
“Here we are, scraping together the pennies from our spare-change jar to pay the rent, and you want to go out? I’m sorry, I just find the idea of going out tonight repugnant and odious.”
“At least you can masturbate with your words.”
I shot her a look before taking another sip of whiskey.
“Well,” she said as she spread her legs on the couch and rubbed her pussy, “if we can’t go out, can you at least cum in?”
“Why this sudden erotic twist?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’ve always been erotically twisted.”
“I’m in no mood,” I said. “You’ll just have to man the torpedoes tonight.”
“I know I don’t look so good tonight,” she said, referring to the mascara that had run when she was crying and the old sweatshirt she was wearing, “but I promise, I feel good,” she said as she put her hand between her legs and rubbed her pussy, revealing that under the oversized sweatshirt, she wasn’t wearing anything else.
“Can I just sleep here tonight?” I asked, feeling tired and comfortable on the couch.
“Are you drunk or just an asshole?”
“Can’t I be both?”
“No, you can’t sleep here tonight. You’re coming in the bedroom. . . and I will be too, soon!”
We went in the bedroom and I got naked and in the bed. As I waited for Lo to get out of the bathroom, I dozed off to sleep. I awoke to find her straddling me, naked, grabbing my cock and using it as a dildo to rub her clit. I heard her moaning and then fell back to sleep.
The next day I saw that she made a Facebook post at two in the morning. I asked her about it. She told me that she couldn’t sleep. I asked her if she jilled it. She said, yes. I asked, “To what?”
“I used you.”
“What?”
“I licked your soft, little, good-for-nothing dick in your sleep until it got hard and then I used the tip of it to jill my clit.
“Yeah, I saw that, but that was right before I fell asleep, around ten o’clock. You made your post after two in the morning.”
“Well, it worked the first time, so I did it a second. . . and a third.”
I went to sit up and get out of bed, but my body ached and I moaned.
“What’s the matter?” she asked me.
“Nothing.”
“You’re hung over,” she stated.
“No I’m not. I’m sick. I’ve been fighting off a cold.”
“You’re dehydrated.” Her go-to diagnosis.
“No. Didn’t you see how much water I drank last night?”
“I didn’t see you drink any water.”
“I drank it right in front of you.”
“You drank two whiskeys. Don’t you remember?”
“Yeah, and what was in the whiskeys? – Ice!!!”
“Why do I even try?”
“I wasn’t even going to have one, but I was so agitated, I felt compelled to have a drink.”
“And how do you explain the second?”
“Well, after the first, my throat didn’t hurt anymore and I was feeling quite good, so I thought: if one caused that much improvement, two will be even better.”
“And was it?”
“Last night it was.”
“And now?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Well, it was a bad idea.”
“I may be great at making bad choices, but at least I’m great at it.”
“You have to preserve yourself.”
“I’ll buy a jar of formaldehyde.”
“As long as you use it to keep your cock stiff and hard.”
“Watch it babe. One of these days I’ll be dead and then you’ll miss me.”
“Yeah, but I’ll be married to a rich guy and I’ll have his money to console me.”
“Money won’t make you happy.”
“I wouldn’t know, but I’m willing to give it a shot. Have I told you my plan? I’m going to marry a rich man and then keep you on the side.”
“Stop promising and hurry up and do it. I ain’t getting any younger here. My plan is to grow old disgracefully, and you’re just the gal to help me do it too.”
Lola and I were discussing my latest publication and the woeful lack of financial reward gained from it.
“Do you think that the problem may be with the world, not with me?” I asked, tired of being responsible for the failure of monetizing our sexy, silly, sensuous, serious, sappy, serial story.
“Yes, of course,” she said, “the problem is the world, not you. The blog is the best writing you do.”
“Thank you dear,” I said, “you are an inspiration.”
“The world just isn’t ready for you,” she said. The way she said it, I couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or sarcastic. I shrugged and allowed myself to take it as a compliment.
“You know, you’re right. I’ve put a lot of thought to this and I honestly can’t think of one author who is comparable in terms of range.”
“Oh boy,” she said, “here we go.” Her tone was that of exasperation, as if she had heard this all before. But I had never mentioned this to her.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about range?”
“Yes dear, please, tell me about your range.”
“Well, I’ve written plays, screenplays, works of philosophy, art theory, novels, poetry, and, erotica – don’t forget the erotica.”
“I am aware.”
“Perhaps,” I said, gazing off to the middle distance, rubbing my beard, “there is one, one author who has an equal range.”
“And who would that be?” she asked as if reading from a script.
“Marquis de Sade. Yes, yes,” I said more enthusiastically the more I thought on it, “he had range – plays, philosophy, theology, erotica.”
“And look at how the world treated him.”
“Precisely, my dear, precisely! They put the genius in prison! I suppose I should count my blessings that I have not been arrested, charged, indicted, found guilty and imprisoned.”
“By that reckoning, you’re ahead of the game.”
“No matter how things go, I am fully confident that someday my true talent will be recognized, like with Sade. It may just have to be posthumously.”
“Great,” she said totally devoid of enthusiasm.
“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be remembered as more than my mistress. You’ll be known as my divine muse.”
“Just what I’ve always aspired to in life.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“And you sound like a pompous ass! You know, I’m more than just your muse. I have great achievements in my own right.”
“Of course you do,” I said, “but we’re talking about an immortal legacy. For that, you’ll be remembered as I see you; as high priestess in the holy church of Venus.”
“As a porn star, you mean.”
“A priestess of porn.”
“A slut.”
“An entelechy of the divine feminine.”
“A pinup calendar model.”
“Why must you speak in such pedestrian terms?”
“Your speech flies to the heavens. I’m here to keep you grounded. Earthly delights, remember?”
I just hit 3,000 followers! Thanks so much to all of you!!!
I still consider myself new to this medium — Medium. But, since I’ve been here I’ve discovered some really excellent, sexy, steamy writers.
Of course, HH is still my favorite and I post here because I want to share his stories of me with all of you. But, here are ten other Medium writers, in no particular order and without any scientific system for choice, that I have enjoyed over the brief time I’ve been around this neighborhood of the internet. The following is not based on number of claps, number of followers, or anything other than what has turned me on.
Another reason HH isn’t on this list is because I deliberately chose only female bloggers. HH is one of the only male erotica writers I read, but I love the ladies you’ll find in the list below.
If you’re a writer and think you should be on this list, maybe I just don’t know about you. Send a shoutout to me either in the comments or via email.
If you’ve been included here, please do the following: 1) Make your own Top 10 (or 5 or 3 or whatever); Include the medallion on your post/page; 3) Include a link back to this post. Thanks so much! ~ Lola
And the top ten are:
Rose of MyErotica — Rose has done perhaps more than anyone to promote new erotica writers and get the word out about erotica on Medium. She’s a great writer and a generous soul.
Ally Snow — Ally Snow has a unique and honest voice. She doles out advice and also is candid about her own mistakes in relationships. After reading her, you feel like you’ve sat with a close girlfriend for a coffee, chatting for a couple of hours.
Mimi Bordeaux — A direct writer who comes at you straight on, though she’s far from straight! Her writing is like Hemingway if Hemingway was queer, a woman, and a hell of a lot more sexy!
Vienna De Vega — A smart, witty writer who also is an avid reader and an unabashed enthusiast of all things kink.
Kris Gage — I don’t know how old Kris is, but she has an old soul in the best sort of way. She speaks about love and relationships from a well of experience, both good and bad. Her insights into Buddhism are definitely worth reading.
Madelaine Hanson — A witty, take-no-prisoners writer who is prolific and poignant. A staunch feminist with a pen!
Jessica Wildfire — The professor is in and everyone is hot for teacher! Jessica’s writing is steamy and occasionally she shares amusing anecdotes from the trenches of higher education.
Stoya — You may know her from porn, but she has always been one of the most well-read, intelligent, and feminist voices in the industry. Lately, to the benefit of us all, she has been using her voice by writing a lot. Anyone who can cite Bataille in a blog post on sex deserves kudos!
Lacey Divine — Writing on open relationships, sex work, and orgasms. Can’t beat that!
Alexis McCall — A hotwife, like yours truly, who writes about all different aspects of these complex relationships. Prolific, insightful, and a great resource!
These are only the top ten of literally hundreds of great writers out there. I apologize if I’ve left you out. For more great suggestions, just look at my “following” list.
I walked into the office and said, “Ms. Gale, please block out the week of July first through July tenth. I’m going on vacation.”
She looked up from her desk, her blue eyes framed by her wide-rimmed glasses, and asked, “Vacation?! Where?”
“That’s right, vacation. I’ve gotta get outta here. I booked a resort hotel for Lo and me on a beach in Maui.”
“Ooooo, really?” she squealed with excitement. “Are you going to propose to her there?”
The question took me by surprise. “Propose? Why would I do a darn-fool thing like that?”
“Because, Mr. H., that’s what people do at those romantic resorts on the beach.”
“People,” I said with scorn. “I am not people.”
“You’re in love with her, aren’t you? Why are you just stringing her along?”
“Ms. Gale, you are correct, I am madly in love with Lola.”
“So why don’t you get married to her?”
“Because I am madly in love with Lola. I am not madly in love with marriage. Marriage is a comfort that, once achieved, leads to the erosion of love.”
“Oh, Mr. H., you’re such a stick-in-the-mud.”
“And you, Ms. Gale, are a busybody twenty-something who has never been married, divorced, or lived fifty some-odd years to learn from experience.”
“Well, that’s no reason not to get married.”
“If you’re so crazy about marriage, why don’t you marry Lola?” I asked as I walked out of the reception area where Ms. Gale had her desk, slamming the door to my private office.
That was how my day started. It only got worse from there. Needless to say, by the end of the work day, which was nine at night for me, I was in no mood for Lo’s tomfoolery.
I walked into the bedroom, found Lola naked under the sheets, doing what Lola is always doing when she’s naked under the sheets with easy access to her phone, and I began to undo my tie and remove my button-down shirt.
“Oh yeah,” Lo moaned.
“Is that meant towards me, or your porn video?” I asked as I removed my pants.
Without taking her eyes off the video or her hand from between her legs, she said, “Yes.”
I washed up in the bathroom and returned, taking off my pants and getting under the sheets next to Lo. “Well, Daddio, am I going to get any tonight?” she asked as she was rubbing her pussy lips under the covers with one hand and holding my flaccid cock with the other hand, the phone with the video still playing next to her, flat on the bed. I could hear the couple in the video moaning and groaning.
“You have to get me hard first,” I said.
“That seems to be an insurmountable obstacle,” she replied, lifting and dropping my soft dick.
“Really? I never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“I never have had that problem. . . with other men.”
Within moments I was asleep, or so Lo told me the next morning. She had to get her rocks off without me. . . again.
When I woke in the morning, I found her curled up next to me, her eyes already open. “You can fuck me if you want to” were her first words to me.
Luckily, having expelled all my bad feelings of the previous day through my sleep, I was very “up” that morning.
“Roll over on your back and spread your legs,” I said. My first words to her.
“Oh, Daddy! You’re so romantic!” I honestly couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or sarcastic.
I positioned myself over her naked body and took a good look at her. “You look good,” I said.
“Prove it!”
“The proof is in the puddin’, and I’m puddin’ it in you.” I slid in. She was dripping wet. “Lo,” I said once I was deep inside her.
“Yes, Daddy?”
“How long have you been up?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Did you jill it?”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Daddy, I’ve been jillin’ it since last night. I have no idea how many times. I’m sore and soaked and I want you.”
“What have you been jillin’ it to?”
“Daddy, I can’t remember it all. Just shut up and fuck me. Please.”
I shut up and gave her what she asked for. But she asked, “Can I turn over, Daddy, please?”
I let her turn onto her tum and she put her ass up in the air to be had from behind. But then I saw her grabbing her phone and looking at it. One hand held it up for her to see and the other was manipulating her clit. I tried to see what she was looking at, but couldn’t quite make it out.
“Lo, what is that?” I asked as I leaned forward and put my hands on her shoulders to see better.
“Never you mind. Just get back there and do your job. I want to feel you, hard and deep and hard.”
I complied with her demands. She came. At the moment when I felt her pussy clench on my cock, I came too, deep inside her. She collapsed into the pillows, dropping her phone. I fell on top of her. Eventually, I slowly pulled out. Looking down at her, I quoted one of her favorite films, “Little full, lotta sap.”
She laughed and then said, “Clean me up.”
I took care of her and then suddenly she was up and out of bed.
“I have to go now,” she said.
“But you only just came!”
“Work, Daddio. I have a job, remember?”
She went into the bathroom to get ready. I picked up her phone and went through her browsing history. I was shocked by what I saw, but I figured I’d ask her about it that evening, when we could explore her fantasies together. I put down her phone as if I wasn’t looking at it just as she opened the door to the bathroom. She was putting on her makeup. “Honest answer,” she called to me, “do I look like a trollop to you?”
