Hello to all of our friends in the blogosphere! We miss you! We see you!
Of course we’re disappointed that Eroticon was called off due to COVID this year. (Not that we could make it.) But we are grateful for the interwebs where we can connect with all of you in a socially safe, yet sexy way.
This is a little news update and the hard-sell for all the new and old stuff that you can get written by HH and featuring your truly, Lo your classy nympho.
You might notice a little bit longer between blog posts for us. That’s because HH has begun a new, long-form piece. Not exactly a novel (because not exactly fiction), but maybe a memoir of sorts. It will be called Rogue’s Gallery. He sees it as a film eventually and has made these creative promo posters for it.
In addition to this, our favorite narrator, the inimitable and premier erotica voice of Match, Cinder & Spark, Ms. Jupiter Grant, just completed the narration to Volume III: Writing Under Cover. It is out and for sale now on Audible and also Amazon.
You can hear my favorite excerpt from it here:
Though the audiobook lacks the stunning art that the hard-copy book has to offer, Jupiter Grant more than makes up for it with her seductive voice.
In addition to that, HH and I are working on the production of Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume VI: Slut Life. It’s a collection of stories that take place at the beach, on the water, or during the fun, slutty, summertime. It was supposed to be out by now, but we ran into some production hangups. It should be available in early September. Keep an eye out.
Fap. Jill.
Vibe. Flick the bean. Solo time.
T.C.B.
However
you call it, Lo does it. And she does it
more than any woman I’ve ever met and more than most women whose rumored
self-pleasure sessions have reached my ears.
That
said, it came as no surprise to me when I heard. . . well, just sit down, get
comfortable, and I’ll tell you.
Lo had gone on her date. I was home, alone. At least she had had the courtesy to jack me off before leaving. But what to do with my time? You see, dear compassionate reader, when Lo goes off like that, it puts me in the greatest state of tension and anticipation. If only I could be there on all of her dates, sitting at the bar, watching from afar.
But
Lo needs, deserves, and wants her space.
I get that. And, to be fair, the
eager expectation is more than half the fun.
The other half is hearing her tell the tale to me in bed.
Still,
that gap between her departure and arrival must be filled. A hard, very hard task.
I
can’t just go out with friends. My mind
would be preoccupied. And what if I
missed Lo’s return?
Reading
is futile. My every wandering thought is
of Lo, and the thoughts wonder frequently, just like Lo.
Writing? Well, sometimes that is a good pastime.
But
on this occasion I got up to some mischief.
You,
my faithful reader, are well aware from long ago that Lo is insanely
jealous. Not just of my attention, not
just of other women, but of literally anyone who might remotely rival her in my
eyes. Hence, she was frequently frowning
upon my watching Weeds, and
especially Mary-Louise Parker, whose character, Nancy Botwin, not only
intrigued me, but reminded me of Lo in a number of ways.
Somehow,
during Lo’s late night adventures most likely, I managed to get through all the
episodes of that series. And for a good
long time, nothing replaced it. . .
.
. . until SMILF came along with its
very Lo-like star, Frankie Shaw.
Lo
and I had watched the first episode together, but when Frankie got down and
dirty, Lo hit the power button and said, “Nope.
No more for you.”
“But.
. .” I tried to protest.
“But
nothing. If you’re getting hard
watching, then I’m shutting it off and you and I can go to the bedroom and get
fucking.” And that’s just what we did.
Now
that Lo was out, and most likely getting fucking with someone else, the image
of Frankie Shaw on the “recently watched” option of the T.V. menu was calling
to me and I thought, “This is ridiculous.
This is more than a double-standard.
This is cruel and unusual punishment.”
So I hit “Play.”
My
suspicions were borne out; Frankie Shaw is just like Lo. When she frantically scrolls through the
photos on her computer with one hand down her panties, it was a replay of a
vignette I had seen so many times with Lo in the starring role. In my mind, though, Frankie Shaw was fapping
it to mysexlifewithlola.com, scrolling through all the desultory images of Lo
fapping it to who-knows-what – probably to Frankie Shaw, if I’m being honest,
since Lo loves to condemn with me that which she condones privately.
I
only got through another two and a half episodes before I saw the headlights of
a car out front stop and let out a passenger.
It was Lo. I could tell by the
swivel of her hips as she walked. The
T.V. was off before she was in the house.
“Hello,”
she called from the door.
“Hello,”
I called back.
She
peered in the unlit living room.
“Sitting in the dark?”
“It’s
my best light and greatest comfort.”
“Well,
it can be dark in the bedroom too,” she said, walking down the hall, her
leather boots on the wood floor sounding like seductive music to my ears.
I
got up and followed her and said, “You bring the light,” as I turned on the
nightstand lamp to see her. Upon
reflection I added, “You know, that’s where Lucifer gets his name.”
“What?”
she asked, looking at me quizzically.
“Lucifer,
it literally means, ‘carrier of light.’
It is said that he, like Prometheus before him, had stolen the holy
light of God and ferried it to humans.
Artists for millennia have understood that light to be metaphoric for
creative inspiration, not literal light.
That’s what you are, my Lucifer.”
“Well,
get in bed if you want to fuck like the devil.”
I
waisted no time. I hopped under the
sheets as she stood next to the bed looking at herself across the room in the
full-length mirror.
“Good
date?” I inquired.
She
took off her black leather jacket and removed her shirt. No bra.
She was wearing a bra when she left.
It must have been a good date.
She
bent over, took off her boots, and then slid out of her skirt. Still no panties.
Her
naked body eased up next to me and she whispered in my ear. “Did you miss me, Daddy?”
“I
always miss you when you’re gone.”
“Did
you wonder what I was doing?’
“Of
course.”
“What
did you do while I was out?”
“I’m
more interested in what you did,” I
said. (See what I did there?)
“Slide
in me and I’ll tell you,” she said.
As
I complied, she moaned and said, “I missed you, Daddy.”
I
guess I have a type.
I
entered her and, truth be told, all I could feel was how very wet she was. It made me think of the scene from SMILF where Frankie Shaw is having sex
with the tall, big, basketball player, surrounded by all the other guys from
the team, and he says, “Am I in you?”
Just
as I thought that, Lo said, “Can you feel me, Daddy? Am I loose?”
“So
loose,” I said, “Like the opening of a tent flapping in the wind.”
“Well,”
she said, “you don’t have to be so explicit about it.”
“I
wasn’t explicit,” I said, “it was a simile.”
“Here’s
a simile: Get in my ass, it’s just like my pussy, only tighter.”
I
laughed and followed her instruction.
She moaned.
“Your
ass is a vice,” I said. “That’s a
metaphor.”
“I
thought you meant that my ass is a vice, like gambling or liquor,” she said
over her shoulder.
“It’s
that too, and so many other things.”
“Oh
yeah, what else?”
“It’s
the seat of my love for you.”
“Look,
Daddio, I want to get fucked good, hard, long, and hard. I want cock, right now, not poetry, so get up
there and give it to me.”
“You
said hard twice.”
“I
want it twice as hard.”
I
gave her what she wanted and said, “And I want to hear about your date.”
Once
she was good and pumped, she began talking in between gasps for air.
“I
showed up, looking slutty, smelling sweeter than cotton candy, and wetter than
a flower in the rainforest.”
“Who’s
the poet now?” I asked.
“Shut
up and keep pounding.”
“Keep
cumming and carry on,” I said, feeling her gushing.
“He
was a perfect gentleman. He stood when I
approached him.”
“I’m
sure he stood at attention.”
“And
he had saved me a seat at the bar. I sat
down and after he got me my drink, I swiveled toward him and spread my legs so
he could see, very clearly, what I was wearing under my skirt.”
“As
I recall, you weren’t wearing anything.”
“That’s
right, not even a merkin, as you had suggested.”
“I
still think the merkin was the way to go.”
“Maybe
next time, dear, but this time I was quite exposed.”
“Quite
the exposé.”
“But
not quite the big reveal. Not yet
anyway.”
“I’m
listening.”
“Yeah,”
she said, “but not fucking. Deeper
Daddio.”
I
grabbed on to her ass with both hands and spread her as far as she would go for
maximum insertion. She moaned
deeply.
“Don’t
get lost in your orgasm,” I warned, “I’m just as deeply invested in your
story.”
“I
asked him if he felt like eating.”
“The
ambiguity of your question is delicious.”
“He
paid the tab and we walked out of the hotel bar. I thought we were going to go to his car, but
as we were in the lobby, we saw the guests of a wedding filtering into the
ballroom. He stopped me and said, ‘I
have an idea. You look too good not to
show off. Let’s go.’ And then he took me by the hand and we
crashed the wedding party.”
“Very
impulsive.”
“We
danced for a good hour before the food was served. He twirled me and dipped me, sweeping me off
my feet.”
“Giving
great views of your gams, I’m sure.”
“My
what?”
“Never
mind.”
“From
there we went to the hotel room he had ready.”
“Just
for a nightcap.”
“In
the elevator up to the room, he kissed me passionately and his right hand began
going up my skirt.”
“I
bet the elevator wasn’t the only thing going up.”
“In
the hotel room he sat me down in the chair and asked if he could make a
request.”
“What
was that?”
“He
wanted to watch.”
“What?”
“He
wanted to watch me finger myself, with my clothes on. He said that his wife has a fear of fapping. She never does it. And it’s one of his favorite fantasies –
women masturbating.”
“Well,
he found the right woman, alright.”
“That
was no coincidence. He had been reading
the blog for a long time. He tried to
get his wife to read it, to open her up to new ideas.”
“And,
did it?”
“He
said it didn’t. I told him, ‘Well, I’m
wide open.’ That’s when he could resist
no more and he fucked me good, hard, long, and hard.”
“There
you go again,” I said.
“What?”
“You
said hard twice.”
“Well,
he was hard. I was easy.”
I
couldn’t take it any longer and I ejaculated deep inside her.
“Lo,
you are the poet here,” I said as I slowly pulled out. “You pain such vivid images in my mind.”
“And
now that you’ve dipped your pen in my inkwell, I’m sure you’ll write all about
it.”