Sexercise

Posted on July 10, 2019 by Lola Down

“Fuck! I hope that never happens again!” she blurted out as she entered the house.

I had been quietly sitting on the couch, perched in my usual spot, writing, when she burst in with a flare for the dramatic.

“What happened?” I inquired, merely raising an eyebrow.

“Get in the bedroom and I’ll tell you.”

That can only mean one thing.

I saved my work, closed my laptop, and followed her to the bedroom. By the time I got there she was already naked, her legs spread wide, her right hand slapping her pussy with a small splash.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked impatiently.

“I came as fast as I could,” I said as I began removing my clothes.

“Well, don’t cum as fast as you can now if you want to hear what I have to tell you.”

I slid into her already lubricated puss and she let out a gasp of relief.

“Am I wet, Daddy?” she asked.

“A juice box,” I said. “What is going on?”

She didn’t speak immediately. She was enjoying the ride. Her hands had moved to her sides and she was pulling her ass cheeks, spreading herself as wide as she could go.

“Can you feel me?” she asked.

“Almost not at all. Like fucking a bathtub full of warm water.”

That was enough to bring her to a mild squirting orgasm as her puss gently gurgled, soaking me, the bed, and her ass.

“Harder, Daddy. Faster.”

“If you tell me what’s going on, I’ll fuck you like a jackhammer.”

I sped up my rhythm and increased my force.

“That’s it,” she said, her eyes shut. “I’m so wet. So fucking wet.”

“I can tell,” I said, “but not for me I bet.”

“I was at the gym,” she began, as the scene played out before her shut eyes, “in my grey yoga pants.” She paused.

“Yes,” I said, bringing her back to the here-and-now.

“And I was on the adductor machine, working on my inner thighs when I noticed the guy in front of me. He was doing pull ups directly in my line of sight. Unconsciously I was watching his body go up and down while I was working my legs. Then I noticed that I was watching him – his bulging biceps, the ripples of his shoulders, his broad chest. His shirt was short, so I could see his abs, and then I looked a little lower and saw just how huge his cock was. Every time he went up and down, I was spreading and then clenching my legs together. I became self-conscious of what I was doing and looked up to see if he noticed me. Our eyes met for a moment and then. . .”

She climaxed again; this time much harder than before.

When she regained her composure, I asked, “And then what happened.”

“Daddy, it’s too embarrassing!”

“What?”

“As I was spreading my legs, completely involuntarily and without warning I. . .” she trailed off.

“You what?”

“I came. I squirted. I felt myself drenching my yoga pants until they were dripping. And he saw it all! I immediately closed my legs together and pretended to take a sip from my water bottle and somehow made it look like I had spilled it on my lap. I ran out of there as fast as I could! Oh my God! I can never go back there again!!!”

As she told me this, I had slowed and almost stopped thrusting, I was so engrossed in her story. But then she rebuked me. “Don’t stop. Come on. Fuck me. Use me. Fill me up.”

“Lo,” I said apologetically, “I can’t even feel you, you’re so wet.”

“Forget it!” she commanded, angry at me.

She pulled away so I slid out of her. She reached under the bed, grabbed her horse-cock dildo and said, “You can watch, if you want, but I need something that’s going to really fill me up.”

She stuck it to the headboard of the bed and backed into it as I was on my knees in front of her, stroking my cock.

“Are you thinking of him?” I asked as she thrusted back into the cock vigorously with her eyes closed.

“Yes,” she said honestly.

“You think he’d fill you like that?”

“Yes,” she said.

I could see that I may have been distracting her from whatever fantasy was playing out in her mind, so I continued with my masturbatory movements in silence as I watched her tits hang down and rock back and forth, thinking about what that guy must have thought of her in the gym. Suddenly I came, shooting my pent-up love all over her face. It was a surprise to her because her eyes were still shut. When she realized what I had done, it sent her into a violent hysterical paroxysm, the likes of which I had not seen in a very long time.

Her arms spread forward and her body bowed down making a “Downward Dog” movement as her cunt clenched the long, thick cock behind her.

When she regained consciousness, she said, “Maybe I’m just not made for city life. Maybe I’m meant to keep in shape by working on the farm.”

“In the Next Room”

Posted on June 29, 2019 by Lola Down

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 19^th 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?”

“Not enough, Daddy. Not nearly enough.”

Beach Bum

Posted on June 27, 2019 by Lola Down

“Was I bad, Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Am I a slut?”
“Yes.”

“Then fuck me like one.”

Earlier that day, dear reader, we had gone to the beach with our friends Stephanie and Mark. They’re a married couple in their 30’s, they have a couple of young kids, suburban house, everything – a quaint picture of domestic bliss. Then you throw Lo into the mix and, well, you’ll see what unfolds (or unzips).

Stephanie is a work acquaintance of mine who has her office down the hall. Every so often she texts me little notes like, “Lunch today?” followed by a winkface, a smileyface, or some other emoticon that drives Lo crazy! Lo is convinced she has the hots for me. But it’s hard to stay seated atop her high horse when she is just as often on her knees in front of a different man. As you shall soon discover, Lo was in for a dénouement all her own. Lo, it so turns out, has more than your casual fondness for Mark. In fact, she has made it no secret how she feels about him.

The first time we had dinner with them, when Lo first met Mark, Lo rushed us home and threw me into the bed, jumping on top of me, humping me and, looking down at me from where she lifted and descended at a rising trot’s pace, she asked, “Do you think he wants me?”

“Mark?”

“Yes, Mark,” she said, panting.

She didn’t even let me answer before she finished. Apparently just the mention of his name was enough to get her heart palpitating.

She fell down next to me and, caressing her soft lower lips, she said, “He’s hard-up.”

“How do you know?”

“Did you forget that Stephanie and I had lunch together a few weeks ago?”

“And she told you that?”

“I have my ways of getting information. I know that they have sex once every six months, if that. And it’s not for his lack of wanting.”

“Do you think he wants you?”

“Fuck me and I’ll tell you.”

She spread her legs and I slid in.

“He’s so tall,” she began, “and sitting next to him I could tell that he was looking down my blouse at my tits all night.”

“I did notice that.”

“And his long legs touched mine under the table.”

“Did they?”

“And his cock!” She was cumming again. “His cock is huge. I could see it bulging right through is pants. Oh, it’s such a waste for her not to be on that every night!!!” She came hard this time.

That dinner date was a few months ago.

Now, we were at the beach and I could tell that Lo was all riled up to see Mark in just his swimming trunks. Knowing where Lo’s attention would fall, I gazed at his crotch and had to admit to myself, she was right – there was no disguising the size of that thing. It was truly amazing that the tip didn’t peek out the bottom of those loose-fitting shorts.

As soon as we staked out a spot for us to set up our chairs and blankets on the white sand, Lo removed her sheer blouse, revealing her tiny bikini top and lovely tum. She had the confident air of a woman in her twenties, showing off and prancing around her thirty-something competition. And that self-assured swagger sure got Mark’s attention.

Stephanie, who was busy with the two kids, was oblivious to all the sexual tension coursing between Lo and Mark. I watched, contentedly. Lo was soon removing her cutoff jeans-shorts, slipping out of them like a stripper on stage. Her bikini bottom left little to the imagination, but I could see Mark desperately imagining what was left.

When she was down to just her bikini, she got on all fours on the beach blanket in front of Mark, who was sitting in a beach chair. She roved around the blanket like a dog looking for its bone, but Lo was looking for the sunscreen. Or so she said. I think she was just looking for attention. . . and getting it.

“Where did you put it?” she asked me.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“He’s good for nothing, Mark,” she said, jibbing at me. As she was on all fours, her breasts hung down right in front of Mark and then she turned and, searching her bag, her ass was up in the air right in front of him. I’ve seen strippers on stage who were more discrete than that. “Oh, here it is!” she exclaimed as she pulled it out of her bag, looking behind her to see if she was being watched.

She began applying the lotion to her feet, legs, tum, chest, arms, shoulders, neck, face. “I missed a few spots,” she said, passing the lotion to me as we exchanged looks – mine saying, “You’re pushing it.” Hers saying, “I want it pushed.”

I applied some lotion to her back. “Lower,” she said. I applied it to her lower back. “Lower,” she said. I applied it to her ass and she pulled up the bottoms into a thong and said, “Don’t take any chances.”

I applied it to her ass cheeks as I looked at Mark and said, “The princess likes to be pampered.” He laughed, but was clearly thinking about pampering the princess in his own way. I enjoyed it.

A group of four men strolled onto the beach with their cooler, chairs, volleyball, and snacks. They set up camp right next to us, attracted to Lo, no doubt. They were all in their twenties, jacked, and looking to have fun in the sun. Lo’s attention was suddenly split between Mark and the men. It looked like the numbers won out – unless Lo was just toying with Mark now the way she had been toying with me. Once she had the fish hooked, she was content to throw it away and see what other catch she could accomplish with her bait.

The guys, after settling in and cracking open a few brews, set up the volleyball net and began a game. Lo looked on enviously.

“Go play,” I said, giving her permission.

“No, you come too,” she said, ambiguously.

“I don’t want to.”

“Mark, will you play?”

Mark was up for it. The two of them approached the guys and soon it was five guys and Lo bouncing the ball back-and-forth. Lo danced upon the sand, dashing here and there, stretching to spike the ball, bending to pick it up, lunging to serve. She was clearly distracting to her teammates and opponents alike. At some points her bikini bottoms were showing her cute ass and at other points her breasts were on the verge of flying out of their cups.

Stephanie talked with me in between rebuking or cautioning the children. We discussed work and then leisure time. I had recounted some of the things that Lo and I had done over the summer thus far. “Wow!” she said, “You two do so much!”

“Well, if I had my druthers, I’d probably just sit at home and read and write, but Lo is always on the go-go-go.”

“One of the downsides of dating. . .” she searched for the least judgmental words she could find, “someone so young.” No matter how she said it, it dripped with derision.

“She keeps me young,” I said, simply, with a smile on my face as I watched my young nymph flirt with the four guys and Mark.

The sun was beating down and I could see all the players wilting in the noontime heat. They broke up their game and Lo grabbed some cash from her bag and said she was going to get a snow cone.

“You were really playing hard,” I commented.

Out of breath, sweating, she just nodded.

“I mean, hard to get,” I added sardonically.

“Daddio, I don’t play hard to get. I play to get them hard.”

She asked if we wanted something. After putting in my order, I watched as she and two of the young men walked down the path toward the dunes, behind which was the concession stand. Just before they were out of eyeshot, I saw Lo stop and untie the halter-top of her bikini and ask one of the men to fix it for her. He was fixing it from behind while the other guy was in front of her. The guy fumbling with the stings “accidentally” lost his grip of them, letting the top fall. Lo laughed as she pulled it back up. Down it went again as she tried to pass the string to Mr. Butterfingers. They all laughed as Lo covered her breasts with her arm. They retied the knot and walked on. They were away for a long time.

When Lo got back from the concession stand, Lo asked me to go into the ocean with her. “Where’s my snack?” I asked, expecting that she would at least bring it back.

“Whoops!” she said with a smile. “I got a bit. . . distracted. Come with me in the water and I’ll tell you about it,” she said, up to no good. I gave her an angry look, but she’s knows I can’t be cross with her for long.

I followed her to the deep blue sea. The water was warm. We were relatively alone at that part of the beach and I carried Lo in my arms. When we got out to the point where I could still stand, but was lifted as the waves crested, Lo kissed me passionately.

“Wow!” I said, surprised.

“Feel me, Daddio,” she said, moving my hand between her legs. “Am I wet?”

“Lo. We’re swimming. In the ocean.”

She smiled. “Oh, trust me, I’m wet.”

“What were you up to?”

“Nothing.”

She kissed me again.

“Lo, I know you were up to something. I saw your little ploy to flash them your tits.”

“You saw that, Daddio?”
“Yes.”

“What else did you see?”

“That’s it. You disappeared behind the dunes. You were away for a long time, while I patiently waited for my snack. No snack came back.”

“Oh, you’ll get your snack,” she said. “Your snack will be coming soon.”

She kissed me again. It was like she was drunk on sunshine, shore, and attention.

“Finger me, Daddio.”

I put my index finger into her slippery hole underwater, beneath her bikini bottoms.

“Oh, yeah,” she moaned. “Hurry up. I have to cum.”

“What were you up to?”

“Let’s just say that the snow cone was dessert.”

“What did you do?”

“Both of them, with my mouth. Are you mad?”

“Oh, that’s why you were so salty. I thought it was just the sea water.”

She moaned. Beneath the rolling waves I felt her pussy clench on my finger. She came.

“Do you think Mark knows?” she asked when her momentary ecstasy was at an end.

“Why would he know?”

“You think he thinks I’m a slut?”

“He has no reason not to.”

“Good.”

“Why do you tease these poor married men?”

“I just like being an inspiration to people.”

“You’re so altruistic.”

“I think so. I really hope that they’ll go home tonight and fuck like banshees.”

“But you know that she isn’t up for it.”

“Well, then I hope they’ll go home and after she falls asleep, he’ll make himself cum five times next to her in the bed to the thought of me today at the beach.”

“And you’re going to cum to that thought at least five times in the shower tonight, won’t you?”

“If not before.”

Her orgasm achieved, we swam back to shore. She adjusted her bottoms as we emerged from the water. We walked up to our beach blanket and chairs and as we approached I could see the guys next to us speaking in hushed tones and looking at Lo. I could see them making eye contact with her and her smiling back at them. The two who lucked out were gloating to their two hard-up companions. I wondered if Mark and Stephanie could hear them.

When we got up to the group, one of the guys asked Lo if she’d like to play some more volleyball now that she cooled off. “The game was tied up. You’re not going to leave it that way, are you?” he asked.

“What’s wrong with being tied up?” asked Lo suggestively.

“I’m game,” said Mark.

“OK,” said Lo, “Let’s play.” She and Mark went over and the six of them volleyed. I saw Lo running and jumping, bending over in a set-stance like Kerri Walsh. At one point, she ran to hit the ball in the far corner of the impromptu court. She missed it. As she fell down and was on all fours, she crawled to the ball and I thought I saw something that I wondered if anyone else saw. I wondered if it was what I thought it was. The sand between her knees was wet. After she tossed the ball to Mark she said, “I have to take a break,” and she came over to me sitting on the towel. Luckily, Stephanie had gone in the water with her kids and was swimming, seeming to ignore the action of the court.

“Lo,” I said, “did you. . .”

“You saw?!” she asked, mortified.

“So you did?”

“Yes. Accidentally. Do you think anyone else saw?”

“Even if they did, your bathing suit is wet from the ocean. They probably just thought. . .”

“But Daddio, I gushed. I’m still gushing,” she said, spreading her legs a bit to show me a burst of clear liquid spraying onto the towel as she accidentally squirted. “This is bad!” she said, adding, “But it feels so good.” A look of relief was on her face after her release.

“Have some water. Stay hydrated and take it easy.”

Lo rolled over on her tum and watched the five guys hitting the ball around.

“Lo,” I said, “If you don’t want to have any more accidental orgasms, then stop looking at the eye-candy.”

“I wish I could,” she said. “Or I wish I could just get good and fucked right now!”

Lo lay in her agony only for a little while before Mark quit the game. The guys had lost interest once Lo bowed out. Mark rejoined us.

Soon thereafter, Stephanie and the kids came back up and all were ready to go home for an early dinner.

We went back to Mark and Stephanie’s place. Stephanie changed into sweatpants and a sweatshirt and Mark manned the grill, still in his bathing suit.

Lo was back into her cutoff jeans-shorts and bikini top. No bikini bottoms or panties. She helped Mark with some food prep in the kitchen before we all sat outside to eat.

The kids were getting cranky and soon after dinner we left so they could deal with the inevitable melt-down that we could see coming.

“Match, Cinder & Spark,” great beach reading

On the ride home Lo said to me, “Did you hear what Stephanie said when Mark commented about the curls of my hair? She said, ‘You don’t even notice I have hair.’ But honestly, she doesn’t do anything to keep herself up and attractive. And she doesn’t even have a sex-drive.”

“Don’t you see the pattern?”

“What pattern?”

“The pattern: Hunter and his wife, Mark and Stephanie, Carl and Hollis – so many of them. These youngish hot guys with very attractive wives and there is just nothing going on.”

“How is it a pattern?”

“I’m old enough to have seen the pattern.”

“What pattern?!” She was getting impatient with my teasing now.

“Lovely, fun, free-spirited woman (or so she appears) locks that shit down, puts a ring on it, gets married, and no sooner than the last piece of wedding cake is put in the freezer, she chops off her loose long locks, gets a little bob-cut, and then it begins.”

“What begins?”

“Well, with different women the timing may vary, but give the domestic bliss a year or so before she pops out one or two screaming poop-makers and then it’s all sweatpants and sweatshirts all the time. A few years of that and then she complains to her husband, ‘You wouldn’t even notice if I died my hair purple! You don’t even see me!’”

“You’re being sexist.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, and I don’t like it.”

When we got home it was chilly out. “I’m going to get into sweatpants and a sweatshirt,” said Lo, “Is that ok with you or won’t you notice me anymore?”

“Lo, with you it’s different.”

“How?”

“Cause I know that you’re always naked under those clothes.”

“Naked and wet.”

“Go take a hot shower, hop on the bed, put your beach bum up in the air and await your punishment for your bad behavior today.”

“Really?!” she said with great anticipation.

“Yes, really.”

“Punishment or reward?”

“In my mind it’s a reward. But I know you prefer to think of it as punishment.”

“I love that you know me so well, Daddy.”

Age Gap

Posted on June 23, 2019 by Lola Down

I was 44. She was 18. I was her professor. She was my undoing. She was a flirt. I was a letch. She was smart and sassy. I was pompous and sardonic. She loved to tease me with her sex appeal. I loved being teased, but felt like she brought me to my knees and knew it. She was unrelenting. I was unrepentant. She was the young spark that reignited the flame hidden deep beneath my gray ashes. It was a match made in hell and I yearned for the tongues of fire licking my loins. I had been in purgatory for so long that it was either commit to my sins or admit that I had copped out on life. I chose to sin bravely. But not just yet.

It would be another six years before my defenses melted. Six years of excruciating distance and proximity that would prove both a delight and debilitating distraction. She would write me suggestive, alluring, and blithely innocent emails. I would respond with allusions and innuendo.

Back when she was still my student, I was teaching Emily Dickinson and she wrote her final essay on the poem, “The Angle of a Landscape.” The poem reads:

The Angle of a Landscape—
That every time I wake—
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Upon an ample Crack—

Like a Venetian—waiting—
Accosts my open eye—
Is just a Bough of Apples—
Held slanting, in the Sky—

The Pattern of a Chimney—
The Forehead of a Hill—
Sometimes—a Vane’s Forefinger—
But that’s—Occasional—

The Seasons—shift—my Picture—
Upon my Emerald Bough,
I wake—to find no—Emeralds—
Then—Diamonds – which the Snow

From Polar Caskets—fetched me—
The Chimney—and the Hill—
And just the Steeple’s finger—
These—never stir at all—

Her entire essay focused on the latent sexual content of the work. Her exegesis was explicit. It read like wordporn. The “ample crack” was Dickinson’s pussy lusting for the “Vane’s Forefinger,” or the “Steeple’s finger.” The Bough of Apples recalled Eve’s biting into the apple, the first sin that aroused sexual desire. The chimney. . . well, you get the idea.

When I asked to speak with Ms. Down about it, she said very directly, “If Emily Dickinson had just gotten some action, the world would be bereft of some beautiful poetry, but she may have been much happier for it.”

“Are we speaking of Emily Dickinson, or were you, perhaps, projecting?” I suggested heavy-handed.

“I don’t need to write to achieve sexual satisfaction.”

“There you and I differ,” I said under my breath, adding, “It seems to me that this essay may have fulfilled a certain need of yours.” I was referring to her need to be noticed by me sexually.

“Yeah, getting an ‘A’ for the course,” she said bluntly. “It’s good and you know it. Freudian, Structuralist, with a dash of de Beauvoir. Did you request I come to your office in order to tell me how good it is, or to inquire about my sexual proclivities?”

I changed the subject, pointing out to her a typo. “Ms. Down, you misspelled the poet’s name.”

“No I didn’t,” she said belligerently. “I added a ‘g’ to it. It’s called poetic license. This essay is a ‘Dick In Song.’”

I blushed.

On yet another occasion, I had distributed a questionnaire to the class – a survey that the administration had created and instructed us professors to have our students answer. When I collected them all at the end, I noticed something different on only one of the anonymously written responses. The first three questions read: Age, Sex, Location. One of the students – and I could easily guess who – wrote: old enough, never enough, I’ll fuck anywhere.

After she graduated, we would occasionally meet and she instinctually knew all my weaknesses and vulnerabilities. She exploited them like a master chess player prolonging the ultimate denouement.

Once we met for a walk along the shore. She wore cutoff denim shorts, a button-down red and white gingham blouse that she tied up like a bikini top and had her dark hair in pig-tails. She was, without doubt, the spitting image of Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island. This was too coordinated to be coincidence. It was not Halloween.

I remarked about the striking similarity and she said, “I like Mary Ann much more than Ginger, don’t you?”

“Doesn’t everybody?” I asked rhetorically.

“I mean, she’s more of a secret slut and that’s what makes her so appealing,” she added as if musing to herself.

“I can’t disagree with you there.”

“But I was always attracted to the Professor,” she said, biting her lip while just thinking about him. “I’d love to see him without that straight-laced Oxford blue shirt and khakis.”

It just so happened that I was wearing a similar shirt and khakis. What two stereotypes we made!

“You’ve thought about this a lot,” I remarked.

“I’m irrationally attracted to intelligence. I’m a deviant in disguise,” she said, “just like Mary Ann.”

“I bet you are.” Little did I know then just how deviant.

Another time she invited me over to see her new apartment. She was sharing a house with six people, all recently graduated from college. Her “bedroom,” if you can call it that, was meant to be a study or, perhaps a walk-in closet for the wealthy person who built the old Victorian home. As a result, it had no closet and it was the room through which the rest of the house had to traverse in order to get to the wrap-around porch.

I walked into her room with great trepidation and I saw strewn around the closetless space her panties, bras, and dildos of various sizes on some bookshelves, next to which were some of the classics of literature and a true classic Underwood typewriter.

“Ms. Down, you fancy yourself a writer?” I asked looking at the magnificent machine.

“Oh no,” she said, displaying some rare humility. “I just like old things. A bit of nostalgia.”

Quick to correct, I said, “You can’t have nostalgia for an era in which you did not live.”

“I have an old soul,” she said, followed by, “encased in a young body.”

“Our bodies are insufficient containers of our desires,” I said, quoting something I read once, “but yours seems to contain all my desires.” Did I say that, or just think it?! I wasn’t sure anymore. I grumbled and made a banal comment. “You must get absolutely no privacy in here!”

“It’s true,” she said, “people walk through here all the time to get to the porch. Luckily, I’m a bit of an exhibitionist, so I don’t mind, especially when I’m having sex with my boyfriend or someone else or sex just with myself.”

I pretended not to hear her comment.

We walked onto the deck and I just wanted to hold her tightly in my arms, but instead I blurted out, “It’s big. Really big, and wide!”

“Yeah, I always liked a big deck,” she said, looking to see if I heard what she thought I’d hear.

“Yes, er, well,” I stumbled and took a seat overlooking the street below.

I can only surmise that she found my awkward mix of desire and discomfort to be adorable. Why the hell else would she pursue me for so long?

She sat across from me. Not for the first time that day, I noticed her sexy strappy heels, her short skirt, and the smooth lines and curves from her ankles to her thighs. But now, as I sat across from her, I had a much better view of these nether parts. I tried to focus my attention on her pretty smile and seductive eyes, but perhaps out of embarrassment and feeling like she was penetrating my dirty thoughts, my gaze continually fell to her legs, feet, and toes.

“Oh, wait!” she suddenly exclaimed, startling me out of my salacious dreaming about those parts of her I was soaking in with my eyes. She suddenly got up and dashed into her room. She dove on her bed and was going through a pile books next to it. In that position I could easily see right up her skirt as she searched her stack. “Got it!” she said as she returned triumphant.

It was the book I had published years ago on art.

“What, Ms. Down, are you doing with that?”

“I was hoping you’d sign it,” she said, knowing exactly how to unlock my heart, through feeding my ego.

She was sitting on the edge of her seat, oblivious to the fact that her skirt was now riding up by her hips.

“Do you have a pen?” I asked.

“Oh, right,” she said, as she got up again to rummage through the clutter on her small desk.

She returned and gave it to me. “What would you like me to say?” I asked.

“You’re the man of letters. Say something sweet. . . and smart. . . and sexy,” she said as her tongue ran across her sparkly white teeth.

I wrote: “Dear Ms. Down, This book is all about beauty, but as Emerson observed, no museum replica can compare to the sweet, smart, and sexy wit, charm, and loveliness of an evening with you in the flesh.”

I signed it and returned it to her to read.

She batted her eyelashes and looked up at me. I swear I saw stars in her eyes as she looked upon me adoringly. “Do you really think so?” she asked.

“That no museum piece compares to you? Yes. I do.”

“I’ve always wanted to model naked for an artist, but. . .”

“In my humble opinion as an expert on art and beauty,” I said pompously, “any drawing or painting of you would be merely one dimensional because there is no way an artist could capture the sparkle of your personality.”

“Do you think you could capture me?”

“Um, you mean. . .”

“In words.”

“As in a novel?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“I think that the only way to come close would be to have words accompanying the images. But it would take a very talented writer to do that.”

“I think you’re talented enough to come close,” she said very suggestively.

“I would like to try. . . someday,” I responded. She was mere inches away from me. She had indeed come very close to me. I could almost feel her breathy words as she spoke. “But I am an academic,” I added, “not a novelist. I doubt that I would be able to do you justice.”

“You never know,” she said, “I might just inspire you to do me. . . justice.”

Just at that moment about four or five people came bursting out through the door of her bedroom onto the porch, carrying beer and a bottle of booze and a joint. Lo and I immediately pulled away from the intimate position we were in and the spell was broken.

Later that night, when I was back at home, I received a text from Lo. It read, “I heard once that sex is energy between people. What do you think?”

I said, “Before tonight, I would have laughed at that as New Age crap. But now I know what they’re talking about. Was it good for you?”

“What?” she wrote back.

“Never mind.” I felt embarrassed. Was she playing me for a fool? Was this her way of flirting? Did she want me to be more explicit? I don’t know, but I let it drop, though I played and replayed in my mind the “sex scene” we had shared many times since that night.

Writing Down Lo

Posted on June 9, 2019 by Lola Down

What does it mean to be an “underground” author in the age of the internet?

Lately I’ve been reading a lot of and about Charles Bukowski. Largely ignored for most of his life, he submitted his rough, distinctly “low-brow” poetry to independent and small press journals. Through these he gained an “underground” following that slowly grew by word of mouth until other independent and small press publishing houses printed his works in book form for that “underground” fan base. Bukowski’s work caught the eye of other writers and musicians, mostly in the L.A. and San Francisco areas, until eventually he caught on nationally and even internationally.

But in today’s media world, what does it mean to be an “indie” author or to have an “underground” following?

This indie author, whom you are now reading, dear valued patron, has a substantial following, or, shall I say, a much larger following than I ever imagined would sprout from my initial blog posts about Lola. As I have explained in various interviews elsewhere, this compulsion, which borders on graphomania, came into being because, after a few months with Lo, I discovered that there was almost no literature out there about being in a relationship with a nymphomaniac. Since no one else was writing about it, I figured I’d toss my hat in the ring and give a first-person account of what it’s like – the proverbial trials and tribulations as well as the orgasms and titillations.

Before I knew it, I was suddenly gaining a following and garnering the praise and accolades of other fellow sex-bloggers. Women were sending me fan mail and nudes of themselves, much to the consternation of Lo. Men and women were writing to Lo and sending her all sorts of salacious selfies, much to her lurid enthusiasm.

The Beautiful Faye Daniels getting off to Lola Down

Our subscriptions and unique visits to our blog went up and soon we were being featured on sites like Bustle and Top Sex Blogger lists.

I compiled various stories into books and those sold swiftly. And now, today, we have over 20,000 followers on our various media outlets.

However much those numbers might dwarf the reach and following of a Bukowski back in the day, with the potential of today’s technology, that seems far less impressive than it would have been when the only way to get your writing in front of a reader was through the mimeograph machine.

Are you, dear confessional confidant, part of an underground audience? Does it even make sense to speak of such in today’s complex and multilevel media ecosystem? Or is “underground” just a term that is used retrospectively to describe a core following of people that read a certain author before he or she hit the mainstream? Is it something that can only be applied with hindsight?

I don’t know the answers to these questions and I suppose, on some level, it doesn’t matter since I write about what I love and I love what I write about – Lo. As long as the love is good, I feel the writing will be good as well. And though the letters and gifts from the readers are flattering and the money (what little there is) earned from the writing is appreciated, what matters most is that I really enjoy doing what I’m doing.

Accessory to a Masturbator

Posted on May 26, 2019 by Lola Down

I was asleep, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. It was 4:45 in the a.m. and I was stirred from my slumber by the sonorous buzz of Lo’s vibrator, the rhythmic rattle of the bed, and the blue glow illuminating her face that was so contorted with a look of singular focus and intensity that I thought I was seeing a ghost. She was lying on her tum, both hands buried under the covers and under her body, the phone propped up on a pillow about six inches in front of her. From the sound of the Hitachi’s hum and the shaking of the bed, I deduced that she was working her clit with the Magic Wand and her puss with a dildo, leaving no hands free.

I opened one eye first and, upon seeing her apparition, I surprised myself with my ability to remain inconspicuous. I didn’t stir. I tried to give no hint that I was, in fact, awake – inconsiderately propelled out of my torpor. I saw her struggle to keep the pleasure points stimulated while simultaneously fumbling through her phone for images.

Acutely aware that no mortal would be able to withstand the auto-erotic stimuli that Lo was producing, I announced my awakening by asking Lo, “Can I help you?”

I was hoping she would be grateful if I would get behind her, replacing her dildo, freeing up one hand so she could scroll through the photos. But no.

“Yeah,” she said, not surprised and unconcerned that I was awake, “swipe left.”

I did as she commanded. I looked at her phone and there were pics of men, women, couples – all getting off to her photos. As she gazed at each image, she took in the content, and then said, “Swipe.”

She was demanding, insistent, and a tad rude about it. But she had a goal and nothing was going to get in her way – certainly not good manners.

“Swipe,” she said. I did as told. Another photo of a guy jacking to her pics.

“Swipe.” A photo of a woman jilling to Lo.

“Swipe.” A picture of a couple; the woman gives the guy a blowjob as Lo’s image is on the computer in front of them.

“Swipe.” A man with what looks to be a 12 inch cock. He holds it with two hands as if wielding it like a weapon. I hear Lo whisper, “Fuck.” She scrunched up her legs under her like an inchworm. The bed rattled. It’s a big, heavy, solid bed. It takes a lot for it to rattle.

Lo said, “Fuck!” Louder this time. More angry almost. I heard the Hitachi click into high gear. Lo squeezed her eyes closed tightly.

“FUCK!!!” she called out. I heard the dildo shoot out of her followed by the sounds of her geyser gushing onto the bed. She convulsed, clutching the bed sheets, burying her head in the pillow and screaming at the top of her lungs: “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!”

Then silence. Peace. Stillness.

She struggled to lift her head. When she did, she looked at me. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“You ok?” I asked.

She nodded, a little ashamed.

“Feel better?”

She nodded again.

“Ready to sleep?”

She nodded a third time.

I pulled her head to my chest where she rested it comfortably. One wet leg was lying flat on the bed nest to my leg. She lifted the other wet leg and placed it over my legs, parallel to her arm which reached around my chest. She was wrapped around me like a marsupial clinging to a tree. I felt her puss still slippery and perhaps ejaculating a dribble more like a leaky faucet on my hips.

I kissed her forehead and said, “Sleep.” There was no need. I could tell by her breathing that she was already in dreamland.

Meanwhile, my cock was rock hard as the first light of dawn began to illuminate the windows.

Caught

Posted on May 23, 2019 by Lola Down

Lo came home from work late that night. I had already eaten dinner and was lying on the couch engaging in my favorite illicit pastime while Lo’s away, watching “SMILF.” She walked in just as Frankie Shaw was engaging in a self-pleasure solo session, which isn’t all that coincidental, given how often she does that in the show. (Since Frankie Shaw writes and directs the series, I think that she secretly wishes to be a porn star.)

Lo stood next to the couch looking down at me, judging hard.

“What?”

“You know what,” she said, accusatorily.

“I was just. . .”

“I don’t care what you were just. Turn it off. If you want to see a sexy woman engaged in sex-for-one, then get in the bedroom. I’ll be there filling my snatch full of fun.”

I shut off the episode and met Lo in the bedroom where she was on the bed, legs spread, dildos laid out next to her like a surgeon’s tray of scalpels, forceps, and clamps. She had her phone in her left hand.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I call it my ‘in box.’ It likes to be filled.”

I didn’t know if she meant what she was looking at on her phone or her beautiful mons pubis, which at the moment she was about to penetrate with her long, red, double-ended dildo.

I removed my clothes and sat in the bed next to her, vying for her attention. She was busy reading something. I inquired.

“I’m reading about my friend and blogger, Nero Black. His wife caught him about to masturbate.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah,” she said, easing the dildo into her tight taco. “His wife loves to read erotica and masturbate, but she never lets him get in on the goods.”

“How does he know her reading habits?”

“He has access to her Kindle subscription and sees what she downloads.”

“Oh.”

“And he’s hard-up as a result.”

“I bet you find that an open invitation to flirt.”

“Who wouldn’t? Anyhow, the other night he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his pants and boxers around his ankles, his phone in one hand and his cock in the other, when she unexpectedly walked into the bedroom.”

“Uh-oh. And?”

“And she ignored him! She acted like she didn’t even see it.”

“And that gets you off?”

“No, what gets me off is imagining that the porn she reads is our blog and that the porn he was about to wank to was my photos.”

She dropped the phone and lay on her back to continue the fantasy.

“Did you ever get caught?” I asked her.

“Caught? Doing what?”

“You know, jillin’ it.”

“No.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“Not by any of your previous boyfriends?”

“Look, it’s not something I hide. If they found me jillin’ off, then I kept on going. So it’s not like ‘getting caught.’ It’s more like putting on a show.”

And put on a show she did, without ever offering to provide me with any sweet relief. Punishment for my “infidelity” watching Frankie Shaw.

The Porn Identity

Posted on May 17, 2019 by Lola Down

“You are beautiful. Your eyes are beautiful. Your mouth is beautiful. Your breasts are beautiful. Your cunt is beautiful.”

I was reading a message Lo received on her phone from an admirer of the blog.

“A regular Shakespeare, that one,” I said.

“I think it’s sweet,” she responded, as her left hand began to fondle her pussy lips under the covers.

“Sweet?! He left out your hair, your nose, your neck, your shoulders, your tum, your ass, your legs, your feet, and your toes!”

“I’m sure he was going to get there,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Can I get there?” I asked, sounding a bit desperate for affection, or her attention.

“Get where?” she asked, playing with me.

“Anywhere. Between your legs, ideally.”

“Let’s see where this goes,” she said about her internet friend, unfortunately, and not about my bid for her caress.

“I know where this goes,” I said, putting her hand on my hard rod. I was hard because her internet friend had sent a slew of photos of himself jacking off to her pics and cumming all over them. She looked good in the sexy photos.

“Daddy,” she said, protesting, “I’m busy trying to please my loyal fans.”

“I don’t mind, as long as you do it while spreading your legs.”

“I’m spreading the love.”

“Can you spread the love wide enough for me to get in on it?”

“Your pussy looks pretty and gorgeous,” wrote another fan.

“It is pretty, gorgeous, wet and waiting to be filled,” she wrote back.

“Me, me!” I said, “Pick me.”

“Calm down, Daddio,” she said, full of vanity fed by her fans’ flattery.

“Tell me more about you,” wrote another internet correspondent.

“Read the books,” typed Lo, “There’s too much to tell and too many people to tell it to.”

“You’re hard, girl,” responded the inquirer.

“Funny, everyone tells me I’m easy,” quipped Lo, “and that makes them hard.”

“I love your stories,” wrote one female fan.

“H.H. writes. I inspire,” wrote Lo to her.

“Do you inspire with your body?”

“And my wit.”

“I’m inspired right now!” I said to Lo as I grabbed my cock firmly. “They all are cumming to you. Can I cum to you?”

“Cum to, on, in, with, over, under, around, beside – I provide the pussy. You pick the preposition,” she said, dismissively.

I got up on my knees and stood over her, jacking my cock.

“Just don’t cum on my phone,” she said as she continued to scroll through her contacts.

She continued to fondle herself beneath me for a while before she said, “Daddio, lie down next to me. I’ll help you.”

I lay down and she grabbed me by my shaft. “I’m your righthand man,” I said as she jacked me off with her right and scrolled with her left.

“My wife is nothing like you,” wrote one desperate, sad husband.

“You two should read our blog together. It would open up her mind. . . and pussy.”

“I could never suggest it,” he wrote, “she’d freak!”

“But you like it?” asked Lo.

“God yes,” he sighed through the medium of type.

“Tell me what a young, sexy, slutty person such as myself does for you.”

“I’d love to eat your yummy, sloppy, used, cum-filled holes,” he wrote.

“Another bard!” I opined sarcastically.

“Shut up and cum,” commanded Lo as she tugged more aggressively.

“Are you in a rush?” I asked.

“Both hands are full,” she said, “leaving nothing for my snatch.”

“I’ll happily fill that gap.”

“You stay right where you are,” she ordered.

“Has she ever caught you jacking off?” wrote Lo to her married man.

“No. It would be a big deal if she did. It would be an even bigger deal if she caught me jacking off to you and not to porn.”

“I am porn,” protested Lo.

“I mean, it’s one thing to get off to anonymous, vacuous, impersonal, professionally produced porn and it’s quite another thing to get off to you.”

“That’s more like it,” responded Lo.

“That’s it, I’m getting up and out of bed,” I said.

“But nooooo.”

“Yes. You’re just treating my cock like it a joystick to your favorite video game.”

“A game I always win.”

She continued stroking.

“Are you into length or girth?” asked her internet interloper.

“I’m into cock. And cock gets into me.”

“Once again, I must protest!” I said. “You’ve got a very capable, compatible, and coveted cock right here, but you’re not letting it into you!”

“What, ole man, my right hand isn’t enough for you?”

“Not when you’re teasing those guys about how fast and loose you like to play.”

A new fan chimed in, “I have to stop sinning. I’m religious, that’s why I can’t go on doing this.”

“Sex is spiritual. And I’m a sex goddess. Worship at my alter,” replied Lo.

“Now you’re offering theology lessons?” I chided.

“No. Just encouraging them to be good semenarians.”

“That was terrible. Low hanging fruit,” I replied.

She cupped my testicles and said, “Very low hanging.”

“Oh, does your wit never cease?!”

Now she squeezed my balls to show me that I had better be careful about mocking her.

Another woman asked Lo if she liked taboo tales. To which Lo responded, “How taboo are we talking here?”

The woman said she was into watersports and bestiality.

Lo wrote back, “Let’s knot.”

“Don’t you mean. . . oooooh, I get it,” I said.

“Woof!” she said to me.

The woman, whose name was Mila Beijne., went on to tell a little story.

I was a model a few years back and after doing a shoot I was talking a bit with the photographer, the lighting guy and his assistant. They invited me to their home. I trusted them and liked them. We were all horny and I was willing, I admit. At the photographer’s home we had some drinks and then they slowly undressed me. They got naked too. They were all good looking men and one was really hung. They kissed me everywhere and started fucking me in my mouth, pussy, and ass. I was very horny. After quite a long time, they changed positions, each taking a different hole. Then they rotated again and fucked me a long time again till I was exhausted. They filled me up in every place they could. But the fun was not over yet. One put me on the floor and the other started urinating over me. Then the other two joined in. It was a lot and all over my body and in my long hair. There was no shower, so it was a special experience driving home. It was my first time doing that and I liked how the act showed their dominance over me.

I could see Lo getting increasingly more excited as she read the short little story from Mila. She quickly wrote back, “Yeah, HH does that to me. I love it. Being below him, feeling his warm stream flow over my back and butt.”

“We haven’t done that in a while,” I reminded her.

She ignored me because another fan had written to her. This guy was old. I mean, like twenty years older than I and I’m in my 50’s! His name was Bob and he wrote:

Hi Lola, and thank you! You are an inspiration to me. I hope you can give me some advice.
I’m in my 70’s and I’ve been in a relationship for over 25 years. No passion or sex for the last 20 years. I’m at a loss as it has become impossible to talk about it with her. I’ve made the mistake of combining our lives and living situations this whole time. It has become all about her for the last several years. I feel I’m too old to begin another relationship with a woman, yet I still admire all women and all that I see on your blog. I’ve even become curious about men as I feel that may be the only way to explore my unresolved sexual fantasies. Yet I’m still conflicted as I long for an intimate relationship that I’ve missed in my life.

Do you have any suggestions??

Lola wrote back, “To tell you the truth, Bob, I’m just good wanking material, but I’m not a sex coach or a sex therapist. You might want to check out one of these trained professionals to get some expert advice on having more sex with spirit.” She provided a link. Then she added, “But if you’re looking for a real hotwife, cum to me.”

“What?!” I said to her, shocked that she’d even offer that to him.

She ignored me and typed, “I have a very soft spot for old married men whose wives no longer have sex with them. Would you like to see it?”

Of course he said yes. Lo sent him a naughty pic of the place between her legs that she was denying to me.

“Lo, that’s just cruel!” I said.

“What? Soon you’re going to be that old and you’d want the same from me. Wouldn’t you?”

“What’s cruel is that I’m that old man who is being denied right now!”

“If what I’m giving you isn’t good enough, then take matters into your own hands,” she said.

As she said it, another married man was singing her praises in a message that read, “I’ve come to worship your holy holes.”

“See,” she said, “I’ve got fans who know how to woo me.”

“Woo you? They worship you!”

“What’s the difference?”

After some flirtatious back-and-forth, Lo asked to see a pic of the man’s wife.

He asked why she wanted to see that and Lo responded, “I like to see who I’m beating out when guys are beating off to me.”

The guy sent a photo. His wife was beautiful. But apparently she lacked the ‘personality’ of Lo. He wanted to know more about Lo and he asked her questions.

“I’m like an open book, there for anyone to read,” she responded, “You just have to know where to find me. Are you familiar with the Dewey Decimal system?”

“Like, in the library?”

“Yeah.”

“So, I can find you in my local library?”

“If only,” wrote Lo, “I’m indexed under XXX.”

“As in 30?” he wrote with a winkface emoji. “Still pretty young.”

“Pretty, young, and slutty. I’ll tell you what, you can virtually finger my folios at: mysexlifewithlola.com,” she said, “and you can also buy the books there. I suggest you get a few copies of each and donate the extras to your local library so everyone can spread my centerfold for free.”

As Lo was typing, she guided my cock to her mouth and wrapped her lips around the tip. She looked up at me as her hand continued to glide back and forth from the base to her mouth. I began to cum and she hungrily held me in place so as not to spill a drop. I was so worked up that I couldn’t control my convulsions. I began breathing deep, heavy breaths. Lo looked up at me and said, “What?! Are you having a stroke?”

When I finally managed to catch my breath, I looked down at her and said, “Yeah, I’m having a stroke. A really good stroke.”

Lo wrote a final line to her fans: “Good night all you kinky sexy rogues. Dream of me in your debauched nocturnal thoughts.”

She put her phone down, grabbed her Hitachi, lay back, shut her eyes, and began vibrating until she was the one violently convulsing, squirting, and gasping for air.

When she was done and had removed the Magic Wand from between her legs, she grabbed my hand and placed it on her bare pussy for me to feel how wet she was. She’s proud that she can turn on the tap almost at will.

“Pull my pussy lips, Daddy,” she said. I stretched them. “Harder.” I pulled more. “Harder Daddy,” she complained.

“Lo, if I pull them any further they’ll be down to your knees.”

“Try it,” she said. She likes the pain or pleasure.

As I pulled I asked her, “What were you thinking about when you came?”

“I think about you.”

This line from her was as false as Marlow telling Kurtz’s betrothed that Kurtz’s last words were her name.

“OK, that’s enough of that,” I said, calling bullshit. “What did you really think about?”

“I think about you,” she said. “And I think about cock. I think about a lot of cock.”

“That’s it?”

“And pussy.”

I gave up there knowing that the litany of licentious thoughts could go on endlessly. I sat silently and she mistook my silence for judgment.
“You don’t know what it’s like to be me!” she blurted out defensively.

“Oh yeah, you’ve got it so hard,” I said sarcastically.

“I wish,” she said even more sarcastically as she lifted up my flaccid member in her hand.

“You know,” I said, “your porn persona and your personality are not consistent.”

“What are you talking about?”

“All those people out there thinking you’re a nymphomaniac, thinking that I am so inundated with your pussy that I barely can find a moment’s peace, yet the reality is that you denied me just now.”

“There’s no inconsistency.”

“How not?”

“Because I know you’re going to write about this and so it will be part of my porn persona.”

Best Picture (Fan Fiction)

Posted on May 7, 2019 by Lola Down

Be sure to read “A Picture is Worth a Thousand Orgasms” first.

Lo got me up from my slumber. Well, part of me was already up since she wouldn’t let me climax earlier in the night. She had been switching off watching episodes of “Gilmore Girls” and MILF porn since I had nodded off. Now she was ready for a second helping and she had been coaxing my cock to an upright and locked position prior to my regaining consciousness.

“Daddy,” she whispered sweetly, leaning over so take my meat in her mouth.

“Yes Lo?”

“Can I tell you what I was thinking about?”

“What’s that, Lo?”

She took a few more licks and then she lay down next to me, her fingers stroking between her legs. That’s when she told me what she had been viewing.

“I imagine,” she began, “Jess and Dean arrive at Lorelai’s house at the same time, each thinking that he’s going on a date with Rory. When they meet on the porch, each carrying a bouquet of flowers, they stare each other down and then exchange some snide words. Rory hears the voices and comes to the door.” At this point, Lo began acting out the scene. A little known talent of Lo’s is that she’s a great actor, just not in front of an audience.

Rory – What is going on?!

Jess – Why don’t you tell us? I thought we had a date.

Rory – You and Dean?

Dean – This is no time for jokes, Rory. You and I had a date tonight.

Rory – Wait here.

Rory runs upstairs to Lorelai.

Rory – I’ve got a problem that makes Elizabeth Bennet look positively quaint.

Lorelai – Really Rory? I can’t find my coffee maker. And you think you got troubles.

Rory – You’re looking in your bedroom. Did you try the kitchen?

Lorelai – Of course I tried the kitchen. That’s why I’m in the bedroom.

Rory – Did you bring coffee to bed?

Lorelai – Maaaaaybeeee.

Rory – Why don’t you just go to Luke’s and get his coffee?

Lorelai – And bring him to bed?
Rory – No! Anyway, can you help me or not?

Lorelai – Not until I have my coffee.

Rory – (Sitting down on a pile of laundry. She picks up dirty panties and a bra and discovers a coffee maker.) Here!

Lorelai – You are destined for Harvard!

They walk downstairs.

Rori – . . . and so I guess I told both of them I’d go out with them tonight.

Lorelai – Nothing wrong with a ménage à trois.

Rori – Mom!

Lorelai – What? I’m just saying, if it’s good enough for Lou Salomé, it’s good enough for you.

Rori – Her name was Lou Salomé, but you know everyone called her Loose.

Lorelai – Rory! You know I’ve taught you not to slut-shame!

Rori – Can we get back to the. . .

Suddenly they hear thuds from the porch. They run to the front door. Jess and Dean are throwing punches and wrestling. Lorelai separates them by getting between them.

Lorelai – Hey! Hey! Hey! Calm down!

Both of the boys are roughed up and Jess is bleeding from the nose and Dean has a black eye. Rori runs to get a towel and ice. She returns and gives the ice to Dean and applies to the towel to Jess’ nose.

Dean – Oh, so you take care of him and just give me a cold sack of ice?!

Rori – He’s bleeding!

Dean – And I have a black eye!

Jess – And I’ll give you another.

Dean – Oh yeah?

Lorelai holds down Dean while Rory holds down Jess.

Rory – I’ve had enough of both of you!

Rory runs off into the night.

Lorelai and the boys go inside the house and they sit in the kitchen while Lorelai brews coffee.

Lorelai – I can’t believe you two. You act like cavemen. Don’t you know how to treat a woman?

Jess – [Ashamed.] No. My mom was never around.

Lorelai – Oh yeah. I forgot sweetheart. [She puts her hands through his hair.]

Dean – I was just. . . well, I guess I just am so damn jealous.

Lorelai – It’s not jealousy, Dean, it’s hormones. You’re all backed up with testosterone. When’s the last time you jacked it?

Dean – Wwwwwwhat?

Lorelai – You know: chocked the chicken, spanked the monkey, beat the meat.

Dean – I, I, I. . .

Lorelai – You see, you’re just too uptight. You have to learn to relax a little bit. [She runs her hand down his chest to his crotch.] Look, I think I know how we can find a way for the two of you to work together. Follow me.

The three of them go up to the bedroom. Lorelai strips naked and pulls down their jeans. She positions Jess in front of her and Dean behind her and bends over. The two of them are going at it with her and she’s about to cum when in walks Luke.

Luke – What the hell is going on here?!

Lorelai – [With a mouth full of Jess’ cock.] I can explain.

Luke – Explain?! Rory said you’d probably need me to break up a fight and make some coffee.

At that point Lorelai positions Jess below her so his cock is in her puss with Dean’s.

Lorelai – Come here, Luke. If you’re hung anything like Jess, then – I never thought I’d say this – the coffee can wait.

When Lo was done acting all this out, she pulled out her two dildos, putting both in her puss and taking me in her mouth, going at me like never before. I finally came deep in her throat and she came in convulsions that shot out the two dildos followed by a cascade of girly juice.

“Holy shit!” she said.

“Holy shit is right,” I said. “You deserve an Academy Award for best writing, direction, acting, and best picture.”

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Orgasms

Posted on May 6, 2019 by Lola Down

My good friend John from Seattle and his three sons (ages twelve through eighteen) came over to visit while they had winter break. They were in our town looking at colleges for the oldest and enjoying a bit of vacation – skiing, museums, historical sites. I hadn’t seen John for a couple of years and I was glad that, instead of booking a hotel, he asked to stay with us for the four days they were here. I suppose I should have known, however, that having all that testosterone under one roof would drive Lo wild.

It’s hard to keep Lo’s libido under wraps in the best of circumstances, but fill the house with four male guests, three of whom need to sleep in the living room, and, well, keep on reading.

One of the days that John and the boys were visiting, Lola came home from teaching her night class at the local community college where she has been guest lecturing on sex and sexuality in the Woman’s Studies department. She walked in the door in her knee-high black leather boots with the tall heels and her hip-hugging tight red dress. She looked. . . voluptuous. She said a quick hello and then grabbed a glass of Cabernet and joined us in the living room where the boys were sitting, playing games or texting on their smart phones or iPads, and John and I were quietly talking.

“I’m so disgusted!” Lo began.

“What? What happened? Did class not go well?” I inquired.

“I know it sounds ridiculous for a woman in her twenties to say it, but honestly, kids these days!”

“What happened?” asked John.

The boys turned their attention to Lo. Or, rather, they had looked up from their blue-glowing technology the moment Lo walked in the door and now Lo had their rapt attention. She sat on the couch and said, “Not that many years ago, when I was an undergrad, I wouldn’t have even thought of texting during class. I mean, yes, I would be on my laptop and not always taking notes, but isn’t it a sign of disrespect to openly text during a class?”

“Don’t you have a policy against it or something?” I asked.

“Yes, of course I do! But these two guys in the front row – they are on their phones the whole time. They’re texting and even passing their phones back-and-forth between them. I’ve said something to them privately. I’ve called them out before the whole class. Now I’m done. I’ll just fail them.”

“It would suck to fail at sex,” John quipped.

“You teach about sex?” asked his middle boy.

“It’s more than just sex – it’s about consent, the media, law, intersectionality,” Lo began, but she lost his attention after the word sex.

We talked a bit more and then the boys asked if they could watch some TV. To my great surprise, they wanted to watch “Gilmore Girls” on Netflix.

“Really?” I asked. “That show was popular like twenty years ago.”

“Let’s be real, it never was popular,” said Lo.

“You used to watch it?” I asked.

“On occasion.”

“So why do you boys want to see it? Isn’t it like a chick-lit show?”

“HH, you’re so gender-conforming. Not everything breaks down easily along gender-roles,” said Lo sarcastically, with a hint of irony in her eyes as she spoke to me.

“Why don’t you let the boys answer?” I shot back.

“Haven’t you heard,” asked one of them, “they’re bringing ‘Gilmore Girls’ back.”

“What?” I asked.

“Yeah, like ‘Arrested Development’ and ‘The X-Files,’ it’s making a comeback on Netflix.”

“Oh.” I said, learning something new, “but that doesn’t explain the appeal to you,” I said to the boys.

“It’s a good show,” they said as they clicked it on. “Watch and you’ll see.”

We watched a couple of episodes together as we ate some Chinese food we had had delivered.

Around midnight we went to bed and, in the bedroom, Lo removed her tight red dress revealing that all she had on under it was her bra.

“No panties?” I asked.

“I can’t take the chance of panty-lines in this dress – not with a room full of students watching my every move.”

“Don’t you think that that can be a bit distracting?”

“What do you mean?” she asked as she slipped out of her bra and stood naked, looking at herself in the mirror.

“You know what I mean. You’re just fishing for a compliment.”

She batted her eyelashes at me and asked, “Aren’t I just the sort of bait that would lure compliments?”

“That you are.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

“Don’t you think that the class will be studying your every curve if you wear dresses like that?”

“Like what?”

“Let’s just say that a dress like that on a body like yours should be enough to distract anyone from their phones.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” she said disingenuously.

“Haven’t you ever read ‘The Scarlet Letter’?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s The Scarlet Letter of dresses my dear.”

“So, you give my dress an ‘A’?”

“Ugh.”

“What do you think of me without my dress?”

“Can’t you tell?” I asked, displaying for her my member standing at attention.

“Though your sign language is easy enough to interpret, tell me. I like your words.”

“I think your breasts look pretty and perky.”

“Go on,” she said as she pulled and twisted her nipples, running her fingers over them to make them even more erect.

“And your shoulders are incredibly strong and sexy.”

“More.”

This went on for some time with me complimenting the small of her back, her smooth legs, her elegant feet. Then she said, “You haven’t even mentioned my butt. I mean, even I want my butt. If I could be with me, I would fuck my butt.”

Finally she got into bed and said, “Don’t you want to fuck my butt?”

“That I do!”

I got behind her as she was on all fours and she licked her finger and ran it round her special spot as if pointing out the target. “Go ahead, Daddio, but be slow and gentle.”

As I began to penetrate her, she moaned aloud.

“Lo, shhhh. We have guests.”

I ran it in deeper. She moaned louder and said, “Gentle!”

“Right. Now Shhhh.”

I lodged myself deep inside her extremely tight spot and she said, “Stay right there. Does it feel good?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now let me do the work.”

I remained still as she lunged forward and back, slowly at first, but increasing in speed like a locomotive beginning to pull away from the station.

“You know, Lo,” I whispered, “I have a distinct image in my mind.”

“And what’s that?” she said as she was slowly churning away.

“Those two boys sitting in the front row of your class, showing each other the texts on their phones that you told us about. . .”

“Yeah?”

“I like to think that they found your photos on the internet and now they’re looking at them as you teach.”

“RED!” she said, referring to our fantasy rule of The Raunchy Game. Red means, nope, you just crossed a line. “That’s my worst nightmare,” she said, “stop right there.”

Despite her words, I could feel her orgasm beginning to surface. Not wanting to lose the moment, I said, “Well, I can also imagine them sitting in the front row surreptitiously taking your picture with their phones or their computers or something and then saving the pics for later and jacking off to them in their dorm room.”

Lo was coaxing the orgasm and sliding on-and-off my cock, forward-and-back. “Yessss,” she moaned. “Do you think they jack off to the pics together?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” I said. “I bet they do it every night after class.”

“My picture’s worth a thousand orgasms,” she said as she came, quite loudly.

When she was done, the two of us were lying on our backs looking up into the darkness of the room. “Can I ask you a weird question?” I asked.

“I love your weird questions.”

“When we were watching ‘Gilmore Girls’ tonight, did you sense something odd about it?”

“Besides the fact that it’s always Friday, the town has five people that live in it, Emily and Richard Gilmore are cliché cutouts of ‘rich people’ and that every problem on the show is a privileged white-person problem?”

“Yeah, besides all that.”

“Like what?”

“Well, Rory has these two boyfriends, Jess and Dean, and what are they? – sixteen, seventeen?”

“I guess,” she answered, lying on her back, her eyes closed.

“And each of them keeps ending up in scenes alone with her mother, Lorelai, who’s all of thirty-two.”

“What are you saying?” Lo asked, her fingers clearly moving up and down under the covers between her legs.

“I’m saying that I think there’s some subtext going on.”

“Fuck me and tell me,” she insisted, spreading her legs as she lay on her back.

I got between her wet thighs and entered her. I held her tightly and whispered, “Lorelai was a MILF before that term was invented.”

Never one to miss an opportunity to correct me, she said, “Darling, I think MILF was invented then. You just hadn’t heard about it until much later.”

“Whatever,” I said, “the point is, that’s exactly what she’s supposed to be and then these strapping young men have all these one-on-one scenes with her in the house, alone. Don’t you think they’re suggesting something?”

“I’d like to see that play out,” she said as her breath quickened. “When I reach my thirties, I hope I’m a MILF.”

“Darling, you don’t have kids and you’re already a NILF. A nymphomaniac that I’d. . .”

“Do you think that’s how they see me?” she asked, ambiguous as to whom she meant, but it didn’t matter, she was already cumming.

Successful in my duty, I gave myself permission to climax with her, but, sensing my imminent orgasm, she said, “No! Don’t cum!” She insisted that I save it just as I was about to reach the pinnacle of my performance.

I kept on keeping on in her.

“I said no!” she yelled, pulling her body away.

“What the fuck?!” I said in an angry whisper, very frustrated, very aggrieved. Whereas I am frequently all for edging, keeping my Chi to myself, sometimes I need a release and releasing in Lo is the best release.

I turned over, lay flat on my back on the bed, tried to catch my breath as Lo, who had already cum twice, grabbed my member, licked it clean, and then kissed her way up to my mouth.

“Why can’t I cum?” I asked.

“Don’t you know by now?”

“No.”

“I like you to stay hard because you never know when I’m going to need your dick again.”

“Oh, I know all right.”

“You do?”

“Yes. You always need it.”

“That’s true. So, keep it cocked and ready so that it is fully loaded at a moment’s notice.”

Sure enough, she needed it again later that night. She woke me from a sound sleep as she was watching some MILF porn on her phone.

mysexlifewithlola

The trials and tribulations of dating a nymphomaniac.

Category Archives: Masturbation

Sexercise

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“In the Next Room”

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Beach Bum

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Age Gap

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Writing Down Lo

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Accessory to a Masturbator

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Caught

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The Porn Identity

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Best Picture (Fan Fiction)

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A Picture is Worth a Thousand Orgasms

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