Category Archives: nympho

Age Gap

Posted on by
5

            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. 

Lola Reading her Fan Mail

            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. 

Class Pet

Posted on by
4

            A stroll down Memory Lane:

            I was a little rusty.  It had been a while since I was in the classroom in front of a packed lecture hall of undergrads.  To compound matters, I wasn’t even lecturing on my specialty, art, but on literature.  You see, a friend and colleague of mine had taken ill and needed someone to fill the gap as a long-term substitute for the second half of the semester.  The course was “Post-Modernism.”  I had jumped in just as the syllabus was up to Donald Barthelme’s The Dead Father.  Looking out across the room full of bright, enthusiastic, eager, young faces, I was feeling like the dead father myself.  Were colleges admitting younger students, or was I just growing old?  I know what Lo would say. 

            The lecture hall was designed much like a movie theater, with the students’ seats at an incline, rising about ten feet from the lectern to the last row.  And it just so happened that in the third row was a very sexy and seductive brunette seated directly in front of me, her knees level with my eyes. 

            I must have tickled her fancy because on the third day of classes she strutted in wearing high heels, a short skirt, and a crop-top that prominently displayed her navel.  As I was pontificating about the post-modern condition, she was crossing and re-crossing her legs, allowing ample time for me to see that she was clearly not wearing panties.  I was even able to discern the dainty little ‘V’ shape of her carefully groomed pubic hair. 

            Trying my best to not stare, since a hundred other eyes were on me as I looked out and up into those vessels waiting to be filled from my fount of wisdom, I read from the text:

Class Pet

They stand before the hole in the ground. 

No fleece? Asked the Dead Father.

Thomas looked at Julie

She has it?

Julie lifted her skirt.

Quite golden, said the Dead Father.  Quite ample.  That’s it?

All there is, Julie said.  Unfortunately.  But this much.  This where life lives.  A pretty problem.  As mine as yours.  I’m sorry. 

Quite golden, said the Dead Father.  Quite ample.

He moved to touch it.

No, said Thomas.

No, said Julie.

I’m not even to touch it?

No.

After all this long and arduous and if I may say so rather ill-managed journey?  Not to touch it?  What am I to do?

Fan petting her Golden Fleece to Lo’s images

            A suggestive passage, indeed.  But what was I to do?  The page had been earmarked by the professor in whose stead I stood and the passage highlighted.  After reading aloud, it dawned on me that perhaps this was indicated for his personal pleasure and not for me to discuss in class.  Too late.  The cat was out of the bag now.  Or the puss, as the case may be. 

            My little class flirt raised her hand.  “Why is Julie’s pubic hair depicted as blonde?” she asked, unabashed.  Perhaps even a little sadistically, as her question was intended to make me squirm publicly. 

            “Excellent question!” I said like a fool.  “Maybe because the entire text is harkening to Greek mythology, and the Golden Fleece is, well, golden?”

            Unsatisfied, she followed with, “But isn’t this just perpetuating the myth of white elitism?” 

            “It could be read that way, or it could be read as a commentary or critique of those very origin stories that propounded the European and, by extension, white supremacist beliefs.”  I thought the answer not bad for an extemporaneous analysis.

            “And the centrality of the father,” she said, “isn’t that really patriarchal?”

            “You could view it that way, except for the fact that the children are taking him to be buried.  They are attempting to bury the patriarchy, you might say.” 

            As I answered, she spread her legs, very wide this time, and her right hand moved with grace and effortless flow, down to her crotch and ever-so-briefly pet her labia, causing them to spread.  I knew where I wanted to bury my patriarchy. 

            When the class was finally over, as the students were filing out of the lecture hall, I called the precocious student over to my lectern.

            “Ms. uh. . .”

            “Down,” she said, “Lola Down.”

            “Ms. Down,” I said, looking into her brown eyes.  “I am sorry that you found this week’s text so objectionable.”

            “I didn’t find it objectionable,” she said, batting her eyelashes at me.  “I just don’t understand men’s idealizing and obsessing over blonde pussy.”

            I was shocked, shocked! at her forthrightness. 

            “Well, er, yes, um, I completely understand,” I muttered, unable to compose myself. 

            “Don’t get me wrong,” she said, “I like blonde pussy as much as the next girl, but it’s like ice cream.  Why only taste vanilla when there’s also chocolate and strawberry?” 

            “Well put,” I said like an idiot.  “I look forward to seeing you next class.”

            “I look forward to being seen,” she said, knowing exactly what I meant. 

            “And,” I added, “I hope you won’t be too offended by our assigned reading next week.”

            “Lolita?” she asked, displaying that she was well aware of what was on the syllabus, “Don’t worry, I read it so many times in middle school that the pages fell out.  It’s my favorite!” 

Writing Down Lo

Posted on by
Reply


            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? 

fan pic

            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. 

Fan Male (and Female)

Posted on by
2


“Our vices always lie in the direction of our virtues.” – Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers

            It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and Lo and I were about to go for a brisk walk through the neighborhood when, as we exited the front door, we found a package addressed to Lo. 

            “Were you expecting a special delivery?” I asked.

            “Not that I recall,” she said. 

            She picked up the brown box and we brought it inside, unwrapped it, and we found two beautiful paintings of Lo somehow done on thick panes of glass.  One was of her puss. 

On seeing the striking resemblance up close, Lo remarked, “The illustration really captures my essence.” 

Painting by Blackbook Artist

            By now, it’s no secret that Lo has a lot of admirers, both in person and virtually.  Her fans love to send her gifts and those gifts range from the common, run-of-the-mill dick pic to beautiful original paintings and artworks that arrive by mail at our doorstep.  I have no issues with any of her accolades.  I am more than satisfied to bask in the glory of her brilliance, like the moon illuminated by the sun.  I will also admit that many of those admirers pay at least lip service to the writing.  And, given that Lo’s lip service is something I get on a regular basis, I have no reason to complain.  But it is nice, every once in a while, when an enthusiastic and attractive woman writes to me to express her appreciation for all the hard work I do. 

            This has happened on a few occasions and, despite the disproportionate attention that Lo gets compared with yours truly, it never ceases to amaze me that she still gets jealous.   

            Recently, I received an email from an admiring female fan that read: “Hi there, HH, I recently came by your blog through another site.”  Interesting turn of phrase – “came by your blog,” rather than “came across your blog.”  Do you think she was intentionally ambiguous?  And our fans always say, “through another site,” but never say through which site – perhaps embarrassed by the seedy sites and searches they use.  I digress.  The letter continued, “Someone in my network was going crazy about how they’re jacking off to LOLA and your stories about 50 times a day and how she’s probably the most intense woman alive in our times.  Of course, when I checked your website out, I was blown away after reading the explicit as well as brilliantly written episodes.” 

My darling correspondent was kind enough to purchase our books and also take some photos with them and send some sexy pics to me.  I hardly have to add that Lo was flattered by the letter as well (which is probably the only reason why it slipped passed her watchful eye and was brought to my attention by her). 
            I will say, dear reader, that missives such as this have dwindled in number since we began this little sexcapade of a blog.  I attribute this diminished return to the rapid advances in technology.  Not only can one watch porn on their phones, but other porn progress, such as 3D porn and realistic porn video games, have made the market for pure erotic writing with occasional still photographs a quaint relic of our pornographic past, like Playboy Magazine and the pin-up calendar. 

Fan Submission

The digital age has afforded great benefits to authors such as myself – a vast, almost instant platform to reach across the world, the ability to communicate directly with one’s readers, and a streamlined mechanism for typing.  (Recall that Jack Kerouac had to feed industrial spools of paper into his typewriter while he drank his whiskey in order to not interrupt his flow by having to replace the sheets of paper.)   For all those boons, it’s hard to compete in the age of digital diversion.  The smartphone has all the bells and whistles.  All I have is my story.  And yet, every time I go see some block-buster action film in which the stunts and special effects are on steroids, I often leave feeling let down.  Sure, the visual CGI was on a galactic scale, but the story!  The story!  Without a good story, all of the other stuff falls flat.  It’s like a cake composed entirely of icing, or a tricked-out car with no engine. 

Fan Pic

I digress again.  Maybe I should stick to my story.  I was telling you about my lovely letter from a fan.  Though I write out of sheer delight, on occasion (many occasions actually), it feels as if it is an obsessive compulsion.  But when I receive a compliment from a reader, it seems to justify the excess.   

“See that, Lo,” I said, “Maybe it’s not just the scribblings of a madman.”

“Oh, darling,” she said, “They’re lucky that you have something good, worthy, and important to contribute, unlike most of the drivel that people write.”

I love a careful reader!

“You just think that because I write about you.”

You see, dear reader, it is difficult to get an objective opinion from Lo.  But she is self-aware, to a degree.  Once, when I returned from a business trip to New York City and was telling her of the nude women at Times Square trying to turn a buck by selling a selfie with them, she said, “You’re just telling me this to get in my pants.”  She knows that I know that her reaction to jealousy is to seduce me. 

            “How did this become about you and sex?” I asked.

            “Everything is about me and sex.  I’m a nymphomaniacal megalomaniac.” 

            She then undressed and reclined on the sofa.  I just looked at her. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, impatiently.         
“I’m an author of erotica and a philosopher – I’m contemplating your navel.”

After reading the letter from my admirer, I suppose I was grinning from ear-to-ear.  My delight triggered Lo’s jealousy and I warned her that I would expose her bad side if she kept it up. 

“Bad side?”

“Yes,” I said, “Everyone has a bad side.”

Lola turned around and showed me her ass and pussy from behind and asked over her shoulder, “Is this my good side or my bad side?”

After reading this blog entry to Lo, she said to me, “You know, we should have another tagline.  Instead of “The nymphomaniac next door,” we should say, “Mysexlifewithlola – come for the pics, stay for the story.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“Or maybe,” she mused out loud, “Cum to the pics, stay for the story.”

“Or,” I said, “you could cum for the camera, they stay for the story.”

“No,” she said, “I like mine better.” 

“You always do,” I responded. 

She then fiddled out of her bra and cuddled up to me, her nipples hard and erect under her blouse. 

“Don’t you like mine better, Daddy?” she asked.

“I do think you persuaded me.”

“You never can argue with me when I wear this.  I must have a couple of great points.”

Yes, you do make a couple of good points, I must admit.

To which I said, “I’ve got it!  The tag should be: Lola Down – clever lines, sexy curves.”

Sex & Death

Posted on by
Reply

“We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity – in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern.”

                                                       Anne Morrow Lindbergh – Gift From the Sea

            For a few months now, Lola and I have been like the dancers upon a large stage – not like the partners doing a sexy Spanish tango, but like performers of some contemporary choreography who move at a great distance from each other, yet always aware of the presence of the other.  Her work has demanded long hours and travel around the country.  My work has kept me at the office on weekends.  We have seen each other only occasionally – hastily preparing and eating dinner, a ride to and from work, a quick fuck before sleep. 

            Realizing the monotonous irregularity of our relationship, we consciously made an effort to set aside a weekend for a “love-in”: two days of nothing but lying in bed together, rediscovering each other’s bodies, reading naked next to one another, watching movies, and preparing luxurious meals – all in the comfort of our own home.  Laundry can wait.  Work can wait.  Life can be put on hold. 

            But fate had something else in store for us.  On the Friday that was to kick off our cocoon habitation, Lo got word of the unexpected death of her friend Cammy’s husband’s aunt.  When Lo relayed this to me, at first I thought, “So?”  I didn’t expect that such a tangential relation would in any way impinge upon our reunion weekend.  But, it turns out, Cammy is very anxious about death and dying, is prone to panic attacks, and since her new husband would be needed at the memorial and funeral services, Cammy pleaded with Lo to come along for moral support.  Lo graciously agreed.

            “It’s only for Saturday,” said Lo.

            “That’s fifty percent of our love-in.”

            “I’ll make it up to you,” she said, seductively.  “Promise.”

            “Can’t Cammy handle this herself?”

            “No, she can’t.  Besides, I already said I’d go with her.” 

            I was in a foul mood.  I grunted something incomprehensible, but clearly expressed my displeasure.

            “I’ll be back tomorrow night and we still have tonight.”

            It was no use.  My mood was spoiled.  Lo said to me that I was spoiled, and, in retrospect, she was right. 

            Friday we went to bed and I rolled away from Lo as she lay there naked next to me in the dark.  “Daddio, you realize don’t you that you could have me now.”

            Grunt.

            “Do you realize how many men would pay – would die – to have a naked nympho next to them in bed, wet, waiting, and willing to fuck?!  Do you?  You big grouch.  Come here.  Put your face in my cleavage, suck my tits, grab my ass and fuck me,” she said, pulling on my arm. 

            “No,” I said like a child.  “I don’t want a quick fuck and then sleep.  I want to have you all weekend, all to myself.” 

            She didn’t respond.  She just reached over and grabbed my cock and began to rub it under the blankets. 

            “I can feel you getting hard.  I know you want to have me.”  She was right.

            After some manipulation, I rolled over to her.  I got on top of her, spread her legs and entered her. 

            “That’s it, Daddio.  Have me.  Use me.  Use me like so many guys have used me.  Fuck me.  Get your rocks off on me.”

            She continued to encourage me like that.  Though her voice was soft and breathy, I could tell she wasn’t getting off herself.  Her breath wasn’t becoming short and rapid.  Her hips weren’t moving to meet mine.  She wasn’t using her body to help herself climax.  But she kept talking to me and the sound of her sexy voice was enough to stir me to a swift conclusion. 

            “Yes.  Cum on me.  Cum on my face.  Cum on my tits,” she said without cumming herself. 

            When I was done, I said, “You didn’t like it.”

            “No, Daddio.  I did.”

            “Then why didn’t you cum too?”

            “Because, I just wanted you to use me.  Sometimes I like to do that.”

            “You like to fuck.  You like to orgasm.  You like to do it all again.  I know what you like.”

            “Sometimes I just want to be your fuck-toy that you use to get your rocks off.  It was so hot seeing you cum on my face.”

            As odd as it sounds, when Lo doesn’t cum, even if I do, it leaves me feeling like our romp was anticlimactic.  I went to sleep feeling worse than I did before. 

            Saturday came and Lo got decked out in her little black dress and black leather boots. 

            “Do I look ok for a funeral?”

            “You look like the stereotypical mistress who follows a funeral.”

            “What?!”

            “Lo, your skirt doesn’t even cover your knees and that top really makes your chest. . . er. . . prominent.” 

Look Daddy, No Panties!

            “You think so?” she said, perking up.

            “Yeah.”

            “Shucks, you know how to compliment a lady.”

            “Good grief!”

            “Wish me luck,” she said as she gave me a peck on the cheek.

            “Luck?” I asked, surprised. 

            “Or, whatever one wishes when one goes to a funeral.”

            Off she went and I went to the office, thinking that she’d be rather late returning. 

            Half past three, and I before I even had a chance to go to lunch, I got a text from Lo – “I’m home.  Where are you?”

            I closed up shop and sped home to see her.  When I got in, there she was, greeting me at the door. 

            “Oh, hello,” I said, seeing her still in her mourner’s basic black.

            “Hello ole’ man.”

            “How was your, er, funeral?”

            “My funeral.”

            “I mean, the funeral you. . .”

            “It was fine.”

            “Fine?”

            “Well, better than fine – for a funeral.”

            “What do you mean by that?”

            “Come to the bedroom and I’ll tell you.”

            When I got to the bedroom, she had already hopped on the bed and lifted her skirt up over her waist, showing her bare ass.

            “Lo!” I said, taken aback, “You didn’t wear panties to a funeral in December?!”

            “How else is a girl supposed to amuse herself at a funeral?”

            “Seriously?”

            “Don’t you like?” she asked, wagging her ass in the air.

            “Um.”

            “Well, I can tell you, there were boys at the funeral who were very happy to see me.”

            “What are you talking about?”

            “Get yourself out of those pants and I’ll explain.”

            I dropped my trousers immediately and pulled up behind her.

            “That’s it, old man.  Pound it.  Drive it home.”

            “Lo, why are you so randy today?”

            “When am I not?” she retorted, followed by a moan.

            “What got into you at that funeral?”

            “You should be asking who got into me.”

            “Lo, you didn’t.”

            “I’m sorry, Daddy, but I was like the song.”

            “The song?”

            “You know: ‘I gotta stay high all the time to keep you off my mind.’  Bad habits, you know.”

            “They say bad habits never die.”

            “Ha,” she laughed, “It wasn’t a funeral for my habits, that’s for sure.”

            “What did you do?”

            “Remember the wedding we went to?”

            “Which one?”

            “The one where we got it on in the powder-room.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Well, that’s what I did, but at a funeral.  Same difference.”

            “But, I wasn’t there.”

            “I had no idea you were so fond of funerals.”

            “I had no idea you were so irreverent.”

            “Irreverent?  Don’t you think that it’s very respectful of the dead to enjoy life?”

            “Not that way!”

            “Sex is the emblem of life and orgasm its crowning achievement.”

            “The French call orgasm le petit mort – the little death.”

            “Well, then I died many times at that funeral!  Slay me once more.”

            “Lola!”

            “Do you like fucking me knowing that two other guys were in me earlier today?”

            I went at her with great vigor and she came as she talked dirty to me about it.  After she did, I pushed her body flat on the bed and ejaculated all over her back. 

            “Fuck!” she yelled out, “My dress!”

            Her mourner’s gown was now my cum rag.  I fell down next to her on the bed.  Between deep gasps, I said, “That’s how you should greet me every time I come home.”

“Even from work?”

“Especially from work?”

“Even when you just go out to the bar?”

“Yes, when I go out to the bar.  When I go out to do grocery shopping.  When I take out the trash.  When I enter through that door you should greet me just like that.”

Accessory to a Masturbator

Posted on by
1


Lo’s Nightly Companion – Her Phone

            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.” 

A fan

            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.

An Enthusiastic Fan

            “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.

Stella’s Tribute

            “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 by
6


            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 Likes Little Penis Porn

            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.  

Self-Care

            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 by
9

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

Lola Down, spread wide

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.

Mila asked to be included.
Mila B. through the years

            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.”

Express Yourself

Posted on by
3


            It was Mother’s Day and Lo was bent over the bed, looking at her phone.  Her red dress was flipped up and over her hips, exposing her ass and lovely pussy lips.  I mounted her and she told me the following story:

            ‘Fuck!’ I heard her call from the bathroom.  A few moments later, ‘God damnit!’  I was nervous.

            I was feeding the little one in his high chair and the other two were watching TV. 

            ‘Can I help?’ I asked through the closed door.

            ‘Yes,’ I heard after a moment.  ‘Lola can you come in here?’

            I slowly opened the bathroom door to find her, the mom whose kids I’d be babysitting that night, struggling with her manual breast pump, trying to express some milk for the baby.  Her long green gown was folded down over her hips, leaving her torso completely exposed.  She was clearly stressed. 

            ‘Lo,’ she said, ‘I can’t get this damn thing to work.  It’s not sealing properly around my nipple or something.  I know this is awkward, but can you. . .’  She didn’t finish her sentence.  She thought of how to say it.  And then she just came out with it.  ‘Can you hold the bottle for me over my nipple?’

            I wasn’t one to say no to her, ever.  I walked up to her.  She unscrewed the suction cup top of the bottle off and passed the container to me.  I held it up to her breast, shyly at first.  She used one hand to pull on her long nipple and then she used both hands to gently squeeze her breast.  It was awkward, to say the least, with me standing in front of her half-naked body as she milked herself. 

            She looked right at me and said, ‘Thank you.  I’m already late and that thing is so cumbersome to use.’

            ‘No problem,’ I said, smiling foolishly.  I had a crush on her since the day I met her.  She had frequently gotten naked in front of me, as if it was no big deal.  But now she was taking things to a different level.  I looked at her big, full breasts and I almost leaned in to suck them myself. 

            The bottle was about half full and she said, ‘My fingers are cramping from this.  Would you mind?’

            What?!  She wanted me to milk her?!  Would I mind?  Nothing would make me happier at that moment, except, as I said, sucking her tits myself. 

            I got behind her and she held the bottle to her other breast.  I gently squeezed with both hands.  She used one hand to pull on her nipple and get the milk flowing.  Soon I was expressing her like a pro, squirting it out into the jar.  She was so full, so ready. 

            She said, ‘Oh, God that feels good,’ in a way that sounded like I was making her cum.  She added, ‘You have no idea how painful it can be to skip a feeding.  It just has to come out.’

            It was all over way too quickly.  She dried off her nipples.  A task I would have happily done with my mouth.  And then she put on her special bra and I helped her with her dress, zipping her up from the back. 

            ‘Thank you, Lo,’ she said as she put the nipple on the top of the bottle.  ‘Hopefully that will be enough for tonight.’

            As Lo told me this story, she was looking at various videos of lactating women and I was going at her from behind.  She had never before told me her kink for lactation, but I was very, very glad to hear it. 

Best Picture (Fan Fiction)

Posted on by
Reply

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

Rory & Lorelai

            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.”