Category Archives: panties
Protected: Pussy in a Box
Smalltown Strumpet – A Room with a View
1
Part I – A Room with a View
Book Cover, Excerpt
How do you like the view?
My friend John has a large house out in the woods. After fifteen months of COVID lockdown, he and his family were eager to get out and go on a vacation. He called me up one day and asked if Lo and I would be interested in a house swap. We’d get to use his country farmhouse and they’d get to stay in the city at our apartment. Lo was game. A weeklong vacation in June sounded good to her. “We’ll have a love-fest,” she said, licking her lips.
“When you say it, it sounds like a sextival.”
“Yes, that does sound better!” She looked off into the distance. “Imagine,” she said, “Merry-go-arounds, Ferris wheels, haunted houses – all for sexual variety.”
“Don’t forget the fun we could have with cotton candy.”
“We could do that at home.”
“The only downside to this swap is that John had asked if I would install a couple of windows in their kitchen so they could look out on the front lawn when doing dishes.”
John, though very skilled, knows that I worked as a carpenter in my twenties. He preferred that I do the window framing because he was concerned his amateurish abilities would lead to leaks and other problems.
“Do I have to help you?” asked Lo.
“No, I don’t think I’ll need help.”
“Well, then it sounds like a great plan to me!”
We arrived Friday night and Lo made an excellent meal with the provisions John had left for us. As a token of his gratitude, he left a very expensive bottle of Scotch for me.
The next day was sunny and warm. In fact, that was the forecast for the whole week. I was glad for it, since it meant I wouldn’t have to worry about the weather while I cut a hole in the wall of the house, framed out the windows, installed them, and then did the finish-work on the outside and inside.
As I was arranging my tools for the job, Lo came downstairs in a skimpy bikini.
“And where are you going?” I asked her.
“To tan.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Right there,” she said, pointing to the front lawn. The backyard was basically woods. The front lawn was flat and open, but the house was on a fairly busy street – busy for the country, that is. Cars were constantly driving by – maybe one or two a minute.
“Lo, are you seriously going to suntan like that?”
“Like what?”
“Wearing that thong bikini.”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because. . . because, uh, your pussy lips.”
“What about my pussy lips?”
“They’re too big for that thong. They’re hanging out and over, flapping on either side of it.”
String Thong
“So?”
“What do you mean ‘so’?”
“I mean, bikinis are meant to accentuate the positive.”
“And you have positively large, long, and loose pussy lips.”
“I prefer to think of them as limber,” she said, pulling at her labia to show me their elasticity.
“Call them limber, call them lithe, call them labia-lobes, I don’t care what you call them, they are flopping in the wind, exposed.”
“Since when have you become such a prude?”
“Suit yourself.”
“That’s exactly what I’ll do. And I fully expect to find many suitors at the beach this summer.”
“I’m sure that they will expect to fill you too.”
“The more meat between these thighs the better!”
“Well, need I remind you, this is not the beach. We’re in a rural town in the sticks and you’ll be flashing your wares on the front lawn. I wouldn’t be surprised if the village vice squad slapped a fine right on your ass.”
“I bet they’d like to touch this fine ass too!” she said, turning tail and walking out the front door. I could see the silhouette of her labia in her thigh gap as she strutted away. I watched as she set up her lounge chair on the lawn, close enough to the road for everyone to get a good look. She purposefully spread her legs as she adjusted her bikini top. Cars were slowing down as they drove by, in order to get a closer look.
I watched her for a bit before taking a drill to the wall and cutting a hole right through to the exterior.
“Hey Lo,” I called across the front lawn.
She turned around.
“Come here, I want to show you something.”
She didn’t look pleased that I was interrupting her exhibitionism, I mean relaxation. She sauntered across the lawn, flaunting her ass in the thong to the throngs of people in the street. At least in her mind that was what she was doing. In reality, cars were passing by at their usual rate.
“This better be good,” she said.
“Look,” I said, pointing to the circle I had cut in the wall.
“What is it?”
“Well, it’s the bottom left corner of where the window is going to go. I’ll use the Sawzall to cut out the rectangle, but that’s what I’ve done so far.”
“Are you going to have me praise each and every step of your progress?”
“No, I just thought you’d want to see it because right now it could double as a glory hole.”
“Not for you it couldn’t. That wall has to be at least eight inches thick.”
Deflated, I said, “You may return to your previous position as lawn ornament.”
I pulled out the Sawzall and recalled how a while back Lo and I looked into converting reciprocating saws into sex machines. We ultimately passed on the idea because, after a bit of research, we found that a number of women had sustained serious injuries from the DIY project.
I cut through the wall and hung a tarp over it. That was enough work for one day.
I went to the front porch, opened a cold beer, and watched as Lola played the part of town strumpet for the passersby.
The next day I had to frame the rough cutout I had made. I measured twice to insure cutting once.
With the three-by-six foot gaping hole in the wall, I had a direct view of my little Lo as she allowed her slightly smaller gaping hole be on display in the front yard. She wore the same bikini as the day before and today promised to be a repeat performance.
However, word must have spread among the locals, for now there was pedestrian traffic whereas yesterday there was none. This is a town without sidewalks, mind you. People – excuse me – men had to go out of their way to stroll casually down the street as if they were on an errand. No such errand existed because there was nowhere to go.
One of the men, wearing overalls no less, stopped to ask if John was home.
“Nope,” said Lo, looking him up and down over the top of her dark sunglasses.
“His wife home?” asked the gentleman.
“Nope.”
“Anyone home?”
“Just me and my ole man,” said Lo, pointing her thumb in my direction.
At a loss, the overalls observer moseyed his merry way down the street.
A half hour later another voyeur just happened to be passing by. He was a little more clever than the first one. He politely asked Lo if she might have a glass of water for him on this brutally warm day. This had the desired effect of getting Lo up and letting her strut her way across the lawn back to the house to fetch him some water.
He drank it in one swig, all the while looking Lo over from head to toe.
“Thank you,” he said, realizing his reason for standing there was no longer valid.
I swear, Lo should have been collecting admission fees!
You would think not a single man in this town ever saw a sexy woman.
The third day I was all set to lift the window into the frame and secure it. To my great astonishment, a friendly neighbor came over to offer me some help. He was in his early twenties and he spoke to Lo, who was again lying out in front, first, asking if I wanted a hand with the window.
She directed him my way. I said I’d be happy to have another man help me ease it in and hold it there while I leveled it all out before screwing it in good. I do believe he was eager to do all those things, just not with the window.
He assisted me in the task which took only a quarter of an hour and then he asked if I needed help with anything else. I told him I was all set. The rest was just finishing work I could do myself.
He said he’d get going and he walked up to Lo to say goodbye (and take one more good look at her).
She looked at him over her glasses and said, “Like what you see?”
“Yes, yes I do,” he said.
“You hard?”
“No, not right now.”
“Get hard,” she said.
“What?”
“Get hard and jack off.”
“Here?”
“To me. I like that.”
“Here?” he repeated.
“Where else?” she asked. “I’m sitting here ain’t I?”
“Yes, but.”
“You can keep it in your pants. Just let me see the cum stain when you’re done.”
He reached in his pockets with both hands and, watching her lying there, her meaty mound surrounding the thin thong, and he came within a few minutes.
“Good boy,” said Lo. “Feel better?”
“I can hardly walk, but yeah.”
“Don’t tell anyone about this, ok? It’s our little secret.”
“Sure. See you later,” he said as he hobbled away.
I brought her a cold drink once he was out of eyeshot and she looked up at me, accepting it as if she had ordered it from a cabana boy, and said, “Still got it.”
I should tell you, dear reader, that each and every night, after her hours of daytime display, Lo would be hungry for my cock. Being away from home and her toy chest, she used me to the full extent of my abilities which, as always, was not nearly enough for her. Those nights, I saw her fuck: a broom handle, a bedpost, and a shampoo bottle. None of this is new. I’ve seen it all before, just not in rapid sequence. The retreat to the country was like a recharge of her sexual energy.
“How about tomorrow we go to town and explore a little?” I asked. “I’m nearly done with the window. I can take a day off.”
The next day, instead of Lo donning her microbikini and me sweating away at the carpentry, we put on our rural regalia and ventured out to taste the local flavor. Apropos of the occasion, Lo was wearing her “Daisy Dukes” and a little flannel shirt. She tied the bottom front corners of the shirt into a bow in order to display her midriff. She looked sweet walking down the street in the sunlight. We hit up the nick-nack stores, the antique shop, the bookstore (of course) and grabbed some lunch followed by ice cream.
She got some long stares from passersby on the sidewalk and in the boutiques. In the early afternoon, as we were cruising around the countryside just taking it all in, what should we espy on a desolate corner but the local strip club.
It was COVID times, so the establishment had converted a large part of the rear parking lot into a fenced off cabaret. There was a roughly constructed stage of two-by-fours and plywood, a few small tables and chairs set up for the patrons, and scantily-clad waitresses running drinks from the bar inside to the thirsty men outside.
They were all men, except Lo. Did they think Lo was a stripper when she walked in with me? I wouldn’t be surprised if they did.
We sat down at a table and ordered a couple of beers. We watched the ladies of the hamlet dance and, if I’m being honest, they couldn’t hold a candle to Lo’s flame. The men were intrigued by the female foreigner in their midst and eyed Lo more than they eyed the day’s entertainment. Lo knew it too. She nudged my arm for me to observe the attention she was getting and then nodded in the general direction of the fence where, in handwritten scrawl, a sign was posted that said, “NO MASTURBATING.”
I know the question that was going through Lo’s mind at that moment: Does that apply to women too?
I saw her reach down and undo the button on her shorts, reach her right hand down under them and under her panties (if she was wearing panties), and saw the outline of her small hand rubbing her mons pubis. It made a bulge in the front of her shorts as her bare legs were spread wide and she watched the women on the stage in various states of undress. Her head fell back, her mouth opened just a bit.
Lola outside, short-shorts
To Be Continued. . .
I Need a Dirty Woman, I Need a Dirty Girl
We were into December. It had been almost a month since our last “drive-in” date with Ron and Nicole. In the meantime, they kept up an intense correspondence with us through email. Turns out that they have three kids, all under ten, and she has been dealing with some health issues that have impaired her energy and libido. He is an avid nudist and exhibitionist who loves to go to clothing optional beaches and bare it all! Although he doesn’t have that much to bare. Not to worry, Lo is always intrigued by different shapes and sizes.
Ron
Poor Ron was eager to please – his wife and anyone who would have him. Nicole, however, was not so keen on sex. Even before her medical problems dampened her desire, she was not enthusiastic about her sex life with Ron. They had dated since high school. They were raised as good Catholic kids and told not to have sex before marriage. They got married in their early twenties and that’s when Nicole was disabused of the adage “size doesn’t matter.” No. It really did matter for her. But, due to her upbringing, she wasn’t able to think about alternatives. Masturbation, sex toys, other partners were all off the table. She wasn’t even comfortable with having sex in any other position than missionary.
Nicole
After the birth of their third child and the onset of medical issues, she not only couldn’t feel Ron’s cock, but wasn’t interested in it anymore either.
They had tried a couples’ counselor, a marriage therapist, and now were working with a sex coach. They went to a woman Ron had found on the internet who specializes in Catholic sexuality. She had suggested that they both explore their own bodies alone, with porn, erotica, or whatever excited them. For Ron, that was easy – nude beaches, exposing himself, and being seen, even if only virtually were already in his wheelhouse. He had discovered a number of websites where he could hang-out as much as he wished and no one would be offended.
Ron & Nicole – the happy couple
For Nicole, this was much more difficult because her sexual desire was directly related to her guilt. She required multiple special sessions, one-on-one, with the sexologist. Through the coaching, she slowly learned to appreciate sex and sexuality in a new way. Rather than think of it as a necessary bodily function that had to be endured in order to achieve a certain result, much like relieving oneself in the privy, she was opened up to the idea that sex was sacred, divine, and a sacrament. The Church doesn’t often promote this aspect of sex. Why would they? The officers of the institution are all celibate! It would be like college professors encouraging students to get an education outside of academia.
Nicole
Slowly, Nicole came round to the notion of at least accepting her sexuality rather than being ashamed of it. And that went for Ron’s sexuality as well – if Nicole could accept that she is a sexual being, then this was the first step to accepting that Ron is also a sexual being. The next step was to realize that sexuality is not experienced or expressed uniformly. It is like the sun – its origin is the same, but how it illuminates various objects depends on the individual make-up of each object. Some are square and green. Others are round and pink and white stripes. Similarly, we all feel sexual urges, but they manifest differently for each of us. For some that means hetero, monogamous, vaginal intercourse. But for others, it can be expressed in a myriad of ways – from men wearing woman’s panties, to women donning strap-ons.
Nicole
This was a great hurdle for Nicole to overcome. But, along the way, she was willing to try new things for the sake of the relationship. Through Ron’s explorations of the interweb, he found Lola, struck up a correspondence, included Nicole, and eventually we had our first “date,” which I already described for you. Through our correspondence, it became clear that Ron desperately wanted Lo and Nicole desperately wanted to be like Lo.
Nicole
Lola in her thong
They were eager to have a second date. Due to COVID, we had to take the same precautions, but we arranged to meet in a remote spot, far outside of our city, so that the experience wouldn’t be foiled again.
Ron hanging out
Nicole’s medical issues had done things to her body that caused her even more shame. She didn’t want us to be shocked so, in preparation for our second date and to help her become more comfortable with her body (that Ron, incidentally, found very desirable) she posed for some boudoir photos taken by her husband. They emailed them to us.
“Do you still want to do this?” she asked, afraid we’d be turned off by how gravity distorted her once toned and tight flesh.
“Yes!” replied Lo, enthusiastically. “Every body is beautiful in its own way.”
Much was the same on our second date as it was on the first. Cold. Late night. Dark, vacant parking lot. The two cars parked next to each other. But this time Lo had put some thought into the “performance” she wished to put on for the struggling couple. She stripped naked and danced seductively in front of their headlights. They had on their high-beams and, thanks to the chill, Lo’s were on too!
Lo sauntered up to the passenger side window where Nicole sat and pressed her tits up against the glass. Nicole and Ron had removed their clothing too and Lo could get an imperfect view of them behind the frosted glass and through the round figure eight where her tits had melted the icy coating.
Nicole
Lo returned to the car where we had the heat blasting and took out her phone. She called Ron. Their phone was on speaker, as was ours.
“Did you like what you saw?” Lo asked.
“Very much,” replied Ron.
“Are you hard?” asked Lo.
“As hard as I can get,” he said.
“Yeah, I saw. Two inches?”
“Slightly longer than that, when I’m hard.”
“I’m stroking him,” chimed in Nicole.
“Suck him,” commanded Lo.
“Can we watch you suck off HH?” she asked.
Lo looked up at me. “Will you stay hard if we go outside?”
“For you, darling, anything.”
First she warmed me up in the car with her mouth, the wetness of which only made the shock of the cold air even more acute.
We got in front of the headlights and Lo got on her knees, taking me in her mouth.
We lasted like that for about a minute or so, but then hopped back into the heated car.
Nicole said that Ron had cum already.
“What about you?”
“I haven’t cum in ages,” she said with a certain sadness in her voice. She also sounded resigned to this fact.
“HH is going to suck on my hard nipples,” said Lo, taking me to her chest. “I can cum through nipple stimulation alone.” She didn’t mean to sound as if she was bragging, but wanted to inform them why she’d soon be moaning and even calling out that she’s cumming.
Lo’s Orgasmic Nipples
“I wish I could,” said Nicole.
As I sucked, bit, stretched, nibbled, and tongued Lo’s nipples, we could hear Ron and Nicole getting their clothes back on. They drove away as Lo climaxed, but they left the phone on to hear it.
When Lo regained her composure, she went down on me as I put the car in reverse and drove home.
Truthfully, I forgot that Lo’s phone was still on as I commented about how hot Lo was and what a show she put on for the couple.
Lo occasionally took her lips off of my cock to remark about how she wished we weren’t in COVID times so she could have let Nicole suck her tits through the window or so she could have gone over to the driver’s side, reached down between Ron’s legs and give him a handjob.
She resumed sucking as I drove the abandoned streets. She said she wished that Nicole would wear a strap-on and fuck her over the hood of the car.
Suddenly, through Lo’s phone, we heard moaning and heavy breathing. It was loud – loud enough for us to hear it over my own heavy breathing and Lo’s slurping. It was Nicole. She was cumming.
Ron informed us after the peak had subsided that Nicole masturbated (for the first time!) in the car on the ride home, listening to us and the dirty things Lo was saying and she managed to bring herself to a clitoral climax.
Mission accomplished.
Swing
[The following story, which took place a few years ago, was published in the March edition of ENM Magazine – Ethical Non-Monogamy. Unfortunately, despite heroic efforts by its publisher, this month is the last month of its short existence.]
Lo’s Green Dress from ENM spread
Saint Patrick’s Day in Chicago, where the river runs green and the jazz of a bygone era still swings. Lo and I had gone there for Lily and Jim’s wedding. It was an extravagant affair. All the quaint rituals and odd practices of the public betrothal symbolizing holy monotony. I mean monogamy. I mean matrimony. Sorry, I struggle to find the right words sometimes. All the focus on the bride as an unblemished princess performing for her solid, stoic king. There’s just something about it that provokes the puckish prankster in me. Especially when I know that the beautiful bride in her pure white gown has a devilish desire for exceptionally large cock and that her groom comes up short.
But Jim is a good friend of mine and a sometime paramour of Lo’s, so we took added delight in the carnal knowledge that behind all the nuptial vows, the oaths of fidelity, and the pomp of the ring ceremony, both Lily and Jim hadn’t any plans of restricting their bodies and pleasures only to the one legally bound to them.
So, as all the other guests let out gentle expressions of awe and shed a tear in reflection of this display of love and affection, I grinned a wicked little grin as I sipped my expensive scotch.
Lo saw my mischievous look and rubbed her leg up against mine under the table, indicating that she had some ideas of her own.
We both knew Lily and Jim to be swingers and so, when the formalities were over and the dancefloor opened up for revelry, Lo missed no opportunity to scandalize the evening.
We sat at the table next to the newlywed couple. Rather than the usual choice of two entrées, there was a choice of four and so people were passing bites from their plates around for each other to taste.
“You are so generous!” said one guest to me after I let her have a bite of my food.
“Whenever I experience something amazing, I just want others to share in it,” I replied, rubbing Lo’s arm.
“I’m the opposite,” said the young woman to me. “Whenever I find something amazing, I keep it all to myself.” She also rubbed the arm of her partner.
“You can have him,” I thought.
Meanwhile, Lo was seated next to Lily’s Uncle Collin. He arrived to this event without his wife Suzanne and no one blinked an eye about it. The family was used to their “independent” social schedules. This wedding happened after the shenanigans that had taken place at Collin’s mountain cottage, so Lo was very familiar with ‘Uncle Collin’ and his love of young women and his E.D. issues. The whole night, any stranger would have thought that Lo was Collin’s date for the evening. Given the age difference, they might have thought Lo was his hired companion as his FGE – “Full Girlfriend Experience.”
They danced together – marvelously, I might add – and reminisced, quite loudly at the table, about the days at his cottage. He repeatedly alluded to Lo suntanning nude along side Lily, going to a farm and milking goats, and they laughed about how Lo lost her bikini bottoms while tubing behind his boat on the lake.
As they told these stories, Collin gradually drew the other guests at our table into their intimate stroll down Memory Lane. He is charismatic and a good storyteller, but the whole time I was silently fuming, ready to burst out with, “Yeah, you could read all about it on our blog! With photos!!! I wrote it better than he tells it!!!” But I remained silent and let the senior statesmen have the spotlight that he so craved.
He subtly hinted at, without giving too much detail, the nudity, sex, and other debauchery that took place at the cottage. He was in on the secret we shared with Jim and Lily – that they got married prior to this large ceremony to appease their Catholic families and that, though they lived “in sin” prior to the private wedding, Lily was and continues to be an A.O.L. girl (Anal Only Lifestyle).
After Collin regaled them with his tales of titties and sun, one of the young women at our table, noticing Collin’s wedding ring and Lo’s “hotwife” ring, asked, “So you two are. . . married?” She asked it hesitantly, knowing it was an inappropriate question that was only sparked by the gaping age difference between them. Yet the curious guest was inebriated enough to broach the subject and display her incredulity.
“Oh no,” said Lo, laughing and delighting in the twist of the knife that was about to take place, “I’m not married!”
“Oh, so you’re. . . ?” the woman’s half-formulated question hung in the air awkwardly.
“We’re just friends,” said Lo. “This is my partner, HH,” she added, as she put her delicate hand on mine.
The fact that they weren’t married, but had shared so much together, compounded with the fact that Lo was dating another, yet different, older man who was seated right next to her as she laughed about these sexperiences, seemed to blow the mind of our dinner companion.
“Oh,” she said, feigning comprehension, but displaying complete befuddlement.
The band began to play again and Lo begged me to dance with her.
I demurred, saying, “Dancing is emblematic of our relationship. When we dance, you do whatever you want. For me, though, the goal is to have fun. But all you do is criticize and then, when I stop, you criticize because you always have to have an object of your derision. Without it, you feel a tremendous void. And whatever I do – driving, cooking, dancing, cleaning – I’m your eternal object of derision.”
Lo replied, “Well, when dancing, it’s more fun for both partners if one is not stepping on the other’s toes.”
“That’s only possible if you’re dancing solo.”
“You’re right, dancing is emblematic of our whole relationship.”
As harsh as this banter sounds, it was all said lovingly, tongue-in-cheek.
One of our friends at the table overhead us and said, “You two should write a book chronicling your lovers’ quarrels.”
“That’s a great idea!” I replied “That way I could document my long suffering. I could call it, ‘The History of my Calamities,’ after Abelard.”
“Your calamities,” chided Lo, “you should be so lucky to have an Eloise like me!”
Having fully lost our audience with our theological allusions, Collin remarked, “You two have great erotic tension.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but no erotic release.”
“There’s a difference,” said Lo, “between erotic tension and sexual tension.”
“And what is that?” I asked.
“Erotic tension is in your head. And you have a great release for that – the blog. Sexual tension is between your legs and you have a great release for that.”
“What might that be?”
“My puss.”
“How’s your sexual tension?”
“I never have sexual tension,” said Lo casually, “I only have sexual release.”
“I suppose that’s what it means to be ‘a liberated woman.’”
She got up to dance with Collin some more.
Louis Armstrong’s “Just a Gigolo” was being sung by the crooner and Lo, wearing her green velvet dress in honor of the Irish holiday, looked stunning as she twirled and dipped with Collin.
As they kicked up a storm on the dancefloor, one of the women at our table sat next to me. “Aren’t you jealous,” she whispered in my ear. I couldn’t help but think of her as Iago. Though green was the color of the day, it was not the color I was seeing as I watched my Desdemona dance with her Cassio.
“No,” I replied with a smile.
“Not at all?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Want to get some air?” she asked.
“Sure.”
I followed my femme Iago out onto the balcony of the hotel and, though it was freezing in the windy city, she offered me a few puffs from her vape pen. Not wishing to be rude, I accepted.
Suddenly my Shakespearean companion transformed into a jovial leprechaun and the next thing I knew was Lo, Collin, the sexy pixie elf and I were at The Green Mill, a dancehall throwback to the age of Swing. A big band was playing with a tall, lean black trumpeter in the lead. They were pounding out “Tain’t What You Do” as Lo was passed from partner to partner in the crowd that was jumpin’ and jivin’ to the beat.
In my mind, the spotlight was on Lo and her eyes were on the prize – the trumpeter who seemed to be singing the words especially for her, with a peculiar emphasis on them, changing the meaning from, “Tain’t what you do, it’s how you do it” to “Taint, what you do. It’s how you do it.”
“How you feeling now?” asked the leprechaun.
I felt as if a green wave was carrying my Lo further and further out to sea as I was stranded on the shore watching her recede into the distance.
There, far on the horizon, I saw her up by the stage, talking with the trumpeter who was standing, his crotch eye level with Lo’s face. She was looking up at him, saying something.
The band took a break and Lo disappeared, as did the band leader.
Collin returned to the table and I inquired about her whereabouts.
“It’s Saint Patty’s Day!” he said, “The luck of the Irish. I believe that Lo is getting lucky!” He slapped me on the back and bought me another drink that I didn’t need. “When in the Emerald City, anything can happen with a little magic from the Wizard,” he said, removing a teal handkerchief from his jacket pocket that suddenly turned into Lo’s satin panties. He handed them to me and said, “Improbable, yes. Possible, perhaps. With Lo, all is green go-go and Eternal Return of the Dame.”
When I heard these words, I knew that I was slowly losing my grasp on reality.
The last thing I recall from the evening was a Julie London song, “Hey Daddy,” being played by the band as an instrumental number.
When I woke up, I was in my hotel room in the bed and Lo was rising and descending on a large bottle of champagne.
Celebration Time
Groggily I rubbed my eyes and looked at her to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. I then said, “Be careful darling, I wouldn’t want that bottle to break.”
“Not to worry. I’m wide, wet, and willing.”
As she proceeded to hump to her heart’s content, she said, “Will you order some breakfast from room service?”
Always the dutiful daddy, I said, “Sure, what do you want.”
“A bowl of Lucky Charms.”
Lo’s Taint
The Wife’s Panty Drawer
“Lo, you should be more careful about what you say.”
“I know. I had no idea he’d go through with it.”
“He is an admitted sex addict. What did you think would happen?”
This is the conversation that transpired between Lo and me after she received a photo set from her friend Al.
They chat on a regular basis and he loves to penetrate her dark and dirty mind, probing its depths, plumbing its recesses, and discovering what nascent naughty, nasty, nymphomaniacal fantasies, memories, dreams, and reflections he can conjure from there. Their chats are word porn or sex by non-physical means.
Recently Lo told him, “If you want to know how my kinky, perverted mind works, what I think would be really hot is if you would print out my photo, take pics of you jacking off and cumming on it while wearing your wife’s sexy thong panties, then leaving the photo of me and the dirty panties in your wife’s panty drawer to find later. I know you cannot possibly do that, but wow! – that would be hot!”
The suggestion sent his mind spinning and his cock twitching.
A day later, Lo received a photoset from Al: His wife’s thong; Printouts of Lo’s photos; Him jacking off to the photos and the thong; The thong on Al as he is hard-up looking at Lo’s photos; Al jacking off in the thong; Al cumming on one of the photos; Al putting thong and cum-covered photo in his wife’s panty drawer.
The Mrs.’s Panties (dirty)
Al, Lo’s photos, the Mrs.’s panties
Al Wearing the Mrs.’s (dirty) Panties
Al and Lola b&w
Big Al
Al in his wife’s (dirty) panties
Al’s sweet release on Lola’s ass
Hiding the Evidence Where it is Sure to be Found
“Al, won’t you get in big trouble?” asked Lo.
“She has been prancing around the house in her thong and nothing else, asking for a full-body massage, and masturbating to her own stash of porn, but she won’t let me get off. This is my passive-aggressive way of telling her that just because someone slapped me with the label of ‘sex addict,’ that doesn’t mean that I don’t deserve to have my needs met, especially with my wife, whom I adore and desire. It’s COVID times. I’m not allowed out of the house. She has managed to block almost all of my naughty websites (including your blog), and she teases me with her body. It’s like some sort of torture out of A Clockwork Orange!”
“Well, you really got my engine revving!”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I came to those photos about three times this morning before I even got out of bed. Poor HH. I suspect I’m doing the same to him as your wife is doing to you.”
“Again, if you were my wife. . .” he mused.
“I want to hear more! What if I was your wife? What would we do?”
“What would you like to do?”
“I’d like you to go to Victoria’s Secrets and bring one of those photos of me that you printed out. Say to the salesgirl, ‘This is my wife,’ as you show her my photo, ‘and I’d like to buy some panties for her. What do you recommend?’ She would bring you over to the thong section and show you lace, satin, and all sorts of skimpy shapes and colors. You’d get hard just looking at them and her, as she holds each one up for you to choose. You’d pick about a half-dozen. The salesgirl would say, ‘I can ring you up.’ You’d follow her sexy ass to the counter and you’d pay for the panties. But, as she’s putting them into a bag, you’d say, ‘Actually, where’s your fitting room? I’d like to wear these panties home,’ as you remove one from the bag.”
“Lo,” I say to her, “you didn’t tell him to that, did you?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she replies, all innocent, “why?”
“Because, you know that at the very first opportunity, he’s going to take a trip to Victoria’s Secrets.”
“I sure hope so!”
“You know what? You two deserve each other!”
Sore, but not Satisfied
We watched Boogie Nights up until the scene where the newbie pornstar, Dirk Diggler (Mark Wahlberg) is filmed by the seasoned director, Jack Horner (Burt Reynolds), making love to his wife, Maggie/“Amber Waves” (Julianne Moore). At that point, Lo was too turned on from watching the movie while cock-warming me to continue. We retired into the bedroom where she proceeded to ask me, “I bet you’d like to film me auditioning all those men who want to be pornstars, wouldn’t you Daddy?”
“I thought you were sore?” I asked her, referring to her masturbation marathon earlier in the day.
“Sore, but not satisfied. Fuck me. I like it when it hurts.”
I slid in her slippery snatch and she moaned with pleasure and pain.
“I think you’d like to be auditioning them,” I responded to her.
By the way her eyes rolled to the back of her head, I could tell that the image of her being the older seductress, seducing young, aspiring actors, getting them to break through the role and into the authentic enjoyment of her body, was turning her on.
While her fantasyland role was screening in the adult theater of her dark and dirty mind, my own thoughts were scrawling across my cerebrum. Since I had cum on my own earlier that day, my stamina was augmented. I had plenty of time, while Lo bounced up-and-down on my rod to the beat of her own drum, to explore the following musings.
I began with Boogie Nights and the thought of how, yes, Lo was right, I could easily see myself in the role of the director, Jack Horner, filming his own wife as she slept with various pornstars. Turning her lustful liaisons into works of art was already my forte. My mind then turned to the late, great Orson Welles and his love affair infatuation with Oja – his muse, mistress, and movie star of films such as F for Fake, and The Other Side of the Wind. A documentary about the making of the latter movie came out a couple years ago and in it, those who were on set with Welles recalled how he wanted to film, at great length, a pornographic sex scene starring Oja with Robert Random (actual actor’s name). Perhaps the aging Welles (he was between 55 and 61 while making it) took delight in seeing his young mistress (she was between 24 and 30 while making it) getting delight from a younger man who could give it to her. Sounds familiar.
“Deeper, Daddy, please,” she whined as she rode me, startling me out of my musings.
I opened my eyes and saw her pulling at her nipples over me. “Am I your pornstar?” she asked.
I tried to meet her descending hips with ascending thrusts of my own. She needed to feel the tip of my shaft on that magic spot deep inside her. If I were larger, longer, harder, I would press that button without even trying. But, alas, that was not the case.
Frankie Shaw
Frankie Shaw
Frankie Shaw using her Instagram to expose herself
Her question turned my thoughts from directors making their muses the material of art, to that wannabe pornstar who used her creative powers of writer, director, and actor to live out her clear fantasy of being fucked on camera. Frankie Shaw, in her series SMILF, used every opportunity to get naked, get laid, and get herself off in her show. I wondered how her husband, Zach Strauss, enjoyed watching her perform completely gratuitous sex scenes on the show. Let’s be clear, none of her sexpoloits were essential to the story – from her fantasy gangbang in the pilot where she is fucked by a basketball team of black men, to her seducing the boy she babysat, to the creepy scenes of her naked in a bathtub with her fictional child. None of that advanced the plot in a way that it couldn’t have done without those scenes. But, given the creative license she had, she used it to be as licentious as she could, making her the star – the pornstar.
Frankie Shaw from her Instagram being exhibitionist in her neighborhood during COVID
Lo wasn’t cumming. She got up, off of me and commanded, “Get behind me and fuck me, hard!” She was on all fours on the bed and needed me to stand up, perpendicular to her, as she looked in the full-length mirror before her, watching us fuck, as she might watch a porno.
“Come on, Daddio! Really ram it home,” she called over her shoulder.
I thrust at her with all I had. I was panting, sweating, wondering if my back was going to be sore for a week.
Mercifully, she began to cum. I could feel her pussy clenching, preparing to eject me and ejaculate. Her voice was insistent. “Cum! Cum!” she demanded, knowing that there were mere seconds left before I wouldn’t be able to remain deep inside her.
Enjoy your erotic reading.
“Where do you want me to cum?”
“Inmeinmeinmeinme!”
I don’t do well with cumming on command. If she had said, “Whatever you do, don’t cum,” then there would have been no problem. Besides, I had, at her recommendation, already cum once that day. I was near my limit.
Frankie Shaw gets nailed by the boy she baby sat in SMILF
It was already too late. The torrent had been unleashed. The spillage had gushed down her legs and now the dam was about to break, flooding me right out of her.
Frankie Shaw stars in a porno
Her legs were quivering and she was pounding the bed with her fist as she screamed “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”
I backed up and watched the demonic possession take hold as she lost control of her faculties, senses, bodily movements, and sanity.
Her orgasms are simultaneously a full-body and out-of-body experience. They are sublime to watch, in the full sense of that word: terrifyingly beautiful.
The bed covers were drenched; her body lifeless on top of the mess she had made.
Frankie dreams of Lola
Scene from SMILF
Not necessary, Right?
How did this get approved?
Slowly, her breathing steadied and resumed regularity.
She rolled over as if she had been hit by a Mac truck.
“Wow!” was all she said. And then, a little while later, “I won’t be able to walk, sit, or cross my legs tomorrow!”
Frankie Shaw getting off to Lola Down
“I guess you’ll just have to lie in bed all day.”
“That’s ok, it’s my favorite place to be and my favorite position.”
She got off the bed and began cleaning up the sodden bedding, throwing all of it in the laundry basket.
“Feeling better?”
“You didn’t cum,” she had the gall to complain.
“I did, just not with you.” I knew that remark would piss her off.
She gritted her teeth and growled at me.
“You told me to fuck Stoya, remember?”
“But on these short days in January, I really needed an injection of vitamin D, if you know what I mean.”
“It would have just come out in the wash anyhow.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
She thought for a moment. “I like to have the power to make you ejaculate on command.”
“Talk about a control freak. I did ejaculate on command – your first command. You told me to jack off while you masturbated to oblivion.”
“But I thought you knew the Golden Rule: Love thy woman as thyself.”
“Oh, is that the rule? I thought you said it was: Love thyself and often.”
“That’s my rule. Not yours.”
“So, why did you tell me to go away instead of letting me watch?”
“Well, you made me jealous when looking at all those women.”
“You’re the one who wanted to look at them with me!”
“Fiddle-dee-dee,” she said, dismissively. “I wanted to make you jealous.”
“Oh, so it had nothing to do with being turned on by them?”
“There was that too. But now I feel so slutty.”
“You should.”
“No, Daddy. I mean, not only was I cheating on you. . .”
“It’s not really ‘cheating’ if I know about it and condone it.”
“I was corresponding with a guy online.”
“Today?”
“Yeah, well, like every day.”
“And?”
“His name is John. I call him my internet boyfriend.”
“I think you mentioned him to me.”
“And I was cheating on him with another guy. Or maybe I was cheating on the other guy with John. I don’t know. It all gets so confusing.”
“Let me see your other boyfriends.”
She showed me their cumtribute photos.
“Looks like I have stiff competition!”
Lola
Masturbation Marathon
Lo and I were in the living room, sitting on opposite ends of the couch. She was looking at her phone. I sat with my laptop open, reading emails, when suddenly, up popped an email in our shared account. Unlike most of our fan mail, it wasn’t directed to Lo, it was addressed to me. And it had a few photos attached. Sexy photos. Of my female fan.
“What are you looking at?” Lo asked, never one to be unobservant.
“Nothing,” I clumsily lied.
“What do you mean nothing?”
“Just an email,” I said, telling the truth, trying to pass it off as nothing.
“Let me see,” she said, scooting over, closer to me, suspicious.
How does she do that? How does she know when something is amiss?
My heart was racing. She gets so jealous.
There was nothing to do but give in to the inevitable.
I showed her the email and the photos.
“Nothing huh? Who is she?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. Just a fan. A connoisseur of fine literature. A grateful reader. A woman of exquisite taste in art.”
“You really don’t know who she is?”
“I swear.”
“She just wrote to you for the first time?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t carried on a correspondence with her?”
“No, absolutely not.”
“You like her?”
“What do you mean, like her?”
“You find her attractive?”
That is a very dangerous question. The female author of the epistle in question was, in point of fact, appealing. As her missive made clear, she was a wife and mother whose sex life had fallen fallow in the past few years as the children occupied more of her time and energy. But reading about my sex life with Lola had rekindled something deep down inside her and she just wanted to show me exactly where it was rekindled.
“She’s not unattractive,” I said, attempting to be as neutral as possible.
“Let’s play a little game,” said Lo. I was quizzical. “I’ll go through photos of our fans and you tell me if you find them sexy. But let’s do it in the bedroom.”
“What?”
“Yeah, just be honest,” she said as she walked down the hall.
“Are you trying to get me deeper in the hole?” I asked, following behind her.
“Depends on which hole you mean.”
GULP.
“Let’s start,” she said as she took out her computer and went to her special stash of emails and photos. She unzipped my pants and grabbed onto my flaccid member as she pulled up photo after photo. Honestly, I was too scared to get hard.
After about five or ten, she paused and looked at me a moment.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Lo, you know perfectly well what’s wrong. For years now, you’ve made the nature of our relationship clear. Now you want me to look at other women? I think that I’m being set-up.”
“No no no,” she said with a smile. “I’m just feeling like changing things up a bit.”
“You know, I could get just as hard looking at photos of men who’ve sent you cumtributes.”
“Well, maybe I’ll throw in a few of those as well. But don’t be bashful. Let’s keep on playing.”
She scrolled through scores of sexy photos and, for each one she gave me a bit of backstory, telling me the names of each woman and a bit of bio.
“That’s Floss,” she said.
“Yes, I know Floss,” I responded as she went through photo after sexy photo of her.
Floss and Match, Cinder & Spark
“And this is Karla.”
“I know Karla too. In fact I wrote about her.”
Just Floss
“Yes, that’s right. Did you know her hubby, Chris, gets off to me when he has her at home?”
Karla and Chris
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
“This is the author, Larry Archer’s wife.”
“Is she a fan?”
“I don’t know, but I’m a fan of hers. . . and his!”
“And this is. . .” The list went on-and-on. With each new set of photos that Lo opened from her password-protected fap file, she grew a little more excited. If she was a guy (and she sure acts like one), she would have had a raging hard-on at this point. I have no doubt that her clit was fully tumid. She was reaching for it.
Karla over the years
Karla’s husband Chris getting off to Lola
“Um, can you give me a minute?” she asked.
“What?”
“Here,” she said, passing me the Stoya Destroya vagina. “You can use this if you want to wank. But only use my photos.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna have me a wank too.”
“But you want me to leave.”
“Yeah, is that ok?”
“Um no. Not really.”
Larry Archer’s wife
“Just give me a little while.”
She got out of bed to escort me to the door as she got out of her clothes. She put her panties on the doorknob as if she had a paramour over, but it was just her and her fingers, toys, and binders full of women.
I went back to the living room, confused, carrying my vagina. Well, Stoya’s vagina. Carrying a vagina.
I returned to the bedroom and knocked on the door furtively.
“What?” she asked, not opening the door.
“Lube,” I said. “You didn’t give me the lube.”
The door opened a crack. I saw her standing naked. She looked good. Her arm extended, dropping the tube of lube in my hands.
“OK?” she asked, shutting the door.
Stoya front, Lola back
I walked away again.
Finding my way onto the couch, I began writing – this story.
Lo’s orgasmic arias were audible throughout the house. They rose and fell, crescendo, decrescendo. So many ups and downs I lost count. I looked at the vagina sitting next to me and said, “It’s bad enough she needs more from me. Don’t you just sit there and look despondent at me that she’s getting all the action. It’s not my fault you don’t have arms, hands, or fingers to help yourself out.”
Finally, I made use of Stoya, more for her sake than mine. She looked so sad there.
I came, one brief onanistic climax, looking at Lo’s photos on the internet while Lo, in the flesh, was having a grand old time fucking herself just down the hallway. I got up to do the proper aftercare cleaning of Stoya in the second bathroom and saw Lo’s panties still prominently displayed on the doorknob as Lo went at it.
I returned to the couch and took a long nap.
I was woken up by the feeling of Lo’s lips on my flaccid cock.
“What are you doing?”
“Cock-warming,” she said as she lay naked on the couch between my legs, looking up at me.
“You want something?”
“No, Daddy.”
“No?”
“I’m sore.”
“What the hell was going on in there?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I started off jilling to the women I was showing you, but then I was into the cumtributes I’ve been getting. I’m such a slut.”
“Agreed.”
“No, you don’t know why I’m saying that.”
“Do tell.”
“Well, I guess it’s bad enough that I am not faithful to you.”
“I don’t mind. . . usually.”
“But I have a sort of internet boyfriend.”
“What is that?”
“You know, like a work wife or a work husband.”
“You mean when people become overly chummy with people they work with?”
“Yeah, like that, but in my case, it’s with people I’ve met online.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I’ve been cheating on one of them with another guy.”
“I’m sure they don’t expect monogamy from you, dear.”
“Yeah, they’re both married themselves.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“That’s just it!”
“What?”
“Do you think I have a problem?”
“Other than being a nymphomaniacal, egomaniacal hotwife attention whore?”
“Yeah, other than that.”
“No, not at all.”
“Really?”
John Doe shrine to Lola
“If your biggest problem is that you’re sexting with someone behind the back of your long-distance lover while shutting me out of the bedroom so you can fist-fuck yourself because you’re turned on by your fandom, well, hey, we all should be that lucky!”
John Doe gets of to Lo
“I love you, Daddy,” she said, before returning to cock-warming me.
“Want to watch a movie?”
“Sure. What?”
Northerngentleman
“How about Boogie Nights? Have you ever seen it?”
Northerngentleman cums in his wife’s panties.
“No.”
“Oh, then you’re in for a treat.”
- Photos used with permission.
COVID Birthday
“Happy birthday!” said Lo in a sing-song tone.
Lola’s Gifts
I rolled over. It was early. Earlier than Lo gets up in the morning. She wanted to make the day special for me since she knew that we couldn’t have a party or celebrate in any way that resembled birthdays past.
“Wanna have birthday sexy?” she said, rubbing her large breasts up against my bare back in bed, swinging her right leg up and over my hip and sliding her pussy up and down my hip.
“Not now,” I said like a real ingrate.
“Oh, don’t be like that. Let’s get it on. You’ll be the oldest person I ever fucked. Again.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Just checking.”
I slid my legs over the side of the bed and sat up. I sat for a while contemplating the day before me. I’m not a very social or sociable person. That’s Lo’s department. But this COVID thing did drive home just how much I actually enjoy being with people.
This year there would be no party, no rowdy crowd, now carousing. Just a few cards. Maybe a phone call or two. I had already told Lo, absolutely NO Zoom party.
I stood up slowly and made my way to the bathroom.
“Leave it open!” Lo called, as usual. She has a fetish for seeing a man pee.
I shut the door behind me.
When I emerged from the privy, I found Lo on the bed, legs spread, finger placed between her labia.
“Ready Daddio?”
“Not now, Lo.”
She rolled over and stuck her bum in the air. “Birthday spanking?”
I patted her behind gently as I walked by it, exiting the bedroom to go make my coffee.
It was a weekday and so I went through my usual morning routine to get ready for work.
Lo, to my surprise, got dressed and was ready to go out the door before I was.
“Forget to buy a card?” I asked sarcastically. It was cruel.
“Yeah,” she said, “I’m going to buy a condolence card since you seem to be set on mourning everything you don’t have.”
She left and I suddenly felt very alone. Having Lo around to spout off my spoiled whining to was better than having no one around.
I ate breakfast, got dressed, hopped in the car, and drove to the office.
There would be no one at the office, again, thanks to COVID. Everyone was working remotely.
I climbed the stairs to the floor that my office is on and turned to walk down the long hall to it when, looking up, I saw that the door to my office was open and, sitting there, framed by the doorway, was a sexy blonde wearing, it appeared, nothing but her black facemask.
I practically rubbed my eyes thinking I was still dreaming. Was this a femme fatale straight out of a fifties’ movie? Was I going to walk up to my office and she’d sit there, light a long cigarette in an even longer black filter, and speak to me in a sultry voice? “Mr. H. I would like to hire you to sue my husband. It’s a hard case. Do you like it when it’s hard? I know I do.”
I walked slowly down the silent hallway. Her eyes were trained on mine. I got to the doorway. She uncrossed her legs and spread them wide. I could see now she was wearing merely an extreme micro bikini. I stopped at the threshold.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Happy birthday, Mr. H,” she replied.
Before I could ask how she knew it was my birthday, how she got into my office, or even who she was, she added, “Why don’t you come inside and shut the door behind you so we can have some privacy?”
I took a step in and closed the door. It was then that I saw, inside my office, just out of sight from the doorway, was Lola, sitting in the waiting room chair. Oh, thank God!
“Lola,” I said in my Ricky Ricardo voice.
“Hi Daddy! Surprised?”
“What’s going on here?”
“This is Candie. She’s a strip- er. . . exotic dancer, and she’s here to perform for you.”
“For me?”
“Well, for us.”
Candie stood up and just smiled. She stood in the middle of the reception area on the hardwood floor in her tall stripper heels.
Lo turned on some music, Candie’s playlist, I imagine.
I smell sex and candy here
Who’s that lounging in my chair
Who’s that casting devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely is a dream
Very appropriate, especially since her long blonde hair did smell like candy – cotton candy. I sat down in the leather club chair where Lo had been and enjoyed the show. She danced for a bit in her teeny-bikini, and then the top came off. I saw her nipples were very hard. That’s when I realized it was chilly in the office. Lo had opened the windows to keep the air circulating. Can’t be too careful.
To my surprise, Candie’s bottoms, what little there were of them, also came off. As they did, Lo found her way to me and slid me out of my jeans. She reached down to see how hard I was. Very. She got between my legs and went down on my rod like it was her candy. I put up no resistance.
Lo looked up at me and said, “You like, Daddy?”
I looked down at her and said, “I do. But I’d rather have you.”
That didn’t take much convincing. Lo stood up and, as if she were on stage with Candie, removed her blouse, bra, skirt, and panties. She kept her heels on. Then she sat on my lubricated lingam and I eased into her dripping yoni. She was facing away from me, toward Candie. Lo put her right hand down to her crotch and made small circles on her clit while gently rising and lowering, as if riding a horse English style. Candie was clearly performing for Lola and only secondarily for me. She seemed to like what she saw and, judging from how wet Lo was, Lo enjoyed Candie’s performance just as much.
Candie sat on the floor and diddled her own pink parts. Her breasts were small and perky. She was probably Lo’s age or maybe a little younger. She was confident in her performance. I whispered in Lo’s ear, “Where’d you find her?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” said Lo.
“I am older, today!”
“Sit back and enjoy the show.”
I did just that. I was too self-conscious to cum. But Lo wasn’t. Thank goodness the chair was leather and the floor hardwood. Easy clean-up.
When her performance was over, Candie again wished me a happy birthday and thanked Lo. She said, “I haven’t worked in months. This was really helpful. And I thoroughly enjoyed it.”
She got dressed as Lo used paper towels and all-purpose cleaner on the chair and floor.
Candie let herself out, wearing a long leather trench coat like a character out of The Matrix.
“Well, well, well,” I said to Lo. “Do you have any more surprises up your sleeve for me today?”
“You’ll have to take off all my clothes again to find out.”
“All your clothes are off!!!”
“Does it look like I have anything up my sleeve?”
“I imagine you have more creative places to hide my birthday gifts.”
Victory Lap
As she made the ‘OK’ sign with her index finger and thumb, my hard cock filled the hole of that universal hand-gesture that indicates everything is alright. And everything was better than alright. She was lying under my arched, naked body, her left hand doing the bare minimum necessary to still qualify as a hand-job. I was doing most of the work, thrusting in and out of her digital aperture. She was lying naked on her back, her right hand doing more work on her clit than her left on my dick. But, hey, it’s not a competition. I was pleased. She was pleasing – herself and me.
“That’s it, you big, bad dog,” she said in a sultry tone, referencing the taboo topic of her acquired technique.
She knew exactly what that would do to me. She plays me like a fiddle with her nimble fingers, though I’m sure she’d rather play a long, black clarinet that requires both hands to get the proper fingering and also the use of a wet mouth and tongue to blow all those Ds loud and with proper dynamics.
Within seconds my baton was conducting the final climactic notes of this symphony.
As I write these tortured metaphors, I can hear Lo laughing and saying, “Symphony! P’shaw, more like a minuet.”
Be that as it may, she was covered in pearlesque droplets from chin to chest.
Holiday Glaze
I fell back onto the bed, relishing the sweet release she uncorked for me.
But she, rather than lounge in the lethargic bliss I was enjoying, hopped out of bed, put on her jeans and a tank-top, and said, “Do you want to come walk with me?”
Or, at least that’s what I understood her to say. What she actually said was, “Do you want to cum-walk with me?”
“What?” I asked groggily.
“Cum-walk.”
“I don’t want to walk.”
“No, Daddio, a cum-walk.”
“What’s a cum-walk?” I asked, finally understanding what she was articulating.
“It’s like a walk of shame. A stride of pride, a victory lap, the trek of triumph, the Something About Mary hommage,” she said with a French accent.
“Since when is that a thing?”
“Oh, old man, hurry up, get dressed, and I’ll tell you as you accompany my for a strumpet stride through the neighborhood.”
“Ok, ok,” I said, laughing, “You’re killing me with these colorful combinations of colloquialisms for cum.”
“Say that four times fast!”
“Where’d you learn all those?
“Eskimos have forty different words for snow and I. . .”
“Forget it. I don’t want to hear what precipitated your poetic euphemisms.”
When I was dressed, we walked outside, arm-in-arm. She was proud to have the origin of her adornments accompany her as she displayed her latest accomplishment.
She said hello in a flirtatious voice to the others who passed us by on the delightful spring morning. Out of the corner of her eye, she tried to spy if they looked carefully enough to discern what was glinting in the sunlight on her cheek, chin, neck, and shoulder.
“So, when did this become a thing?” I asked again.
“It’s always been a thing. I mean, remember the time at the nude beach when you came all over my face and tits?”
“Which time?”
“Oh, Daddio. The beach with the geriatric gentlemen who genuflected at my altar.”
“Right. Yeah, so?”
“Remember, after you rained your love down on me, we walked together, saying hi to the beachcombers.”
“Yeah, I remember, fondly.”
“And the time I met that very nice athlete in the park.”
“You mean the big black guy who came on you?”
“You have a good memory for an old man.”
“That’s why I write these things down – to keep your paramours straight.”
“Oh, straight is ok, but I prefer kinky paramours.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Anyhow, after he came on me and I walked up to you dripping with his jizz. That also was a cum-walk.”
“I see.”
“Are you going to write about this one?”
“Of course I am, even if no one believes me.”
“They don’t believe you, Daddy?”
“Lo, you can understand that a lot of people find you unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
“Morning,” said a passerby.
“Hi,” Lo chirped back in a perky voice. Her tits were perky too in her see-through white tank-top.
Lo’s braless top
“Getting a lot of looks,” I remarked to her.
“Yeah, but I made the wrong choice.”
“How’s that?”
“They’re all looking at my chest, not my face.”
“Ah yes, the age-old dilemma. What’s the reaction you’re looking for?”
“I’d just like a tall, dark, and handsome man to give me a long stare that says, ‘I know what you just did, you slut.”
“I think you take too much pleasure in this.”
“Oh, Daddio! The only thing more pleasurable is when it’s leaking out of my puss through my panties and shorts at the same time as it’s on my face.”
“Do you have a special name for that walk?”
“The Double-Stuff Strut, The Cream-Pie Promenade, The Spit-Roast Saunter.”
“I should have known.”
admiration