Category Archives: slut

Age Gap

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            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

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            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

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            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. 

Sex & Death

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“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.”

Caught

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            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

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“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.”

Best Picture (Fan Fiction)

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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.”

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Orgasms

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The Red Dress

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

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

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

            “I’m so disgusted!” Lo began.

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

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

            “What happened?” asked John. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “You used to watch it?” I asked.

            “On occasion.”

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

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

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

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

            “What?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

            “No panties?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

            “That you are.”

            “Well, what are you waiting for?”

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

            “Like what?”

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

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

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

            “Yes.”

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

            “So, you give my dress an ‘A’?”

            “Ugh.” 

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

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

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

            “I think your breasts look pretty and perky.”

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

            “And your shoulders are incredibly strong and sexy.”

            “More.”

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

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

            “That I do!”

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

            As I began to penetrate her, she moaned aloud. 

            “Lo, shhhh.  We have guests.”

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

            “Right.  Now Shhhh.”

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

            “Yes.”

            “Good.  Now let me do the work.” 

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

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

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

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

            “Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love your weird questions.”

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

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

“Yeah, besides all that.”

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            I kept on keeping on in her. 

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

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

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

            “Why can’t I cum?” I asked.

            “Don’t you know by now?”

            “No.”

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

            “Oh, I know all right.”

            “You do?”

            “Yes.  You always need it.”

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

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

Mano a Mano

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            “Why don’t you just jack it like a real man?” she complained.

            “Because I prefer fucking your flapper to fucking my fist,” I responded.

            “But Daddy,” she said, in a nicer tone now, “don’t you know that I find it hot to see a man masturbating?”

            “Any man, masturbating to anything, or certain men, masturbating to you?”

            “I prefer men to masturbate to me, but seeing any man masturbating to anything still turns me on,” she said as she was rubbing her puss under the covers.  “Please, Daddy, just stoke it for me, over me, to me.” 

            “Maybe I’ll just get my Stoya Fleshlight,” I said, trying to arouse her jealousy so she’d give herself over to me completely. 

            “No!  If you do, I’ll get out my horse cock dildo and my Hitachi!”

            “That sounds fair. . . and fun!”

            “No,” she said, “I want you to use your hand and I’ll finger-fuck my holes.”

            “Fine,” I said, more willing to concede due to the prospect of watching her.  I pulled down the covers, got between her legs, grabbed my hard member, and pulled at it for her to see.

            “That’s it Daddio,” she said as she spread her legs wide, began inserting the fingers of her right hand into her puss and slid her left hand around from underneath her ass to penetrate her posterior place.

            “Did you make every man you were with masturbate for you?”

            “I didn’t have to make them,” she said.  “They volunteered.” 

            “Tell me about it.”

            “There are so many.  Which one?”

            “Tell me about Teddy.” 

            Teddy was her fuck-buddy in college.  A tall, lean, basketball player with an enormous cock. 

            “I’d lie in his dorm room bed and he’d stand over me with his huge black cock right over my face.  It was as long as my entire head.  He’d drop his balls in into my mouth and grab his rod with both hands.  Both hands!” she said with emphasis.  “He’d stoke it over me as I lay naked on the bed and then, when he came, he shot all the way down to my knees and covered me with his hot jizz up to my chin.” 

            I could tell that as she told me this story, she was on the verge of climaxing herself.  But she held back. 

            “Tell me about Gerald.”

            Gerald was also a college fuck friend.  The opposite of Teddy in every way, except Gerald was also an athlete – a bodybuilder whose bulging biceps attracted Lo until she found that he had a micropenis. 

            “He was so self-conscious about his size that, no matter how much I wanted to take him in my mouth, he was resistant.  My natural attraction for women made the prospect of licking that little clit so appealing, especially since he shaved it and his balls clean.  He wore a teensy-tiny speedo when he worked out.  It was like he was wearing panties.  I wanted to pleasure him with my lips and tongue all the time, since I obviously didn’t feel him in either of my holes,” she said as she fingered both of her holes more deeply. 

            “Did he jack it for you?”

            “It was the only way he could cum.  He’d pull that little pimple with his thumb and index finger as he stood over me, just like Teddy did, and then he’d ejaculate all over my face.  It was the only way he could feel dominant.”

            “How often did he do that?”

            “Countless times.  It always left me unsatisfied, but I liked it nonetheless.” 

            “You never met a cock you didn’t like.” 

            “Don’t stop,” she said, looking at my cock as my stroking slowed.  I pulled harder, longer, faster.  “That’s it,” she said.  Her whole hand was almost fully submerged in her pussy and two fingers were going at her perineum.

            “Tell me about Tim,” I said.  Tim was her beau before college and, since he was older and Lo significantly younger, sex with Lo was off-limits for him.  That didn’t mean that Lo didn’t try.  Lo always finds a way. 

            “He’s probably the one responsible for my male masturbation mania.  The only way he got off was by masturbating.  I would be fully clothed and saying sexy, naughty, dirty things to him like I’m doing for you right now, and he would jack it until he came.”

            “Where’d he cum?  On your face?”

            “No.  He’d cum into my hands.  I’d hold them out like I was receiving an offering and then I’d lick them clean like a kitten licking a bowl of milk.  He loved that.” 

            That was too much for her.  She came and came hard.  Her pussy and sphincter clutching and contracting on her deeply driven digits before eventually dilating again.  When she recovered, she looked at me and said, “You didn’t cum.” 

            “No.”

            “That’s not fair, Daddy.”

            “I don’t think so either,” I said.  “Why don’t you give me a hand-job?”

            “Because I’m going to fall asleep now,” she said.

            “That’s fine, just position your left hand like you’re giving the ‘OK’ sign, and I’ll do the rest.” 

            She complied.  I lay next to her and inserted my cock.  She said, “You’re just using me as a sex object.”

            I didn’t know what to say to that, but luckily she followed up the comment with, “And I like it.  It’s so soothing.” 

            Reviewing in my mind’s eye the stories she told, looking at her naked body next to me, I came and came hard all over her.  She had drifted off to sleep.  I grabbed a washcloth, wet it with warm water, and gently cleaned her off.  I kissed her mouth good night and lay next to her thinking about what a good bad girl she is.

            The next morning I awoke to find her face bobbing up and down on my erect shaft.

            “Lo?” I asked.

            She popped off of my knob and said, “I’m sorry you didn’t cum last night, Daddy.  Let me make it up to you.” 

            I didn’t disabuse her of that belief until after she accomplished her mission.  When I did, she just said, “You dirty dog!”

            “What?” I asked, innocently.  “You told me last night you wanted me to cum.  Was that just lip service?”

            “No it wasn’t.  But what I just did for you was.”

April Showers

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It was one of those strange April nights when the temperature drops twenty degrees from the daytime high of 68, the wind rustles up the new buds on the trees outside, and from out of the darkness, lighting, thunder, and downpours fill the sky.  Lola couldn’t sleep.  When I got to bed she said, “I’ve tried everything.  I’ve tried meditation, masturbation, guided meditation, guided masturbation. . .”

            “Wait.  What is ‘guided masturbation’?”

            “Oh, well, I called up a friend and asked him to tell me how he wants me to masturbate,” she said as if it were no big deal.

            “You did?”

            She nodded her head in affirmation and pouted saying, “But it didn’t help.”

            “I bet it helped him.  Why didn’t you call me?”

            “You were working hard, Daddy.”

            “So?” I asked, frustrated by the thought that she’d rather hear inappropriate instructions from one of her suitors than from me.

            “Are you still hard at work?” she asked seductively, rubbing my crotch to gauge my state of arousal. 

            “Work hard, play hard,” I said, as I pulled out my manhood for her to see.   

She grabbed it while licking her lips. 

            “You know I’m not just a sex organ,” I said.

            “I think your brain is a sex organ,” she replied as she went down on me.

            “In that case, I have a very large sex organ.”

            She interrupted her activity to look up at me and say, “And growing larger.”

            “I’m not that big,” I said.

            “I meant your ego.”

            “I’ll have you know, I’m very humble.”

            “Looks to me, you have a lot to be humble about,” she said caustically.

            “What do you mean?”

            She pulled down the sheets to reveal her huge horse-cock dildo on the bed next to her, still glistening. 

            “I’m so big, wide, and wet that I wouldn’t feel any bit of you.”

            “Care to test that hypothesis?”

            “I’m stretched to my limit.”

            “You have a limit?  That’s news to me!”

            “‘Limit’ is a flexible term.  Like ‘full’ or ‘fucked.’”

            “Oh, so it’s elastic?”

            “Yeah, it can be used in many different ways.”

            “Depends on who’s using it.”

            “Right.  It takes a lot of abuse, but it is never exhausted.”

            “Never wears out.”

            “Right.”

            “Like this terrible pun.”

            “What pun?”

            “Are we still talking about ‘limit’?”

            “I wasn’t, were you?”

            “Darling, you certainly do push the limits.”

            “What limits?”

            “All of them.  But the real question is, why did you call on some other guy for your ‘guided masturbation’ when you could have called upon me?”

            “So many married men turn to me for sweet release.  I’m a goddess of pussy.  I answer to the call of depravity.”

            “But you called him!”

            “Well, I saw that he had posted a pic of a cumtribution he had made for another girl and he wrote, ‘For my beautiful cum slut.’  I called him to remind him that I am his beautiful cum slut.”

            “You think you’re everyone’s beautiful cum slut.”

            “Well, aren’t I?”

            “Everyone but mine, I guess.”

            “Oh, Daddy,” she said, still holding my cock firmly in her hand, “would you make a cumtribution for me?  Would you jack it to my photos and cum all over them?”

            “Lo, why would I do that when I have you right here, in the flesh?”

            “To show me your unfailing love.”

            “Lo, I write thousands upon thousands of pages of poetry for you, but you’d rather I grab my masculine member and stroke it until I ejaculate a hot mess over your image?”

            “I call it giving tribute to my icon.”

            “Because you’re a goddess of pussy.”

            “Now you’re turning me on!”

            “Those are your words.”

            “Well, you feel that way, don’t you?”

            “How could I not, darling.  It is the truth.”

            “So you’ll make an offering at my virtual alter?”

            “If you want me to, I will.”

            “Now?”

            “Whenever you say.”

            “No, not now.  I want you to do it when I’m away.  Now you can enter my holy temple.”

            “But I thought I wouldn’t even feel you.”

            “You won’t and I won’t feel you, but why should that stop us from fucking?”

            I got between her legs and entered her.  She was right – it was like a mere mortal entering the pearly gates.  However, that only made it more alluring for me.  She could tell I was getting turned on. 

“Cum inside me,” she said.

“Put your fingers inside you, right where you want me to cum.”

She inserted almost her whole fist along over my cock and I could feel her fingering her G-spot. 

“There,” she said, “right there.”

I came and came with force all over her fingers.  She gripped my cock with her hand inside her and milked it for every drop. 

When I pulled out, she said she was going to clean up.  I drifted off on the bed until I heard her calling out for God from the shower.  It startled me.  I navigated the thick cloud of steam to find her squatting on the shapely bottle of Dove shampoo, rubbing her clit, and cumming uncontrollably.  (Do they make the bottles that shape for that purpose or did she buy that brand because of its ergonomic contours?  The questions Lo causes me to ask.)

I disappeared into the fogbank as stealthily as I had entered it.  I went back to the bed.  When she climbed in naked next to me, I held her warm body. 

“Just in time,” I said.

“Just in time for what?” she asked.

“Tomorrow is the first of May.”

“Hooray!  Hooray!  It’s the first of May!” she sung, “Outdoor fucking starts today!”

“No, silly,” I said.  “April showers.”

“Oooooh,” she said, “Maybe tomorrow I’ll let you see my pink flower.”

“Me and the rest of the world.”

“A beautiful flower should not be hidden away to be seen only by one man.”