Category Archives: S&M

10 Questions about The Story of O with Stephen Prince

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Stephen Prince, a.k.a. Stefan Prince, is a painter of abstract art, much of which takes as its subject matter the erotic novel Histoire d’O (The Story of O), published in 1954 under the pseudonym Pauline Réage.

Image of Story of O with the iconic labia piercing

Those of you who are unfamiliar with The Story of O, get it. Read it. And you will love it. It is by far the best of recent erotica and, best of all, it was written by a woman.

Here is Lola’s interview with the artist.

Lola – First, is your real name Stephen or did you adopt that in honor of Sir Stephen in the book, the Story of O?

Ha! Yes, I was christened Stephen, though my mother once told me she had hesitated over ‘Stefan.’ She loved the character ‘Stefan Radetzky,’ played by Anton Walbrook in the 1941 film Dangerous Moonlight (U.S. title: Suicide Squadron). I adopted ‘Stefan’ to differentiate my erotic paintings from my other work. Oddly the English dubbed version of the 1975 film, Story of O, changes ‘Sir Stephen’ to ‘Sir Stefan.’

Lola – When did you first read Story of O and what captivated you about it?

Story of O

I first read Story of O when a paperback edition was lent to me in the summer of 1975. I was in my twenties. It was bliss! It was like coming home. The novel seemed to encapsulate all my fantasies in one little book. I loved the style of the writing and the elements of the Gothic and surrealism. I immediately ordered a hard-back edition.

Story of O

Lola – Tell us about your art. How did you get into painting and how did your style develop?

Art of Story of O by Stefan Prince

I have been painting since the age of twelve. There are no other painters in the family. Even before my four years at art school, I was drawn to the abstract and it was abstraction I pursued for a long time. But I found I could wear two ‘hats.’ In private, I attempted some ‘figurative’ reactions to having read Story of O. This was in 1979, and again a few years later. In 1996, after a break from painting, I set about producing twelve large canvasses as a series, celebrating Story of O. Those paintings set the style and tone for years to come. Some of them were featured in Skin Two magazine, several were exhibited in London, and one features at the end of the movie Preaching to the Perverted (1997)

Skin Two Magazine Issue #52

Lola – In my humble opinion, Pauline Réage is perhaps the best female erotic author of modern times. I hate to compare, but she is far superior to Anaïs Nin. What are the essential things to you about Pauline Réage?

Pauline Reage

She was without doubt a strong and very intelligent woman, an intellectual at the heart of literary Paris, bi-lingual, incredibly well-read, and bi-sexual. She brought many aspects of her character and her upbringing, as well as intuition, to the challenge of writing Story of O, her one and only novel.

Illustration of the Story of O

Lola – Who are some other authors that you admire and read repeatedly?

I have shelves of books I should be returning to, Anaïs Nin, Vanessa Duriés, Florence Dugas, Alina Reyes, André Pieyre de Mandiargues (Portrait of An Englishman in his Chateau), etc. One writer I do return to is Alain Robbe-Grillet who penned the screenplay for that fascinating film Last Year at Marienbad and whose partner wrote The Image under the name of Jean de Berg, (filmed as The Punishment of Anne) – a slim novel worth returning to, and one boasting a preface by PR (Pauline Réage), though this might have been a ploy on the part of the writer and publisher!

Enjoying Match, Cinder & Spark

Lola – Who are other visual artists whom you admire and why?

I could list so many. Painters with impact always. I would include Francis Bacon, Picasso, Max Beckmann, Hans Bellmer for his dolls and intricate engravings, Balthus, Paul Delvaux, the Surrealists for their dreaming, Leonor Fini likewise, Kees Van Dongen, Rudolf Schlichter, and not forgetting Aubrey Beardsley, for his mastery of black and white illustration.

Cover of the book Libertine Lesbian Sisters – Art by Sergii with Lola as his muse

Lola – Tell us about the development of your blog – storyofoblog – when did you start, how has it changed over the years, and what connections have you made through it?

My O-Blog developed out of my website (began sometime around early 2003). By the close of 2016 I was beginning to think I could use all the information gathered thus far for my website and began the blog, attached to the website, at the end of January 2017. It gave me space to explore the subject in more pictures and words, and indulge myself in a little extra research!

After a few years, I took down my website but, realizing it was the only full website on the web celebrating Story of O, I completely revised it and launched it afresh. The blog has remained unaltered however, and I have retained the same format, with ‘Artists of O,’ ‘Scrapbook,’ and ‘O-Style’ as regular features. As regards connections, I have reached out with success to a number of individual artists, photographers and enthusiasts, and have been approached by one or two in turn, including Canadian fetjeweller ‘Franklin,’ and your good self.

Lola as painted by jermjerm young

Lola – Who are some of your muses (women or men you look to for inspiration) when you paint now?

Miriam Veil

Muses include my dear partner, several professional models sporting ‘bobs’ (a weakness of mine!) including Miriam Veil and Tessa Black , and several fellow artists who know how to live dangerously with their art and push the limits, including the artist known as Raja Foo.

Miriam Veil

Lola – If you could ask Pauline Réage anything, what would it be and why?

Lola Down

How close does Histoire d’O relate to things you experienced, saw or heard about? And where did you get such ideas as genital piercing? (see my O-Blog for October) Also, is the sequel Return to the Chateau by your own hand or not???

Some new ideas

Lola – If I were O’s daughter, what direction do you think the story would take for a new sequel?

Lola at the sex club, pissing on a willing volunteer. Art by Sergii

A bigger and better Roissy, and an emphasis on family, and a fully fleshed-out biological father figure to match a delightfully submissive (or dominant?) ‘Daughter of O’. Why not switch all the roles?!

Lola as depicted by Steamy Art Dreams

Thank you for the opportunity to talk about Story of O.

SP x

 

Molly Weatherfield, author of Carrie’s Story and Safe Word, a.k.a. Pam Rosenthal Interview

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Dear fans of erotica and romance, today we have a very special interview for you:

Pam Rosenthal, a.k.a. Molly Weatherfield – PART ONE – Carrie’s Story

 Pam/Molly is an award winning author in both the genres of romance and erotica! That  doesn’t happen to just anybody! I had just finished reading her first published erotica novel, Carrie’s Story, and I felt such a kinship with both the titular character and the author. I looked her up, reached out, and – to my great luck – she was willing to chat! Then she was willing to do an interview. Now, if you haven’t heard of her (and, I admit, I had only heard of her in passing about a year ago), you totally should have! Why? Because her writing – style, plot, characters, and basic command of the English language – put that other ho-hum popularizer of erotica/BDSM fiction to shame! That’s right, 50 Shades should have been called “50 Degrees Not-As-Good-As Molly Weatherfield!” Or maybe, “16 Years Late!” No, really! Anything that pale best seller had to offer was there in Carrie’s Story, and more – whoa so much more! Don’t take my word for it. Read both for yourselves and get back to me.

Luckily, some have seen the quality in Molly/Pam. In October of 2006, Playboy called Carrie’s Story one of the top 25 sexiest novels ever written! Number 12, in fact – just after Lolita (which, in HH’s humble opinion is the best erotica ever written) and just before Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying. Not too shabby!

Playboy’s 25 Sexiest Novels Ever Written

Number 12 – Top 50 Percentile

That’s not the only list she’s made. There’s also “33 of the Best Erotic Novels of All Time.” Now, if you read that list, you’ll see that it is hardly “of all time.” I mean, there’s nothing prior to Lady Chatterley’s Lover from 1929 on the list. But hey, “33 of the Best Relatively Recent Erotic Novels” just doesn’t have the same pizazz.

Speaking of lists, one particular author I know (in a Biblical way) made the list of ranker.com‘s “Best Sensual Fiction Writers” (even though HH isn’t writing “fiction”). We’d both appreciate it if you’d take a moment to vote us up on the list. Thanks!

Classic and Updated

Now, let’s get to the interview!

Carrie’s Story (updated cover)

Lola – OMG! It is such an honor to interview you! However, I have to be honest, so far I have only read your BDSM erotic novel, Carrie’s Story.  That’s why this interview is PART ONE.  I look forward to reading Safe Word and then having a second interview. And, maybe, when I can, reading some of your Romance work, like A House East of Regent Street, which you published under your own name, Pam Rosenthal. But tell me, what’s your background?  How did you get into writing?

Molly – I’ve always thought of myself as a lifelong English major, in love with reading and writing, and a little shaky in terms of earnings potential. For most of my life I managed to pay the bills as a computer programmer, which was hard, though also stimulating, pretending to have technical chops. Before Carrie, I never considered writing fiction; what writing I did was lit-crit or wonky nonfiction stuff, often about computers and science fiction, published in obscure leftwing venues, but pretty exciting to me intellectually and even artistically (I got the name Molly, for example, from the mirror-shades girl in the classic cyberpunk novel Neuromancer).

I’ve also been a feminist since I came to adulthood in the late 60s (I’m pretty old, as anybody who did the math can figure out). And I also had a secret passion for SM erotica, at least since high school when I somehow glommed onto the Marquis de Sade. Which two parts of my belief system weren’t easy to reconcile, especially since 60s-70s second-wave feminism was particularly disapproving of anything smacking of sexual “objectification.” 

But it was my great good fortune to be in the right place at the right time to begin to resolve my dilemmas. I don’t know if your readers will know this history, but in the early 1980s there was a big split among feminists called “the sex wars,” where some devastatingly brilliant women began to challenge feminist orthodoxy, and to insist that their erotic and affective lives, their role-playing, style of dress, (even their lipstick) didn’t invalidate their personal power. This might sound quaint to you, but for me it was huge when feminists started theorizing about sexuality, writing erotica, plumbing the boundaries of autonomy and desire. There was a lot of backlash; a friend, the late Amber Hollibaugh, was thrown off a panel at Barnard College for talking about butch/femme lesbian roles. But I was inspired, and had the good luck to meet legends like Susie Bright and many others, and to read great, smart erotic stuff — fiction and non-fiction both, which probably got my writing instincts going, though I didn’t know it yet.  

Lola – Carrie’s Story is. . . how should I say?  It pushes so many limits.  How did you hit on this story?  Did the character of Carrie come to you first or did the deep, dark adventures just unfold as you went along?  What was the creative process?

Molly – I remember the first time I tried to write an SM story. It was a lazy, sunny Sunday after sex, and I was feeling really good and loosey-goosey, which I guess freed up my thoughts in some way. So, when my mind drifted to SM fantasies — and then to the fears of fascism that sometimes also flowed in along with the sexual stuff — I felt a little braver than usual, a little less guilty and a little more adventurous. Maybe sex-positive feminist thinking had actually started to penetrate; in any case, I began to wonder whether I was really the sicko I feared I was. What would happen, I wondered, if I actually let the fantasies rip? What would they look like if I wrote them down (what a concept)? So I sat down to find out.

For hours. There I sat in my ratty pink terrycloth bathrobe, scribbling and smiling and just… happy. I totally didn’t know what I was doing — I even had to run to the bookshelf to see how to punctuate dialogue. And when I wrote COMMA CLOSE QUOTE HE SAID PERIOD, I felt like God.

The story stank, though it did have a character sort of like Jonathan and a few characters who found their way into Safe Word. But it was such fun, and I felt so much myself, that I was determined to keep writing, and maybe even trust my own moral sense. Because I found that in my fantasies, I was totally turned on — obsessed really — by the idea of mutual consent, and the subtle, interesting places that can take the imagination and the relationship. I’m interested in people playing power games, exploring strange places, but from a position of mutual agreement as to the boundaries of the fantasy space. I am absolutely not interested in sex where deep down (in like reality, like in government or the economy, or like on Jeffrey Epstein’s private island) the power is unequal. 

What was missing, of course, was Carrie. The smart-girl voice who’d been in my head since Jo March, and in western fiction since Elizabeth Bennet and Jane Eyre. The brave girl who fights the power with words and wit, and who can own the experience through her smarts. I realized I needed her to tell the story I was evidently dreaming up when I “heard” that voice in a fantasy novel called Beauty, by Sheri S. Tepper.

Anyhow, once I realized that Carrie would be telling the story, and that it was a story — that is, that she feels a need to tell us how she got to where she is when she’s telling it (which we don’t know yet, except for the auction, but which suggests a lot of SM tropes), I felt like I was cleared to go. That compulsion to tell how you got where you are is a powerful narrative engine, and I began to see how you could apply this to BDSM, with its tropes of training and discipline. Even if I didn’t know the ending, I felt that it would emerge in the telling. And oddly, the first publisher, Masquerade Books, caught the mood perfectly with the cover of the first edition: something about those wide light eyes, those parted lips (other Masquerade editions went way downhill from there).

Carrie’s Story – Original Masquerade Publishing Cover

Carrie’s Story, Most Recent (and Tame) Cover

Lola – You published this in ʼ94, so you must have been writing it earlier than that. Just to be clear – that was well before 50 Shades of Grey and its imitators took BDSM into the mainstream. Were you scared by what you had written? Did you think you’d ever find a publisher for it, or an audience? What was it like to be writing this stuff at that time?

Molly – I probably started writing it in ʼ91 or so. I was in no hurry, because it felt like its own reward to be exploring my fantasy life, opening up my imagination and sharing it with my husband, who began to share his as well. I don’t usually think of myself as brave, but I did while I was writing, and that felt amazing. And yeah, sure I was scared. “Always scared,” as Carrie says at some point. Because isn’t that what bravery is, to be willing to go where it’s scary? Isn’t that how we always get where we’re going, to find our limits as we go?

Still, I wasn’t writing in a vacuum. I was breathing the air of the San Francisco sex-positive feminist community, standing on the shoulders of giants, if you will. I was playing catch-up, reading lots of erotic fiction and theory, and adding a lot of stuff from my own reading over the years. And of course, since Carrie’s a brilliant, prodigy student intellectual, it all kind of fit together for me. 

As to whether I’d find a publisher: at first I really had no idea whether the thing was publishable. I thought the writing was good; I have a fair amount of confidence in my voice. But I didn’t know if my particular take on how body and mind work together would resonate with anybody else — and of course there’s always the fear of revealing oneself and grossing people out. “It’s a pure act,” I kept telling myself. “It’s its own reward.” And — certainly compared to Fifty Shades of Grey — the Carrie books are clearly a niche taste. But as the years go by, and as still, after 30 years, every so often I open my email to read some absolutely amazing, deeply thought communication from one or another reader, the thrill of making connection never gets old.

Carrie’s Story as I imagine it

Lola – The book, and its smart, sensual, and masochistic titular main character make frequent reference to erotica classics, most notably, Story of O by Pauline Réage.  What were the books that influenced you the most in writing this one and why?

Adaptation of Story of O

Molly – I’ve already mentioned the Marquis de Sade, who was in many ways a dreadful person, but I read bits and pieces when I was a teenager, and it stayed with me. A couple of years after that I read Susan Sontag’s essay, “The Pornographic Imagination,” and she talked about how porn is often funny, which gave me permission, years later, to make Carrie funny. Anyway, Sade is funny, in a weird, cold, whacked-out way (for more on this, for anybody who’s curious, you can read the piece I wrote for Salon.com, which is still kicking around the internet at https://www.salon.com/1998/11/19/feature_459/).

Histoire d Lo

Then, of course, Story of O, which came out in English in 1966, the same summer as Bob Dylan’s record Blonde on Blonde, which was the summer I connected with the guy I’ve been married to for more than 50 years now. We passed his copy of Story of O back and forth in bed. (And many years later I wrote about it, also for Salon, https://www.salon.com/1998/08/06/feature_12/)

Blonde on Blonde?

The next, important books came years later: Gayle Rubin, the brilliant queer theorist and cultural anthropologist, recommended Anne Rice’s Sleeping Beauty books, and I ran-not-walked to get hold of them. I think I’d find them unreadable now (all that spanking!), but at the time, I just gobbled them up, because I loved the equal-opportunity sexuality (women as tops and bottoms; gay and straight combinations cheerfully intermingling). And I loved the Disneyland fairy-tale setting. It was so light-hearted, so technicolor: I was totally energized by the idea of this sexual magic kingdom. 

Sleeping Beauty

There were also small-press books written by local (often queer) authors, that were super hot. Pat (now Patrick) Califia, Aaron Travis, Carol Queen, Thomas Roche, and Simon Sheppard are names that spring to mind, but there were lots more: San Francisco in the 80s and 90s was bursting with creative erotic imagination; I met Tristan Taormino at an open mic, for example. And this week I went to a Zoom memorial for the recently-deceased Dorothy Freed, a stalwart at erotic writers groups, whose memoir of her longtime, loving marriage to her BDSM partner, Life After Promiscuity, I totally recommend (I copy-edited it).

Perfect Strangers by Dorothy Freed

Lola – Though the story-line is fanciful, many of the scenes are ones that could have a basis in reality.  Were any of the sexy scenarios drawn from your real-life experience?

Molly – No. Sorry. My real-life experience is much more about subtle signals and shared imaginings. A funny thing, though, is that some people I used to work with as a programmer are sure they know who I took as my model for Carrie — and they won’t tell me who!

Porn inspired by Carrie’s Story

Lola – Did you dare show the novel to any of your friends, lovers, or family when it was still in manuscript form?  If so, how did they react?  And how did they react when it got published?

Molly – I’ve always been ridiculously, naively open about this stuff. There were some people who totally didn’t get it, but in general I received remarkably little pushback, and incredible help from friends who agreed to be beta readers, including the guy who corrected a quote from the Latin somewhere. My husband, in particular, is a tough, brilliant editor who pulls no punches and always helps me improve whatever I write. I even came out to my mother about it (a long story how that happened), though I strenuously warned her not to read the stuff. But when a piece of Safe Word got into some iteration of Best American Erotica, of course she read it anyway – the word “best” just being too much for her. “What did you think?” I asked her somewhat grimly. “It was Very. Well. Written,” she replied, through a jaw that might have been wired shut. And that was that.

Lola in her collar

Lola – Before this interview, you told me that the story never got optioned by any film companies.  It’s so cinematographic.  I could totally picture everything in my mind.  I am surprised no one offered that to you, especially after the box-office killing that the ho-hum 50 Shades pulled in. Any ideas why not?

Carrie’s Story definitely inspired many movies

Molly – I’m so flattered you think that, and I do think that one of the things I do well is move characters through imagined space. But as for actually making a movie out of it… maybe it’s better that nobody has. Carrie goes through a lot of stuff that would be far less engaging if you had to look at it rather than imagine it as told through her smart-ass commentary. Or as a leatherman friend once said to me, “Pam, pain hurts!”

Pain Hurts, but degradation?

Lola –  I’m sorry for the comparison and any spoilers, but, it seems to me the whole boring premise of 50 Shades is “Will she or won’t she?” sign the contract, that is. In Carrie’s Story, there is a contract, but the joke is that it’s all just cosplay, though the pain, degradation, abasement, and humiliation are real. However, Carrie can say no at any time. As I read it, I found it interesting to wonder, “How far will she go?” And it seemed to me like this was Carrie’s question too: “How far will I go?” And she goes pretty damn far! How did the plot drive the novel for you?

Molly – I think you’ve intuited what I’m going to answer. That the energy that makes the plot go was my energy, my curiosity about how far my fantasy life would go. You can’t fake that energy — or at least I can’t.

Lola – I was so glad to learn that there was a sequel because, if I have any criticism of the book, it’s that it ended prematurely.  I wanted it to go on – so badly!  Just like I want this interview to go on.  I guess I have to get reading.  But, quick question, the audio book, narrated by Shana Savage, is just fantastic! Were you involved in choosing her for that format?

The only way to fly is listening to erotica

Molly – I was involved, and it is fantastic. Susie Bright, who produced the audio, let me choose between 3 finalists, and I chose Shana. And I’m so proud that in 2014 the audio book won an Audie award for best erotica — first time they gave an award for erotica.

Eargasms

Lola – Thanks again! We will continue this soon, I hope!!!!

Molly – Thank you, and hope to speak again.

Pam Rosenthal/Molly Weatherfield

 

 

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Femme-Enfant

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Detail

[Continued from Sister Sodomy.]

“The little slut wanted me to teach her how to deepthroat,” Robie said to the guy behind her, as he pounded her pussy on the bed.

“Really?” he said, absentmindedly, as he rhythmically rode her ass and was intently staring at Lola who sat naked, tied up on the floor in front of the two of them.  They were on the bed looking down at Lo or at themselves in the full-length mirror in front of them.  Robie liked seeing her newly developed breasts bouncing back and forth with each slam by her boyfriend’s hips into her buttocks as he rammed that long rod of his home.  Lo watched the two of them from her spot on the floor – staring unblinkingly from behind her older sister’s panties that were still pulled down over her head like some sort of twisted superhero mask.  She inhaled deeply the scent of her sister and mutely sat in sexual frustration because her hands were tied behind her back, her nipples of her undeveloped breasts pulsing with pain from the clothespins her sister had attached to them, and her labia smarting just as badly with the clothespins that she had also attached down there.

“Yes,” said Robie.

“And did you?”

“I did.”

“Well, you’re the best.  She learned from the best.”

“Then she wanted me to teach her how to take it in her ass.”

“Wow!  She takes after her older sister.”

Those were words of praise to Lo who, though in tremendous pain, was also blushing with pride.

“So I fucked her ass.”

“Could she take it?”

“She did – like a champ!”

“Can you take it?”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Yes, please, Sir.”

He pulled out of Robie’s dripping cunt.

“Wait a minute,” said Robie.  She got up off the bed and went to her little sister.  She lifted her up in the air like she was a toy and turned her around so that now Lo was also facing the full-length mirror.

Lola’s Repressed Memories of growing up fast with Robie

Robie got back on the bed and assumed the position.

“Why’d you do that?” her boyfriend asked.

“She was creeping me out with those big brown eyes staring at us.”

He shrugged his shoulders and went in Robie’s back door.

“See Lo,” Robie said to the image in the mirror, “feels so good.”

Lola could only look on with frustrated desire and pulsating pain from her nipples and labia.  Her eyes were wide open, on either side of the thong, watching as her older sister was sodomized by her boyfriend.  Lo looked briefly down at her bound body and then back to her big sister.  Lo didn’t want a boyfriend.  She wanted Robie.

“To make him really feel good,” said Robie, “you clench your asshole, tightening your sphincter around his girth.”

Apparently this technique worked because the guy made a moaning sound.

He slapped Robie’s ass hard.  She then moaned.  He slapped it again on the other side, drawing out another moan.  Then he leaned forward and put her in a headlock.  She couldn’t breathe for a few seconds.  He released her and she screamed – a yelp of ecstatic pleasure.

Before Lo knew what was happening, he had pulled out and ran up to Lo, lifted the panties off her face and impatiently commanded, “Open your mouth!  Now!”

Lo did as told and he thrust his cock down her throat and ejaculated so much spunk that it felt like bucket loads to Lo.  Unlike Robie, he didn’t cajole Lo, romance her, instruct her, or even give her any warning about what was to happen.  Despite the fact that she thought she might puke, she swallowed and coughed and a lot of the sperm shot up and out of her nostrils as still more drizzled from the corner of her mouth and down to her collarbone.  It wasn’t the first sperm she ever tasted.  She gasped for air and then grew lightheaded and passed out.

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Frankie Gets Fucked

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Lola awoke in a cold sweat and with a hot, soaked puss.

“What is it?” I asked, startled from unconsciousness suddenly.

“I just had the weirdest wet dream.”

“OK,” I said, realizing that there was no returning to sleep now, “tell me about it.”

“Well, you know how you try to make me jealous talking about what’s her name from what’s that show?”

“You’re going to have to be a bit more definite than that.”

“Anyhow, I had the weirdest dream about her.”

She then proceeded to tell me the following.

She was Casey’s babysitter.  Now it was just the two of them, home alone, and she was horny.  She had been fapping to Lola Down and the erotica of mysexlifewithlola.com all night.  She hadn’t slept.  Her sheets were soaked.  She wanted to feel another’s flesh on hers, between hers, deep inside hers.  She wanted that hot white cum.  She wanted to be a slut.  She didn’t want him to think of her as that “older woman,” a cougar, beyond the bounds of propriety.  She wanted to get down and dirty for him.  Shock him.  Shake him out of his innocent naivete about women of a certain age.  About women in general.  About her.  She was a woman – a woman with needs, wants, desires, lusts, and deep, dark, hidden shame, disgust, and revulsion.  “Debase me,” she thought, “and I can rest in my degradation.”

She led Casey to the bathroom where she had up a poster of Lola Down.  She lured him there with a request that he help her “clean the drain.  It’s clogged.”  He followed her, admiring her ass, against his better judgment.  He was ashamed of himself.

She showed him the drain.  It was clogged.  After only a few minutes, they agreed it was time to call a plumber.  He noticed her sex toys strewn around the sink, the bathtub, even next to the toilet.  He didn’t say anything.  He looked around.  She looked at him.  It was awkward.  In order to break the uncomfortable silence, he looked at the poster and said, “Nice.  You?”

 

They looked nothing alike.

“No, it’s Lola Down.  Have you heard of her?”

“No.”

He was shy.

“She likes to fuck.”

“Oh.”

“Do you like to fuck?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Bridgette.  Um.  I. . .”

“I’m going to take a shower,” she said, removing her clothes.  She was naked.  She leaned over the sink.

“I guess I’ll get going,” he said, not leaving.

 

“Fuck me,” she said, protruding her ass back toward him.

“What?”

“You heard me.  Fuck me.”

He simply could not believe this was happening.

“Are you a virgin?”

The question took him aback.  Was it an insult?  Was she demeaning his manhood?  He was a virgin, that was for sure.

“I knew it,” she said without a word from him.  “Now’s your chance to change that.  Fuck me.”

He was fumbling to undo his belt and get out of his pants.

She turned around once she saw in the mirror that he had gotten it out, but not gotten hard.  She got on her knees and looked up at him.

“How long have you wanted me to do this?” she said, her lips parted inches away from the tip of his flaccid cock.

“I. . .”  He didn’t know what to say.  He couldn’t deny that he had often masturbated to the thought of her.  When she was babysitting and after he went to bed, he had stroked it thinking about her face or about finding her naked in front of the TV asleep.  Why had he fantasized about that?  Vaguely, as if in a dream, a distant memory rippled across his mind.  He saw her, on the couch.  He had gotten up in the middle of the night.  The TV was on.  People were on the TV.  It looked like they were fighting, wrestling.  They were naked.  Her jeans were down by her knees.  Her hand was between her legs.  She didn’t see him.  He just watched.  He stood silently on the stairs and watched.  She was engrossed in the images on the screen.  He noticed something bulging in his pajama bottoms.  He didn’t know what it was.  A change had come over her.  She pulled her hand out of her crotch.  She sniffed it.  She licked it.  She clicked the TV off.  She pulled her jeans up.  She stood up and walked to the kitchen, away from him.  He went unnoticed.  He returned to bed, feeling guilty and dizzy.  The hard thing in his pajama bottoms wouldn’t go away.

She blew gently onto his detumescent, flagging flesh.  It felt good.  A tickling, caressing breeze.  She put her warm wet lips over that thing.  He knew what this was now.  He was old enough to know.  He never thought it would happen with her.  His babysitter, whom he had fantasized about for so long with pangs of guilt.  The babysitter he had played football with – who tackled him like a boy with laughs and fun.  The babysitter he had cozied up to while eating popcorn and watching “Blue Mountain State” with, against his parent’s wishes while they were gone.  The babysitter who had kissed his bruised knee better, causing a tempest of confused feelings in the pit of his stomach.

She moved her mouth, tongue, lips in ways that made his thing grow.  It grew hard.  She let go and turned around again, facing the mirror.

“Fuck me, Casey,” she insisted.

He moved forward.  She was taller than he.  He needed to stand on his toes to get the right spot.  He couldn’t.  She reached back, impatient, grabbed it, pulled it forward violently.  “Go in!” she demanded.  He went in.  She was wet.

She grabbed something from next to the sink.  It was a dildo.  She covered it with lube of some sort.  She passed it to him.  “Put this in my ass.”

“What?”

“Put this in my ass,” she repeated.

He took the pointy fake penis and pressed it to the spot.  It didn’t go.

She moved her right hand back to the spot.  She inserted one, two, three fingers easily.

“Try again.”

He repeated the gesture.  It went in.

“Hold it there,” she said.

He held it there.

“OK,” she said a little later, “Pull it out.”

He pulled it out.

“Put your dick in my ass.”

These were very elementary instructions, yet they perplexed him.

“Put. Your.  Dick.  In.  My.  Ass.”

He pulled out and put his dick in her ass.

“Harder!”

He tried to go as hard as he could.

“Slap my ass.”

“What?”

“Slap my ass.”

He gave her ass a slight graze with his open palm.

“No, slap it!”

He slapped it.

“Spank it!”

He spanked it.

“Harder.  Fucking harder!”

He was hitting her ass as hard as he could with his open palm.  It scared him.

“Call me a slut.”

“What?”

His repeated questions were frustrating her.

“Call me a slut!”

“Slut?” he meagerly pronounced.

“Call me a SMILF.”

“SMILF?  What’s that?”

“Sitter-Mom I’d Like to Fuck.”

“OK, SMILF.”

“Call me a cunt.”

“You’re, you’re a. . .” he began crying.  She could see it in the mirror.

“Fuck, you’re useless.  I can’t even feel you in my ass.  Pull out.”

He pulled out.

She turned around.  She got on her knees again.  “How small are you?” she said, observing the thin, diminutive member with wonder.  In her haste to fornicate, she hadn’t thought about it much when she had it in her mouth.

She put the toilet seat down.  She grabbed a dildo from the bathtub, ran it under the water of the sink and suction-cupped it to the lid of the toilet.  She eased her ass down on it.

“Pass me that,” she said, indicating another dildo by the sink.

Casey passed it to her.  She took it and inserted it into her pussy.

She had a look of maniacal gratification on her face.

She looked up at him looking at her with wonder.  The wonder years, she thought.

She looked down and saw his cock, erect.  She realized he must be in incredible discomfort.

“You need to cum?”

“What?” he asked again.

“Shut up and come here,” she said, pulling him towards her with her left hand wrapped around his buttocks.

He involuntarily moved forward.  She put his cock in her mouth again, roughly.  Her right hand was manipulating the dildo in her pussy.  Her left hand controlled him from behind.  Her ass slid back-and-forth on the dildo attached to the toilet seat.  In her mind she thought about being a sexy cheerleader, the free-use girl of an orgy, a goddess worshipped.  She thought about Lola Down. . . .

 

She was horny.

“Call me a dirty, disgusting, whore.”

He was silent, looking down at her.

Her left hand moved down toward his ass.  She fingered his ass and slid a finger up inside.

He suddenly ejaculated in her mouth.  The thick, copious cum dribbled out of the corners of her mouth and onto her nipples.

“OK,” she said, “Go.”

“What?”

“Go!”

He pulled up his jeans and left her there on the toilet fucking both her holes.

The next day she called a plumber.  A large, middle aged white man showed up.  He was unattractive.  That suited her just fine.  The more disgusting, the better, she thought to herself.

She led him to the bathroom.  The same bathroom.

He noticed the sex toys, the poster, the toilet seat with the suction cup dildo attached to it.

“Is this the bathroom or the playroom?” he said with a chuckle.

“A little of both,” she said seductively.

Without much more conversation, they were both naked in the tub.  The same tub where it had happened.  The thought of it made her feel disgusting and worthless.  That’s how she wanted to be treated and that’s how men – real men, like the plumber, not like Casey – treated her.

“What do you think?” asked Frankie, looking up eagerly from the pages in her hand.

“That’s your treatment for the next episode?” asked Zach.

“Yeah.  You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So?”

“Well, you’re going to do all that on camera?”

“Yeah.  What?”

“Nothing.”

“What is it?”

“Can I ask a favor?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I be there to watch.”

She laughed and leaned in to kiss him.  “Only if you call me a dirty little whore while I’m getting fucked.”

“Deal.”

“So you like it?”

“I do, but I don’t think you’re going to get the greenlight to make it.”

“Why not?”

“Frankie, there’s too much that is. . .”

“What?”

“Taboo.”

“I have a way of getting to green.”

“Through the redlight district, no doubt.”

“The way involves a few curves and back roads, but I’ll get there.”

 

“A dream within a dream?” I asked.

“More like multiple orgasms within an orgasm.”

“I think you need to call Christopher Nolan.”

“Yeah, we could make a film together and call it MetaPorn.”

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Consolation Prize

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[Continued from Wing-Woman Wardrobe]

“What bar are you going to?” I asked Lo about her date with Jeremy.  To clarify, she was going to be his “wing-woman,” helping him to find a suitable companion in the aftermath of his recent divorce.

“What’s it to you?” she asked, indignantly as she sat in front of the mirror, nude, putting on her eyeliner.

“Well, you don’t have to be rude about it.  Am I being invasive if I would like to know where the love of my life is taking one of my good friends for drinks and to hook-up?”

“To be clear, yet again, I’m not the one who will be hooking-up with Jeremy.”

“Yes, I know that, but after your little performance trying to convince him to let you be his wing-woman, I have my doubts about whom Jeremy will be going home with tonight.  I imagine you won’t let him go home alone.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“So, where are you going with him?”

“I don’t think I’ll tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll probably show up there and spy on us all night.”

“Am I really that transparent?”

“Mr. Cellophane.”

“So what?  I’ll stay out of sight.”

“No you won’t.”

“I will.  Promise.  Please.”

“Fine, but only because I get turned on by you seeing me in action.”

“And I get turned on by seeing you in action.”

“I know that.  That’s what turns me on.”

“Glad we clarified that.  So, where are you taking him?”

Lola told me the name of a trendy club downtown.

“You’re not actually taking him there, are you?”

“Yes.  Why not?”

“It’s so loud with that house music and the BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.”

“You’re just old.”

“How can anyone talk with that blaring?”

“Darling, they don’t have to talk.  They’re interested in the BOOM-BOOM-BOOM,” she said as she got up and pretended to be fucking me, slamming her hips into my ass with each “boom.”

“Suit yourself, but I know Jeremy won’t like it.”

We discussed it some more and agreed upon a less loud bar that we’d been to before.

Lo dolled herself up, threw on black lace thong panties, a short black skirt, and a transparent white blouse.  She wore some sparkly costume jewelry and cute heels.  I wished I was the one going out with her, but realized that I’ll have just as good a time watching her from a distance.

Lo Getting Ready for her Date

The doorbell rang and Jeremy was nervously waiting at the door like a kid picking up his prom date.

I let him in.

“All set for your debut?”

“You can joke, but this is nerve wracking.”

“Come on in.  Have a drink or two and calm yourself down.  Lola’s just finishing up.”

Jeremy came into the living room and I asked him what stiff drink he’d like.  Whiskey, one ice cube.  Easy enough for any bartender.

As I was pouring my 13-year-old scotch, Lola’s resounding voice could be heard billowing from the bedroom.  She was at it again.  It’s one of her favorite parlor tricks for our guests.

I walked into the living room with two drinks in hand.  As I passed Jeremy his, he looked up at me with a grave face of concern.  “Is she ok?” he asked.

“Lola?” I replied with a calming smile.  “Yeah, she’s fine.  She’s just getting the lead out.”

“She’s what?”

“Taking care of business.”

He was still perplexed.

“She’s masturbating until she’s silly,” I finally blurted out.

“Come on,” he replied in disbelief.

“Go see for yourself.  I’m sure she’d like that.”

Her howls were still the background to our conversation.  But they were taking shape now into her usual masturbatory mantra of “Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

“And that should about do it,” I said to Jeremy.  “She’ll be out presently.”

About forty-five seconds later a flush Lola emerged into the living room, kissing Jeremy on the cheek.

“Hi, Lola,” he said rather embarrassed.

“Mind if I join you boys?” she asked, fixing herself a flute of champagne.

She sat in a chair next to Jeremy and very daintily placed one leg over the other as she drank.  I could see Jeremy admiring her sexy gams.  I wondered to myself if she crossed her legs because she was afraid she’d squirt if she didn’t.

We made some small talk until they both finished their drinks and then Lo gave me a little peck on the cheek and said, “Be good,” to me.

“Well, that’s no fun.”

She whispered, “And stay out of sight.”

That was her permission for me to show up at the bar to see her performance.

“Good luck,” I said to Jeremy.

“He won’t need luck,” interjected Lo, “He’s got me.”

I saw them get into his car and take off.

I quickly got myself dressed appropriately for a night out and sped off myself.

I heard from Lo after the fact that, on the way to the club, the following conversation took place:

 

Lola: You want me to jack you off?

Jeremy: What?

Lola: Jack you off.  You’re a bundle of nerves right now.  You need to relax.

Jeremy: Here, in the car, while I’m driving?
Lola: Yeah.  You never had road-head before?

Jeremy: Road-head?

Lola: Yeah, pull out your cock and I’ll blow you.

Jeremy: I think I’d crash.

Lola: Keep your eyes on the road.

Jeremy: I’ll pass.  It might make a mess.

Lola: Suit yourself.

Jeremy: Can I ask you a personal question?
Lola: Anything.  I love personal questions.

Jeremy: HH said that you were, uh, masturbating back at the house.

Lola: Yeah.

Jeremy: Is that true?

Lola: I wasn’t singing in the shower. Didn’t your ex masturbate?

Jeremy: Not that I know of.

Lola: Oh honey, no wonder she ran off with the plumber.

Jeremy: What do you mean by that?
Lola: She was so repressed.  She needed someone to unclog her pipe, if you know what I mean.

Jeremy: We had some regular sex.

Lola: Regular is boring.  Rough, ram-rod, raw-dog is what she needs.  Did she ever climax?
Jeremy: I don’t know.

Lola: Then that’s a no.

Jeremy: I grew up in a different era.

Lola: But women needed then what they need now.  Promise me that if you start dating again, you’ll come to me.

Jeremy: Come to you?
Lola: Yeah, for advice.

Jeremy: Oh.

Lola: What did you think I meant?

Jeremy: Nothing.

Lola: You thought I meant ‘cum to me,’ didn’t you?

Jeremy: Well, is that what you meant?

Lola: I wouldn’t be offended.

 

Road Head

They got to the bar.  Jeremy was hard under his pressed khaki pants.  Lola had teased him so.  But that was quickly replaced by nervousness and fear.  He hadn’t done something like this in over twenty years.  This wasn’t one of those super-trendy bars with the red velvet rope, the long line outside, the bouncer turning anyone away whom he thought didn’t add cache to the joint.  No, this was a regular bar in a desirable neighborhood that had a commanding view of our city.  The drinks weren’t cheap and the food was served on small plates.  The clientele had to be of a certain economic strata in order to afford it.  And that was Lola’s fatal flaw in her design for this evening.  Instead of taking Jeremy to some dive joint popular with the college age crowd, she took him to something that she knew would be upscale.  But, as a result, it meant that the only single women in the place were in their forties.  Maybe there were a few in their thirties.  But all the twenty-something women were on the arms of older men who could afford to treat their dates to a special evening.

I’m not judging or stereotyping.  I’m just describing what I saw.  Lo knows that she and I are frequently one of those December/May couples in an establishment like this.

Despite the fact that I had left the house after Jeremy and Lo, I arrived first.  My knowledge of the city streets is better than Jeremy’s navigation system.  I was inconspicuously hidden in a dark corner at a table for one.  I saw Lola confidently enter with Jeremy and I saw as she scanned the room for the optimal place to occupy with him for greatest effect and maximum visibility.  They took a spot at the center of the bar.  Lo ordered a fancy cocktail and Jeremy ordered a beer.  They were talking as if they were colleagues at work.  Lo was running her hand through her thick hair, smiling, and gently touching Jeremy’s elbow as she laughed.

At the club

I could see guys at the bar taking note of Lola.  More than one of them tried to chat her up, but she shut them down quick.

Jeremy looked stiff as a board, and not in a good way.  After a couple more drinks, they both were loosened up a bit.  So was the crowd.  More people filed into the already cramped bar area and eventually two women who were trying to order drinks near Lo and Jeremy struck up a conversation with them.  I couldn’t hear it, of course, but I later got the gist of it from Lola.

It turned out these two women were both in their forties and both newly divorced and trying to break into the dating scene.  Lo elicited all the information from them while masterfully directing their attention to Jeremy and attempting to remove herself from the equation by explaining that they are just friends.  But Lo overplayed her hand.  In order to fully dispel any doubt of her own intentions vis-à-vis Jeremy, Lo said she’s not into guys.

Oh boy, the eyes of the two women lit up!  Their conversation became animated.  They started regaling Lo with stories about flirting or kissing girls in college, always wanting to try it more, being married and confined by the marriage, and now, ready to explore new possibilities.

The two women were already quite intoxicated when they began talking with Lo and Jeremy.  Their inhibitions were down and their arousal at this young, fresh meat high.  They complimented and flirted with Lo, leaving Jeremy to watch dumbly.

Lo, for her part, cannot turn away from the attention.  And so, after a few paltry attempts to direct their interest toward Jeremy, Lo gave in.  Soon she was making out with one and then the other of the women, exchanging numbers, and, eventually, walking out with Jeremy.

On the ride home, Lo felt truly bad for her behavior.

 

Lola: I’m sorry about that.

Jeremy: About what?

Lola: The two women.  We came out for you, not me.

Jeremy: That’s ok.  I found it entertaining.

Lola: You like lesbians?

Jeremy: Who doesn’t?

Lola: You jack off to girl-on-girl porn?

Jeremy: [Uncomfortable.] Um, er, I have.

Lola: Are you hard now?

Jeremy: I’m driving.

Lola: I see that.  You can drive and be hard.

Jeremy: I’m. . .

Lola: [Feeling his crotch.]  Mmmm, you are hard.

Jeremy: There’s something about your voice.

Lola: That everything I say is dirty and depraved?

Jeremy: [Laughing.]

Lola: [Putting her right hand between her legs.] Did you want to see me with those two women?

Jeremy: I wouldn’t have objected.

Lola: Did your wife look at porn?

Jeremy: Ex-wife.

Lola: Did your ex-wife look at porn?

Jeremy: I told you, I don’t think so.

Lola: When you had sex, would she put her finger down on her clit and stroke it?

Jeremy: No.

Lola: Would she pull her pussy lips wide and stretch them out until it hurt?

Jeremy: No.

Lola: Would she curl her index finger up and inside her and finger herself when your cock was filling her up?

Jeremy: No.

Lola: Would she get so fucking wet that she could slide her entire hand inside and grab your cock while you fucked her?

Jeremy: No.

Lola: Would she beg you for another man to fuck her at the same time as you?

Jeremy: Never.

Lola: [Pulling out his dick.] You’re so hard right now.  That whole time at the bar must have made you so full-up.  Do you have blue-balls?

Jeremy: Uh.

Piss Slut

Just then they pulled up to the house.  Again, I was home before they and I pretended that I had never even left.  I was sitting on the couch.  I saw the car headlights outside.  Inside the car, Lola was climaxing.  She held Jeremy’s hand as she pressed her knees together tightly.  She squeezed Jeremy’s hand so firmly that he cried out.  Lo bit her lower lip.  When she finally relaxed, she turned to him and said, “I’m sorry for hurting you.  I was trying to hold it in.”

“Hold what in?”

“My squirt.”

“Squirt?”

“Yeah.  I didn’t want to leave a puddle on your seat.”  There was a long pause before Lo, realizing that Jeremy was thinking about leaving, said, “You can stay a while.  It’s a two-car garage, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I should go.”

“So soon?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Just go home.”

“And masturbate?”

Jeremy looked baffled at Lola.

“You can say it,” she coaxed gently.

“I might.”

“Why don’t you let me do it for you,” she said rather than asked.  She began to jerk his cock as he was in park.  Her mouth was very near to the tip of his cock.  She looked up at him.  “Do you wish you could have seen those two women hungrily and greedily fondling my naked body?  What do you think?  They each had two or three kids.  What do you think it would be like?  Them, with their sagging breasts, jealously pawing at my perky tits.  Sucking them.  Telling me to suck theirs.  One of them holding my ankles up in the air as the other buries her face in my bush.  Each of them telling the other to use me, to finger me, to fist me.  Maybe they had their own strap-ons and they wanted to take turns fucking me.  Maybe one wanted to fuck my cunt as the other fucked my ass.  What do you think?  How do you think I would like that?”

“I, I, I think you’d love that.”

Lola stroked faster.

“I totally would.  I’d like them to put a collar and leash on me and lead me around the house naked like a dog.  They could bring me to the bathroom and piss on me – in my hair, on my face, on my tits.  They could sit on the side of the tub and masturbate until they squirt on my body.  They’d call me their slut, their whore, their bitch.  They’d pull at my nipples and spank my ass.  One of them would hold my legs back as the other spanked my pussy.  They’d punish me for being young and beautiful.  They’d take out all their frustration on me.  You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Suddenly there was a massive ejaculation that shot from the tip of Jeremy’s cock to Lola’s face.  It wouldn’t stop spurting hot white cum all over her face.  It was as if he hadn’t cum for years!  Lola loved it!  He called out and moaned and pounded the ceiling of his car with his fist.

Finally, when he had calmed down, Lo sat back, her faced covered, her hair covered, her neck covered and dripping down her cleavage, and she said, “The icing on the cake!  HH will love this!”

“Oh shit,” said Jeremy, “HH.”

Lo laughed.  She repeated, “HH will love this.  Don’t worry.”

“You two have one strange relationship.”

“Not so strange.  You’ll see.  The world has changed a lot since you were single.”

“Well, Lola, thanks for a good night.”

“Sorry I had to be your consolation prize.”

“To be honest, you’re the one I wanted the most.”

“You’re so sweet!” said Lo as she leaned in and kissed Jeremy a long, open mouthed kiss, getting his own warm cum all over him.

“Good night,” she said as she hopped out of the car and walked in to greet me, the evidence of her evening covering her like a pearlescent halo that had melted.

“Hello Lo,” I said as she walked in.

She approached me and kissed me just as she had kissed Jeremy and then she dragged me to the bedroom to fuck her as she recounted for me every detail of the date, asking me, “Daddy, am I a slut?  Am I a total whore?  Am I bad?  Look at me, covered in another man’s cum.  Punish me.”  And through her mental masochism, she managed to bring herself to orgasm multiple times.

The cum on

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