Girlfriends

[The Mount Bliss mini-series continues from Craving Attention.]

“What do you want?” demanded Lo, watching Suzanne pace as she ignored the pleas of her prey.

Finally Suzanne walked right up to Lo and looked at her eye-to-eye, took her hand, and said, “There’s only one thing I want.  It’s the one thing I can’t have.  The one thing you can give me.  But, under the circumstances, I don’t even know if it’s possible.”

“What?” asked Lo, exasperated by the suspense.

“I want your friendship.”

“What?!” asked Lo in a completely different tone.  She couldn’t have been more taken aback.

“I have no friends.  I mean, yes, I have ‘friends,’ but no one who really knows me.  No one I feel I can be completely honest with.  No one who knows about me and Collin.  No one who knows. . . .”  She trailed off.  Lo knew what she meant.  “You and I, we have something in common.  I don’t care what Collin does with you.  He’s only causing more suffering for himself, the poor thing.  I don’t care how attractive, sexy, slutty, or young you are.  The truth is, I not only admire you in a lot of ways, I actually like you.  Now that we’ve gotten all this out in the open, I just want to have one person that I can confide in.  One person who won’t judge me.  One person I can trust.”

Lo was confused, but Lo’s defining characteristic, besides her libido, is compassion.

“You know, Suzanne, trust doesn’t grow out of blackmail.  It’s not something that can be forged by fear or created by coercion.”

“I know, I know,” said Suzanne taking Lo’s hands in hers.  “I didn’t mean to threaten you.  It’s just that. . . you and I are on equal footing.  You and I are cut from the same cloth.  I was trying to point that out, that’s all.”

The truth was that Lo sensed their underlying kinship the first time she met Suzanne.  But now things had changed.  Now she felt a pang of déjà vu, reminding her of her childhood friend with whom she had had a secret sex pact concerning their mutual experience of puppy love.  The sensation filled her with mixed feelings.

“It’s always better to enlist an ally than anger an enemy,” Lo said to me when she recounted the conversation with Suzanne.

Lo accepted Suzanne’s strange offer of camaraderie and then, with a tepid hug and kiss, bade her good night.

I Want to Drown in Lola Down

[The mini-series, “Mount Bliss,” continues from “Shadow of a Doubt”.]

“Yes, Daddy.  Yes,” she said as I fucked her.  She was flat on the bed, spread eagle, pulling her ass cheeks as far apart as she could with her two hands as I lodged my lustlever as far in her lubricated lovehole as possible.  After so long of being apart, we were finally together, no matter the circumstances of how that came about.  I had desired her.  I had dreamed about her.  I had been deprived of her.  Now I wanted to be depraved with her.  She was already there.  I was along for the ride.  We were two feral fires fucking.

“My ass, Daddy,” she said over her shoulder.

I pulled out and reentered in the desired spot.

A few lunges deep down, down in Lola Down.

She opened up for me like a brilliant rose in the heat of an August sun-shower.

“My cunt, Daddy,” she said.

I pulled out, still dripping from all the fresh spunk that was slathered on my rigid rod from her previous “lover,” and descended again down deep between Lola’s labia.  She was full like a warm pool and her lubricant and loose lips made it so that, in comparison with the tight quarters from where I reamed her in the rear, I could hardly feel her hugging my manhood.

“Turn over,” I commanded as I pulled out of her and lorded my staff over her body like a saber.

“First go in my ass again,” she requested.

I complied.  While I was in there, she and I contorted and twisted, legs this way and that, a pull and a turn, but we managed to transpose into anal missionary position so that now she had her legs wrapped around my hips as I delved into her dark recesses down under.

“Alternate,” she commanded.

“What?”

“Back-and-forth from my ass to my pussy and back again with each thrust.  Please.”

I did as she pleaded.  She wanted to be used in the worst sort of ways.  I had lost track of how many times she came.  Or was it all just one orgasm?  The sheets were soaked as she kept gushing each time I uncorked her geyser to fill her other hole.  I was truly amazed at my own stamina.  How long could I last?  Especially after a week of abstinence.  But following her commands took concentration and skill which prevented my mind from focusing on how much of a cock-hungry cum-slut Lola was.

“I want you in my mouth,” Lo said, begging to be degraded even further.

I pulled out of her ass and sat on my haunches, my cock pointing intently toward the sky.

Lo spun around on all fours like a dog at its bowl and began licking from base to tip before enveloping the entire elongated, taut organ into her mouth all the way down to the back of her throat.  She devoured it with desire.

Her debauchery and debased disposition, her unabashed and naked carnal corruption, her wild, animalistic craving, intoxicated by its own brazen disregard for society’s norms flooded my spirit with its dark light – the lure of antinomian revelation in which all dichotomies disappear and thought dissolves back into the primordial sea of the body from which it first emerged and hovered over the surface of the deep.

Shadow of a Doubt

[The mini-series, “Mount Bliss,” continues from “Lola on All Fours” with this abridged account.]

We left the rest of the crew standing in disbelief of their own eyes and went up to the bedroom together.

Out of sight of the other four, Lo hugged me so hard that it seemed she would never let go.  She began to cry.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” she sniffled into my shirt.

Besides my other kinks and fetishes, I am particularly plagued with a terrible condition known as dacryphilia – the sexual arousal that results from seeing someone cry.

Lo’s tears, her shame, her sexual deviancy, her exhibitionism, her terrible teasing of me all day, nay, all week, and her repeating the refrain of “Daddy” all caused my already hard cock to swell to a stiffness I hadn’t felt in ages.

“Daddy, I’m so sorry.  I’m so embarrassed.  I’m so bad.  Daddy, do you even still love me?” she asked, extremely repentant.  That’s when she felt my love for her manifest in definitive form.

She dropped to her knees on the floor and held onto my rigid member with one hand and felt my soft sack with the other.  She was worshipping it.  “Your balls are so big.  So full.”  If crying turns me on, nothing turns on Lo like a male who is in desperate need of relief.

Tears were still running down her cheeks as she took me in her mouth.  She looked up at me, “It’s been so long,” she said.  I could feel the teardrops fall on my thigh.

Did she mean so long since she and I had been together or so long since she gave someone a blowjob?  I didn’t know.

“Have me, Daddy,” she said, getting on all fours on the bed.

Her puss was still leaking and looked puffy, pink, gleaming and glistening like two perfect slices of tuna sashimi.  I know that sounds weird, but I tell it like I saw it.

“What are you waiting for Daddy.  Don’t you want to fill me up?”  Doggie style, she awaited my mount.

“I feel like I’m in Shadow’s shadow,” I said.

“Don’t think about it that way, Daddy.”

“How should I think about it?”

“Don’t think.  Fuck.”

“Don’t think.  Fuck,” I thought to myself.  Fuck.  Fuck her.  Fuck her cunt.  Fuck her filled foaming warm wet sloppy soaked queefing cum-drenched c*****-infused cunt.  And that’s just what I began doing as she audibly moaned with a sound that reminded me of the final, satisfying chord of a symphony.  All that tension from the screech of the violins, the percussive pressure of rhythm, the rising anticipation of the bass as it ascends step-by-step up the scales, finally resolved in one beautiful resolution that was Lo’s guttural moan of pleasure.  Mount Bliss.

I knew, however, that the tone of gratification was prelude to the new composition that she and I were in the process of creating together.  I pulled back and saw in the darkness . . . thick cum drip from the labia just before I pushed back in, deep and far.

Lo collapsed onto the bed, lunging forward from her doggie style position to being sprawled out on her tum, her legs spread, and reaching back with both hands to grab her ass cheeks and squeeze them as I continued to enter and exit her from behind.

“Yes, Daddy.  Yes,” she said.

[For unabridged version, send us an email.]

Lola on All Fours

[The mini-series, “Mount Bliss,” continues from “Southern Comfort” with this abridged account.]

CRASH!!!  Clankity, clank clank.

We all turned around and saw Lola standing, one hand to her mouth, surprise on her face, her bare feet standing in a puddle of booze and a silver shaker spinning on the ground.  Even the dogs froze in their frisky flirtations with Suzanne.

“Whoops!” said Lo.  “I’ll clean it up.  I’m so sorry.  I feel like such a fool!”

I went over to her and followed her into the kitchen where she grabbed some rubber gloves and cleaning stuff.  I was grateful for the excuse to get out of the crosshairs of Collin and Suzanne.

Lo returned to the living room and went over by the entranceway where she spilled, and she got on all fours to clean up in her little black nighty that she had been wearing.

. . .

Everyone was already watching as Lo cleaned up.  Now they were gawking. . . .

Lola’s Satin Nighty

[For the full story, email us.]

A Report on the Nymphomaniac Condition

“A Report on the Nymphomaniac Condition” first appeared in ENM (Ethical Non-Monogamy) Magazine, March, 2020 issue.

It was said by the renowned sex researcher, Alfred Kinsey, that “A nymphomaniac is someone who has more sex than you do.”  It would seem that modern psychology has caught up with Kinsey’s insight.  The dictionary of psychological disorders, the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM), removed nymphomania from its list in 1980.  But does that mean Nymphomania no longer exists?

In popular culture “sex addiction” has been used as a catch-all for a number of “disorders” that have been named and described: hypersexuality, compulsive sexual behavior, erotomania, hyperfilia, etc.  But the DSM puts almost all of these under one listing: Sexual Disorder Not Otherwise Specified.  This heading is as ambiguous, amorphous, and as slippery as the subject itself.

However, let’s keep in in mind that no matter how something is categorized or listed, it’s not a “disorder” unless it is distressing to the person exhibiting it or has detrimental effects in one’s life.  If the result of the behavior is a net negative, then it could be labeled a disorder.  That net negative could be manifested psychologically, as in feelings of guilt and remorse, or could result in actual physical harm to oneself.  Other net negatives could include weakening of relationships, loss of a job, or other harms external to oneself.

Fan, getting off to Lo at work

In modern European and American culture, nymphomania has as checkered a past as the women diagnosed with it.  Even though there is a male correlate to it – satyriasis – the two labels have been employed in radically different ways.  Historically, the ascription of “nymphomaniac” has been applied to women who, had their gender been ascribed to men and the behaviors described as those of men, rarely would they be described as afflicted with satyriasis.  In other words, historically, women exhibiting the same healthy and robust sexuality of men would be diagnosed with a disorder while their male counterparts gained the praise and admiration of others as Don Juans.

But, in the last decade or so, with the rise of internet porn, the term “sex addict” has been increasingly utilized in less stereotypical and gender specific, patriarchal ways.  Famous actors such as Rob Lowe, David Duchovny, and Charlie Sheen all have come out as being sex addicts, making it easier for others to do so.

Despite the DSM debunking the myth of nymphomania and our modern society’s willingness to embrace a more gender-neutral term applicable to men and women, the term “nymphomania” and its connotations continues to live on in the culture’s consciousness and the collective unconscious.

Fan, getting off to Lo

Nymphomania is a concept that has a history to it almost as old as civilization itself.  In Jewish lore there was Lilith, the contemporary or predecessor of Eve, who refused to be subservient to Adam and, supposedly, insisted on taking the “top” position during sex.  Her name is derived from the Hebrew for “night” and she is associated with other female night demons who seduce men.  As such, she is a succubus.  This tale probably has its origin in explaining men’s nocturnal emissions.

Throughout history, assertive women and sexually promiscuous women have been associated with the demonic.  Accusing a woman of being a witch was one way of marginalizing or eradicating powerful and lustful women.  In more recent times, diagnosing them as hysterical was another.  Perhaps if we rewrote history as “hystery” (from the Greek, hyster, meaning “womb”) we would have different stories to tell.  But, from the ancient Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh, in which the goddess of love, Ishtar, unsuccessfully tries to seduce the hero, and the temple prostitute, Shamhat, successfully seduces and thereby defiles the natural man of the wild, Enkidu, to Helen of Troy, whose face and unfaithful figure launched a thousand ships, to the Sirens and Calypso, all the way through to Gatsby’s fair Daisy Fay Buchanan, wanton women have been revered and rebuked by the West’s confused attitude toward female sexuality.

In the West, only Virgins, like Mary, and doting, devoted wives, like Penelope and Henry James’ Isabel Archer, get univocal approval.

(The East, by contrast, is not as uncomfortable with strong, sexual, and wise women.  From Cali to Guan Yin, not only are they revered and worshiped, but even the gender ambiguity of Vishnu is given prominence.)

Even in the contemporary medium of myth-telling – movies – the nymphomaniac is never depicted as anything but pathological and her fate is always a morality tale told from the point of view of the negative exemplar.  Lolita, the touchstone of our modern-day horny heroine, has been made into a movie twice: once in 1962 by Kubrick and once in 1997 by Adrian Lyne.  Based upon the classic book by Nabokov, the films and the book stand in a league of their own.  The ultimate fate of Nabokov’s Lolita (spoiler alert) is morally ambiguous.  Clearly a letdown to the pedophile protagonist, Humbert Humbert, when he finds his life-long love at the end of the book, we are never given any insight into mature Lolita’s feelings of fulfillment in family or lack thereof.  However, it is, perhaps, too hasty to say that there have only been two Lolita films made.  One of the most popular tropes in porn is Lolita.  In this way the myth of the nymph lives on and on.

Lola Down, 21st Century Lolita

Other films, such as Lars von Trier’s Nymphomaniac and Craig Brewer’s Black Snake Moan, put nymphomania front and center.  However, in both, the female protagonist is depicted as pitifully damaged and pathologically in need of redemption.  In the latter film, that redemption takes the form of Christina Ricci, dressed only in her panties and a cutoff t-shirt, being chained to a cast iron heating radiator by a strong black man (Samuel L. Jackson).  As psychologically dubious as this “treatment” might be, it could be said that the film gets to some deep, underlying archetypical images and fantasies buried in the American collective unconscious by playing on race, gender, and slave tropes.

The former film, Nymphomania, as drab and sexually non-stimulating as it is, does get to some diagnostic characteristics.  As Robert Weiss, founder of the Sexual Recovery Institute, has discussed in his “Thoughts on Nymphomaniac: Volume I,” in the Huffington Post, March 20, 2014:

Nymphomaniac: Volume I is “sex addiction accurate.”

  • Joe’s sexual exploits start out (rather early in life) as innocent and fun-seeking, but before long she’s using them less for enjoyment and more for escape. This is typical. Simply put, addicts of all types engage in their addictions not to feel better, but to feel less.
    • Joe views men as objects — a means to sexual gratification — rather than seeing them as equals and potential partners in emotional intimacy. When her lies actually ruin one man’s life, she feels nothing for either him or his wife and kids. Nor does she change her behavior.
    • Joe spends nearly all of her free time pursuing sex. She has no other interests or hobbies.
    • Joe’s sexual activity escalates in both amount and intensity. She has more and more partners as her addiction progresses, and she engages in ever-more risky behaviors.
    • Joe’s response to any sort of emotional crisis is sex. When her father is terminally ill in the hospital, she has sex with an attendant. Later, she experiences sexual arousal at his deathbed.
    • Joe seeks a sense of control and power through sex. For instance, she ‘allows’ or ‘forbids’ certain activities. At one point she speaks to Seligman about ‘privileges’ granted to one of her regular sex partners. Using sex to feel ‘in control’ is common with sex addicts, especially with female sex addicts.
    • Joe appears to have not bonded appropriately with her ‘cold hearted bitch’ of a mother, relying on her father for kindness and nurture. Her childhood flashbacks show that she learned ways to ‘please’ her father, and that doing so was incredibly important. Even though their relationship does not appear to have been sexual or otherwise abusive, it is clear that she learned early on that the way to get love from men is to please them. This type of dysfunctional childhood bonding is common in sex addicts of both genders.
    • By the end of the film, Joe’s entire life (not just her sex life) has become ‘monotonous and pointless.’ She compares her daily movements to those of a caged animal. Everything she does is rote and repetitious, and nothing has any meaning — especially not the sex. At one point she says to a partner, during sex, ‘I can’t feel anything,’ and it is clear that she is talking about both physical numbness and emotional numbness.

Though Weiss points out in the article that female sex addicts are often ascribed “highly shaming labels” such as nympho, slut, tramp, and whore, “that society routinely attaches to women who have a lot of sex, regardless of whether they do so because they enjoy it” or not, he does not in any way discuss the possibility of a positive nymphomaniacal experience in which those labels are coopted into accolades.

The linguist Geoff Nunberg has pointed out that many one-time derogatory and profane words have been coopted and reappropriated by the subjugated, marginalized, and oppressed populations against whom the slurs were originally leveled.  As he says about the term “slut,” “after a Toronto police constable told a crime prevention meeting that women should avoid dressing like sluts if they don’t want to be victimized,” “slut walks” served as a way “to protest the whole culture of slut-shaming.”  He points out that, “it is hard to imagine ‘slut’ being reclaimed the way ‘queer’ was, as a respectable label for academic programs and cultural centers.” (“Slut: The Other Four Letter S-Word,” on Fresh Air, WHYY, NPR, March 13, 2012)

This sort of reevaluation of values is exactly what Lo is literally embodying, pushing psychology today to free itself from the prejudices of patriarchy.  She wears the labels “slut,” “tramp,” “whore,” and yes, “nymphomaniac” proudly (and she often wears little else).  Between us, we use the words “nymphomania” and “slut” as honorifics rather than stigmatizing terms.  Every slur can be reclaimed and used subversively by the oppressed.

There is some evidence that lustful, liberated women are making inroads into the tyranny of normativity.  Thinkers such as Rollo May have proposed a theory of the daimonic, hearkening back to the origin of “demonic” as coming from the Greek “daimon.”  For the Greeks, daimon meant something more akin to a personal deity; a guiding angel, you might say, rather than a guardian angel.

May uses the term “daimonic” to denote a drive that is not univocal in nature and, in one word, is akin to Freud’s dual Eros/Thanatos drives.  As May says of the daimonic, it “has the power to take over the whole person.  Sex and eros, anger and rage, and the craving for power are examples.  The daimonic can be either creative or destructive and is normally both.”  (May, Rollo, Love and the Daimonic, p. 123)  It is worth mentioning here that, before May and Freud, there was a theory of human psychology in Judaism that posited two chambers in the heart: the yetzer tov and the yetzer ra.  The former, “the impulse for good,” and the latter, “the impulse for evil,” worked in tandem and the rabbis believed that neither was “evil” (unlike the proverbial Christian good angel and devil on one’s shoulders), but that the yetzer ra was a force that propelled humans to creativity and sexual union, but it needed to be bent toward the yetzer tov in order to avoid its destructive tendency and be sublimated into socially acceptable expressions and activities that benefited society.  One can easily see the parallels between that and Freud’s Eros/Thanatos theory.  Perhaps “parallel,” is too benign.  Maybe Freud was more plagiarizing from his own tradition.  In line with this theory of complementarity, May has said, “The daimonic (unlike the demonic, which is merely destructive), is as much concerned with creativity as with negative reactions.”  (Diamond, Stephen A., Anger, Madness, and the Daimonic: The Psychological Genesis of Anger, Madness, and the Daimonic, from the Forward by Rollo May, p. xxi)

In the nymphomaniac, the daimonic drive has been described as a propensity toward indiscriminate, compulsive, and often risky sexual behavior.  To the extent that this is dangerous, harmful, and results in negative net results, it is “pathological.”

But that’s not the whole story.

As was mentioned above, the daimonic is also the engine driving creativity and the nymphomaniac can use her prurient powers for good, positive, “healthy” outcomes.  As Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, the pioneer psychologist in the study of “flow” or “optimal experience,” has said, “One manifestation of energy is sexuality. Creative people are paradoxical in this respect also. They seem to have quite a strong dose of eros, or generalized libidinal energy, which some express directly into sexuality.”  (Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly, “The Creative Personality,” Psychology Today, 1996, p. 38) I believe that the reverse of this is true as well: One manifestation of sexuality is creative energy.  Perhaps that is because, as Csikszentmihalyi also says, “a certain spartan celibacy is also a part of [the creative person’s] makeup; continence tends to accompany superior achievement. Without eros, it would be difficult to take life on with vigor; without restraint, the energy could easily dissipate.”  (Ibid.)  Of course, the nymphomaniac is characterized by her lack of “continence,” but that does not mean that her prodigal participation in pleasure isn’t also a creative, artistic, and perhaps even a performative act.  Seeing sex and art as two separate realms is the fundamental error in this analysis.  Sex can be every bit a creative endeavor, full of “flow” and genius as a Picasso or Pollock painting.  The only difference being that the “results” are fleeting, ephemeral, perhaps even “dissipated.”

In my particular case, I would say that writing about Lola Down, my own personal high priestess of porn and beloved nymphomaniac, is also a result of the daimonic and the writing often flows of its own accord in peak moments, like autographia.  According to Csikszentmihalyi, flow is the experience of intense concentration during creative endeavors.  For me, that describes the act of writing.  For Lo, that describes the act of fucking.  For me, the restraint and “continence” is crucial to produce just the right amount of effulgent energy.  But for Lo, her creative power may be more akin to “the woman who identifies with the archetypal role of Muse or femme inspiratrice, providing sexual love to artists.” (Diamond, Stephen A., “What Motivates Sexual Promiscuity?” Psychology Today, 2011)

This is not to say that Lo doesn’t have her own creative endeavors, her own talents, interests, and areas of outstanding achievement.  Far from it!  But she does love being celebrated as muse, not only by me, but by all the artists who have been inspired to draw or paint her, as well as those who have written lovely verse and prose to her and about her.  In addition, she frequently hears from women and men and couples who credit her as an inspiration in the bedroom.  Frequently these accolades are accompanied by “tribute” photos of the men, women, and couples cumming to her inspiring images.

As much as all this worship is proudly welcomed by Lo, it is also of concern how many people – mostly men, but some women – write in to lament that, for them, the nymphomaniac is akin to some sort of mythical figure, a unicorn, a phoenix, or the Holy Grail.  These awestruck admirers cannot believe that one actually exists, in the flesh, as it were.  They had heard rumor of such creatures, but had never met one or received confirmation of their reality.  Lo, like the Holy Grail, is for them a receptacle into which they can pour forth all of their hopes and dreams (and bodily exuberances) and also a cup that runneth over, spilling forth for all who thirst for her baptismal water.

Is this perceived paucity of nymphos due to the stigma attached to the term, repression of sexuality, or a failure to recognize and reclaim the term in a positive light?  I don’t have the answer to these questions, but one thing was clear early on in my relationship with Lo – I was unable to find anyone writing about their nymphomaniacal girlfriend and the great challenges such relationships entail.  So I began writing about it in a public forum in order to inform others and also to find out if others could inform me.  It’s been a fun and enlightening journey and I thank all of you for your words of wisdom, encouragement, and envy.  But most of all, I thank Lo for opening me up to all new vistas of life’s possibilities.

email downloladown@gmail.com for more info

Her Porn Addiction

How deep, how dark, how degraded, just how far down the rabbit hole of porn do you go?

Lola and I had a wedding to attend.  Yes, another wedding.  I couldn’t find my nice black leather shoes.  They weren’t in the closet.  They weren’t under my side of the bed.  So I looked under Lo’s side of the bed – yes, that side where she keeps her dildos, vibrators, anal beads, and other pornographic paraphernalia.  I knew I was entering dangerous territory, but what choice did I have?  So I began methodically opening all the brown shoeboxes, discovering that there were no shoes to be had, but only the mechanical instruments of female pleasure.

But then I came across it – the one box that was heavier than the others.  In it was not a pair of men’s shoes, but rather four or five books – all related to sex.  Among them, Erica Garza’s Getting Off.  There wasn’t much time.  I had to pack and be ready to go to the airport in a matter of minutes.  I grabbed the small volume and resolved that I’d just have to wear my brown belt and brown shoes to the wedding.

The flight was five hours, coast-to-coast.  Lo was exhausted because we flew the redeye after a long day at work.  She fell asleep on my shoulder as I used the time to read the book cover-to-cover.  There were certain pages marked with dog-ears and certain sentences underlined.  Almost all of them had to do with becoming inured to “conventional” porn and seeking every more degrading and debased images and scenarios.  One passage read:

 

My preferences were changing all the time.  I loved ‘old and young’ clips.  I’d also taken a liking to watching drunken girls get walked around on leashes or fucked by groups of men. . . .  I’d discovered the category of ‘bukkake’ and felt simultaneously disgusted and excited every time I watched multiple men come all over a girl’s face. . . .

 

 

I wondered about Lo and her late-night phone usage.  What depraved, debauched, dissolute, degenerate, dangerous and deviant electronic alleyways had my dear Lo followed that she should be so interested in these passages?  I was well aware of her penchant for multiple penises, how pee piqued her curiosity, her prurient interest in punishment, her salacious soliloquies on slut faming (the opposite of “slut shaming”), not to mention her downright dirty devotion to diddling while dreaming of bestial bullocks.  But had her fantasies, obsessions, and external stimuli ventured beyond these already extreme bounds?  I was in the dark.  I looked over at my delectable sleeping nymph by my side and pondered the extent of her perversity.  I recalled how years ago on a similar redeye transpacific flight she had utilized a highlighting marker as a dildo and got herself off in the crowded cabin as most of the passengers slept.  I would be fooling myself if I didn’t admit that these indiscretions were at least part of why I loved her so.

We suddenly hit some turbulence on our descent and Lo awoke from her slumber suddenly.  She saw me reading her book and asked, “What’s that?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

She sat up.  Recognizing the book, she asked, “Where’d you find that?”
“I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t with my black shoes.”

Slowly an expression of cognition appeared on her face.  “Oh,” she said, conveying everything.

I flipped through the pages showing her each and every passage that she underlined.

“That’s private!” she said as she pulled the book from my hands.

“Is that so?”

We landed and Lola tucked the book into her bag as we deplaned.

We walked through the busy terminal and I said, “It was quite a read.  Did you like it?”

“Some parts,” she said.  “What did you like about it?” she asked.

“I liked that it reminded me of you.  Why didn’t you tell me you were reading it?”

“Because, you don’t need that book or any book like it,” she said, obviously referencing the other illicit tomes in the shoebox.  “You have me,” she said, putting her thumb to her chest, “and I’m all the sex-addicted, porn-watching, nympho you can handle.”

“That’s true,” I said as I dodged people rushing for their departing flights.  “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“What question?” she asked, talking past all the commuters.

“What porn have you been using to get off lately?”

“Define lately?”

We were outside in the sunshine and we found the taxi stand.  We hopped in and told the driver our destination.  In the backseat we continued our conversation.

“Look,” I said, pulling the book out of her bag and opening to the passage quoted above, “why is this underlined?  Have you been seeking out something. . .”

“You know, already.  I like bukkake, dirty old men like you fucking young beautiful women like me, facials, BDSM, female humiliation porn.”

I looked up and saw the taxi driver look at me and then at Lo through the rearview mirror.

“And?” I asked.

“And what?”

“Bestiality?” I whispered under my breath.

“Yeah, so what?  You already knew that.”

“What else?”

“You know it all already.”

“Do I?”

“Well, I also like seeing big, hung men fucking fat women or big fat men fucking sexy thin women.  I like cumming to gangbangs, machines fucking women incessantly, and also sensual massages.”

“So, basically everything you’ve ever done?”

“You could say that.”

We got to our destination and I paid the taxi driver in cash, giving him a generous tip on top of the juicy conversation he got to listen to on the way.

“You enjoyed that,” I said.

“Enjoyed what?” she asked coyly.

“You know what.  Saying all those filthy things in front of complete strangers.”

“Did I embarrass you?”

“No, but you are a loose cannon.”

“I’m loose alright.  And that reminds me, I also love to watch women with large labia and saggy tits.”

“I bet you do,” I said.  “I have an idea.”

“What’s that?”

“Why don’t we go inside and fuck to my favorite porn.”

Her tongue licked her sparkling white teeth in anticipation and she asked, “What would that be?”

“I bet you could think of a few possibilities, but I’m not going to ask you to suggest anything and I’ll just come out with it.”

“I hope so,” she said, grabbing my crotch.

“My favorite porn is fucking you from behind as we both are looking at ourselves in a full-length mirror.”

“Mine too,” she said as we got in the hotel room.

Once we were in the room, we immediately stripped and I bent her over the dresser as we both looked into each other’s eyes reflected in the mirror above it.  I pulled out my throbbing rod, what she once called a “Truth Stick,” and slid deep inside her as she moaned with pleasure.  Once I had pinned her hips between my crotch and the corner of the dresser, I put her to the test.

“What else?”

“What else what?” she asked.

“What are the kinds of porn you didn’t tell me?”

“Oh, Daddy, please.”

I pulled back as her cunt squeezed my cock right out of her and she squirted on my bare feet.  I thrusted forward again, mounting her.

“Tell me.”

“Daddy,” she pleaded.

“If you want this, then you’ll speak,” I threatened, temporarily removing my pleasure pole from her wet snatch.

“NO!” she said.

I was confused at first.  No, I’m not telling or. . . .

“No, don’t pull out.  Deep.  Deep.  Please,” she continued.  “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“What gets you off?”

She looked up at the mirror and into my eyes that were watching the expression on her face.  She couldn’t tell me while our eyes were locked.  She dropped her head and her thick mane of hair covered it as her tits flopped forward and back with each thrust of my cock.

“OK,” she said in a tone of defeat.  “I like seeing my guy fans send pics of themselves to me wearing sexy women’s panties.  I like to see them hard-up for me in those sheer lace panties.  I like to see them cum in them.  I like them to cum to me, to my pics, to your dirty stories of me.”

Saying this, she came.

“What else?”  I knew she wasn’t done.  Not by a longshot.

“I like seeing women diddle themselves to me.”

“I knew that.”

“I like to see pregnant women get fucked hard.  I like to see women with giant bulging breasts and huge round nipples lactating.  I like to see lesbians sucking those huge tits, sucking the milk out of them.  I like to see women being milked like cows.”

She came a second time.

“Keep going,” I commanded.

“There’s not a deep, dark, dank corner of the internet I haven’t explored.  I’ve searched it all.  You name it: sex with aliens; gay men masturbating to my pics; couples having sex while watching me; teacher/student sex.”

I wanted her to continue, but at this point all her limbs went limp and she collapsed in the puddle she had made on the carpeted floor.  The orgasm was still causing convulsions and tremors through her flesh.

I let her lay there on the ground like a limp, wet pile of towels as I sat on the bed, my cock in my hands.  I watched her as she gradually regained consciousness.  She crawled across the floor to the space between my knees.  She looked up at me.  Her lips quivered as she tried to speak.

“That,” she said in a raspy whisper, “was fucking a-mazing.”

Lo’s Lysistrata

 

“No!” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“You know very well why,” she said, turning around, standing on her tiptoes and pushing out her naked bum.  “If you want this,” she added, slapping her ass for emphasis, “then you’re going to have to earn it.”

A little backstory here is in order.  We were in a fight.  Lo was upset with me.  She was more than upset with me.  She was furious with me.  I had recently hired a red-headed, buxom, bombshell of a woman to do Public Relations for my business.  The fact that she was a red-headed buxom bombshell was most certainly not the reason I had hired her.  She had an impressive résumé, impeccable credentials, and stellar recommendations.  She had found me via LinkedIn and had offered her services to me at just the time when I was thinking of expanding my business into a new market.  In short, there were very good and eminently rational reasons to hire this woman, none of which had to do with her looks.  But Lo couldn’t get beyond the surface appearance.

“A ruby red Jessica Rabbit?!  Really?  You just had to have a complete set, didn’t you?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, genuinely perplexed.

“Your secretary is a blonde bimbo.”

“She’s not a bimbo.”

“Your PR person is a ginger.  And I’m brunette.  You’ve got all your bases covered.”

“Lo, that has nothing to do with it.  Sheer coincidence.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.  I’m not even attracted to redheads.”

“All three of your previous girlfriends were redheads.”

“Exactly my point.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“All my ex’s are redheads.  I broke up with them.  Clearly red is not my color.”

“Well, no sex for you until you fire her.”

“I can’t just fire her.  That would be a violation of her rights.”

“What about my rights?” she said, thumbing her chest.

“What about them?”

“Don’t I have the right to peace of mind, quiet enjoyment, not to mention, my conjugal rights?”

“Lo, I’m ready to conjugate right now,” I said, pulling out my hard cock.

“Phhhht,” she replied, “Not until Jessica Rabbit is gone.”

Just to be clear, dear reader, the new PR person was not named Jessica, but for the purposes of this story, we’ll stick with Lo’s derogatory name for her.

“I know you’re a jealous woman but. . .” I began, trying to restate my defense.

“What sort of PR professional posts pics of herself in a thong bikini on the beach on her Instagram page?”

“You looked up her Instagram page?”

“Of course I did.  And I know you did too!”

“I most certainly did not.  But can I see?”

That little attempt at humor was definitely ill timed.  Lo put on her panties and work clothes and walked out of the room in her heels as she lifted her right hand to flip me the bird as she slammed the door behind her and called out, “NO SEX FOR YOU!”

I know that Lola wasn’t thinking rationally because what sense does it make for a nymphomaniac to go on a sex strike in order to get her way?  Nonetheless, she was upset.  Very upset.  And somehow I had to make things right.  But I didn’t know how.  Would she eventually come around?  Would I have to dismiss Jessica?  Would they have a knock down drag out cat fight?  Who knows.

One thing I was confident about was that Lo wouldn’t last long with this protest of hers.  How could she?  Unless she was going to go out there and find someone else to bang, which was always a distinct possibility.

Two, then three, then four days (and nights!) went by and she stuck to her guns.  I wasn’t even allowed to sleep in the same bed with her, but I was subjected to her moans and groans of self-pleasure.  A tantalizing torture.

After the fifth day of this cruel and very unusual punishment, I could take no more.  I had come up with a strategy for winning the war.  I put things into place and two days later, Monday afternoon, my secret weapon arrived by mail in a non-descript cardboard box, about the size of a shoebox.  It had my name on it and I purposefully left it out on the dining room table for Lo to ponder like Pandora’s box.

Like clockwork, when Lo got home and saw it she asked, “What’s that?”

“Oh, just something for me that I ordered on-line,” I replied nonchalantly.

“What is it?” she asked again, picking up the box and shaking it.

“Don’t shake it!” I warned.

“Is it fragile?  Is it for me?”

“It’s really none of your concern,” I said, knowing how much that would piss her off.

“What the fuck is it?!  You’d better tell me right now.”

“Calm down,” I said.  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“I’ll find out this instant!” she said, stomping her little foot.

“It’s just. . . just something to help me out.”

“Help you out?  How?  Is it a lifetime supply of Viagra?”

“Darling, I certainly don’t need any E.D. medicines.”

“That’s what you think.”

“But you are on the right track.”

“That’s it, I’m opening it up,” she said, making for the kitchen to get scissors.

She returned and violated the sacred law of the postal service – opening another’s mail.  And when she saw what was inside, she flipped out!  All going to plan.

“Stoya the Destroya Signature Fleshlight!”

“Yes,” I said calmly, talking the box from her hands.  “If you’re going on a sex-strike, then I’ll just have to take matters into my own hands,” I said.

“A surrogate pussy?!  You throw that thing out right now!  I will not stand for it!”

“Then get on your back and spread your legs for me.”

“No.”

“OK then,” I said, turning to leave with my pussy in hand.

“Where are you going?”

“To get laid.”

“The hell you are!”

I walked into the bedroom, removed my clothes, took Stoya’s pussy out of the box, read the extensive instructions and warnings, and began to follow the directions.  I was pleased to see that it came with its own small bottle of lube.

Lo walked in.  (I hadn’t locked the door.)

“You’re really going to fuck that thing?” she asked.

“Care to watch?”  (I knew that she wouldn’t or couldn’t resist.)

She sat on the side of the bed as I stroked lube all over my hard cock.  I then put lube on my fingers and began fingering Stoya.

“What are you doing?” she asked, perplexed.

“The instructions clearly say to lubricate the inside before use.”

“Wouldn’t you rather something that’s naturally wet?” she asked as she removed her panties.  She still had on her heels from work and her black dress.  She spread her legs on the bed and pulled at her pussy lips.

“Of course I would,” I said, “but Stoya is primed and ready for me.”  (I was purposefully being an asshole.)

“I’ve been primed and ready.  Wouldn’t you rather pump this,” she asked as she slipped in a couple of fingers.

“Are you really offering?”

“No.  You can’t have it.  I’m mad at you.”

“OK then,” I said as I penetrated Stoya’s soft and supple pussy.  I had two hands on the casing of the Fleshlight and I was sliding it on and off my cock as Lo fingered her own puss with one hand and then really upped the ante by fingering her ass and saying, “Is Stoya tight?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“As tight as my little ass?”

“I doubt it.”

“Do you want my ass?” she asked, fingering both her holes in front of me as I looked on hungrily.

I continued fucking Stoya, imagining I was fucking Lola.  “You know, there’s a Stoya anal Fleshlight as well,” I said.

“Then fuck that, because you can say goodbye to these!” she retorted as she turned around on the bed so she was lying on her tum, her head propped up by her hands.  I could still see her ass as her dress was flapped up over her waist.  I knew that something Lo loves is seeing guys masturbate.  She frequently requested that I jack it for her and she can never get enough since she can’t both watch me and have me.  That’s why she wants two men at the same time.

I did as she commanded and slid the pussy down and back on my rod.  I could see her grow visibly jealous of the device.

“What?” I said at her displeasure, “You have your Hitachi, your double-ended-dildo, your Remus, your. . .”

“Shut up and cum already,” she said.

“And you’re jealous of me because once, ONCE, in however many years I get a sex toy for myself?!”

“What about your sheath?  Your penis extender?”

“That was for you, not me.”

“Enough dialogue.  Fuck that pussy and cum if you’re gonna cum.”

“If you really want me to cum,” I said, “then hold it for me.”

“You want me to hold Stoya’s pussy so you can fuck her instead of me?”
“Well, are you willing to give me your pussy?”

She reached out and held onto the thick trunk of the sleeve.  I fucked more vigorously.  Her mouth opened.  At the crucial moment, I pulled out and, without warning, ejaculated the money shot all over her delighted face.  She was dripping in my cum when she said, “That. Was. Amazing.”

[p.s. – This installment of mysexlifewithlola was not sponsored by Stoya or Fleshlight, nor are we affiliated with them. (Though we’d love to be!  Hint hint.)

 

Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume III – Writing Under Cover is Available NOW!

The latest book of the stories from mysexlifewithlola.com is now on sale.  Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume III – Writing Under Cover is only $9.99 for the soft-cover.  This book contains 35 chapters of the sexiest, naughtiest, funniest smut since, well, since Volume II was published.

It also is replete with original erotic artwork of Lola (and H.H.) by five renowned artists.  Because this volume is itself a work of art and a collectors item, unlike past versions of Match, Cinder & Spark, this one will NOT be coming out in an e-book edition.

The cover art is by Jo Koss.

We hope you’ll buy this lovely little volume, the sales of which help to support the continuation of this blog.

Below you’ll find the chapters that can only be read in Writing Under Cover and will no longer be available on this blog.

Stay sexy everyone!

xoxoxoxo,

 

Lola & HH

 

Per-verse –

XXX-Mas Stocking Stuffer

An Intimate Encounter. . . With a Dirty Girl

Transformation

Lo’s Many Loves

The Insomniac & the Nymphomaniac

Beauty & the Beasts

Superheroes, Fairies, & Pixie-lust

Love That Body Image

Father Confessor

Nocturnal Commissions, Sins of Omission, and the Missionary Position

Private Tutor

Chicks & Dicks

Loose Lips Sink Ships

Rubbing Off

On the Edge of Glory

Portrait of H.H. as a Young Man

Sexhibitionism

Wet, Wild, and Wet

A Very Public Paddling

Good Dirty Fun in the Shower

Cumuppance

Cumming Together/Cumming Apart

Sausage, Strawberries, and Sex

Caught in a Cliché

Hardball

Obsession & Infatuation

The Kinks

Role Reversal – The Shock of Recognition

What is wet, a wild ride, and is never afraid of getting dirty?

Creative Juices

What if I told you?

A Hard Man is Good to Find

Every Morning

Lo Likes It Ruff

 

Lusty Letters: Creative Writing Class

Dear H.H. and Lola,

My name is Jane and I have been reading mysexlifewithlola since your first post in 2011!  It was my first year in college when I discovered it along with a bunch of other erotica blogs.  You and some other writers inspired me to put pen to paper and write out my deepest, darkest fantasies – things that I was afraid of even thinking, let alone writing!!!

With Lola as a role-model and the seductively sensuous writing of H.H. as inspiration, I unleashed my inner slut and began penning my nocturnal imaginings.  At first it was just for myself, but, by my junior year in college, I had gained enough confidence to take a creative writing class.  When we went around the room reading our stories, I shared some of my more mild fiction.  For the most part, my colleagues and professor were supportive, though I did get a few shocked or disapproving looks from more than one of my peers.  

In my senior year, I took an advanced creative writing class and one of our assignments was to bring in an example of a living author whose genre and/or style we admired.  H.H., I brought you into class!  I read from your story “Horsing Around.”  I deliberately chose the most shocking story of yours I could find because. . . well, just because.  As I was reading it, a girlfriend of mine snapped a photo of me because she wanted to capture all the body-language of our classmates as I narrated about Lo’s longing for horse cock.  As you can see from the photo, I think the images aroused a lot of feelings from them.  My professor interrupted before the climactic scene and said we were out of time (which we weren’t).  But, after class she called me over to her desk.  I was very nervous about what she was going to say.  I looked up to her a lot and she had always encouraged me, but I thought I might have crossed a line this time.  She asked me, “Where did you get that story, Jane?  I didn’t quite hear the source.”

“It’s a blog: mysexlifewithlola.com,” I said, nervously.

“Oh,” she said as she wrote it down in her notebook.

“Why?” I asked.

“I just needed to note it for. . . for record-keeping.  All of the student’s excerpts must be recorded,” she said.  I felt certain, however, that she went home that night to explore more of your writing.

Thanks so much Lola and H.H.

Yours,

Jane

Since then I’ve started dating an older guy.  We read your blog together sitting on the bed, each of us masturbating to it.

Truth Stick

It was Friday night and Lo and I were at a fundraising event at our city’s art museum.  It was a lovely affair and the only thing that gets Lo and me more riled up than art museums is art museums at night, with alcohol and lots of good looking people dressed to impress.

In my humble opinion, Lo was the most impressively dressed.  She was all dolled up in her heels, slinky skin-tight blue dress showing a lot of leg and cleavage, and her long hair framing her alluring face.  We were in the courtyard of the museum and a classical string quartet was playing.  I looked up at the sky and said to Lo, “I’m worried about the weather.”

“What about it?”

“I’m afraid it’s going to rain.  I don’t want you to get wet.”

“Too late for that.  I know what I’m going to do when we get home.”

“Oh boy.”

“Hopefully many boys!”

“Oh, I thought you were talking about me.”

“You and some other eye-candy I see tonight.”

“Like a little girl in a candy-shop, are you?”

She bit her lip and said, “Do you have anything for me to suck on, Daddy?”

“Lo, wait till we get home, ok?”

We were drinking champagne and then I noticed the perfect complement for it.  “Look, Lo, a cupcake bar!  Let’s get some.”

“You’re really undoing all of my effort.”

“Undoing what effort?”

“My diet.  Losing weight.”

“You have to feed your soul.  Soul, being immaterial, never gains weight, but it can starve.”

“My soul is starving – starving for your attention.  Let’s forego the cupcakes and find a coat closet and get right to the main course.”

We mingled and drank a bit more, but the weather was ominous.  Finally I convinced Lo that we should get going.

We picked up the car from the valet, but once we were in, Lo suggested going to a club.

“Lo, it’s already ten o’clock.”

Already?!  Are you kidding me?  As if that’s late.  The night is young and so am I.”

“Well, young’un, I’m not and I’m tired.  You can drop me off at home and have your night on the town.”

“Well,” she said, “at least tell me I’m going to get laid tonight.”

Silence.

“Oh no, I’m getting fucked tonight, preferably by you.”

Silence.

“If you don’t plan on doing me tonight, then I’m making calls and I’ll find someone who will.”

“Is that the origin of the term ‘call girl’?  I’ve had it backwards all these years!”

“Shut up and feel my puss!  Feel how wet it is?” she asked as she pulled my hand up her dress to her crotch where I discovered the reason for why her dress looked as smooth as skin on her – no panties!

“That’s it, Daddio.”

I began to caress her and she put the seat back to allow me easier access.  Suddenly a car jumped out in front of us from a side road.  I swerved.  She sat up.

“Watch it!” she yelled at me.

“Do you want me to drive carefully or to finger you?”

“Oh yeah. . .  Well, I guess I don’t really need you,” she said as she began fingering herself.

This was almost as distracting for me as my doing it for her.  She came.  She came again.  We pulled in the driveway.  I went to open the door.

“Not so fast, Daddio.”

“We’re home.”

“But we don’t have to go in right away.  How about you kiss me?  You know, I’ve gotten more tongue from a dog than I have from you in the past month.”

“Didn’t I get on my knees and lick your pussy all morning after your shower before we went out tonight?”

“That’s my cunt.  I’m talking about tongue-to-tongue.”

“With a dirty mouth like that, is it any surprise?”

“Shut the fuck up and kiss me.”

I kissed her.  She pulled my hand down to her dripping pussy.

“It’s never just romance with you?” I ask.

“It’s all romance with me.  My definition of romance is very wide, very deep, and fits a lot into it.”

“Are we discussing romance or. . .”

“Just shut up and keep kissing me.”

I followed orders.  She again pressed my fingers down on her clit.  She rubbed them around the way she wanted to be stroked.  “I said, keep kissing me.  That didn’t mean to stop fingering me.”

“How about we take this inside?”

“OK, pull down your pants.”

“Not inside you!  I meant let’s go in the house.”

“Oh, right.”

As we were walking into our building, there was a flash of lighting and a crackle of thunder – loud and very soon after the lightning.  Big, heavy rain drops began to fall, one-by-one at first.  Within moments of getting inside, it was a heavy and steady downpour.  “Let’s start this storm off right,” said Lo as she grabbed me, pushed me up against the wall, took my hands and placed them on her breasts.  I kissed her on her open mouth.  It was hot.

We walked to the bedroom.  I got naked and into bed.  Lo went into the bathroom saying, “I just have to take off my makeup.”

I guess I was more tired than I thought.  Within seconds I fell into a deep and heavy sleep.  I awoke to a naked Lo between my legs with my cock filling her mouth.

“Lo, I think I’m too tired,” I said, fearing her wrath.

She pulled her face up enough to say, “That’s a lie.”

“No it’s not.”

“Let’s see what the Truth Stick says.”  She grabbed my hard cock.  “The Truth Stick says otherwise.”

“I should beat you with my Truth Stick!”

“Yes!  That’s all I want!”

She climbed on my erection and slid her warm puss down it, straddling me.

But, no matter what the Truth Stick said, I kept on nodding off to sleep.  I don’t know if she came or if she merely got turned off by the lack of attention, but at some point she climbed down from her pole and sat next to me in bed.  She pulled out her Hitachi and placed it between her legs.  Looking over at me next to her with disdain, as she massaged herself, she said, “Brian, my special friend at work, said he’s really eager to work with me.  He told me today that whenever and wherever I need him, I should just say the word and he’ll be there.  I’m thinking about him right now.  I’m thinking about his big, strong arms.  I’m thinking about his broad shoulders.  His huge bulge in his pants.  I’m thinking about what sorts of things I might ask him to do for me.”

I know she was just trying to make me jealous and simultaneously rile me up to giving her a good hard pounding – plumbing her depths with my Truth Stick – and I was flattered, but unable to give her what she wanted.  As I heard her climax alone next to me the lyrics of a song wafted through my mind as I gently withdrew to dreamland:

She takes just like a woman, yes, she does
She makes love just like a woman, yes, she does
And she aches just like a woman
But she cums just like a little whore.