Tag Archives: sexy

Autoerotica

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Lo, at it again

            “Come,” I heard her yell from the bedroom down the hall as I walked into the house after a long Friday at work.  She might have been saying “Cum!” to a lover.  There’s never any way to tell from the sound of her voice – only on the page. 

            I cautiously walked down the long hall to the bedroom.  What would I find?

            The door was open a crack.  I peeked in.  She was naked, on her tum, her round rump nicely illuminated by the setting sun.  Her legs were bent at the knees and her bare feet dangled up in the air, twined around each other.  In her hand she held her phone. 

            “Come in, Daddio,” she said without turning her eyes from the screen in front of her. 

            I walked in and removed my jacket and tie. 

            “What you up to?” I inquired.

            “I bet you’d like to know.”

            “That is why I asked,” I said flatly as I removed my shirt and undid my belt. 

            “Get naked, get hard, and get in me,” she commanded.

            “I’m already hard,” I said.

            “As you should be,” she replied, moving her hand to her mouth, licking her fingers and then moving her hand to her ass and circling her wet fingers around her special spot. 

            “Oh,” I commented, “You want it like that?”

            “No, Daddio,” she said, “I’m just enjoying myself.”

            Always coy when it comes to her ass.  Always for someone else, or for her own pleasure, but never for me. 

            I got behind her and tried to look at her phone by leaning forward over her back and seeing over her shoulder. 

            “Get up there and fuck me,” she instructed, her finger still rounding her sweet spot as I slid into her puss.  “I’ll tell you what I’m looking at.”

            I did as she said and she told me that a fellow blogger, a woman named TJ, wrote to us saying, “I love reading your blog.  It gets me so wet.”

            “Really?!  Do I know this TJ?” I asked as I thrusted harder.

            “She writes The Lustful Empress.”

            I slowed down a bit trying to remember which erotic blog that was.

            “Don’t stop!” Lo said as her hand grabbed the girth of my cock and she pushed her ass back into my hips, bouncing off of my bare bodkin. 

            I resumed my powerful, pleasurable, pelvic pounding. 

            “Look,” she said, putting her phone up on her back for me to read the email.  It said:

I love how accepting you are of Lola’s magnificent sexuality. You guys seem to have ‘it’ don’t you? I wish I could masturbate as openly as you do, Lola. I feel self-conscious, like an addict or something. But I fucking love fucking myself. . . it’s the best. I am more autosexual than anything else I think. Keep celebrating each other.

Fan mail like that makes it all worth it.  Well, that’s not completely true.  I know that I would be writing all this whether no one read it, or only one person read it – Lola.  But knowing that others read it, enjoy it, and get off to it is the icing on the cake. 

            Speaking of icing, as I read the email, Lo began to climax as one hand worked her ass and the other, from underneath, worked her clit.  Her Kegel muscles contracted and I was squeezed out of her as she curled into a convulsing, throbbing ball, squirting uncontrollably.  The more she pushed her knees up to her breasts in a tightly bound fetal position, the more she sprayed the bed and my knees.  I lifted up her phone to prevent it from being ruined by the liquid. 

TJ, author and model of The Lustful Empress, getting off to Lo

            “Fuuuu-uuuuck,” she groaned as the last bit of lady juice spurted out of her.

            When she regained control of her limbs, she slowly got up and pulled the soaked sheets with her, dropping them in the laundry basket.  “I’ll clean up, Daddy, but right now I have to get ready.”

            “Ready for what?” I asked, holding my throbbing, hard rod in my hand.

            “My date.”

            “Date?”

            “With Robert.  I told you, didn’t I?”

            I just looked dumbfounded. 

            “We’re going to the movies.”

            “Really?”

            “Yes.”

            “And what are you seeing?”

            “The Favourite.”

            “Is he your favorite now?” I asked, demoralized.

            “No, Daddio, she said, caressing me and looking up at me with those beautiful big brown eyes.  “That’s the name of the movie.  It’s a period piece.”

            “Really?  Not a porno?”

            “Well, I hear it has a lot of woman-on-woman sex scenes.”

            “I knew it!”

            “But that’s not why we’re going to see it.”

            “You’re going to see it to have sex in a crowded theater.”

            “Oh, Daddy, you always impute to me the most debased of motives.”

            “So why are you going to see it?”

            “It’s historical.  It has great sets, acting, and costumes.”

            “And?”

            “And probably to fuck in a dark theater.”

            “Don’t get caught.”

            “But getting caught is at least half the fun.  Does that make you jealous?” she asked, as her hand stroked my hard cock. 

            “So you’re leaving me home alone on a Friday night?”

            “Not totally alone,” she said, “You have TJ.”

            “Who?”

            “TJ, the woman from the blog.”

            “Oh, right,” I said to my consolation prize.

            Lola made the bed and I watched her tits droop as she bent over to tuck in the sheets.  Her naked body moved like a delightful dance as she unfurled the blanket. 

            “Look,” she said, as she hopped back in the bed and took up her phone.  I sat next to her.  Her left hand stroked my hard erection up and down as she scrolled through TJ’s blog with her right hand. 

            We read and looked at the photos together. 

Lola
TJ of The Lustful Empress

            “She sounds like she could be your twin sister,” I said as I read about how TJ becomes aroused by her own naked body. 

            “Hold this,” she said, giving me the phone. 

            Now, with her right hand she was stroking her pussy and I scrolled through the blog. 

            “Oh boy,” I said, “You want her.” 

            Lo bit her lower lip.

            “Lo,” I cautioned, “You just made the bed.  You don’t want to. . .”

            Before I could finish my sentence, she had jumped off the bed and ran to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before releasing her ejaculate all over the tile floor with a scream. 

            When she had regained her composure, she got some paper towels and got on her hands and knees to clean up the mess. 

            “What time is your movie?”

            “Eight,” she called back.  “But we’re meeting for drinks first.”

            “Well, you’re going to be late,” I told her. 

            She jumped in the shower and I continued to look at the blog, hard up. 

            “Hey,” she called to me, “you’re not allowed to cum.  You know that, right?”

            “I still don’t understand how that is fair,” I said, taunting her.

            I got up and looked at her in the shower.

            “Get!” she screamed.  She hates when I see her in her shower cap. 

            “How is it fair that you get to cum twice and then go on a date with another man and I’m not allowed any autoerotica myself?”

            “First,” she said from behind the shower curtain, “it’s not autoerotic if you use someone else’s pictures.  Second, you didn’t count the three times I came before you got home.”

            “Lo, now you’re just. . .”

            “And third,” she cut me off, “this has nothing to do with fairness.  It has everything to do with me.  What I want.  What I allow you.  Got that?  Don’t forget it.”

            Lo jumped out of the shower and hastily dried off before slipping into a blue dress and blue heels.  No panties. 

            “You’re going to be cold like that,” I cautioned.

            “I’m planning on things heating up quickly,” she said. 

            Soon enough she was out the door, leaving me alone. 

            I scrolled through TJ’s blog, which I recalled I had seen before, and I thought to myself, “She said no cumming, but she didn’t say no edging.” 

            I spent about an hour going through each and every post before I thought to myself, “If I don’t stop this right now, I’m going to explode!” 

Stoya Left, Lola Right

            In order to take the edge off, I switched to photos of Lo, which are always fair game, and I pulled out the old Stoya Fleshlight.  Lubing up Stoya and myself, I imagined what Lo was up to with Robert.  I didn’t even need to see Lo’s photos.  Soon enough I was cumming and cumming hard and deep in Stoya’s pussy, just thinking about Lo in a dark theater, legs spread, and Robert discretely moving his hand up her smooth thigh until reaching that wet pussy, pulsating with anticipation.  Gently he would rub and flick her pussy lips, clandestinely making her cum.  I pictured her hands gripping the seat and her upper teeth biting down on her bottom lip to prevent the scream from escaping her mouth.  That was enough to bring me over the edge and release me into a deep sleep. 

Writing Down Lo

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            What does it mean to be an “underground” author in the age of the internet?

            Lately I’ve been reading a lot of and about Charles Bukowski.  Largely ignored for most of his life, he submitted his rough, distinctly “low-brow” poetry to independent and small press journals.  Through these he gained an “underground” following that slowly grew by word of mouth until other independent and small press publishing houses printed his works in book form for that “underground” fan base.  Bukowski’s work caught the eye of other writers and musicians, mostly in the L.A. and San Francisco areas, until eventually he caught on nationally and even internationally. 

            But in today’s media world, what does it mean to be an “indie” author or to have an “underground” following? 

fan pic

            This indie author, whom you are now reading, dear valued patron, has a substantial following, or, shall I say, a much larger following than I ever imagined would sprout from my initial blog posts about Lola.  As I have explained in various interviews elsewhere, this compulsion, which borders on graphomania, came into being because, after a few months with Lo, I discovered that there was almost no literature out there about being in a relationship with a nymphomaniac.  Since no one else was writing about it, I figured I’d toss my hat in the ring and give a first-person account of what it’s like – the proverbial trials and tribulations as well as the orgasms and titillations.

            Before I knew it, I was suddenly gaining a following and garnering the praise and accolades of other fellow sex-bloggers.  Women were sending me fan mail and nudes of themselves, much to the consternation of Lo.  Men and women were writing to Lo and sending her all sorts of salacious selfies, much to her lurid enthusiasm. 

The Beautiful Faye Daniels getting off to Lola Down

            Our subscriptions and unique visits to our blog went up and soon we were being featured on sites like Bustle and Top Sex Blogger lists. 

            I compiled various stories into books and those sold swiftly.  And now, today, we have over 20,000 followers on our various media outlets. 

            However much those numbers might dwarf the reach and following of a Bukowski back in the day, with the potential of today’s technology, that seems far less impressive than it would have been when the only way to get your writing in front of a reader was through the mimeograph machine. 

            Are you, dear confessional confidant, part of an underground audience?  Does it even make sense to speak of such in today’s complex and multilevel media ecosystem?  Or is “underground” just a term that is used retrospectively to describe a core following of people that read a certain author before he or she hit the mainstream?  Is it something that can only be applied with hindsight? 

            I don’t know the answers to these questions and I suppose, on some level, it doesn’t matter since I write about what I love and I love what I write about – Lo.  As long as the love is good, I feel the writing will be good as well.  And though the letters and gifts from the readers are flattering and the money (what little there is) earned from the writing is appreciated, what matters most is that I really enjoy doing what I’m doing. 

Fan Male (and Female)

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

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

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

            “Not that I recall,” she said. 

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

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

Painting by Blackbook Artist

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

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

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

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

Fan Submission

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

Fan Pic

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

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

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

I love a careful reader!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bad side?”

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

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

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

“That’s good,” I said.

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

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

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

“You always do,” I responded. 

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

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

“I do think you persuaded me.”

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

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

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

The Porn Identity

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

Lola Down, spread wide

I was reading a message Lo received on her phone from an admirer of the blog.

“A regular Shakespeare, that one,” I said.

“I think it’s sweet,” she responded, as her left hand began to fondle her pussy lips under the covers.

“Sweet?!  He left out your hair, your nose, your neck, your shoulders, your tum, your ass, your legs, your feet, and your toes!”

“I’m sure he was going to get there,” she said matter-of-factly. 

“Can I get there?” I asked, sounding a bit desperate for affection, or her attention. 

“Get where?” she asked, playing with me.

“Anywhere.  Between your legs, ideally.”

“Let’s see where this goes,” she said about her internet friend, unfortunately, and not about my bid for her caress. 

“I know where this goes,” I said, putting her hand on my hard rod.  I was hard because her internet friend had sent a slew of photos of himself jacking off to her pics and cumming all over them.  She looked good in the sexy photos.

“Daddy,” she said, protesting, “I’m busy trying to please my loyal fans.”

“I don’t mind, as long as you do it while spreading your legs.”

“I’m spreading the love.”

“Can you spread the love wide enough for me to get in on it?”

“Your pussy looks pretty and gorgeous,” wrote another fan.

“It is pretty, gorgeous, wet and waiting to be filled,” she wrote back.

“Me, me!” I said, “Pick me.”

“Calm down, Daddio,” she said, full of vanity fed by her fans’ flattery.

“Tell me more about you,” wrote another internet correspondent.

“Read the books,” typed Lo, “There’s too much to tell and too many people to tell it to.”

“You’re hard, girl,” responded the inquirer. 

“Funny, everyone tells me I’m easy,” quipped Lo, “and that makes them hard.”

“I love your stories,” wrote one female fan.

“H.H. writes.  I inspire,” wrote Lo to her.

“Do you inspire with your body?”

“And my wit.”

“I’m inspired right now!” I said to Lo as I grabbed my cock firmly.  “They all are cumming to you.  Can I cum to you?”

“Cum to, on, in, with, over, under, around, beside – I provide the pussy.  You pick the preposition,” she said, dismissively. 

I got up on my knees and stood over her, jacking my cock. 

“Just don’t cum on my phone,” she said as she continued to scroll through her contacts.

She continued to fondle herself beneath me for a while before she said, “Daddio, lie down next to me.  I’ll help you.”

I lay down and she grabbed me by my shaft.  “I’m your righthand man,” I said as she jacked me off with her right and scrolled with her left. 

“My wife is nothing like you,” wrote one desperate, sad husband.

“You two should read our blog together.  It would open up her mind. . . and pussy.”

“I could never suggest it,” he wrote, “she’d freak!”

“But you like it?” asked Lo.

“God yes,” he sighed through the medium of type.

“Tell me what a young, sexy, slutty person such as myself does for you.”

“I’d love to eat your yummy, sloppy, used, cum-filled holes,” he wrote.

“Another bard!” I opined sarcastically.

“Shut up and cum,” commanded Lo as she tugged more aggressively.

“Are you in a rush?” I asked.

“Both hands are full,” she said, “leaving nothing for my snatch.”

“I’ll happily fill that gap.”

“You stay right where you are,” she ordered.

“Has she ever caught you jacking off?” wrote Lo to her married man.

“No.  It would be a big deal if she did.  It would be an even bigger deal if she caught me jacking off to you and not to porn.”

“I am porn,” protested Lo.

“I mean, it’s one thing to get off to anonymous, vacuous, impersonal, professionally produced porn and it’s quite another thing to get off to you.”

“That’s more like it,” responded Lo.

“That’s it, I’m getting up and out of bed,” I said.

“But nooooo.”

“Yes.  You’re just treating my cock like it a joystick to your favorite video game.”

“A game I always win.”

She continued stroking.

“Are you into length or girth?” asked her internet interloper.

“I’m into cock.  And cock gets into me.”

“Once again, I must protest!” I said.  “You’ve got a very capable, compatible, and coveted cock right here, but you’re not letting it into you!”

“What, ole man, my right hand isn’t enough for you?”

“Not when you’re teasing those guys about how fast and loose you like to play.”

A new fan chimed in, “I have to stop sinning.  I’m religious, that’s why I can’t go on doing this.”

“Sex is spiritual.  And I’m a sex goddess.  Worship at my alter,” replied Lo.

“Now you’re offering theology lessons?” I chided.

“No.  Just encouraging them to be good semenarians.” 

“That was terrible.  Low hanging fruit,” I replied.

She cupped my testicles and said, “Very low hanging.”

“Oh, does your wit never cease?!”

Now she squeezed my balls to show me that I had better be careful about mocking her.

Another woman asked Lo if she liked taboo tales.  To which Lo responded, “How taboo are we talking here?”

The woman said she was into watersports and bestiality.

Lo wrote back, “Let’s knot.”

“Don’t you mean. . . oooooh, I get it,” I said. 

“Woof!” she said to me.

The woman, whose name was Mila Beijne., went on to tell a little story.

I was a model a few years back and after doing a shoot I was talking a bit with the photographer, the lighting guy and his assistant.  They invited me to their home.  I trusted them and liked them.  We were all horny and I was willing, I admit.  At the photographer’s home we had some drinks and then they slowly undressed me.  They got naked too. They were all good looking men and one was really hung. They kissed me everywhere and started fucking me in my mouth, pussy, and ass.  I was very horny. After quite a long time, they changed positions, each taking a different hole.  Then they rotated again and fucked me a long time again till I was exhausted.  They filled me up in every place they could.  But the fun was not over yet.  One put me on the floor and the other started urinating over me. Then the other two joined in.  It was a lot and all over my body and in my long hair.  There was no shower, so it was a special experience driving home.  It was my first time doing that and I liked how the act showed their dominance over me.

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

            I could see Lo getting increasingly more excited as she read the short little story from Mila.  She quickly wrote back, “Yeah, HH does that to me.  I love it.  Being below him, feeling his warm stream flow over my back and butt.”

            “We haven’t done that in a while,” I reminded her. 

            She ignored me because another fan had written to her.  This guy was old.  I mean, like twenty years older than I and I’m in my 50’s!  His name was Bob and he wrote:

Hi Lola, and thank you!  You are an inspiration to me.  I hope  you can give me some advice.
I’m in my 70’s and I’ve been in a relationship for over 25 years.  No passion or sex for the last 20 years.  I’m at a loss as it has become impossible to talk about it with her.  I’ve made the mistake of combining our lives and living situations this whole time.  It has become all about her for the last several years.  I feel I’m too old to begin another relationship with a woman, yet I still admire all women and all that I see on your blog.  I’ve even become curious about men as I feel that may be the only way to explore my unresolved sexual fantasies.  Yet I’m still conflicted as I long for an intimate relationship that I’ve missed in my life. 

Do you have any suggestions??

            Lola wrote back, “To tell you the truth, Bob, I’m just good wanking material, but I’m not a sex coach or a sex therapist. You might want to check out one of these trained professionals to get some expert advice on having more sex with spirit.” She provided a link.  Then she added, “But if you’re looking for a real hotwife, cum to me.”

            “What?!” I said to her, shocked that she’d even offer that to him. 

She ignored me and typed, “I have a very soft spot for old married men whose wives no longer have sex with them.  Would you like to see it?”

Of course he said yes.  Lo sent him a naughty pic of the place between her legs that she was denying to me. 

“Lo, that’s just cruel!” I said.

“What?  Soon you’re going to be that old and you’d want the same from me.  Wouldn’t you?”

“What’s cruel is that I’m that old man who is being denied right now!”

“If what I’m giving you isn’t good enough, then take matters into your own hands,” she said. 

            As she said it, another married man was singing her praises in a message that read, “I’ve come to worship your holy holes.”

            “See,” she said, “I’ve got fans who know how to woo me.”

            “Woo you?  They worship you!”

            “What’s the difference?”

            After some flirtatious back-and-forth, Lo asked to see a pic of the man’s wife.

            He asked why she wanted to see that and Lo responded, “I like to see who I’m beating out when guys are beating off to me.”

            The guy sent a photo.  His wife was beautiful.  But apparently she lacked the ‘personality’ of Lo.  He wanted to know more about Lo and he asked her questions.

“I’m like an open book, there for anyone to read,” she responded, “You just have to know where to find me.  Are you familiar with the Dewey Decimal system?”

            “Like, in the library?”

            “Yeah.”

            “So, I can find you in my local library?”

            “If only,” wrote Lo, “I’m indexed under XXX.” 

            “As in 30?” he wrote with a winkface emoji.  “Still pretty young.”

            “Pretty, young, and slutty.  I’ll tell you what, you can virtually finger my folios at: mysexlifewithlola.com,” she said, “and you can also buy the books there.  I suggest you get a few copies of each and donate the extras to your local library so everyone can spread my centerfold for free.” 

            As Lo was typing, she guided my cock to her mouth and wrapped her lips around the tip.  She looked up at me as her hand continued to glide back and forth from the base to her mouth.  I began to cum and she hungrily held me in place so as not to spill a drop.  I was so worked up that I couldn’t control my convulsions.  I began breathing deep, heavy breaths.  Lo looked up at me and said, “What?!  Are you having a stroke?”

When I finally managed to catch my breath, I looked down at her and said, “Yeah, I’m having a stroke.  A really good stroke.”

Lo wrote a final line to her fans: “Good night all you kinky sexy rogues.  Dream of me in your debauched nocturnal thoughts.”

She put her phone down, grabbed her Hitachi, lay back, shut her eyes, and began vibrating until she was the one violently convulsing, squirting, and gasping for air. 

When she was done and had removed the Magic Wand from between her legs, she grabbed my hand and placed it on her bare pussy for me to feel how wet she was.  She’s proud that she can turn on the tap almost at will. 

“Pull my pussy lips, Daddy,” she said.  I stretched them.  “Harder.”  I pulled more.  “Harder Daddy,” she complained.

“Lo, if I pull them any further they’ll be down to your knees.”

“Try it,” she said.  She likes the pain or pleasure. 

As I pulled I asked her, “What were you thinking about when you came?”

“I think about you.” 

This line from her was as false as Marlow telling Kurtz’s betrothed that Kurtz’s last words were her name. 

“OK, that’s enough of that,” I said, calling bullshit.  “What did you really think about?”

“I think about you,” she said.  “And I think about cock.  I think about a lot of cock.”

“That’s it?”

“And pussy.”

I gave up there knowing that the litany of licentious thoughts could go on endlessly.  I sat silently and she mistook my silence for judgment. 
            “You don’t know what it’s like to be me!” she blurted out defensively. 

“Oh yeah, you’ve got it so hard,” I said sarcastically.

“I wish,” she said even more sarcastically as she lifted up my flaccid member in her hand. 

“You know,” I said, “your porn persona and your personality are not consistent.”

“What are you talking about?”

“All those people out there thinking you’re a nymphomaniac, thinking that I am so inundated with your pussy that I barely can find a moment’s peace, yet the reality is that you denied me just now.”

“There’s no inconsistency.”

“How not?”

“Because I know you’re going to write about this and so it will be part of my porn persona.”

Tent Talk

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The Red Dress

            “No!  No way!  Uh-uh.  I’m not going.”

            “Please, Daddio.”

            “Stop it.  You won’t get me to go by doing that,” I said as Lo batted her lashes at me, reached for my cock, and rubbed her hips up against my leg.

            “It will be fun.”

            “Fun?  Your idea of fun and mine are very different.”

            “I don’t think so.”

            “You think another wedding will be fun?”

            “The last one was, remember?”

            “I remember – the food was beyond blasé, the music was mediocre, and the people were piss-poor conversationalists.”

            “Oh, Daddy.  Don’t you remember what we did in the bathroom?”

            “That was its only redeeming feature.”

            “I have a lot of redeeming features,” she said, pulling her breast out of her blouse.

            “You need a lot of redeeming, darling.”

            “Suck it,” she commanded.

            I bent my head down to her nipple and did as she asked.

            “Bite down.”

            I followed her instruction.

            “Harder.”

            I did as she wished.

            “Mmmmmm, that’s it.  Make it hurt.  Pull it with your teeth.”

            I pulled.

            “Let’s go fuck,” she said, removing her blouse and lifting up her skirt, running down the hallway.  I followed her, but she stopped me at the door to the bedroom.  “No, wait,” she said, “I have a better idea.”

            “A better idea than fucking?”

            “Well, it involves fucking.”

            “I see.  What’s your idea?”

            “I’ll change into the different outfits I might wear to this wedding and you can fuck me in each of them.  At the end, you can tell me which is the one you want me to wear.”

            She shut the door and when she opened it again she was wearing a little white blouse and a short skirt and heels.  No panties.  She lifted up the skirt and bent over the bed.  “How’s this?” she asked.

            I entered her from behind and said, “This will do.”

            After she came, she pushed me out.  “I have to try on another outfit.  Give a girl some privacy to change.”

            She shut the door again.  When she opened it, she was wearing a tight blue dress and strappy heels.  “Thoughts?” she asked as she lifted up the dress from behind and bent over the bed. 

            I repeated the process again.  “I like this, but not as much as the other.  Too fancy.”

            Now she pushed me away again and she shut the door in my face.  When it opened, she was wearing a short red dress.  “This?”

            “This is by far the best!”  She looked like a little harlot and she lifted up the back to show me how ready she was for a third go-round. 

            “So you’ll come?” she asked.

            “Yes,” I said, meaning that I’d cum.

            “No, you’d better not fucking cum on this dress,” she said over her shoulder.  “I’m not paying to have this dry-cleaned.  I mean, you’ll come to the wedding.”

            “Yes dear,” I said reluctantly, “You know you always get your way.”

            “Don’t you like my way?” she asked as she slammed her ass into my hips again and again and reached back with her right hand to massage her perineum.

            “Your way is the best,” I said, pulling out and telling her to get on her knees as I came into her mouth and she hungrily devoured me. 

            My reluctance to go was twofold.  First, I simply detest weddings.  Call me a curmudgeon, call me jaded, call me a stick-in-the-mud, but if you’re getting married, don’t call me.  Second, I found it particularly challenging to be happy for the “happy” couple, knowing full well that they really weren’t happy together but rather, felt this to be the next logical step in their relationship.  Relationships based on logic are not relationships based on love.  Logic has its own sort of force, but not the mystical force exerted by love. 

            However, countering these two weighty reasons for declining our invitation were two weightier reasons to concede to the social obligation: an open bar and the prospect of seeing Lo on the dance floor in that red dress.  If two people are fool enough to get engaged and ultimately get married, if those same two people are fool enough to invite me to their party and supply free food and adult beverages all night, really, who am I to stand in the way of my happiness? 

            So I went.  This was no conventional wedding and thank God for that!  It was not at some swanky hotel or a low-budget VFW hall.  It was being held at a mountaintop private residence.  As such, the bride and groom were welcome to use the grounds, but not the dwelling.  A big-top tent was rented and set up and, as accommodations for the guests, we were welcome to pitch our own tents in order to avoid the treacherous hair-pin curves of the dirt road back down into the valley at night. 

            Lo and I arrived around noon and, though we thought we were early, to our surprise we found that the pre-nuptial festivities were already in full swing.  Beer kegs were strategically placed around the expansive lawn, games of Frisbee, croquet, and bocce were being played.  We mingled, took some pics of the vista overlooking the river basin below, and we drank and had lunch before setting up camp. 

            By two o’clock a sprawling tent city was emerging and we were lucky enough to find a level spot on some soft grass right at the corner of this temporary village.  As we unpacked the tent and the air mattress, a young couple pulled up in their Subaru Outback and began setting up their tent next door to ours.  Everyone was in a jubilant mood and the fella turned to me and said, “Not a lot of space here for all of us.”

            “No,” I replied, neighborly. 

            “We’re practically right on top of one another,” he remarked.  It was true, there was so little room between tents that we couldn’t even spread the lines to tether down the tent with the stakes. 

            “I wouldn’t mind being right on top of him,” Lo said under her breath to me.  I saw her lick her lips as she watched him nimbly unpack the suitcases from the car into their tent. 

            “I hope you two don’t mind,” he practically called out to us, “but we’re planning on trying to make a baby tonight.”

            I had no idea what the neighborly thing to respond was, so I just looked dumbfounded until his wife yelled at him, “What did you just say?”

            “I said, we are hoping to make a baby tonight.”

            “Oh my God,” she said, “You have to excuse him, he’s a redneck country boy,” she said apologetically.  “You keep your mouth shut and just set up the tent,” she called to her husband.

            “What?” he asked, “I’m just giving them fair warning.” 

            She was an attractive brunette, in her mid-thirties I’d guess, and clearly in love with the somewhat dim-witted, yet well-intentioned beau of hers. 

            The two of them made some small talk with us as we put the finishing touches on our new homes – asking how we knew the bride or the groom, where we were from, etc.  At one point he turned to me and said, in confidence, “How old are you?”

            “How old do you think I am?” I asked back.

            “I’d say at least forty-five,” he said, being honest, though not necessarily polite.

            “Well, you’re in the ballpark, if you add about five or so years.”

            “And what about her?” he asked, nodding over to Lo.

            “What do you think?” I said, turning it back to him.

            “Twenty, twenty-two maybe.”

            “Again, you’re close,” I said.

            “You lucky dawg!” he said, slapping my back with a big smile.

Soon they and we went our separate ways.  There must have been at least two hundred guests attending this affair and so we didn’t actually see them again that evening.  I told Lo about his untoward questions and remarks and she smiled, contentedly, while her words denounced his lack of couth.   

            The rest of the day and night went much as you’d expect – cocktails were served along with hors d’oeuvres.  As the sun was getting low making for the perfect romantic lighting, the bride and groom were escorted down the grassy out-door isle to the perfect spot with a backdrop of mountains descending toward the horizon in the distance.  The speeches were made, the vows were exchanged, the public display of affection put on for the guests.  I, for my part, held back my applause, reserving judgment for later years. 

            The band came out and dancing under the stars and in the tent commenced along with copious amounts of alcohol being consumed.  Perhaps as a result of the fresh air or all the dancing, the effects of the alcohol upon me were negligible in comparison with what I ingested. 

            The stars were bright, the air was warm with a slight breeze, and music was wafting over the grounds.  Lo was happy to be dancing in my arms and before too long she pulled me aside and said, “Daddy, let’s go to the tent.”  It wasn’t so early; already some couples had made their exits.  But the party was still at critical mass. 

            Nevertheless, Lo and I led each other through the ever darkening expanse of land to the tent city where, after taking a moment for our eyes to adjust, we figured out which tent was ours.  In through the zipper door we climbed, out of our party attire we slipped, and into each other’s arms we sprung. 

            Tents are never ideal places for frolics in bed – firstly, because there is no bed per se.  Secondly, because open sleeping bags slip and slide and bunch up and disappear in the darkness.  Be that as it may, we found a way to make it work.

            We were lying on top of one of the sleeping bags and under the other one.  We were spooning.  My arms were wrapped around her naked body and her round bum was pressed up against my pelvis.  She could feel my manhood growing hard.  My hands groped her breasts.  Her tush pushed harder on my hardness.  She reached behind her and began stroking it.  She pointed it at her target and it slid right in.

            “Do I feel tight or loose?”

            “Tight.”

            “Wet?”

            “Very.”

            “Do you like?” she asked as I protruded deeper into her.

            When we were done, we turned on the flashlight to remake the “bed” (air mattress) and cuddle up next to each other – big and little spoon – for warmth, though the air had only cooled a little and we hoped that no one heard our kinky taboo sweet nothings. 

            Only a few minutes had passed before we heard our neighbors unzip their tent and clumsily get into bed.  They must have set up their interior so that their heads were right by ours, because we could hear every word they whispered. 

            “Shhh, Sam, you’ll wake everyone up,” she said.

            “No one’s around,” said Sam.

            “Yes they are,” she whispered back.  “I just saw the light go out in their tent when we were walking here.”

            “Then they’re not asleep.”

            “Shhhh,” she said back.

            There was some rustling and movement and then we heard some giggles on her part followed by a zipping sound (the sleeping bag) and some more rustling.  Lo was kissing me when we heard her moan.  It didn’t take long before they had worked themselves into a rhythmic slip-sliding sound and we could hear the heavy breathing.  Lo reached down and grabbed my hardening cock.  We heard the wife moan and it sounded like she was in bed with us. 

            Lo got on all fours, her head facing the neighbors’ tent, and she nudged me to get behind her.  As I entered her, she also moaned.  We heard the rhythm of the neighbors stop cold for a second and then, when Lo moaned again, it picked up. 

            I was very self-conscious and I could hear my hips slapping up against Lo’s ass as Lo began to breath more heavily.  Soon she was whispering, “Yes, yes.”  We heard the neighbor wife call, “Fuck, that feels good.  Harder, Sam.”

            That just spurred Lo on to be louder with her, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” in time with my thrusts. 

            Now it was feeling like a competition – who could go longer, who would be louder.  It was odd, there in the darkness, as if we were in the same room, yet not.  The simultaneous orgy and privacy was getting us very worked up and I think Lo wasn’t able to control it any longer – she started crying out, “Fuck, I’m cumming.   Fuck!  Deeper!  Hold it.  Hold.  It.  Stay.  Right.  There.” 

            As she did so, our female neighbor began growling through her grit teeth.  She was cumming too and it was an angry, intense orgasm. 

            When we were all done and lying down, I’m not sure who started it but there was giggling and soon we were all giggling before Lo said, “Good night,” to our neighbors and they responded with a very warm, “Sleep tight!”  

Inveterate Masturbator

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It’s almost 9:00 a.m. and Lo hasn’t emerged from the bedroom yet.  I walk into the bedroom and as I open the door I find her lying on the bed, tum down, ass up, in her left hand she holds her phone and she is staring at it intently as her right hand manipulates a dildo in her puss and another in her ass.  She looks up briefly, caught in the act.

“I would join you, but I see you’re full up,” I say snidely.

“You can be next.  Just give me about ten more minutes.”

“You realize, it’s a quarter-to-nine, right?”

She waves me off, resentful of the interruption, concerned about the distraction.

When I walk in again at five-to-nine, she’s already in her tight pants, her pumps, and blouse, ready to go to work.

“What happened to my turn?” I inquire.

“Sorry Daddio, but I only had room for three this morning.”

“What do you mean, room for three?”

“I mean, three orgasms.”

“I didn’t even hear you.”

She shrugs her shoulders and walks into the bathroom to fix her hair.  When she does, I take a surreptitious glance at her phone.  I see that she had made a phone call at 8:47 to Brian.  I guess that’s why she was so quiet.

“You know,” I call to her from the bed, “you’re an inveterate masturbator.”

“What’s ‘inveterate’ mean, Daddy?” she asks in her little-girl voice.

“Chronic, confirmed, hardened, incurable, incorrigible, habitual, unrepentant.”

“Yep, that sounds like me.  I like it: Inveterate Masturbator.  It could be my superhero name.”

“And your superpower would be. . .  making yourself cum?”

“That and the power to make others cum.  You want to cum, Daddio?” she asks teasingly.

“Yes, yes I do!”

“Tell me more.”

“I want to cum.  Isn’t that enough?”

“Tell me how you want to cum,” she says, walking over to me and putting her hand on my crotch.

“I want to cum in you, on you, for you, under you – choose your preposition.”

“Do you want me to tug your cock and jack you off or do you want me to suck it or do you want to fuck my puss or do you want to fuck my ass?”

“Preferably, a little of each, you know, like tapas.”

“Hmmm,” she hums, “I like that.”  Then, abruptly, she turns and walks out of the bedroom.  “Too bad I have to go to work,” she calls over her shoulder.  “I guess you’ll just have to be hard-up for me all day.”

That is too much.  All niceties are off.  “What about your friend?” I call back to her.

“My friend?” she asks as she slips into her heels.

“Yeah, Brian, who you had phone sex with this morning.”

“Daddy,” she says, stopping in her tracks, “you were snooping.”

“Yeah, so.  It doesn’t change the fact.”

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to be really hard-up all day until I get home and have the time to tell you about it.  Kisses,” she says as she puckers up.  I am in no mood to kiss her after that torture.  She waits with her eyes closed.  When she feels nothing on her lips, she opens one eye and then the other.  “Fine,” she says, “if you don’t want to kiss me, I’ll find someone who does.”

With that she walks out the door.

Bimbos, Bubble-butts, and Blowjobs

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Our day at the beach for a vacation fantasy cum true didn’t quite pan out the way Lola had envisioned it.  We didn’t make it to the nude beach, but we did find a lovely stretch of semi-private secluded sand where we could lay out and enjoy the sun and sea.  But, much to Lo’s consternation, soon after we had parked our payload of the day’s provisions and set up camp, a gaggle of girls moved in on our unofficial quadrant of beach and set up their site immediately adjacent to ours.  This wouldn’t have been unwelcome if it were a handful of hunky men that Lo could tease and tempt all day, but that was not the case.  It was five college age women in the skimpiest of thongs, showing off their bubble-butts for each other, and, I can only assume, since I was the only male on the strand, for my viewing pleasure.  This latter fact perturbed Lo to no end.

Not only did these women have the nerve to spread out (in every sense of the term) in our line of vision, but they spent a good deal of the time taking selfies, posing for each other’s pics, doing ridiculous stretches for the camera, and slapping each other’s butts.  The height of indiscretion came when, as Lo and I were walking past them to take a dip, one of them stopped me and asked if I would take a photo of their entire crew lined up by the water so that they could have a group photo.  I knew that acquiescing to this polite request would put me in Lo’s bad graces, but proper etiquette demanded that I oblige.  So I took a few snaps of the ladies and then ran to catch up with Lo who was ankle deep in the water.

“Having fun?” she asked in her sarcastic tone.

“Lo, I didn’t invite them to join us here.  This wasn’t my plan.  I didn’t ask to take their photo.  They approached me.”  All of this was true and she knew it, yet I sounded as guilty as if I were a five-year-old caught with my hand in the cookie jar trying to say, “It wasn’t me.”

Despite all the facts being on my side, that was no alibi in the eyes of the law; that is, in Lo’s very green eyes with which she judged me.  The true crime, as she saw it, had nothing to do with those facts, but with her perception, right or wrong, that I enjoyed the facts as they were.  For that, there was no excuse and no punishment harsh enough.

The water was a little cold, but that was nothing as compared to the cold shoulder Lo was showing me.  I didn’t know how I was going to get out of such a predicament.

“Look,” she said to me, “if you want me to wear a dental floss thong bikini, I will.  Just say the word.”

“Word.”

“I hate you,” she said, kicking the water and splashing me.

“You said to. . .”

It didn’t matter.  I realized that we were no longer in the realm of reason.  This was pure emotion and trying to explain anything was futile.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I suggested.  I took her hand, which she reluctantly allowed, and we strolled through the small waves.

We got about a quarter mile down the beach in silence and then I said, “Lo, you’re the only one for me.  You and you alone.”

“Then why do you look at those floozies?”

I could have explained that sitting on the beach, looking out at the horizon, only to have that vista invaded by almost bare bottomed, big breasted bimbos was not “looking” at them, but something much more passive.  However, again, that would be an appeal to reason, logic, and facts, none of which were going to aid me in this argument.

“I’m looking at you.  I’m with you.  I want you.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Trick question.  Why usually evokes a causal explanation.  Not here.  Not now.

“I love you, Lo.  You’re the only woman I love.  No one else is you.  You are the only you I know and that’s the person I love.”  I was sincere.

Hearing those words, she leaned in for me to hug her.  I gave her what she wanted.  I held her tight.  It was a tender moment, but it also aroused me.  Feeling her flesh on mine, holding her body close to me as the water curled around our feet, I was eager to have her.  I could feel she was eager to have me too.  I pulled at the string of her bikini top.  I untied it.  It fell to the ground between us.  I slid her out of her bikini bottoms.  She willingly lifted her legs out of them.  I grabbed the top and the bottoms in my hand so they wouldn’t float away.

We were alone on the beach and I kissed her and held her.  My mouth slid down her neck to her breasts.  I dropped to my knees.  I kissed her soft belly.  I kissed my way down to her smooth, supple pussy as my arms wrapped around her and held her ass.  The waves washed up on my hips and torso.  I kissed her gentle kisses around her pale, white triangle.

She just kept saying, “Daddy, daddy, daddy.”

She then slid down onto her knees and motioned for me to stand.  The waves were washing up between her legs, splashing on her pink pussy lips.  She pulled down my bathing suit and pulled out my hard rod.  She kissed it and caressed it, licked it and devoured it with her open mouth.  In and out she bobbed it as one hand held it firm and the other rubbed her pussy.  She continued until I came on her, raining down white froth like the white foam of the sea that was between her legs.  On her face, lips, tongue, tits, tum, and legs it poured forth.  She loved it.

“Come here,” she said.  I crouched down next to her.  “Kiss me,” she commanded.

I leaned in and kissed her with an open mouth.  As our tongues twirled, she pulled my naked body close to hers, pulling us both down into the water.

Then she released me.  Her hands were between her legs and she was fondling herself.  She quickly diddled and fingered herself until she came, squirting into the churning sea.

The two of us took a quick swim in the ocean to wash off.  She held me close as we swam and she said, “I’m your slut, Daddio, and don’t you forget it.”

“Lo, you’re the only slut for me and don’t you forget it.”

When we walked back to the beach blanket and chair we had set up, the group of gals saw us walking hand-in-hand.  Had they seen what had transpired not long ago?  Who knows.  But they looked on Lo admiringly and with jealousy.  She was dismissive of their gaze.  I had my right hand down her bikini bottoms, holding her ass as we passed the gaggle of girls.  I could practically hear their judgments, “What an old perv.  What a little slut.  Why the hell is she with him?  He’s old enough to be her father.”  Never mind that they all were vying for my attention only a little while earlier.

The girls pulled out their Kindles and other devices and were reading quietly as I sat there reading my book, looking over at them every once-in-a-while.  Lo drifted off to sleep.  The girls had all gone down to the water for a dip.  Lo woke up and said she was famished and wanted to get lunch.  I was all for that.  We packed up our stuff and we were about to walk back to the car when I said, “Wait just a minute,” to Lo.  I put the chair and blankets I was carrying down and ran over to the girls’ abandoned camp.  I found one of the devices.  No password.  Great!

After a moment or two, I returned to Lo.

“What did you do?” she asked suspiciously.

“I’ll tell you later.”

At lunch, she said to me, “OK, it’s later.  What did you do?”

“You might be mad.”

“I’ll definitely be mad if you don’t tell me.”

“Well, in that case,” I said, enjoying the suspense.

“Out with it!”

“It wasn’t anything too bad.  I simply went on her iPad and directed it to a certain website.”

“Which website?” Lo asked, already knowing the answer.

“One that will teach them what love is.”

“Which one would that be?”

“One that will show them what true beauty is.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Just a good erotic read.”

“Let me guess: mysexlifewithlola.com.”

I put my index finger to the tip of my nose.

“You didn’t!”

“I most certainly did.  Are you upset?”

“Yes.”

“I knew you would be.”

“I’m upset because I wish we could have been there to see the look on their faces when they scroll through all that smut.”

“You wicked vixen!”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re coming after us right now.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they were cumming to us right now.”

“You’re probably right.”

 

 

Lola Left to Her Own Devices

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We were separated for a week.  She went out of town.  When we are reunited, I slip into bed next to her naked body.  She wakes enough to ask, “Did you masturbate while I was gone?”

“No?”

“Did you hook up with anyone?”

I chuckle a little bit.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because, darling, I didn’t even leave the house.”

“Did any one come to you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean, someone could have cum to me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.  There are whole hosts of people who could have cum to me.”

“What does that mean?”

“I simply mean that I, er, rather, you and I, get emails quite frequently from people who tell me, I mean, er, us, that they have cum to me.  That is, to my stories about you.  Any number of people could have cum to me anywhere around the world while you were gone.  And many times at that!”

“Oh,” she says.  “Well, that’s not what I mean.  You just forget about all of them, because you have got the real thing, naked, right here in bed with you right now.”

“Well, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Did you masturbate while you were gone?”

“Frequently.”

“Did you hook up with anyone?”

“Fuck me and you’ll find out.”

“I haven’t seen you for a week.  Can’t we get reacquainted first?”
“Sure.  That sounds like fun.”

I lean in to kiss her.  Our lips meet.  Her tongue finds mine.  She begins to maneuver so that I slide to her neck and her breasts.

“So much for our reacquaintance,” I say.

“I want to get to know you, like really know you, in the biblical sense.”

“I see.”

“My legs are spread, now get in there.”

“Ah,” I say as I slide down her torso, “sweeter words have never been spoken.”

I give soft, gentle kisses to her labia.  She moans. Within moments she is pressing my head hard down onto her clit.  She climaxes without warning.

“Now fuck me, Daddy,” she whispers.

“But I just ate you out.  Don’t you want. . .”

Before I could finish, she says, “Pussy isn’t like cake.”

“What?”

“You can’t have your cake and eat it too.  But you can eat me and have me too.  Now, have me.”

I slide in, penetrating her dripping pussy.  She moans.  She cums.

“I thought you were going to tell me about your time away,” I say, eager to hear her voice and the stories she has to tell.

“Just stay in me and I’ll tell you everything you want to hear.”

I hold her body tightly in my arms and she begins to tell me about how at the hotel bar a guy approached her.  She describes his attractive features and stylish suit.  She adds, “But I knew he wasn’t actually interested in sleeping with me.”

“Why’s that?”

“As we were talking, he told me what I already suspected.  He was gay.  I said to him, ‘What’s a nice gay boy like you doing following a slut like me?’ and he said, he just wanted someone to talk to and I looked approachable.  We talked for a while and then we politely said goodnight.  I went to the elevator to go to my hotel room, horny, but glad to have met someone new.  Just as I got to the elevator at the hotel lobby, a whole team of college hockey players had just arrived on their bus from who-knows-where.  I got to talking to them and a bunch of us went up to my room.  Basically, there were a lot of guys packed into a tight space.”

“Wait,” I said, as I fucked her with more intensity, eager to hear where her story was leading, “are you talking about your hotel room?”

“I was talking about my pussy.”

Before she could go on, I pull out.  (It had been a long time.  The idea of Lo knowing that she looked like a slut in the hotel bar, being approached by a guy, and acknowledging her sluttiness was almost too much for me.  But then, to hear those words from her lips – well, that was beyond my mortal powers.)  I cum and I cum quickly and a lot.  I project a “shooting star” up and over her head, landing on the pillow.

Lola complains that she was just warming up.

“Let me remind you that you came twice to my nill.”

“As it should be,” she says, precociously, adding, “But aren’t you good for at least one more?  I mean, it’s been a fucking week!  A week of no fucking.  You gotta be hard-up enough for one more shag.  All I want to do is bone, but you won’t give me your bone to do it with.”

“I can’t.  I don’t have a bone.  It’s the missing link.”

She takes out her Hitachi to do herself in bed as I go take a shower.  When I’m done, I open the bathroom door to look at her.  “You may go.  I’m busy here,” she says dismissively.

“You may cum,” I reply.  “You certainly seem to love yourself,” I say.

Looking up from her horizontal position on the bed, she says to me, “I feel most confident when making myself climax.  Or maybe I climax just when I feel most confident.  Either way, I’m good at it.”

“Well, all your admirers enjoy it,” I reply, snapping a photo of her.

She looks down between her legs and sees me with my camera out.  She pulls away the Hitachi, spreading her legs wide.  “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” she says as I get her puss in focus.

“Say cheese!”

Instead, she lets out a long moan while ejaculating.  I just barely avoid a disaster with my non-waterproof camera.

“I hope you got the money shot,” she says, catching her breath.

“You know, as much as I love you and love to fuck you, it’s difficult to compete with how much you love and fuck yourself.”

“It’s not about quantity, it’s about how deep the love is.”

“How deep is your love?”

She giggles, humming the melody to the song, “How Deep is Your Love,” before telling me, “Masturbation is what self-love looks like in public.”

I turn to leave the room and leave Lo to her own devices, but just as I step into the hall, I hear her screaming at the top of her lungs.  I open the door and see her spouting from between her legs as if a pipe had burst.  She tries to close her legs to shut off the waterworks, but it’s futile.  Might as well let it all out.  When she’s done she turns to me and says, “I came, I saw, I came,” victoriously.

“What did you see?” I ask.

“I think I saw God.”

 

My Love is a Red Red Rosebud

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“I’m so fat!” she decried as she stood in her bikini looking in the mirror at her reflection.

“You say that like fat is a bad thing,” I said with a smile.

“Shut up.”

“What?  All I’m saying is I like some meat on your bones.  You always tell me how much you like my meat and to bone.”

She threw a pillow at me.  “You’re tapping into my greatest insecurity.”

“Your weakness is your strength,” I replied.

“Your weakness is me.”

“I know.  I know.  Lola, you’re my Kryptonite.  I’m the Man of Steel.  But after being around you I go soft as a Slinky.  But seriously,” I said, “come here.”

She walked to me like a child who had just been caught with her hands in the cookie jar. She stood in front of me.  I grabbed and kissed the small bulge above her bikini line.

“Stop it!  You know I hate that!”

“But I love it.  It’s so sexy.”

“I have to work on my beach body.”

“I’m working on my beach-ball body.”

“We both should exercise.”

“Exercise?!  Are you kidding me?  I just heard about a forty-year-old man who dropped dead – DEAD! – while on the treadmill.  Oh no.  Not for me, thank you.”

“What are you talking about?  He probably had a preexisting condition.  He probably had heart problems or was overweight.”

“That’s proof!  Proof that exercise is bad for you.  Positively lethal!”

“That’s not proof.”

“All I’m saying is that you never hear of a perfectly healthy forty-year-old man dying on his couch while reading a book.”

“Give me a break!” she said, throwing her arms in the air.

Lo and I went down to the pool of the hotel.

It was Valentine’s Day, we were on vacation in a warm-weather city, and Lo was looking like one sweet-tart.

Lo thought that, as usual, I had failed to make any plans for V-Day.  There she was wrong.

After some hours by the pool where she only got jealous of the other bikini babes walking past me, lounging in the reclining chairs, or dangling their feet in the water, we both were hungry and, after changing, I surprised her for the first time that day by actually having a lunch destination suggestion.

“Chinese?!” she questioned, both skeptical and disappointed.

We drove through the grid of the city to the special Chinese restaurant I had scoped out.  This wasn’t just your average Chinese joint; it was a newly opened, chic, “Asian-fusion” place simply called Red that was all the rage.

Luckily, Lo was impressed.

After our meal, Lo’s Fortune Cookie read: “Emotion is energy in motion” and I added “in bed.”

When we got back to the car, a compact, two-seater, Lo laughed as she got in.

“What?” I asked, curious as to what she found so amusing.

“Nothing,” she replied, enigmatically.

“I want to know.”

“I’ll tell you later, when you’re older.”

“Lo, I’m older now.  I’ll always be older.  So, out with it.”

“Where are we going now, Daddio?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Where would you like to go?”

“Oh, I don’t know. . . some dive bar.”

“That should be easy enough,” I said as I got the car started and, put the top down, and pulled out into the busy road by the beach.

No sooner had we gotten stuck in the see-and-be-seen crowd of the resort road, than Lo leaned back with one high-heel shod foot dangling seductively over the edge of the door and the other up on the dash as she flashed me, venting up her skirt in the warm, humid, sea-salty air.

“Lo, you’re doing it again?”

“Doing what, Daddio?”

“Flashing in public.”

“Am I?  But we’re in the privacy of our own vehicle.”

“Lo,” I said, as I gave her a side-long glance, trying to focus on traffic.

“You like, Daddio?” she asked.

That night I surprised even myself by having dinner reservations, chocolate, cupcakes, roses, and a card all lined up.  Good job, HH.  I congratulate you.  When we got to the red rented convertible, I popped the top down and looked in the back seat, saying to Lo, “Oh, look there, someone must have left something in the car before we rented it.”

She looked over the bucket seat and saw, sitting on the leather behind her, the scarlet box of chocolates, the bouquet of roses, a box of pink-frosted cupcakes, and a cardinal colored envelope.

Hopping in, she tore into the card.  It was an e. e. cummings poem and a little note from me.

She read the e.e. cummings poem and looked at me seductively and said, “Soon I’ll be-e cumming too.”

She then opened the cupcakes and slowly sank her mouth over the pink-frosted top, taking a slow, seductive bite.

“Lo!  We’re on our way to dinner,” I jokingly rebuked her.  “You can’t eat dessert before dinner.”

“But Daddy,” she said, looking at me with frosting on her lips.  “you know that I can’t pass up a good cream filling.”

“How did you know it was a cream filling?  You’ve only just had the frosting.”

“I wasn’t talking about the cupcake,” she said as she bit into it again.  She then leaned over the seat and gave me a big, wet, frosted kiss.  “But I know that you know that cream filling is my favorite and so I figured you got me what I wanted.”

Secretly, I delighted in seeing her eat the cupcake.  A certain kink, that is, if she was into it too, which she most definitely was not.

We got to the restaurant and Lo was wearing a cute, short red dress and matching pumps.  She looked adorable.  I could tell that all eyes were on her, just as she likes it.

“Lo,” I said as we sat at our romantic, candle-lit table, “you look better than ever!”

“Oh, go on,” she said, vainly.  I love her vanity.

“Really, they say that men get better looking with age and that may be true.  But you, my dear, look better to me every day we’re together.”

She slipped her right foot out of her sexy shoe under the table and lifted it to rub my leg up and down, showing her appreciation of my sincere, but flattering words.

“Don’t do that,” I said.

“Why not, Daddy?”

“Because I may have to ravish you right here and now, rather than wait until we get back to the hotel and in bed.”

“Sex is not just something that happens in bed.  Sex is a lifestyle.”

“You should write adult fortune cookies.”

She continued to rub my leg up and down, stretching now to touch my crotch.  Her antics were hidden by the long tablecloth draped over the cozy round table, but I have no doubt an onlooker would be able to tell what she was up to.

After our meal, the waiter asked if we’d like dessert.  I looked at Lo.  “I really shouldn’t, I had the cupcake in the car,” she said.

I looked at the waiter and ordered an espresso and the red velvet cake for the lady.

After the waiter left, Lo said to me, “Daddio, I shouldn’t.”

“But you want to, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Then do it.  Why not?  It’s Valentine’s Day, after all.”

The cake and espresso came and I almost did too as I watched Lo eat the decadently delicious confection.

“Let’s go to the hotel and order a whole cake for you to eat while I eat you out,” I suggested, eager to have my luscious little Lo.

“Not yet, Daddio,” she said.  “It’s early.  Let’s go out for a few drinks first.”

“But I want you so much right now,” I said as I watched her tongue lick her red lips of the crimson cake crumbs.

“I’ll give you an appetizer in the car.”

We got in the convertible and Lo turned toward me in the red leather bucket seat.  She spread her legs and rubbed her pussy over her cherry colored panties.

“I like how your entire outfit matches.”

“I’m good like that.”

I drove down the main drag of the city and Lo let the seat go back, lifted her feet onto the dashboard, and removed her panties.  “I won’t be needing these where we’re going,” she said as she tossed them high in the air.  I saw them fly upwards and then down onto the road behind us.

“Lo!” I scolded.

“She laughed.”

“I knew we shouldn’t have ordered a bottle of champagne for the two of us.”

“Oh, Daddio,” she said, rubbing my arm, “don’t be so rigid about the rules.  Are you rigid?” she asked, moving her hand down to my cock.

“Like a ruler,” I said.

“If only you were twelve inches!” she exclaimed.

I parked the car and we went into a cute little bar called “Rosebud & Thistle.”

“Remember Citizen Kane?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said as we walked to the joint.

“Rosebud.”

“What about it?”

“That was the last word he said.”

“And the name of his sled.”

“Did you know that it was also what William Randolph Hearst called his wife’s clit?”

“Now you’re just making that up,” she said skeptically.

“I appreciate your esteem of my creativity, but that’s a fact.”

“Well, why don’t you have a pet name for my clit?” she asked peevishly.

“Because, to me, you’re so much more than your clit.”

“Good save,” she said as we walked in the bar.

Inside was drenched in dim, romantic, rubicund light with lots of tufted leather love seats and a long bar with classic, 1950s style shiny red leather and chrome stools.

“Bar or booth?” I asked Lo.

She scanned the space and settled on the bar, leading me to the far corner.  We found two vacant stools kitty-corner to each other.  She made for one that was next to a lone gentleman who stared into his dwindling drink.  She interrupted his ponderings to ask if the stool was taken and he politely invited her to sit.  She slid up on the stool which, given her diminutive size, meant that her feet didn’t touch the ground.  She smiled at him and I could see her eyes penetrate his dark soul.

Immediately she initiated small talk with him, telling him that we are from out of town and never had been to this place before.  “Is there something pretty and sweet that catches your eye?” she asked before adding, “on the menu.”

He began to make a recommendation, but before he could even get it out, she interrupted him and said, “You know,” grabbing his elbow, “I’m in the mood for something stiff.”  He looked at her, his eyes growing a little wider.  “What are you drinking?” she asked.

He simply said, “Whiskey.”

“Straight?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Well, I’m not straight,” she said, “I want something complicated.”

She looked at the drink menu and put her finger to her lips, contemplating the choices in her mind.

I cleared my throat since throughout this award-worthy performance, I had remained silent.

“OH!” said Lo, introducing me, “This is my man, HH.  HH, this is. . .”

Obviously she didn’t know his name.

“Ron,” he said.

“Hi, Ron,” I said.

“HH, will you order me a pomegranate martini?  I’m going to freshen up,” she said as she attempted to scooch off of her stool.  But the sliding down lifted up her red dress and nearly exposed her rosebud.

“Whoops!” she exclaimed, waiting just long enough for Ron to see before pulling down the front of her dress.

Lo gave me a peck on the cheek and disappeared.

I sat at the bar making conversation with Ron for a few moments before Lo returned.

“So, Ron,” she said almost immediately, “why are you here all alone on Valentine’s Day?”

I felt that that was none of Lo’s concern, but there was no putting the question back in between her just glossed lips now.

Ron went into a long story about breaking up with his girlfriend of four years only a few days ago.  Turns out she was cheating on him.

“What can I do to cheer you up?” asked Lo, sliding her dress up.

“You’re already cheering me up,” he said with great appreciation in his voice.

Lo’s drink came.

“How’s your drink?” I asked as she took a sip.

“It’s wet.”

“Your drink?”

“That too.”

Soon she ordered a slice of strawberry shortcake.

I took great delight in seeing her eat her third dessert and flirting with Ron as I sipped my Manhattan.

“Mmmmm, this is so fucking good!” she said as she took another bite.

“‘Fucking’ is unnecessary and vulgar,” I replied.

“I don’t agree at all.  For me fucking is completely necessary and appropriate.”

“Only if you’re doing it,” I said.

“That’s what I meant,” she responded immediately.  “Why, what were you talking about?”

“I was talking about your vocabulary.  You have a dirty mouth.”

“Not nearly as dirty as my mind.”

Then Lo turned and offered a taste of the cake to her new friend and he took it.  “Isn’t that just heaven?” she asked as her right hand rested his left arm on her bare leg.  He nodded yes and I could see him rubbing her thigh.  When the cake and drinks were consumed, Lo paid the bill, pulling some dollars out of her ruby purse.

“I would have got that,” I said as the bartender took Lo’s cash.

“That’s ok, Daddio,” she said, “this has been my treat.”

Lo kissed Ron on the cheek, slid awkwardly off the stool again, and wished him a happy Valentine’s Day, adding, “Next time, let her cheat – it’s more fun that way.”

Lo put her arm around mine and we went out to the car.

“Lo, you were very bad in there,” I said.

“Was I?” she asked, feigning innocence.  “I thought I was very good.”

When we got in the car, she kicked off her heels and put her feet up on my lap.  “Rub them, Daddy,” she said.

I caressed her toes and instep with my left hand and she moaned.

“Did you like Rosebud, Daddy?” she asked.

“You mean the bar or your clit?” I asked back, looking at her rub her pussy as I pulled out of the parking spot.

“Yes,” she said enigmatically.

“I liked watching you eat three desserts,” I said.  “Maybe tomorrow I’ll get donuts for breakfast.”

“I’m like the perfect donut – delicious, hot, fresh, with a lovely hole.”

“You sure have a way with words,” I said.

“My tongue is wicked, that’s why it’s red, but my soul is pure as the driven snow.”

“Well, that wicked tongue of yours was really charming the pants off of good ole Ron.”

“Can it charm the pants off of you?”

“What do you mean?” I asked as I looked at her, driving distracted.

“Take your cock out.”

“Lo, I’m driving.  In a convertible.  On the main street of this city.”

“Exactly,” she said, wiggling her toes over my lap.

At a red light, I unzipped and pulled out my hard shaft.

We drove on and as we did her feet and toes caressed me. The surprise of it all brought me to an unexpected climax as well, covering Lo’s toes with my warm jizz.

This presented a problem.  My trousers were soaked.  The seat had a puddle.  Everything was wet and sticky.  How were we to get into the hotel to clean off?

“Well, isn’t this a fine mess you got us into?” I asked, mimicking Oliver Hardy’s constant refrain to Stan Laurel.  But the allusion was lost on Lo.  Different generation.

“What do you mean I got us into?!”

“Just kidding, dear.  But what are we going to do?”

“Not a problem.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.  Just drive up to the side entrance of the hotel.”

“What are you going to do, put on your invisicloak?”

“Sort of.”

I drove up and Lo said to me, “Leave your phone and wallet in the car and follow me.”

I followed her and she used her hotel key to let us in the pool entrance.  She walked as if she was tipsy and, as if she were walking a balance beam, she tiptoed along the edge of the pool before “accidentally” falling in.

After a split second of shock, I kicked off my shoes and dove in after her, fully clothed.

A few of the guests and the staff ran over to the pool.  I held Lo in my arms, her red dress clinging to her breasts, her little bare feet kicking and splashing.  She faked coughing.

“It’s all right,” I called out.  “I got her!  But could someone get us a couple of towels?”

Men rushed to help and we both got out of the pool even more soaking than we had been a few moments ago.  We wrapped ourselves in the plush white terrycloth towels and I turned to Lo and said, “Pure as the driven snow.”

She looked at me, her mascara dripping down her face, her hair matted down, and she smiled saying, “You’re welcome.”

“You’re welcome?!  I saved you!”

“By letting you save me, I saved you.  Happy Valentine’s Day Daddy.”

Back in the hotel room, after a long hot shower, as I lay naked on the bed watching Lo brushing out her hair, I put on a song that summed up Lola’s V-Day shenanigans.  It’s called, “What Ever Lola Wants,” sung by Sarah Vaughan

 

Whatever Lola wants
Lola gets
And little man little Lola wants you

Make up your mind to have (your mind to have)
No regrets (no regrets)
Recline yourself resign yourself you’re through

I always get what I aim for
And your heart and soul is what I came for

Whatever Lola wants (Lola wants)
Lola gets (Lola gets)
Take off your coat
Don’t you know you can’t win (can’t win you’ll never never win)

You’re no exception to the rule
I’m irresistible you fool
Give in (give in you’ll never win)

I always get what I aim for
And your heart and soul is what I came for

When she came out of the bathroom, she said, “Damn straight!  And now I’m coming for your cock.”

She crawled on the bed and, just to tease her, I said, “I thought I’d read a little.”

She spread her legs and replied, “Read between the lines,” as she placed her middle finger between her lush red labia.

“Looks like it says, ‘Rosebud,’” I said as I indulged in my dessert.

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

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It was one of those lovely summer days when you look out the window from your office and see everyone walking on the crowded street in t-shirts and miniskirts and you just wish it was the weekend and not Wednesday.  I had walked to work in the morning and, though I knew it would be a scorcher walking home in my suit, I couldn’t wait to get out of the office.  Finally five-o-clock arrived and I walked under the still blazing June sun back home, feeling the sweat soak the back of my shirt, but glad to be outside.  It was like some sort of primitive instinct.  We are sometimes more animal than human and this was one of those times that my body knew with greater intellect than my mind that we were not made to sit eight hours a day under florescent lights.

Walking up the street to home, I saw Lola sitting on the front stoop in her little blue Daisy Dukes and very loose-fitting tank top (no bra) talking with two young men.  As I got closer, I could see (without hearing the words spoken, just from their body-language) that the two guys were simply making small-talk in order to keep looking down Lo’s shirt.  I could also see that Lo was more than happy to let them, feigning complete ignorance of what was happening.

I got a little closer yet and now, even from the distance where I was, I could see Lo’s nipples through the white T.  She was smiling and saying something that I could just about hear.  Oh, that’s it, she’s complaining about how dry it has been and what it’s doing to her flowers as she crouches down to caress one of her prized plants.  This was just a rouse, of course, to allow them to see more of her breasts and to get her eyes level with their groins.

It was at that point that she spied me walking home.  She stood up and said, “And this is H.H.”  She nodded in my direction and added, “Like I said, he’s going to be away this weekend.”  I greeted the two young fellows with a handshake, and they introduced themselves as Roy and Gary.  “They live there,” said Lo, standing a bit on her tiptoes, pointing down the street.  “They just moved in a couple of weeks ago.”

The boys picked it up from there, explaining that they’re brothers and one of them just graduated high school, the other is a freshman in college and they just moved in up the street.  I introduced myself and Lo again said, “It’s too bad you’ll be out of town on business Friday through Sunday cause it’s supposed to be perfect beach weather.  I can’t wait to start my tan!  Maybe Friday, after work, I’ll lie out in the back yard.”  Though she was saying all of this to me, it wasn’t meant for me at all.  It was meant for the boys.  A transparent code for, “I’ll be alone this weekend and in a bikini (or less) and you should definitely come see me.”

The boys, big grins on their faces, knowing that they got away with something, made their excuses for having to go back home and said, “Nice meeting you,” as they left.

“What was that all about?” I asked Lo when they were gone.

“Just being neighborly.”

“By letting them see your tits?”

“I was just welcoming them to the neighborhood.  Does that upset you, Daddy?”

“Plan on throwing a little party for them while I’m gone this weekend?”

“I hope they’ll both come!” she said, running her tongue over her lips.

“I’m sure they will.  You’re very lucky that such good looking guys moved so close.  You could be their go-to slut.”

“I sure hope so.”

“Should I drill a couple of holes in the fence?”

“Oh, Daddy, you’re bad!”

“No, you’re bad.”

“Well, if you have time before you have to leave and it’s not too much trouble. . . ”

“Lola!”

“Just kidding.  Why don’t you go inside, take a shower, and then drill me.”