This blog is about love, sex, relationships, psychology, and sex. Yeah, I said sex twice because, if the name of the blog is “mysexlifewithlola.com,” then an expectation is created that there will be a lot of sex. So, there you have it.
This blog is decidedly not about politics. In fact, many of you dear readers may have noticed that through all the topsy-turvy turbulent times in which we are living, this blog has delicately navigated a course far from politics. There is a good reason for that. If you are reading this, it’s because it is a fun escape from whatever else is going on in your life. No need to bring all that baggage here as well.
But right now sex and politics have mingled in a way that make it appropriate for us to discuss.
You may have heard about Congresswoman Katie Hill recently. If not, allow me to summarize her story. She was, until last week, a Democratic representative from California. She’s only 32 and she got elected after being the executive director of the non-profit People Assisting the Homeless (PATH). Apparently, she also has a “kinky” side. She came out as bisexual after high school and it is alleged that she and her now estranged husband were involved with another woman in a consensual relationship.
These facts became a problem for Hill when allegations swirled that she had an inappropriate relationship with a male staffer – a violation of House ethics rules that were put in place to prevent exploitation of power differentials in the wake of #MeToo.
But the thing that sunk Hill’s ship was the release of nude photos of her, allegedly by her estranged husband in an act of revenge porn.
It seems to me that in this day and age we need to begin taking seriously the fact that people can be more than one thing. Katie Hill can be a successful, sincere, hard-working, do-gooder striving to help the homeless, represent her constituency, and bring equity and justice into the lives of many. And she can be married to a man, have relationships with women, and not be limited by traditional notions of monogamy. And she can be into taking nudie pics of herself and her lovers. All of this can be true of the same person. “Kink” does not mean bad or selfish or untrustworthy. “Public Figure” does not necessarily mean missionary position for the rest of your life with the same partner of the opposite sex. Aren’t we beyond that yet?
Further, though once upon a time it was the height of scandal for a woman to be exposed – think Phryne being exposed by her lawyer in ancient Athens, Lady Godiva, A Night in Paris, or The Great Celebrity Photo Leak of 2014 – today it seems as if everyone and their mother is eager to have their racy photos on the internet and trending! So what is the big deal? Andy Warhol spoke of everyone having 15 minutes of fame in the future. I think now that everyone will soon have their top 15 nude photos on the internet.
As optimistic as that may be, we also need to be realistic. There are still many backward-thinking, bigoted, misogynist, mean-spirited, spiteful, and opportunistic people out there who are not above using a woman’s nude images against her.
Lo and I were pondering all of this when, just the other night, one of her female friends from the NFWITSFW part of the internet (that stands for “no fucking way is this safe for work”) told her that she wants to be “exposed.”
“What do you mean, ‘exposed’?” asked Lo.
“You know, like, I want the pics of me nude and pregnant to be the first image result when someone searches for that.”
Lo said that if I wrote a story about her friend and posted it, she probably would be. Though Lo is a “sinfluencer,” I think she overestimates our power of “product placement.”
Our friend, Karla, or KB HotWife, as she likes to be known, said, “Use my real name.”
“What?!” asked Lo.
“Yeah,” said Karla.
“You’re sure to get all the attention you crave if we do that, but be careful what you wish for,” cautioned Lo.
Luckily for Karla, I’m not a speed writer. The next day she told Lo she changed her mind.
Both Lo and I were relieved. It’s one thing if she wants to use her own name, but we didn’t want to be the ones to expose her. Who knows, she might want to run for public office some day!
[Below, enjoy some photos Karla has sent us for you to enjoy.]
As I have mentioned in the past, we receive a lot of fan mail. Most of it is for Lo, of course, but, on occasion, I receive a kind epistle from an adoring fan. Sometimes, the cursory reader gets confused. Like the time a guy wrote to Lo saying, “You’re an incredible writer.”
She wrote back, “No, no. Not me. My man, HH. He does the writing, I do the fucking.”
Lo and HH – much younger.
Recently, one fan of my writing wrote in asking if Lo ever gets enough pleasure and, “Do you ever get tired of writing about sex or is it always fresh for you?”
Lo was sitting on the couch reading the email, her bare legs spread as one hand held her phone and the other pleasured herself (she never gets enough pleasure – there’s the answer to your first questions), when she looked up at me, sitting at the other end of the couch, to read to me the fan’s email.
I pondered for a moment, we discussed it a bit, and she responded, “We have these amazing adventures that we just want to share with other people. I guess it’s like a travel blog, but for sex. We like to take you on our journeys with us.”
“How about we make it more like a food blog?” I asked Lo. “I eat you out and then I can write about the four-course meal later.”
“Four courses?”
“Yeah: pussy, ass, mouth, and then you lick my popsicle for dessert.”
“As much fun as that sounds, slide over here and look at this,” she said.
She spread her legs wider and I sat between them. One of her legs was up on my lap and the other behind my back. “I like this,” I said, looking at her delectable body.
“You might like this even more because it appeals to your insatiable ego.”
“Oh yeah? Well, you have my attention now!”
“I didn’t before?”
“Before you had my erection.”
“Let me see,” she demanded.
“No. First you show me whatever it is that’s going to aggrandize my ego.”
“I said ‘appeal to your ego.’ It’s impossible aggrandize. I don’t think it could get any bigger.”
“Are we still talking about my ego?”
“Take a look at this,” she said, turning her phone so I could see the photo.
“Littlegem,” she said, referring to one of our blogging community friends across the pond.
“Really?”
“You like?”
“Yes,” I said emphatically. It’s one thing to be told that my writing turns people on, but to see it happening is quite thrilling.
“And that’s not all,” said Lo, swiping the photo to reveal another. The second photo was in black-and-white.
“Wow!”
“OK,” said Lo, “I was wrong. Apparently there was room for your ego to grow.”
“Something’s growing alright.”
“Then I shouldn’t tell you what else Littlegem said.”
“Tell, tell!”
“Well. . . she said she wants to do a recording of her reading your writing while having her clit teased.”
“Like Stoya did for ‘Hysterical Literature’?”
Stoya Reading MySexLifeWithLola
“Don’t mention her.”
“Oh, right. Still, that’s amazing!”
“I think it would be great because I got an email from another fan who is blind.”
“Blind?!”
“Yes, blind.”
“How the hell did he find our blog?”
“Apparently, he has someone read the stories for him.”
“Oh my God! That is one of the hottest things I’ve ever heard!!!”
“Yeah,” said Lo, “and it got me thinking. We should totally do an audio book since I’m sure there are lots of long-distance haulers who would like to have me as their companion across the lonely stretches of highway.”
“I’m sure they would.”
“And people who want to hear about my sexcapades on their way to work.”
“The morning drive will never be the same.”
“And insomniacs who could use a good bedtime story.”
“Nothing like a good wank at the end of a long day to induce sleep.”
“So you see, it’s really necessary for everyone’s well-being that we do this.”
“Indubitably. And are you going to be the one to record the stories?”
“Oh no!” said Lo. “I’m no actor. All my orgasms are real.”
“Of course. Then who?”
“I’ll put out a call for open auditions.”
[Note to reader, if you haven’t checked out PurplesGem yet, you really should. They’re a great BDSM/kink couple. Great writing and photos. Below are some of our favorite photos from them, with permission, of course.]
[p.s. – If YOU want to audition for our audiobook, then go to ACX.com and look for “Match, Cinder & Spark.” If you can’t find it, email us: downloladown@gmail.com]
“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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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!”
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.
“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.”
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.”
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.
