Tag Archives: writing

Victory Lap

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As she made the ‘OK’ sign with her index finger and thumb, my hard cock filled the hole of that universal hand-gesture that indicates everything is alright.  And everything was better than alright.  She was lying under my arched, naked body, her left hand doing the bare minimum necessary to still qualify as a hand-job.  I was doing most of the work, thrusting in and out of her digital aperture.  She was lying naked on her back, her right hand doing more work on her clit than her left on my dick.  But, hey, it’s not a competition.  I was pleased.  She was pleasing – herself and me.

“That’s it, you big, bad dog,” she said in a sultry tone, referencing the taboo topic of her acquired technique.

She knew exactly what that would do to me.  She plays me like a fiddle with her nimble fingers, though I’m sure she’d rather play a long, black clarinet that requires both hands to get the proper fingering and also the use of a wet mouth and tongue to blow all those Ds loud and with proper dynamics.

Within seconds my baton was conducting the final climactic notes of this symphony.

As I write these tortured metaphors, I can hear Lo laughing and saying, “Symphony!  P’shaw, more like a minuet.”

Be that as it may, she was covered in pearlesque droplets from chin to chest.

Holiday Glaze

I fell back onto the bed, relishing the sweet release she uncorked for me.

But she, rather than lounge in the lethargic bliss I was enjoying, hopped out of bed, put on her jeans and a tank-top, and said, “Do you want to come walk with me?”

Or, at least that’s what I understood her to say.  What she actually said was, “Do you want to cum-walk with me?”

“What?” I asked groggily.

“Cum-walk.”

“I don’t want to walk.”

“No, Daddio, a cum-walk.”

“What’s a cum-walk?” I asked, finally understanding what she was articulating.

“It’s like a walk of shame.  A stride of pride, a victory lap, the trek of triumph, the Something About Mary hommage,” she said with a French accent.

“Since when is that a thing?”

“Oh, old man, hurry up, get dressed, and I’ll tell you as you accompany my for a strumpet stride through the neighborhood.”

“Ok, ok,” I said, laughing, “You’re killing me with these colorful combinations of colloquialisms for cum.”

“Say that four times fast!”

“Where’d you learn all those?

“Eskimos have forty different words for snow and I. . .”

“Forget it.  I don’t want to hear what precipitated your poetic euphemisms.”

When I was dressed, we walked outside, arm-in-arm.  She was proud to have the origin of her adornments accompany her as she displayed her latest accomplishment.

She said hello in a flirtatious voice to the others who passed us by on the delightful spring morning.  Out of the corner of her eye, she tried to spy if they looked carefully enough to discern what was glinting in the sunlight on her cheek, chin, neck, and shoulder.

“So, when did this become a thing?” I asked again.

“It’s always been a thing.  I mean, remember the time at the nude beach when you came all over my face and tits?”

“Which time?”

“Oh, Daddio.  The beach with the geriatric gentlemen who genuflected at my altar.”

“Right.  Yeah, so?”

“Remember, after you rained your love down on me, we walked together, saying hi to the beachcombers.”

“Yeah, I remember, fondly.”

“And the time I met that very nice athlete in the park.”

“You mean the big black guy who came on you?”

“You have a good memory for an old man.”

“That’s why I write these things down – to keep your paramours straight.”

“Oh, straight is ok, but I prefer kinky paramours.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Anyhow, after he came on me and I walked up to you dripping with his jizz.  That also was a cum-walk.”

“I see.”

“Are you going to write about this one?”

“Of course I am, even if no one believes me.”

“They don’t believe you, Daddy?”

“Lo, you can understand that a lot of people find you unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

“Morning,” said a passerby.

“Hi,” Lo chirped back in a perky voice.  Her tits were perky too in her see-through white tank-top.

Lo’s braless top

“Getting a lot of looks,” I remarked to her.

“Yeah, but I made the wrong choice.”

“How’s that?”

“They’re all looking at my chest, not my face.”

“Ah yes, the age-old dilemma.  What’s the reaction you’re looking for?”

“I’d just like a tall, dark, and handsome man to give me a long stare that says, ‘I know what you just did, you slut.”

“I think you take too much pleasure in this.”

“Oh, Daddio!  The only thing more pleasurable is when it’s leaking out of my puss through my panties and shorts at the same time as it’s on my face.”

“Do you have a special name for that walk?”

“The Double-Stuff Strut, The Cream-Pie Promenade, The Spit-Roast Saunter.”

“I should have known.”

admiration

Abstract

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I was sitting up in bed, my glasses on, reading silently.

Abstract painting

She was next to me, naked, legs spread, knees up in the air.  Her position reminded me of a frog stuck on its back, its vulnerable underbelly exposed.  Not a flattering juxtaposition, but that’s what went through my mind as I looked at her, caressing her spread, dewy pussy with her right hand, her left squeezing her left breast and then her right.  She was clearly trying to give herself the love and attention she wasn’t receiving from me.  Filling her pussy with her three fingers, pinching and pulling her nipples, rubbing her hand over her tum, licking her fingers.  Moaning.

“Don’t you ever tire of reading?” she finally asked, pouting.

“Don’t you ever tire of fucking yourself silly?” I retorted.

“Say what you will, I am a damn good fuck.  Better than most.”

“Present company excluded,” I added.

“I wouldn’t say that necessarily.”

She was trying to get my ire up, or something up.

“What are you reading, anyhow?” she asked out of frustration.

“An abstract.”

“What?”

“An abstract.”

“Is that the title of the book?”

“No, but that would make a good title,” I said, pulling out my little notebook and writing the thought down.

nude

“Oh no, now you’re reading and writing!”

“An abstract is a summary of the contents of a book, a paper, a dissertation.”

“Then why don’t they call it a summary?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t make the rules.”

“Well, is that abstract so good that you wouldn’t have the full-color, complete package, right here in-the-flesh?”

“Darling. . .”

“You prefer the abstract over the real?”

“I. . .”

“Philosophers should come with a warning label!”

“And what, prey tell, would that warning be?”

“WARNING: Prefers to contemplate own navel over contemplating your anus!”

“You want me to contemplate your anus?”

Lo minimalism

“No, never mind.  I can do it myself,” she said, putting her knees behind her head and curving her torso forward while simultaneously grabbing her butt cheeks with her hands and pushing her ass toward her face.

“Nice parlor trick,” I said.  “You’ve been doing yoga while I’m at work?”

“No, I’ve been contemplating my anus.”

“And what have you discovered with all that contemplation?”

“That it is eminently fuckable and sublimely beautiful.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“May I fuck it?”

“Do you want it for real, or merely abstractly?”

“You know, there’s a branch of mathematics that is strictly theoretical.”

“Is there?”

“Yes.”

“So, what’s that have to do with my ass?”

Contemplation of the Anus

“I’m merely pointing out that even something as grounded and concrete as math can exist on a fictional plane.  People think that there is nothing more basic than one-plus-one equals two, that these numbers are based in empirical facts like stones or sticks.  But even the number one and the number two are abstractions.”

“I’m interested in making one and one equal one.”

It took me a while to understand her mathematical metaphor.

She was still twisted in her pretzel shape.

“Can you lick it?” I asked.

“I’m working on it since at this rate, it’s the only cunnilingus I’m going to get.”

“You remind me of the ouroboros now.”

“What is that?”

“It is the image of a snake eating its own tail.  It became the symbol for infinity because it never ends.”

“Appropriately symbolic, for you never stop talking and start fucking.”

“And your desire is infinite.”

“Everyone’s desire is infinite.”

“I’m afraid you are generalizing from the specific.  Quite the no-no in logic.”

“Do you want my ass, or don’t you?” she asked impatiently.

“If you’re offering it, then sure I do!”

She released from the yoganidrasana pose.  “Well, you’ll have to use your imagination because that’s something you’re only going to experience on a fictional plane.”

“But. . .”

“Imagine it vividly and then you can write all about it.”

“But Lo, you know that I’m not a fiction writer.  Our readers expect accounts of my sex life with Lola!”

“What sex life?  It’s more like Lola’s sex life with Lola as H.H. exists on the astral plane.”

“Have you ever had sex in the astral plane?”

“No, I’ve had cocks in my ass and it felt divine.  And I’ve had sex on a plane (with myself).  Maybe one day I’ll have anal sex on a plane and be transported to that heavenly realm again.”

“The astral plane?”

“No, the anal orgasm.”

“I’ll take you there.”

“To hell you will.  I want you in my cunt.”

“Why won’t you give me your ass?”

“Because you simply don’t deserve it.  Make me cum in my cunt and then we’ll see if you graduate to the advanced class.  If you can get it up for one, you can get it up for the other.”

“Isn’t it more like, if you can get it up for two?”

“You know what I mean.  Do you want to spend our time in bed discussing nomenclature and numbers, or do you want to ram your cock hard in my cunt?”

“You wax poetic when you’re horny, you know that?”

She was done with language and she reached down to grab my member.  I was very hard by this point.

“Looks like you are ready to give me what I want.  I know how to excite you.”

“Your intellectual conversation of theoretical planes of existence was a real turn-on.”

“I bet it was, now get behind me and show me how deeply you love me.”

She rolled onto her tum and put her ass in the air.   I mounted her from behind and pulled her hair.  She instantly gushed like an overripe fruit, sensitive to the touch.

“Yeah, Daddio, that’s it.”

I delved deep inside her.  I could feel the tip of my rod touching the target, tantalizing and teasing that tender tuft of nerves that turns on the tap, unleashing a torrent.

Within mere seconds, she was flooding the bed with her happiness.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” she repeated again and again, grasping the sheets and holding on for dear life.

I don’t mean to give myself much credit for any special sexual talent.  It really wasn’t very difficult.  She was primed and ready before I even penetrated her.  The time it took to bring her to climax was approximately half the time of our conversation about it.

When she had recovered her senses, she looked over at me and smiled.

I picked up my book again and said, “I’m glad I could please you darling.  Had I known it would only be a matter of a moment, I wouldn’t have protested so much.”

She simply said, “It was the talk about abstractions that turned me on.  You know I’m a sapiosexual.”

“Indeed,” I replied.

“What’s the abstract about, anyhow?”

“Abstract art.”

“Of course it is.”

The End

Spread the Love

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“But Daddy, it’s Thanksgiving,” whined Lo.

“COVID Thanksgiving,” I reminded her.

“Exactly.  All the more reason.”

“Lo, though I admire your generosity of spirit. . .”

“More like horniness of flesh.”

“Whatever.  The fact is that this Thanksgiving isn’t going to be like Thanksgivings past.”

“I know, but maybe I could just. . .”

“Absolutely not.”

That, as they say, was that.

Lo had wanted to continue with her ‘lock-down panties-down’ frolics.  Since the beginning of COVID she had been the goto girl for the brothers across the street, MILF Meri and her merry band of horny men, and Professor Robert Smith.  For her, this was a reduction in her socializing and she was complaining about it.  She envisioned a very thankful Thanksgiving Day meal with her as the main course.

But reality was not accommodating.  COVID numbers were up.  Though Lo likes it when things go up, this was not one of those things.

“So, it will just be the two of us?” she asked meekly.

“I’m afraid so.  Am I not enough for you?”

“Oh, Daddio, you’re the world to me.”

“That’s more like it.”

“But you know, our blog always has higher viewing on holidays.”

“True.”

“And that’s because so many people feel alone on the holidays.”

“Also true.”

“And we help them to feel better.”

“We?”

“I.”

“True.”

“So, maybe we could do something special for all of our fans.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.  You’re the creative genius.  I’m just here to inspire.”

“That you do.”

I had been thinking lately about the phrase “a social art form.”  I wonder, is every form of art social?  I mean, there are a few outliers, like Emily Dickinson scribbling poetry in her bed for no one to read.  Or Franz Kafka, who instructed his literary executor to burn all of his writings after his death.  But these few notables are exceptions who prove the rule.  Most, if not all art is created to be shared.  In one way or another it is created for others.

Never had I really thought about that until COVID times struck and all the things that I had taken for granted were taken away from me: going to the movies, attending the theater, live music concerts, poetry readings, museums, art galleries, dancing!  It has dawned upon me that ART IS SOCIAL!  Yes, this blatantly obvious fact was hidden from my view because I am a rather solitary sole who is content to sit, like Thoreau, in his garret and write away the hours for my own entertainment.  But, in the end, I have to admit that even these scribblings of a madman are a social art form.  They live, breathe, and exist in the public sphere.  If things were otherwise, I wouldn’t post them, they wouldn’t be published in books, you wouldn’t be reading this.

Perhaps writing and reading are less social art forms than performing in a rock band for thousands of people, but they are social activities none-the-less.  And, as if this introvert’s idea of himself wasn’t turned upside down enough by this realization, then the fact that I write erotica rounds off the perfect circle for, of all the literary art forms, isn’t erotica the most social?  I mean, erotica stems from the erotic – Eros, the god of desire and intimate congress.

So, maybe at heart, I am a social being after all and my art is also a social event rather than an artifact existing under glass tucked away in a hermetically contained vault for no one to see.  Even the plethora of papers I have written that you have never seen and are not likely to see, are part of this social ecosystem because the mere mention of them puts them in play.  Like J. D. Salinger’s unpublished works, you probably are more interested in that stuff than the published pieces.  (Am I right?)

Understood this way, Lola and I are not so very different from one another.  Though our relationship and my writing about it has played off of our counterpointal conflicts, it turns out that, on a deeper level, we are far more similar than I had suspected.  She likes to express herself through her social art form – sex – and I like to express myself through mine – writing.  Together, we make an incongruent pairing that is more harmonious than discordant.

“I’ve got it!” I said to Lo.

“Yeah?  What?”

“For Thanksgiving this year, let’s do what Hermann Hesse did during the war.”

“What was that?”

“He sent books to prisoners of war.  This is going to be a tough COVID winter.  Everyone is going to feel like a prisoner.  Starting on Thanksgiving and ending on December 10, why don’t we send a free copy of one of our books or audiobooks to anyone who asks?  Can you picture it, books with your image on the cover being unwrapped all around the world on Christmas morning?!”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea!”

“Really?”

“Yeah.  A tangible way to spread the love.”

“And we know how much you love to spread.”

“If only it could be more tangible.”

[For your free copy, please write to us at: downloladown@gmail.com]

Grist for the Mill

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Tanning while reading Match, Cinder & Spark

Strolling through the park on a bright summer’s afternoon.  “What a glorious day,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said lasciviously.

I looked at her eyes and followed her line of sight.  She was watching two sunbathers.

“Lo, what are you thinking about?”

“Nothing, Daddy, I just can’t wait to get home and bang you,” she said while biting her lower lip.

The female sunbather turned over, revealing that she was wearing merely a thong.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, accusatorily.

“Darling, the difference between you and I is that I am an aesthete.”

She rolled her eyes.  “This again?”

“And you are a hedonist.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  Quite so.”

“What makes me a hedonist for looking at the exact same thing you were looking at?”

“I was looking at the entire composition of the sun, the clouds, the green grass, the spatial relations of the various persons and trees upon the sward, the mathematical ratio of the low lying buildings to the rectangular outline of the park’s boundary.  I could go on.”

“I’m sure you could, you pompous ass-thete!”

“While you, my dear,” I continued, ignoring her invective interruption, “were simply thinking about the heat of the sun, the cool of the breeze, the tingling between your legs stimulated by the physical appearance of those two bodies over there, going home, fucking and eating.  That’s what makes you a hedonist and me an aesthete.”

“You are unbearable!”

“Why do you take such offense?”

“Because you’re basically saying that I’m a simpleton with animalistic cravings and you are a cerebral demigod!”

“Darling, but don’t you see – that’s why we’re are made for each other.  You admire that about me and I admire you for your primal desires.  You wish you could be more like me and I wish I could be more like you.  That is the law of attraction.”

“Primal desires?!”

“I don’t mean it in a value-laden sense.  It’s merely descriptive.  As the great philosophers of Utilitarianism – Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill. . .”

“Oh boy, here we go!”

“As the originators of that philosophy of pleasure, Bentham, in contrast to Mill, put no greater weight on the enjoyment derived from eating bonbons than that derived from reading Balzac.”

“If you could shut up for ten minutes, I’d love to eat your sword and fondle your ball sack.”

“Darling, when I said ‘sward’ earlier, it was with an ‘A,’ meaning a green pasture.  And the Balzac to which I just now referred was to the French author Honoré de. . .”

“Please, please give it a rest!”

“All I’m saying is that the utils that you get from. . .”

“The what?”

“Utils.  The unit of measurement of pleasure in Utilitarianism.”

“Oh, back to that are we?”

“The utils that you get from seeing a curvaceous and scantily clad female are no better or worse than the utils I derive from viewing a Kandinsky painting.  I’m much more sympathetic to Bentham’s egalitarian theory than Mill’s hierarchy of pleasures.”

“Really?  You?  Mr. aristocrat himself?”

“If, by ‘aristocrat,’ you mean that I subscribe to a ranking of merit, then guilty as charged.  But one can excel in merit while still deriving pleasure from the simplest of things.”

“You are such an asshole!”

“But if pressed,” I said, again overlooking her impulsive outburst, “I would have to admit that I do not subscribe to Utilitarianism at all.”

“OK, I’ll bite.  What do you subscribe to?”

“I think Nietzsche understood that humans are not such simplistic beings as brute beasts, merely out to diminish pain and increase pleasure.  Observation of any great artist shows that the highest exemplars of the human race make great sacrifices and endure terrible suffering for the sake of art.”

“Oh, and what sacrifices and sufferings have you had to endure?”

“The subheading of our blog is ‘the trials and tribulations of dating a nymphomaniac.’”

“I am the source of your suffering?!”

“The source of my art, and thereby, the source of the suffering that I go through for it.”

“What suffering is that?  Having sex with a goddess multiple times a day?”

“No, no, no dear.  It’s the, the, um, creative process.”

“What does that mean?”

“Like this conversation, for instance.  It’s all just grist for the mill.”

“So, conversing with me is a source of suffering for you?”

“No, no.  You take my meaning all wrong.”

“I really don’t see another possible interpretation.”

At this point, we were at our front door.  Just as we arrived, a sun-shower began.

“What a weird season,” said Lo.  “It’s wet like spring, hot like summer, and beautiful like autumn.”

“You just described yourself: wet, hot, and beautiful.”

Lola Down – Wet, Hot, and Beautiful

“What about smart?”

“Lo, you know how I admire your intelligence.”

“Do I?  You just performed an oral dissertation about how I am a hedonist given over to carnal desires.”

“There’s wisdom in that.”

“What does that mean?”

“You are wise beyond words.”

“I know what you’re saying.  You wish I’d shut up and you could simply enjoy my beauty without having to listen to me talk.  You think you’re so smart.”

“No.  I’m just wise beyond your years.”

“I don’t need your stamp of approval.  I know I’m smart,” she said with a grin indicating just how content she was with herself.

“Then why do you get so upset when I talk?”

“Because you say the dumbest things.”

I must have looked mortally wounded by her words because she followed that up with, “I mean that with love.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“The dumbest things for someone so intelligent.  That’s what I meant.”

Once we were inside, I sat down at my computer to transcribe this little conversation of ours.  She was in the bedroom, naked no doubt.  She hollered down the hall for me to join her.

“Can’t you see I’m writing?  Why do you keep distracting me?” I called back.

“You think that life is just writing and that everything else is a distraction.”

I heard the quiet purr of her Hitachi start up, followed by her moans of pleasure.

When I had completed the reporting of our peripatetic discourse, I sauntered down the hall to check on her, following the sounds of her self-copulatory female vocalizations.

Her right hand held the mechanism between her legs as her left held her phone and scrolled through various images.

Lo’s Little Friend

I turned to leave.

“Hey,” she called to me, “where are you going?”

“It seems that you have matters well in hand,” I said.  “You give no indication of needing assistance.”

“For many species, masturbation is the mating call,” she responded.

“Oh, so you want me?”

“If your superior intellect can deign to do me – a mere mortal full of base desires.”

“Like the immaterial Nous infusing the nether pleroma with its animating spirit.”

I had penetrated her as I spoke those words.

“You’re lucky I’m such a sapiosexual, or else I’d take offense at that,” she said, looking up at me.  “But the mere fact that you not only know what those terms mean, but can use them when fucking turns me on.  And, I might add, your emanation is hardly immaterial.”

Within moments she had reached the apogee of her venereal excitement.

I slowly removed my sword from her scabbard and stood over her recovering body.

“What?” she asked.  “You’re not going to cum?”

“That was strictly for your pleasure, my dear,” I said.

“You got nothing from it?” she asked, insulted.

“Your enjoyment gives me satisfaction.  Now, back to my writing.”

“Good grief!  You’re lucky you have me or you’d have nothing to write about except ideas!”

Cum-Covered

Later that day, a friend sent an email asking, “How are you two?”

Lo responded, “We’re doing fine.  HH is writing.  I’m masturbating.  Once in a while he puts down his pen and picks up his penis and gives it to me.  But mostly he gives me his stories to edit.”

I turned to her and said, “You know, my writing makes you immortal.”

“And my body makes you mortal.”

“Are you saying that without your body I’d live forever?”

“No, I’m saying that without my body, you wouldn’t even live once.”

Sound

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[This story, in case you don’t pick up on it, is dedicated to the incomparable, Jupiter Grant. You can find her work here, here, here, here, and here.]

“In physics, sound is a vibration that propagates as an acoustic wave, through a transmission medium such as a gas, liquid or solid. In human physiology and psychology, sound is the reception of such waves and their perception by the brain.”

Lola’s Tum

 

It had been a wet month.  The typical English spring attempted to outdo itself with unrelenting grey skies, showers, and sopping English gardens.  Jupiter Grant, or Jupi, as she likes to be called by her friends, had not gone out for weeks.  Her groceries had been delivered and her supply of wine was dwindling.  It had been months since she had seen her ersatz lover, H.  She referred to him only as H and thought of him as “ersatz” because he was a Husband to another woman and had a family in London.  Jupi was the proverbial “other woman,” the “mistress,” the “seductress.”  At least that’s the way the judging world would see her.  The judging world being the monogamous, heteronormative world.  Between Jupi, H, and H’s wife, there was an open understanding.  Still, that cozy relationship was of no use during the long COVID lockdown.

From Jupi’s point of view, she was the guest always late to the party.  She and H had chemistry that they both acknowledged.  Not just sexual, but spiritual.  They knew they were meant to be together, but their paths had crossed many years too late in life.  As a compromise to life’s cruel humor, they connected when and how they could; neither one demanding more of the other or disappointed by the other since they both knew that this was the best arrangement for all parties involved.  Yet Jupi was not late to the poly-party.  Thank goodness, she thought, that she lived in and was a part of the polyamory zeitgeist.

A Happy Fan

Yet the knowledge that they were two lost souls doing what they could to find joy in a largely painful and sad world provided little relief for Jupi when her deepest needs swelled up to fill her entire being with desire – desire to be held, touched, caressed, kissed, fondled, spanked, sucked, filled, and fucked.  At those moments, a quick fap merely whet her ferocious appetite.  She needed more.  She craved the comfort of H’s strong, firm flesh pressing down on her own soft, welcoming, warm body.

Unrelieved in her needs, she turned to compensatory pleasures and perversions.  Much of her sexual energy, she found over the years, could be diverted into creative power.  Writing erotica was her main outlet.  But lately she discovered a new medium into which she channeled her plentiful reserves of poetic and prurient lust and her craving to perform: her voice.  Through a series of happy coincidences, she discovered that not only could she narrate literotica, she could nail it with every ounce of sexy she felt swirling through her sensual spirit and her beautiful body.

Volume I

A manuscript had arrived: Match, Cinder & Spark: Nymphomania and the Single Girl.  “Hmmmm,” she thought, “this could be interesting.  Or, it could be a colossal waste of time.  Thousands of words, hundreds of pages of driveling, second-rate, even third-rate pablum ‘poetry’ for pubescent boys.”  She poured a glass of red wine and opened up the document on her computer.  She began reading:

 

“Tell me,” she said, “tell me what I am.”

“You’re a slut.”

“Yes,” she said, encouragingly.

“A whore.  A fucking sexmaniac.”

“Go on,” she moaned, biting her lower lip.  But I was too occupied with banging her from behind.  I needed to catch my breath.

“Tell me,” she demanded, “tell me what I am.”

“A cum-bucket.  A little cum-hungry tramp.”

“Yes,” she screamed.

“A sex addict.  A nymphomaniac!”

I slapped her ass hard as she screamed with delight.  Her wet little snatch secreted her luscious, warm juices all over my hard cock.

After she collapsed into the bed of blankets, I reached around her from behind and whispered in her ear, “Good girl.  That’s my good girl.”  She purred like a little kitten.

 

Artistic Tribute Photo

She felt a tingling between her legs.  She kept reading, taking small sips of wine as she felt her mouth watering.  As she continued, she felt something else getting wet.  She tried reading the words aloud, just to hear how they would sound in her voice.  Could she do the male lines?  It was narrated by Lola Down’s lover, H.H.  Was she the right voice for that?  Wouldn’t a man’s voice be more appropriate?  She tried it out, experimenting with various octaves and tones.  Clearly these two characters were American.  Should I pronounce “ass” the American way, or as I would pronounce it – “arse”?  Technical questions like these kept appearing, but she liked what she read.  She liked it a lot.  To her surprise, she especially enjoyed embodying the male narrator’s role.  Yes, she thought, yes, I’ll take this on.

A week later she was in her tiny makeshift “recording studio” – actually a closet with a light, a microphone, and her computer.  It was the most soundproof room of her flat.  She was in the middle of recording a story, “NYC,” about Lo and her raconteur’s trip to a strip club in Manhattan:

 

She slowly eased her way down Lo’s body, pressing her perky breasts and nipples directly in Lo’s face.  She took Lo’s hands and encouraged Lo to apply them to her body, caressing the dancer’s ass and legs.  As she slithered over Lo, she inconspicuously pulled Lo’s strapless dress down over Lo’s breasts, exposing them so that they could rub up against her own.  She then got down between Lo’s legs and gracefully pulled the hem of Lo’s dress up and up, rubbing her soft hands over Lo’s thighs and then sitting on Lo’s lap and rubbing her ass deep into Lo’s crotch.  All the while, Lo licked her lips and ran her tongue over her teeth in that sumptuous way that indicates that Lo is hungry.

 

 

Jupi found herself breathless.  She couldn’t continue with the narration.  There in the narrow confines of the darkened closet, she reached down under her skirt and panties and her fingers fondled the fount of her effulgent creativity.  She read the lines again and again in her mind and switched roles in her mind from being Lo to being the stripper to being H.H. observing it all.  The dance of subjectivity stimulated her mind as much as her digits released her pent-up puissance by penetrating her pulsating pink pussy.

Browsing the Literotica section

Wave after wave of relief and gratitude poured over her as her legs gave out and she slowly crumpled onto the now wet wooden floor of the closet, panting and heaving.  She opened the door to let in more air.  She desperately needed more air.

Eventually, she was able to finish recording the story.  She liked it so much that she wanted to share it, prematurely, with someone.  No, not with someone.  Not with anyone.  With H.  She needed to know his opinion of it.  Was it any good?  Was she any good as a narrator?  But there were so many doubts that accompanied her wish.  What if he didn’t like it?  What if he thought she was weird for even producing it?  What if he was turned on by Lola?

Ultimately her desire for validation and attention outweighed her insecurities and she hit “SEND” and immediately wished she could unsend it.

An excruciating day, then two days, then three days went by without a word from H.  She couldn’t record another page before hearing back from him.  She was in a frenzied state.  Why hadn’t he called, texted, emailed, something???

But, just when she thought she couldn’t take it any longer, there was an unexpected knock at her door.

A visitor?  No.  Couldn’t be.  Probably just a grocery delivery.  She hastily put on her robe and furtively opened the door.  There he was.  H.  Unannounced.  Unexpected.  Un-fuckig-believable!  She was ecstatic.  Jupi threw the door open wide and let him in.  But then she remembered the recording.  Was he here to break things off?

“Hi,” she said shyly, her nerves shot.

“Hi.”

“I wish I knew you were coming.  I would have. . .”

“I didn’t even know I was coming.  But I’ve been. . . I’ve wanted to. . . I just started driving and I found myself here.  I’ve been listening to your recording on repeat.”

“And?”

“Your voice is so fucking sexy.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.  I’ve been hard-up for days.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to.  But I wanted to see you and tell you.”

“Way to drive a woman crazy!”

“Who wrote this?  Who is this Lola?”

Suddenly Jupi felt nervous again.  She felt butterflies in her stomach.  “What if?” questions started forming in her mind like they did before.  Incessant, annoying, pervasive questions filled with self-doubt and fear.  Her anxiety ramping up again.  She needed to get grounded.

“Come on in,” she said, taking his coat.  “Want a drink?”

She took out the wine and two glasses.  She let her robe drop, revealing her bare body just beneath the sheer negligée she was wearing under the robe.  It was sexy, but it was also comfy.  He looked at her, soaking in her visage.  She was a shy hermit full of inner life – sensual, spontaneous, artistic, creative, smart, witty, emotional, and most of all, madly in love with him.  Seeing her filled him with passion, just as the sound of her voice speaking those salacious sentences had made him crazed for three days.  Her flesh.  He wanted it.

She sat down next to him at the small kitchen table and opened her laptop.  She clicked on mysexlifewithlola.com and scrolled through the plethora of Lola’s porno pictures.

“Oh. . . oh. . . my,” he said slowly with long pauses in between exclamations.  “Um, wow!”  Images of Lola naked were replete on the screen.  But not just naked – naked with her 12 inch dildo, with her princess plug, with pearls on a string streaming from her ass, with her man, H.H., sucking his cock, filled with his cum, overflowing with the cum of other men, and stretching herself wide with one of the largest replicas of a horse cock H had ever seen!

“Yeah, she’s a handful,” said Jupi, resigned to sharing H’s attention with Lola.

“She reminds me of you,” he said, looking up at her downcast eyes.

“What?  Really?”

“Yes, if I had met you ten years ago.  I think she’s the spitting image of you.”

“Ten years ago?” Jupi echoed.

“Oh, no.  Come on.  I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You sure you don’t want some young sexy thing like Lo?”

“No, Jupi, I want you.”  He leaned in to kiss her.  Her stomach’s butterflies flew in a flutter, suddenly startled by the unexpected availability of his lips and everything else he brought to the table.

“I was just about to record another chapter.”

“Really?  Can I listen?”

“I don’t think you’ll hear much.  I record it in the closet,” she said.

“Which closet?”

“In the bedroom.”

“Oh.  Well, go right ahead.  I’ll just be lying on the bed.  Maybe I’ll hear something.”

They got up to go to the bedroom.  She took the computer and disappeared into the walk-in studio.  “Wait here quietly,” she said before shutting the door behind her.

She was just finishing up the story, “Horsing Around.”  She read loud enough for H to hear:

 

I was in jeans and I could feel my cunt getting totally saturated, soaking my panties through and through.  I spread my legs and rubbed his cock back and forth until finally he exploded.  It was a ginormous shot of cum over my head, but, as his cock slackened, he dripped some remaining cum down into my hair and on my face.  I had to unbutton my jeans and pull them and my panties down as I got on my knees.  As I sat under his dangling cock, I stroked my pussy till I too came in a giant puddle on the cement floor.

 

 

When Jupi was done with the story, she emerged from the closet.  She found H lying on his back, his trousers down around his ankles, his massive hard-on clenched in his right fist which stroked up and down from tip-to-base and back again.

“Could you hear?” she asked, astonished.

“MmmmmmGrrrrrrrrrAaaaaahhhhhhh,” was all he could say as his member erupted like a spewing volcano sending its warm lava all over the surrounding countryside and dribbling down its sheer cliffs, covering his hand in goo.  “Fuuuuck!”

“Did I do that?” asked Jupi innocently.

“You have the most sexy voice,” he answered.

Though flattered by his visceral standing ovation, Jupi was at least slightly disappointed that she wasn’t going to get any of her man’s patronage that day.  Never one to miss an opportunity, she got between his legs and licked up the mess he had made.

“Can I get an advance copy of that audiobook?” he asked.

Jupi smiled, looking up at H from between his legs.  “Of course,” she said.

After he left, she sent the audio files to him via email.

A few days later he texted her and said, “Jupi, you have no idea how happy you have made me.  I know that we can’t see each other, but I’ve been listening to your recording in the car every chance I get.  It’s incredible.”

“Glad you like it.”

“I’ve even started listening to it in bed.  I told my wife that it’s just a guided meditation to help me sleep, but, in fact, it has the opposite effect.  After she falls asleep, I pull out my cock and stroke to your voice.”

A week later he was at Jupi’s flat again.  This time they had an actual date planned.  After a small meal, they went into the bedroom and, lying down on the bed, he asked, “Can we, uh, listen to the audiobook?”

“But I’m right here,” Jupi replied.

“I know, but it turns me on.”

She agreed.

He had another request.  “Can I have you doggy style?”

“Yes.”

“And. . .”

“And what?”

“Never mind,” he said as she got on all fours on the bed and he stood next to it, ready to enter her from behind.

“What?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Can I put your laptop here?”

“Really?”

“I mean, I won’t if you. . .”

“No, go ahead.”

He placed the computer on her back, opened it up to Lola’s photos, and, listening to Jupi’s narration, entered her wet and waiting pussy.

Not Jupi, but a fan photo

 

Lo picked up her head and said, “Stroke it again as I rub my pussy.”  Lo leaned back across from Bill in the back seat and spread her legs wide.  Her right leg was lying on top of Bill’s knee.  She still had her cute little heels on.  Bill stroked his cock as he looked on, salivating, at Lo’s spread pussy.  With her left hand, Lo spread her pussy lips wide and with her right hand she was fingering her clit and her cunt.

Bill was treated to a feast for the eyes.  Lo came and came again to her own digital manipulation.  She so love’s to see men jerk off, but the only thing she loves more than that is to see them jerking off to her.  This Bill did with enthusiasm and then he started asking Lo, “I bet you want me to cum on your pussy, don’t you, you whore?”

“Oh yeah,” responded Lo in her low, deep, sexy, guttural voice.

“You want me to shoot my load all over that hot pussy, don’t you?” he asked.

“Oh yeah, do it,” she said in response as she continued to spread her legs and finger-fuck her pussy.

He got up from the seat and almost stood over her, frantically yanking at his cock.

“Come on, come on,” Lo encouraged, “cum on my pussy.  Come on.”  And then finally, in an explosion of cum that fell like rain all over Lo and her dress and her stomach and her pussy, he came and came and came and came some more.  Lo was shocked by how much he came on her.  She had never been drenched that much by a guy in her life. . . and she loved it.

 

As they listened to the story, they too came together. . . and loved it.

Lying next to each other, sprawled out on the mess of a bed, the computer screen still displaying Lo’s cum-covered body, H said, “You know, my wife has been listening to the stories as well.”

Lo Bathes in Beauty

“No,” Jupi said incredulously.

“Yes.  She found me out.  She discovered it wasn’t a ‘guided meditation.’  And so now, whenever she’s in the mood, she puts in her earbuds and listens with her computer open in front of her, while I go at her.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Jupi.

“I’m sorry.  Does that upset you?  I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“No, I can’t believe that little trollop.”

“Who?”

“You know who: Lola Down.  She’ll be getting off all of London before long.”

“No, dear, you’ll be getting them off with your voice.”

Thank you Lola.  Thank you Jupiter Grant.  Thank you H.  Thank you everyone who reads, listens, and gets off to these words dripping with love and lust, jizz and juices.  Thank you.

The End

Lola Down, Putting the Cum back in Community

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Hello Friends!

This post will be heavy on the images, light on the writing. I just wanted to let you all know that I, HH, am in the midst of writing a long-form (novelesque?) piece that I hope to be done with by late November. It’s called “Rogue’s Gallery.”  Here are some pre-views.

 

 

Also, in our kink news, as many of you know, we have just published our latest book, Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume VI, SlutLife.  It was supposed to come out in time for summer reading by the beach, but due to some production hiccups, it didn’t get released until September.

SlutLife

At the same time, Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume III: Writing Under Cover, has come out on audio book, narrated by the amazing Jupiter Grant.

Today’s post is to reach out to everyone in our extended virtual kink community and give a shout out to those of you who have supported us in so many ways, especially during these difficult times of limited social connection due to COVID.  We want to hear from all of you, to know how you’re doing and, also, to know if our posts here and our books, have helped you during these very trying times.

 

We have been so blessed by enthusiastic kinksters showing and telling us about their enjoyment of our blog, books, and audio books. We wanted to share with you the people who make this “work” worth it.

We would be remiss if we didn’t give our first shout out to the voice of MySexLifeWithLola, Miss Jupiter Grant. She is a talented narrator (understatement), author, and a sex goddess in her own right.

Jupiter Grant

Next, we recently received this lovely tribute photo from the seductive and interesting Lilith Avair.  She and her Daddy Dom, Michael, (in the second photo) have been crucial to our success. Without Michael’s technical help, this blog wouldn’t exist.

Lilith, Michael, Lola

We also want to give a warm shout out to Lil Gem and her man from PurplesGem. They have been enjoying the books and all of their fans have been enjoying them.

Lil Gem

Lil Gem

Lil Gem

 

 

 

 

Artistic photo of LilGem

Illustration of HH and Lo by LittleGem of purplesgem.com

LilGem’s Daddy has a happy read.

Lil Gem in B&W

Glad Lilgem didn’t get lil’ jealous about this sexy photo.

LittleGem of PurpleGem reads about Lola Down

 

 

 

Nikki reaching for her Lo fetish

In addition to Lil’Gem, we have also had some fun with Darling Nikki of Love Is a Fetish fame. Ain’t it tho?

Nikki and Lola

More of the sexy Nikki from Love is a Fetish.

Fun Fetish Nikki and Lo

More of Nikki

Nikki Nude

We also have been big fans of Floss (as in Floss Does Life)!  And she has shown us some lovin’ too!

Floss of FlossDoesLife
and Match, Cinder & Spark

Floss enjoys her reading.

Floss lets it all hang out.

Floss and Lola illustrated

MORE of Floss:

Beautiful Floss

From Floss’ Review

While this lovely hotwife is out having fun with a bull, her hubby is getting of to Lo.

Karla takes a selfie

 

Karla, the day she became a hotwife.

Karla and Chris

 

10 Years of Carla

Karla and her Bull

Evolution of Karla

Meanwhile, Chris, her hubby, printed out Lola’s photos to enjoy.

Chris Cums on Lo’s Pics

The real you is sexy!

That photo above is from an ad campaign, we just replaced the models with pics of Lola. However, the sentiment is the same – you, all of you, in your different shapes and sizes, are sexy as you are! Nothing is more sexy than feeling yourself to be sexy.

This couple have been enthusiastic fans of ours for a long time, though they don’t have their own blog. He is a professor. She is thinking about getting into the OnlyFans biz. Sam & Alia.

Sam and Alia read Match, Cinder & Spark together.

Our favorite fans are fans who get off to us together.

Alia seems more interested in the book than her hubby’s pud.

One thing leads to another.

But sometimes Sam has to take matters into his own hands.

Alia

Alia & Sam

And then there’s a beautiful blogger who has been creating poetry with the speed and power of lightning. The Lustful Empress.

The Lustful Empress with Lola

Collage of TLE getting off to Lola

Isn’t she just beautifully lustful?

We hope you’ve enjoyed this little tour of some of our friends in the bloggosphere. If you would like a free copy of one of our books in exchange for a sexy photo of you with it and some free publicity from us, just ask.

Of course, back when travel was a thing we did, when HH was apart from Lola, he would send her cumtributes as a token of his love & lust.

Portrait of the author as a horny man.

Stay sexy y’all!

Contel Bradford Interviews the Artist JoKoss

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[Those of you who have followed us closely and purchased the books know that JoKoss has made a number of great images of Lo, including the cover for our forthcoming book, Slut Life. Here is an interview from Medium.com that Contel Bradford published. It’s reposted here with his consent. Please check out JoKoss. I’m not sure how to support him right now, but he could use it since his exhibits have been canceled due to COVID-19.  All of the images here are by JoKoss and are of Lola Down.]

Cover of the Audio Book with chapters Image by JoKoss

I have a confession: I suck at almost everything. Seriously. Writing is like the only thing I’m halfway decent at. SMH. Damn shame. I think it would be SO cool if I could draw as well as Jo Koss, who took some time to chat it up for The Fetish Files.

How long have you been drawing and when did you realize you were an artist?

Oh I believe I have been drawing since I could pick a pencil up. Then of course I didn’t really have a plan or an idea of becoming an artist.

What inspired you to start drawing nude artwork?

When I tried to pursue a professional career in the comic industry back in the days the first doors that opened were of Adult comics publishers. I think every artists I knew back then followed the same path. I started up actually writing adult comics and eventually I drew many of them as well. Writing was much quicker for me to put down the stories that other artists would illustrate. Even though the comics weren’t very elaborate you could only draw a few panels a day while for the stories I could write a few over a night.

I understand a lot of your work is based on community requests. What is the craziest request you’ve received so far?

Oh there are a few every now and then. I guess the craziest ones are when they send me tiny little details oo portion of photos with even the face masked and they want me to draw a portrait. Other times they would ask very elaborate situations that might take an entire day to figure out, unfortunately I have to turn down those requests because otherwise I wouldn’t have any time to do anything else. But yes, I get a lot of requests from the various communities and socials.

Can you provide some insight into your creative process? Do you use any kind of animation software? Or do you draw everything freehand? I can barely draw a stick dude, so I literally have no clue.

I draw both traditional and digital. Sometimes I would draw by hand and then add colors in Photoshop. It depends on what I have to draw, how I am inspired, time, also where I am. If I am traveling I might draw on one of my sketchbooks and later scan it or just post it as it is.

Cover to Volume III: Writing Under Cover by JoKoss

Do you have a favorite piece you’ve drawn?

Quite a few actually. Hard to pick favorites really. There might be a story behind the picture that would make the work special for me, or the way I made the illustration. I sometimes prefer working in black and white but I enjoy using colors. At times I try to experiment a little.

What role has social media played in growing a following for the Jo Koss brand?

Quite a lot, since through the various sites my pics have been reposted everywhere. I realized that some people printed out my illustration to decorate their skateboards or guitars. I also found some people doing graffitis and murales of my art. Some of the recent ones I saw on Instagram where in Russia. Pretty cool I think.

Seems Tumblr’s hasty ban on adult content impacted many content creators. How did the ban effect you, and where are you currently sharing your work?

Well, that sucked quite a lot. I had to rethink everything. Start a new site, look for alternative communities. It is still in progress. I have lost touch with a lot of followers and that’s a pity but slowly, gradually I have noticed that some of them are reappearing on other communities I signed on. Right now I am on AdultNode, Bdsmlr, Twitter, Instagram, DeviantArt, still trying to find the perfect spot I guess.

I see you’ve published a couple books. Care to tell us about them?

I have a few more in progress. I have collected all the illustrations I made and posted on tumblr and collected in a nice art book. It went sold out and now I will have to reprint it but in the meantime I have made some more illustrations so I am trying to finalize a volume 2 at the same time.

I am also planning a few exhibitions where the books will be also available.

Any new projects we should be on the lookout for?

Yes, something is cooking but I am still not ready to announce it. Most likely I will post on my social something soon.

To see this artwork the way it was meant to be seen, check out Jo Koss.

Contel Bradford is a mystical and complex individual. You can attempt to unravel some of the mystery by visiting his author site at countkrewpublications.com.

Must Read! Must Hear! Must See!

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Hello to all of our friends in the blogosphere! We miss you! We see you!

Of course we’re disappointed that Eroticon was called off due to COVID this year. (Not that we could make it.) But we are grateful for the interwebs where we can connect with all of you in a socially safe, yet sexy way.

This is a little news update and the hard-sell for all the new and old stuff that you can get written by HH and featuring your truly, Lo your classy nympho.

You might notice a little bit longer between blog posts for us. That’s because HH has begun a new, long-form piece. Not exactly a novel (because not exactly fiction), but maybe a memoir of sorts. It will be called Rogue’s Gallery. He sees it as a film eventually and has made these creative promo posters for it.

 

 

 

 

 

In addition to this, our favorite narrator, the inimitable and premier erotica voice of Match, Cinder & Spark, Ms. Jupiter Grant, just completed the narration to Volume III: Writing Under Cover. It is out and for sale now on Audible and also Amazon.

You can hear my favorite excerpt from it here:

Though the audiobook lacks the stunning art that the hard-copy book has to offer, Jupiter Grant more than makes up for it with her seductive voice.

In addition to that, HH and I are working on the production of Match, Cinder & Spark, Volume VI: Slut Life. It’s a collection of stories that take place at the beach, on the water, or during the fun, slutty, summertime.  It was supposed to be out by now, but we ran into some production hangups. It should be available in early September. Keep an eye out.

Stress Relief

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It was Thursday night.  I walked in on Lo taking a shower.  “Why is there a wineglass in here?” I asked.

“Because I thought I’d have a sensual, romantic evening.”

“Only you would make a sensual, romantic date with yourself in the shower.”

“Hardly.  But, if you must know, I had originally planned on a bath, surrounded by candles.”

“And?”

“I wanted to cut to the chase.”

I looked in at her and saw that she had the hand-held shower head between her legs.

“Only you could cheat yourself out of a romantic date in order to get lucky – with yourself!”

After her climax, she got out of the shower and as she was drying off, she said, “I’m trying to cultivate pleasurable habits.”

I snickered.

“What?”

“Pleasurable habits are your forte.  I don’t think you need to ‘cultivate’ them.”

“No, no.  Not those sorts of pleasurable habits.  Normally it would be things like getting coffee at a café, strolling through a museum.  Doing yoga.  But during these pandemic times we’re in, I need to discover and foster different pleasurable habits.  What are your pleasurable habits?”

“You.”

“Damn straight.”

“Glad we’re agreed on that because I was afraid you were going to tell me to work out or eat better, or, God forbid, cut out beer!”

“Speaking of that. . .”

“Oh no!”

“No, no, no, silly.  I was just going to say that since I can’t go to the gym, I am going to have to find a way to do workouts at home.”

Lola Today

She put on her workout shorts and sports bra and told me to get out of the bedroom because she was going to do some exercises.  I left and about five minutes later I heard her grunting and breathing heavily.

The next day Lola went into the bedroom to do her exercises again.  When she came out she told me about a workout video that got her hot – about burning your buns off.

On the third day, Lola went into the bedroom to do her exercises and I heard her grunting and breathing heavily.  I was curious.  I went to check on her.  I cracked the bedroom door and found her masturbating on the bed to the sexy woman in the exercise video.

“Is this how you work out?!” I said, walking in on her and interrupting the strenuous physical discipline.

“I told you, I am cultivating pleasurable habits.  If my exercise turns into a digitally manipulated cardio session, that counts as a pleasurable habit.”

The next day during her exercise time I caught her in the bedroom pounding her pussy with her glass dildo instead of doing pushups.

“I felt like I needed to work out, but needed to work it out first!  I had a really hard day.”

“Oh, is this your homeopathic remedy?”

“Why do you ridicule me?  I don’t poke fun at you when your idea of exercise is typing fifty-words-per-minute.”

“I’m not poking fun at you.  I’m in awe of your capacity for poking your yum-yum.”

“Good grief!  Could you leave me to my own devices and take your puns into the other room?”

The following night she began masturbating during a movie we were watching.

“Lo, what are you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like your finger-fucking your pussy while we’re trying to watch a movie.”

“Keen observation.”

“But why can’t we just watch the movie?  Before too long, you’ll make yourself cum and then you’ll want to fuck me and we’ll never get through the movie.”

“We’re watching Brad Pitt take off his shirt.  Everyone masturbates to that!”

“You’re extrapolating.”

“What?”

“Because you do it, you’re extrapolating from yourself to everyone.”

“And everyone extrapolates.”

“Now you’re confusing extrapolate with masturbate.  Everyone masturbates, but not during every movie.”

“Extrapolate, masturbate, fornicate, what’s the difference?  Can you please press PLAY so I can get on with this?  You interrupted my rhythm.”

“You’re just going to exacerbate the problem by persisting in it.”

“Exactly.”

As I sat watching the scene unfold, I can’t deny that it got me hard.  Lo noticed and said, “If we go to bed, will you stay up?”

“What about the movie?”
“You’ll fall asleep during it anyway.  Let’s get into the bedroom where you can get into me.”

I agreed and got up.  She remained on the couch.

“Aren’t you coming?” I asked.

“I hope to be soon.  Brush your teeth, get in bed and I’ll be right there.  I’m just going to finish this up,” she said as if she were in the middle of making a spreadsheet for a work project.

In bed, I fell asleep waiting for her.  She must have entered without my noticing, pulled out her Hitachi and, after cumming once, she put it on my back and jolted me awake.  “I was just using the defibrillator to bring you back to consciousness,” she said wickedly.

After I awoke, she sucked me off, climbed on top of me, and began riding my erect cock.  It is well trained to react to her while the rest of me sleeps.  “Fucking you is like fucking a geriatrics patient.”

“You say the most romantic things.”

“I need dick.  Give it to me.”

I was almost asleep again as she bounced up and down.

“This is like fucking a cock on a corpse after rigor mortis has set in.”

“You sure know how to turn a guy on.”

“I want your cum, Daddy.  Give it to me.  Fill me.”

Relieved to hear her request since it meant the culmination of my satisfaction and the fulfillment of her nocturnal necromancy, I released my draught of desire deep inside her to her delight.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she said, falling into my arms.

“So, am I on your list of pleasurable habits to cultivate?”

“Of course you are, silly!  Number one on the list is ‘Jill it. Drill it. Fill it.’”

“What’s number two?”

“Actually, it’s the only thing on my list so far.”

Stress Relief Tools

Illustrator Needed for Disney Damsel Lola Down

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Belle’s Bestiality, Getting off to Lola Down together

 

“Daddy,” she complained, “diddling my bean is fine, but it’s not as much fun as when it’s diddled by someone else.”

“You want me to diddle your bean?” I asked.

“What I mean is, a surprise.  A stranger.  An unexpected diddle.”

“Oh, I see,” I said, “the serendipitous fappening that one finds unbidden upon the side of the road, in a bar, or wherever one may get one’s jollys jilled on a sunny spring day.”

“Without putting it quite so poetically, yes.  After all, it is May.  Masturbation Month.  Hooray!  Hooray!  The First of May!  Outdoor fucking starts today!” she sang.

“Sounds like you’re the poet.”

“Oh Daddio,” she pouted, as she continued stroking her smoothly shaved pussy on the bedside.  “That’s older than you are.”

“A relic from Chaucer’s time then.”

“Maybe as old as Beowulf.”

Her climax was building until she shot a small stream sprinkling up through the air onto the tile floor, much like a shot from a water pistol.

“And what, may I ask, put you over the edge that time?”

“The thought of meeting Grendel in the woods.”

“Grendel diddles Little Lo’s pink riding hood.  How literary.”

“Grendel, the Big Bad Wolf, I’d even take Gaston.”

“I bet you would!  Or all three, if you were in a crossover series.”

“I like that idea.  A Disney fairytale staring Lola Down.”

“Would you be the villain or the princess?”

“Both.”

“Both?  Disney stories are not that complex.”

            “It would be the story of how Princess Lola Down is usurped from power by the effigies that are made of her in the city because they all depict her naked, like Lady Godiva, but they come to life, like Galatea, and strip Lola of her throne and her clothes.  She wanders about the streets, a naked waif or harlot, until one day, through her own power of understanding, she relinquishes her claim to all the reproductions of herself, thereby releasing them from her true essence and allowing them to live on as mere likenesses.  By giving up her hold on them (or the hold that she wrongfully believed she had on them), she deprives them of the power they had over her and thus they yield back the throne to her once more.”   

Lady G.

 

Pygmalion and Galatea

“So, you’re victim, villain, and hero?”

“That I am.  And you know what else I am?”

“What?”

“Horny.”

“Well, have fun.”

“What?!  You’re not going to fuck me?  Give me your sword!”

“I’m going to go write that down.  You know what they say, the power of the pen is mightier than the sword.”

“Perhaps, but far more diminutive,” she said as she pulled out her huge dildo and held it up in the air as if commanding a great army to victory.

As I sat at the desk writing this story, she impaled herself several times with the wobbly weapon until, finally striking to the quick, she died a glorious death at her own hands.  La petite mort.

 

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