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It was one of those strange April nights when the temperature drops twenty degrees from the daytime high of 68, the wind rustles up the new buds on the trees outside, and from out of the darkness, lighting, thunder, and downpours fill the sky. Lola couldn’t sleep. When I got to bed she said, “I’ve tried everything. I’ve tried meditation, masturbation, guided meditation, guided masturbation. . .”
“Wait. What is ‘guided masturbation’?”
“Oh, well, I called up a friend and asked him to tell me how he wants me to masturbate,” she said as if it were no big deal.
“You did?”
She nodded her head in affirmation and pouted saying, “But it didn’t help.”
“I bet it helped him. Why didn’t you call me?”
“You were working hard, Daddy.”
“So?” I asked, frustrated by the thought that she’d rather hear inappropriate instructions from one of her suitors than from me.
“Are you still hard at work?” she asked seductively, rubbing my crotch to gauge my state of arousal.
“Work hard, play hard,” I said, as I pulled out my manhood for her to see.
She grabbed it while licking her lips.
“You know I’m not just a sex organ,” I said.