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Lo’s date with MILF Meri was Easter Sunday. By Lo’s account, both of them had a great time and were eager to make the magic happen again. But then, inexplicably, Meri ghosted Lo. No response to email, nothing.

“I think she might be having randy remorse,” said Lo one morning while we were pondering the odd disappearance.

“What the hell is ‘randy remorse’?”

“You know — she was all randy to have a lesbian encounter. She did it. It was hot. But she has a husband, three sons, a conventional, bougie, suburban, soccer-mom lifestyle to maintain. She can’t fuck that all up for a little labial action.”

“Don’t you think that that’s a tad narrow-minded?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don’t mean her lack of follow-up. I mean your explanation.”

“What?”

“In this day and age, women aren’t as boxed in as you make it sound. I mean, a lot of couples are open to the wife playing around, especially with someone like you.”

“What does that mean, ‘someone like me’?”

“I just mean, younger, already in a relationship and therefore not clingy or a threat to the Stepford Wife, picture-perfect, wholesome family-Christmas-letter lifestyle.”

“So I’m just a Manic Pixie Dream Girl to her?”

“Precisely.”

“I think you’re making her situation out to be too simplistic. You have no idea what the family dynamics are, what pressures she may feel, or her reasons for dropping me.”

“And neither do you. So why should we keep speculating about it?”

We let it go and, other than Lo occasionally recounting her one sexcapade with MILF Meri while masturbating or copulating with me, she was all but forgotten.

Until one day during quarantine.

“Lo, I just wanted to check in on you and make sure you’re ok.”

That was it. A one sentence, no explanation, wellness-check email from Meri.

Lo wrote back and tactfully, without accusation or spite, inquired why it had been so long since she had last heard from Meri.

Instead of responding immediately, it was over a week before Lo received a terse email in return.

“It’s complicated,” was the enigmatic reply. “I’ll write more later.”

Again, another week elapsed before Lo got the following email:

Dear Lo,

I’m sorry I never followed up with you after we met last Easter. Believe me, you were on my mind constantly. However, I was feeling guilty about the circumstances of how we met. I know you thought I was just responding to your ad, but it’s more complicated than that. Can we meet in person to talk about it?

Meri

“Guilty about the circumstances of how we met?” said Lo to me, perplexed.

“Will you meet with her?”

“I have to.”

“What do you mean, you have to?”

“Don’t you want to know the answer to this mystery?”

“I suppose.”

The following weekend Lo dolled herself up. It felt like a uniquely special occasion since, during the COVID crisis, Lo hadn’t had much reason to dress the part. Indeed, as she chose and then dismissed various outfits, that’s exactly what it felt like — like she was an actress choosing the right outfit for a role. This day she was going for the ‘innocent little college student’ role. After many attempts at the right combination, she settled on a short skirt, no panties, a white knit sweater, no bra, and her cute little pumps. I realized, maybe not quite for the first time, that Lo enjoys the theatrics of her dates as much as the action.

“Good luck, Love,” I said as she was breezing out the door.

“Luck? I don’t need luck when I got this,” she said as she lifted the back of her skirt to reveal her bare ass.

“That’s true,” was all I could say as I etched the image on my brain.

“Remember,” I called to her as she walked away, “social distancing!”

Later that day, Lo strolled up the street back toward our apartment as I sat outside reading a book and drinking a G&T in the front yard. I soaked in the way she perfected the picture before me as she sauntered on the sidewalk, the incarnation of summertime: bright, cheerful, without a care in the world, lackadaisical, unhurried, and delighting in being enjoyed by those she passed by.

She stopped before me. “Hi,” she said with a big grin on her face.

“Hi,” I repeated back to her.

“Want to fuck?” she said, getting to the point.

“Am I breathing?”

We went right into the bedroom. She bent over the bed, lifted up her skirt and I slid right into her wet and willing pussy.

It took a few thrusts before she was ready to recall for me her socially-distant-dalliance with MILF Meri, but I knew she’d come around after she had cum around two or three times.

I pulled out of her dripping hot hole and, still hard up, was lying on the bed, panting as I sweat, despite the AC blasting.

“You ok, ole man?”

“Don’t worry about me,” I said, “I’ve got lots more loving left in me. But let’s take a little break and you can tell me why, exactly, you’re so needy.”

“But Daddy,” she said, batting her eyelashes at me, “I’m always needy. I’m a nympho, remember?”

“Cut to the story, Lo. I can see you aching to regale me with your reverie.”

“OK,” she said. “Lie back and I’ll tell you.”

She was sitting naked on the bed next to me. Her legs were crossed under her and she gently stroked my wet, rigid manhood as she spoke.

“Close your eyes,” she instructed.

I obeyed.

I felt her lips ease down my shaft.

“Lo, you can’t tell me what happened with a mouthful of my cock.”

“I know, Daddy,” she said after pulling up and releasing me. “I just wanted a taste.”

“Of a woman?”

“Of me. Now listen with your eyes closed.”

She then told me the following:

We met at the park by the river. She was already there when I arrived. It was crowded. A lot of families, people picnicking, suntanning. You know. The usual for a gorgeous summer day during a global pandemic.

She was sitting on a little picnic blanket, clearly nervous, tense with anticipation about seeing me again.

When I got there, I unraveled my blanket too, took off my shoes, and sat a safe distance away from her, but within earshot.

I so wanted to kiss her on her full red lips and put my fingers through her full red hair. But I was good, Daddy.

I sat crisscross, like I am now, but with my skirt just covering my modesty. I didn’t wear a bra and so I’m sure she could make out my nipples through my sheer sweater. I know she could because every guy I passed on the walk to her was glaring at my chest. I enjoyed teasing her. In fact, I enjoyed the whole distance thing more than I thought. The torture of it all was exciting, I think, for both of us.

Anyhow, she had packed a little picnic basket, complete with a couple of bottles of chilled champagne and plastic glasses. She poured me one and, after a few pleasantries, she told me her story.

‘Lo, do you remember our first few email exchanges?’ she asked.

‘Yeah,’ I said, thinking nothing special had been in them.

‘Well, I wrote to you and you assumed that I was responding to your ad.’

‘Weren’t you?’

‘That’s just the thing,’ she said, pausing and thinking how to tell me the next part. ‘I didn’t even know you had an ad.’

‘How did you get my email? How did you hear about me?’

‘I feel terrible about this. I’m really sorry I led you on, or at least didn’t tell the truth right away. I really didn’t mean to lead you on at all.’

I was very confused and I’m sure she could see it on my face.

‘You see, it started with my husband.’

‘He saw the ad?’

‘No, he found your blog somehow. One night he left his computer on and fell asleep on the couch.’

‘Nothing good ever follows those words.’

‘I knew he had just jacked it.’

‘How did you know that?’

‘We’ve been married twenty-three years, Lo. I know when he’s jacked off.’

‘OK.’

‘So I was curious. I just wanted to see what was getting him off now. And, instead of the usual porn vids that he watches to relieve stress, I found your blog!’

‘Really?’

‘Yes! And I was fascinated by what I was reading. I think it was Bleach Bum or something like that.’

‘Oh, I know what you mean,’ I said, a little embarrassed because that’s the story where you talk about anal bleaching and you put up a very prominent photo of my perineum.

“I believe it was more a photo of your asshole.”

“Must you be so vulgar?”

“I believe it was a photo of your anus.”

“That’s not any better!”

“It was a photo of your posterior analytics.”

“That sounds better. But a little sterile.”

“It was a photo of your sweet, sweet. . .”

“Don’t you dare say sphincter!”

“How about your bottom’s belly-button?”

“Too confusing.”

“Can we please get back to your story?”

She continued:

She went on, ‘I wanted to read more, but I didn’t want Scott, that’s my husband, to know I was looking at his search history, so I logged out and signed into my account on the family’s desktop. I read and read and looked at the photos of you and, well, I felt sexually aroused like I hadn’t in a long time!’

‘I have that effect on people.’

‘Mmmm,’ she moaned, looking at me, a little fear in her eyes, ‘to be honest, it was a combination of you, your photos, and the writing.’

“HA!” I shouted.

“Oh, calm down.”

“The writing!”

“Do you want to hear my story so you can write about it or what?”

“Well, now that she knows about the blog, it’s sort of breaking the fourth wall, isn’t it?”

“I’ll leave the literary devices to you.”

Meri continued, ‘I couldn’t get enough and then I saw that you had your email right there on the blog. So I wrote to you.’

‘And I jumped to the conclusion that you must have read the ad.’

‘Yeah. I was a little confused at first. And then, to find out that we live in the same city, or at least pretty close to it!’

‘So that’s why you didn’t follow up with me for over a year? Because of that little misunderstanding?’

‘No, no,’ she said. ‘By the way, I read the story that H.H. wrote about our Easter encounter.’

‘Right, I guess you did. Sorry that he was such a spy.’

‘That’s ok,’ she said, laughing a little, ‘It shows how much he loves you.’

‘Or what a perv he is!’

She waived her hand like it didn’t matter. ‘He wrote that you liked it.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you? Did you really?’

‘Of course I did. Did you disappear because you thought I didn’t?’

‘No, that wasn’t it. I was eager to do it again — and more!’

‘So what happened?’

At this point, it was getting warm and both of us had had about two glasses of Champagne. I stretched out my legs and so did she. Our feet were touching at the end of our blankets. It was cute and quite erotic — just touching toes like that.

‘Um, well, uh,’ she stumbled, ‘it gets a little more complex. A little more confusing.’

‘What does?’

‘For a while both Scott and I were reading and getting off to your blog, but separately. He had no idea that I was reading it.’

‘OK. Don’t tell me he wants to fuck me too?’

‘Well, he probably does. That’s not the problem.’

I was so confused.

‘Lo, do you remember getting some fan mail a while ago?’

‘I get a lot of fan mail.’

‘Well, this was special. It had an illustration. It was from a mom. It was about a shared computer and. . .’

‘THAT was YOU?!’ I shot at Meri when the pieces fit together.

Meri’s face had turned almost as red as her hair. ‘Do you want to leave? Do you hate me? I’m so ashamed.’

At that moment, though she was much older, she seemed so scared, so vulnerable. I just rubbed her feet more with my feet and consoled her.

‘Was it just that one time?’ I asked after a long pause.

‘I wish I could say it was.’

‘You mean you. . . ?’

‘He likes me to help him. Other than you, it’s our secret.’

“Wait. Wait,” I said in disbelief. “You’re saying that Meri is the mom who wrote to us about finding the blog on her husband’s computer and fapping to it and then, later, when she was found out by her son, used it as ‘a teachable moment’?”

“One-and-the-same.”

“Oooooohhhhhh,” I said. “That explains a lot.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Why’d she send that email and not say that it was from her?”

“I think she was embarrassed, but she was trying to tell me why she was M.I.A.”

“A little coded message?”

“Yeah. Not the clearest communication.”

“Did she actually expect you to figure it out?”

“I don’t think so. It wasn’t even from the same email address as she had used before. I think she wanted to gauge my reaction to it. When you wrote about it without being judgmental, I think it gave her a little more courage.”

“Well what happened next?”

“We talked a little more, just catching up on the past year. I then lifted up my knees so that she could have a good, direct look at my smooth, gleaming pussy. Very discretely she extended her leg between my legs and tickled my pussy lips with her toe.”

“That doesn’t sound like you were six feet apart.”

“She has long legs. Anyhow, she was very turned on by it. She wanted to touch herself, but couldn’t out there in public. So we ended sort of abruptly. We wanted to see more of each other, but she also wanted to cum. I bet she touched herself in the car on the way home.”

“Lo, this is some fucked-up shit. Back when you were fooling around with Hunter, a married man, you were playing with fire. Now you’re playing with gasoline, tanks of oxygen, and matches.”

“I know, I know,” she said, actually distraught. “But she’s so fucking hot!”

“Heat is the last ingredient you need with gasoline, tanks of oxygen, and matches.”

“OK! I get it.”

“And what happens when they all read this entry of the blog together? KABOOM!”

“You just won’t write about it.”

“To hell I won’t!”

“Well, you won’t publish it until I get myself out of this mess.”

“Agreed. But you will get yourself out of it, won’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, reluctantly.

“Cause if you don’t, this will get you in the ass and it will hurt more than that ‘Bleach Bum.’”

We both laughed at Meri’s misremembering the title of that blog post.

“Kiss it, Daddy,” she said, bending over. “Make me feel better.”

“You’re lucky I’m so madly in love with you Lo. You know that?”

“You like my bleach bum?”

“Like it? Love it! Want it,” I said as I pulled her close to me.

Written by

Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail: downloladown@gmail.com

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