It was the day before New Year’s and Lo and I were sore from skiing so much. But how to escape from the boredom and desolation that was surrounding us up there in the hinterland? I wanted to go to the movies, but the movie I was intent on seeing was The Wolf of Wall Street. Lo wanted to see anything but that, or better yet, just stay in bed all day.
“Please, Daddio. Don’t go. Don’t get up. Stay with me here, in bed,” she pleaded, when I came up to check on her at ten.
“Lo,” I scolded, “everyone’s up. They’re eating breakfast. It’s New Year’s Eve.”
“So — it’s rude.”
“Don’t talk to me about rude. Have you seen the looks Hollis has given me? She’s downright antagonistic. She hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you. She’s just. . . just territorial. She’s jealous and sees the way Carl looks at you.”
“Like I said, she hates me.”
“Well, we’re eating breakfast now and at around two Carl and I are going to see The Wolf of Wall Street. You’re welcome to come if you want.”
“So you’re really going to do it? You’re really going to go and see that movie and contribute to the coffers of that scoundrel.”
“Lo, by seeing the movie, I am hardly enriching Jordan Belfort.”
“Like hell you’re not! He got paid a big time from Scorsese.”
“His book was optioned. He’s already been paid. He doesn’t get any royalties from my ticket.”
“Scorsese is glamorizing this scumbag.”
“How do you know? You haven’t seen the movie yet.”
“I’ve read about it.”
“It’s art. Maybe it glamorizes; maybe it condemns. I want to judge for myself.”
“By being part of the problem?”
When Lo gets on her soapbox, she really gets on her soapbox. I mean, her soapbox is like nine feet tall!
“Oh, forget it. I’m not getting into this with you. Are you coming or not?”
She suddenly changed her tone — “I’m not cumming now, but I will if you get back in bed with me,” she said seductively as she pulled the covers down to display her fingers tickling her naked puss.
I don’t know how she does that. I can never go from heated debate to masturbate in the span of two and a half seconds. I’m like an eighteen wheeler — I need to go slowly through the gears. She’s like a zippy little sports car that can go from zero to sixty in seconds.
She did look good, however, and I moved forward to the bed. She unzipped my fly, pulled out my member, took it in her mouth as I stood over her. She went right to work and I leaned over and with my left hand I massaged her pussy. Her right hand pushed my fingers where she wanted them to go. She was dripping wet and she directed me in her warm snatch. As I made little curls, stroking the top of her cavern, she grew more and more excited. She had to take little breaks from her intense work in order to breathe deep breaths and to moan now and again before giving up entirely on pleasuring me with her mouth because within mere moments she was convulsing and trying her hardest to keep her screams locked up behind her clenched teeth. When she finally relaxed, she pulled my hand out of her and went to work doubly as hard with her mouth and both hands wrapped around me.
“Cum in my mouth,” she said as she took me deep.
Now I stood over her and thrust repeatedly — the tip going down the back of her throat. It only took two or three motions like that before I exploded and filled her mouth so much that she couldn’t take it all. I pulled out and she wiped the drips from the corner of her smiling lips.
“Yummm,” she said with a look desperate for approval.
“Good little cum-hungry tart. Now, I’m going to have my breakfast.”
“Noooooo!” she howled, mouth still evident of my presence in it. “Don’t leave me. You can’t. You wouldn’t. You won’t.”
“I can, I will, and I expect you downstairs. . . as soon as you clean up.”
“Fuck you!” she said as she reached over the side of the bed, fumbling with her hand for something. When she finally found what she was looking for, she pulled it out triumphantly. Like King Arthur pulling out the sword from the stone, she wielded her big double-ended dildo in the air. “Go have you’re breakfast. I’ve got one more orgasm in me that’s rearing to get out and I’ll just have to take things into my own hands.”
I rolled my eyes and shut the door. A second later I opened it just enough to see her licking the end of the dildo and moving to put it up in her.
“What?!” she asked, upset at the interruption.
“I just wanted to say, keep your orgasm quiet. This house has paper-thin walls and floors.”
“Oh pshaw!” she shot back at me, “Go eat your breakfast.”
I went downstairs and joined the merry company at the table with some shoddy excuse for Lo. As we were eating our flapjacks, I could just faintly hear the thud-thud-thud from upstairs. “What the hell?” I thought as a bead of perspiration formed on my brow.
“Pass the syrup,” someone asked and as I did so I listened. I thought I heard Lo’s screams. My imagination? I listened with double intensity over the clank of the cutlery. No, not my imagination.
I began talking in a loud voice about the snowfall and skiing and so forth.
There was now a distinct thumping that we all heard. I saw Carl’s eyes look up at the ceiling.
“Oh, that’s just Lo, er, walking to the shower, no doubt,” I said. “I’ll just run up and make sure she’s coming. . . down for breakfast.” Stupid! How could I say that? But that’s what was on my mind — Lo’s cumming.
I went upstairs and opened Lo’s door without a knock. There she was, giant dildo dangling between her legs and a delirious look of self-satisfaction on her face.
“What, Daddio?” she asked as if drunk.
“They want to know if you’re coming for breakfast.”
“I just did.”
“I’ll tell them not to save any for you,” I said and slammed the door shut.
“Daddio!” I heard her call from behind the door. I went back and opened it.
“Do they have strawberries?”
“Yes, Lo, they do.”
“I’ll be down in two minutes.”
[From the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]