Cumtributes in the Age of Coronavirus

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[We interrupt our regularly scheduled mini-series, “Mount Bliss,” to bring you this article, published in the June issue of ENM Magazine (Ethical Non-Monogamy).]

“Will you just look at that,” I said as I stared at my computer screen. Lo sat across from me at the breakfast table, scrolling through her phone, appraising photos from her fans. The thought crossed my mind that she peruses the tributes the way some middle-aged men from a different era might go through the morning newspaper.

“Ahem,” I said a little louder, “Would you just look at that.”

She pulled her nose up from out of her phone. “What’s that dear?” she asked politely.

I turned my screen around for her to see.

Applicant does not present live performances of a prurient sexual nature or derive directly or indirectly more than de minimis gross revenue through the sale of products or services, or the presentation of any depictions or displays, of a prurient sexual nature.

“Hmmmm,” she grunted, half-heartedly.

“Do you know what that is?”

“I don’t.”

“I have to agree to it if I want to be considered for the Payroll Protection Program.”

“So, making money from our books, blog, and calendars disqualifies you?”

“I’m insulted!”

“You’re right. Those damn Puritan bastards.”

“No, I’m insulted by you! You think that my art, my literature, my philosophy of the bedroom is of a prurient sexual nature?”

“Of course not, dear. It is only interpreted that way. Just like me.”

“That’s better,” I said in approval.

“And you certainly don’t derive any gross revenue from it.”

“Do you mean gross as in disgusting or as in a large amount?”

“Yes,” she said, dismissively, returning to the photos on her phone.

I completed the application and she started flirting with me by placing her bare foot between my legs under the table, as she often does with guys she dates.

“Why do you want me now?” I asked.

“I just want something to do,” she said.

“Something to do, or someone to do?”

“Someone to do me.”

“At least you’re honest. But are you sure it has nothing to do with the photos you’re examining?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess you’re right. But you have stuff to do. I have stuff to do.”

“Yeah, so let’s make it double-stuff.”

“I like the sound of that,” I said.

Truth be told, I was getting about half as much done during this mandatory work-from-home than I would in a normal workday, and it was all because of Lola. That truth should not be misconstrued as a complaint. But still. . .

“I was going to work on my résumé because I think, at this rate, I’m going to be one of the millions of unemployed soon and I haven’t updated it in years!”

“You should treat your résumé like your sex life: if you don’t spruce it up every six months or so, it gets stale. You should keep a record of all your accomplishments and write them down somewhere.”

“I do, on the blog.”

“I wasn’t speaking of our sex life. I was speaking of your work experience.”

“Well, being a writer of erotica, our sex life is my work experience.”


They say ‘Home is where your story begins.’ Well, under Coronavirus lockdown, home is where our story begins, continues, and ends. Repeat.

We got to the bedroom because, given the opportunity to do Lola or do my résumé, I’d take Lola every time.

We hopped in bed and she said, “Let’s fuck.”

I said, “Pull down your pants.”

“You pull down yours.”

“How about we both pull down our pants on three?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of foreplay?”

“Yeah, we pull down our pants on three and then on four, we play.”

The preliminaries accomplished, I pat her puss with the tip of my cock. I asked, “Why are you so wet?”

“I was looking at all the cumtributions my fans send me.”

“So, you like showing off nude?”

“Am I really that transparent?”

“Not transparent at all,” I said. “And those guys put you in the mood for sex?”

“Ya think? And who said they were all from guys?”

She shut her eyes, apparently picturing the images she had reviewed that morning.

Just as I was getting into her, she opened her eyes and asked, “Do I feel like I have a fever?”

“I don’t know, but I think you’re hot.”

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah, and I’m horny.”

“I might be running a temperature.”

“OK, then, the only way to tell for sure is to take your temperature with my thermometer. Spread your legs, lift your hips, and say ‘Aaaaaahhhhhh, as I put it in.”

“Funny,” she said and then she sat up, a concerned look on her face.


“Every once in a while I think I’m definitely infected with the ’rona.”

“I know. Everyone does.”

She suddenly was descending into a full-blown panic attack.

“Take it easy,” I said, “Big breaths.”

“I always took you for an ass man,” she quipped, a smile briefly crossing her lips.

“Maybe I was foolish to go to the store to do shopping,” she mused. “What do you think? I wore a mask, I brought hand sanitizer. I was very careful. Do you think it was prudent of me?”

“It’s probably the only thing you’ve ever been prudish about.”

“No, seriously.”

“Look, why don’t you hop back on your computer and take your mind off of this stupid plague.”

“You brought me into the bedroom to have your way with me and you left my glasses in the breakfast room. Now I can’t see anything.”

“That’s alright — I look better in soft light.”

“Will you get them for me, Daddy?”

As I began to leave the room, she called, “The wireless is weak in here. Can I hop on your hotspot?”

“You can always hop on my hotspot, Lo.”

When I returned, she had the computer open on her lap. I passed her the glasses.

“Need a hand?” I asked.

“More like a cock.”

We looked together. She scrolled with her right hand as her left stroked my tumescent member under the blankets.

“What are you into?” asked a fan.

“Let’s just say a lot of men are ‘into’ me,” she wrote back.

One artist sent an abstract drawing of her. Lo titled it, “Lola Down: Simple Lines, Sexy Curves.”

Moments later the artist sent a photo of him cumming on her painting. “A true genius who loves his work!”

“What about me?” I complained. “I also love my work.”

“You’re more cerebral. This was visceral.”

“What do you want? Me to cum on a copy of Match, Cinder & Spark?”

“No, just cum on me.”

I flipped her over onto her tum, climbed on top of her naked body, and I squeezed my hard cock between her butt cheeks.

“I thought you said you wanted to read?” she asked.

“I do. I’m a book worm and I want to get into your backpages.”

I applied some lube to her bum and my cock and slid back and forth as she continued to interact with her fans, one of whom said he wants her to love him. “Do you want love or do you want my pussy?” she replied.

“Do you fuck your followers?” he asked.

“I fuck whomever I please and I please whomever I fuck.”

To one who sent her a cumtribution photo, she asked, “Cum here often?”

To another, to whom she sent a pic of her pussy spread, she wrote, “Cum here often.”

She posted a photo of her under the spout of the tub, water splashing on her clit. She called it ‘The Human Flying V Guitar’ pose.

A fan texted, “I’m a guitarist.”

She responded, “I’m easy. Simple fingering and I sing like a Wagnerian Viking.”

She then flipped over and started pulling at her pussy lips as she looked up at me stroking my rod.

“On a scale of one-to-ten, how much do you want me?”


“Seven?! I’m insulted.”

“What? I’ve wanted you more. It’s true. Seven is good.”

“Seven,” she said dismissively. “Barely passing.”

She reached over the side of the bed, her ass exposed before me. She returned with her Hitachi. “I want to fuck me more than seven.”

She began enjoying herself until she squirted.

As she basked in her own self-satisfaction, I told her I wanted her.

“Why do you want me? I look like a fire hydrant that sprung a leak, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“I am into that sort of thing and I’m hoping to get into you to plug your leak.”

She wasn’t opposed. After sloshing about in her, I pulled out and came on her naked body. As she cleaned it up, she said, “Wow! I think you just set a record.”

“Distance, quantity, or duration?”

“All three.”

“Really?” I said, satisfied with myself, looking proud.

“Don’t get too full of yourself. It was only your personal record. Not a record compared to all my lovers. Hardly,” she said, laughing.

She looked at the computer again and said, “Good news!”

“What’s that?” I asked from my blissful post-climactic haze.

“Your article on nymphomania just got accepted for publication by Ethical Non-Monogamy Magazine!”


“Yes!!!” she squealed, excited. “I think it’s due to the sexy photos I sent to the editor.”

“You sent him sexy photos?”

“I like to be the social lubricant that helps my man get deals done.”

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Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail:

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