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I find that retaining my semen, my man-juices, my testosterone — actually I’m not sure of the science behind this, if any — keeps me “on edge.” It keeps my spirits high, my senses sharp. It helps buoy me through the rough times and spur me to greater achievement during the good times. But this time I wasn’t doing it so much for my own mental health as I was doing it to punish and school Lo.

Per usual, she hemmed and hawed, batted her eyes, begged and pleaded for me to abandon my celibacy vow. But I solemnly refused to renege. This did not daunt her too much. Many-a-time I have made such an announcement only for it to prove to be empty breath later. However, on this occasion, I was determined to win her over through benevolent neglect. I laid down my words with resolve, with firmness and rigidity. No matter her entreaties, I would not capitulate to her whims.

This proved far more difficult than I had envisioned — for her, not for me. A few days after my self-imposed celibacy, she came home and said that she went to her OB-GYN because of a symptom. Her doctor said that she had “vulvodynia, ” — unexplained pain of the vulva — or more specifically, “Vulvular Vestibulitis” (pain and inflammation of the vulva) but Lo, upon relating to the doctor that she frequently pleasured herself by pulling and stretching her pussy lips, slapping her clam, and generally increasing the levels of her self-inflicted genital pain in order to bring herself to orgasm, was then given strict orders to “refrain from masturbation altogether for a period of two weeks” and then go back for a follow-up.

This prescription sent Lo into funk like I had never seen before. “What good is the cure,” she asked, “if I can’t cum?”

I was, of course, aware to some extent of her nocturnal practices, for she had been grabbing my cock in the middle of the night and stroking it as she masturbated, saying “I feel like I have my own cock.” Or, other times, she woke me from my slumbers saying: “Daddy, can I suck your dick?”

“No,” I’d say.


“No, it’s late.”

“I’m so bad, Daddy. Spank me, punish me.”

“No, Lo. It will just have the opposite effect. It will be pleasure, not punishment. Go to sleep!”

“PLEASE, Daddy, just once. Spank me.”

I will give Lo credit for following doctor’s orders. . . for one day. The next day I came home from work and as my keys were still jingling before I even had the chance to slide the steel into its slot, the door opened and there was Lo, standing before me in her panties and black satin negligée, barefoot, carrying me a perfectly poured beer with a frothy head on the top in a frosted mug. “Hello Daddy,” she said with a peck on the cheek.

“What have you been up to, Lo?” I asked, accepting the beer.

She grabbed my briefcase and ushered me in, saying, “Oh, nothing, Daddy. I just missed you so.” As she said that she positioned herself strategically on the couch and began stroking her pussy.

“Lo, you haven’t even shut the blinds,” I said as I saw people walking by on their way home from work.

“Never you mind them, Daddy,” she said, “You just relax. Let’s get you out of those work clothes,” she said as she got on her knees. She then begged, pleaded, whined, and generally groveled for me to let her take me in her mouth, “Just for five minutes. That’s it. I promise,” she said, speaking as fast as her hands were fidgeting with my belt and pant snaps, like a frantic child opening presents on Christmas morning.

Now, many of you may wonder why I don’t just give Lo all she wants. Assuming I was capable of such abounding and prodigious virility, you fail to comprehend that it still would not be enough. Lo is an admitted sex-addict. Giving a nymphomaniac more of what she wants does not surfeit the sex drive. No. Rather, it merely feeds the flame, fanning it into a full-fledged conflagration. And that’s what I had on my hands now. It was either give her what she wants or see her stroke herself into the ER.

She removed my pants and went down on me as I sat there, a beer in one hand, my other hand on her thick shock of long black hair, bobbing up and down on my hard rod. “Oh, Daddy, do you like?” she asked as she came up for air.

“Yes Lo, I like.”

After a while of this she looked up and saw that my beer was all gone. “Let me get you another one,” she said, as she danced her way out of the room. I got up to follow her and just as I came into the kitchen I must have startled her because she had just popped the cap off the bottle and the contents surged up and streamed out over her hands and onto the floor. “How clumsy of me, Daddy,” she said, and she then got on her hands and knees to clean up the mess she had made, fully aware of my presence as her audience. After cleaning up she told me that she too had had a beer before I got home and now she had to ‘powder her nose.’ “You want to watch?” she asked seductively.

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I followed Lo to the loo where she sat on the seat and pulled me in to her to take my manhood in her mouth again — taking me in as she let go. She then got up and, as she bent over the sink to wash her hands I mounted her from behind, taking her by surprise. Her hands tightly gripped the sides of the sink, trying desperately to hold herself in place as I rammed my shaft into her sheath with great force again and again. In the mirror I could see her face grimace with pain and pleasure. She too was looking in the mirror, her eyes glancing down trying to see my torso and waist as I propped her up with my cock.

After she came, dripping all over my spear as I impaled her, her knees buckled and she could hardly stand, placing all her weight on the porcelain sink. I slid out of her and she fled to the bed where she spread her legs and begged me to have her once more. I complied with her wishes, though it was in gross violation of her prescribed remedy.

When we were done, I was drifting off to sleep after having refused Lo a third romp. There was only so much violation of the good doctor’s orders I was willing to be accomplice to. She was now fondling her enlarged lower lips for the last time of the night, but, in her frustration that I was denying her the ultimate object of her obsession, she said to me, “Do you realize how good you got it?! Do you? Do you know how many men dream of coming home from work, finding a hot woman in her most sexy lingerie carrying him a cold beer, leading him to the boudoir, dropping her panties as she sits on the toilette, taking his cock in her mouth, pulling his hips close in to her face so his cock is thrust half-way down her throat, face-fucking him for fifteen minutes (almost getting lock-jaw in the process) crawling into bed, pleading with him to fuck her wet, waiting pussy, telling him as he proceeds to fuck her, that she wants him to cum on her face so she can lick his cum from around her mouth, having him cum on her as she requested, and then allowing him to drift off to sleep while she pleasures herself. Do you? Do you?!”

“Oh, yes, Lo,” I said, “I know. You’re the bestest.”

[Excerpt from the story, “Hardball,” from the blog:]

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

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