Member-only story
[Read the story here with all the photos and illustrations.]
The perennial question: Does art imitate life or life imitate art?
“Daddy,” Lo said, as she was lying down in bed. It was one of those rare mornings that she woke up before I and was already engaged in her favorite activity — pleasuring herself to something on her phone — “I’m reading ‘Paint me like one of your slutty girls,’ and I want you to know how much your writing turns me on.”
“That’s nice, Lo,” I said, slowly opening my eyes.
She was in her red top and matching red bottom satin pajamas, one hand down between her legs under the satin, the other holding her phone.
“You know,” I said further, “that story has nothing to do with me.”
“Yes, but you wrote it.”
“About you and your admirer and his obsession with you.”
“That’s what I love about it.”
She brought her hand out from under her satin shorts and licked her fingers before replacing her hand on her crotch.
I reached my left hand over and placed it between her legs so I could feel her fingers moving and her hand pumping up and down as she inserted her fingers to her hole. I tried to slide my hand under her satin bottoms and she said…