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Part I

Mark and Stephanie came over for appetizers before we all were going to go to see a play. Lo had planned this night for the four of us months ago. She was very excited because the play was one that she had heard great things about and she thought that Mark and Stephanie were just the couple to invite to it. My guess was that she had designs on Mark and was hoping to get him into a showdy corner of the dark theater and play a little herself. But what actually happened was way beyond my wildest imaginings.

Lo, as is her practice of primping and prepping, spent most of that lovely summer Friday afternoon cleaning up the house for our guests, making a special dip, stocking the bar, adorning the small tables with bouquets of flowers, and then hopping into the shower. I, for my part, cracked open a beer and watched Lo do all this work in her panties and bra. I hope you, dear reader, don’t get the wrong idea about me. I’d be more than happy to chip in with the chores, but Lo is such a perfectionist that I have learned the hard way over time that it’s best to leave it to her.

As I sat on the living room couch, I heard what could only be described as Lo’s mating call, if mating occurred for her the way it does for komodo dragons, that is, through parthenogenesis, or without the need of a male. Yes, this is a very long-winded way of saying that Lo was fucking herself in the shower with one of her many dildos and calling, to God, to me, to anyone, with her distinctive, “OH GOD! YES! FUCK! YES! YES! YES! YES!” Not quite as poetic as the final paragraph of Joyce’s Ulysses, but the same sentiment. When she got out of the shower and found me sitting on the bed, I wasn’t the only one who was long-winded. She was panting for air since her hot, steamy shower only added to the heavy, humid air of our apartment.

“Thinking of Mark?” I asked snidely.

“Mark, Mike, Matthew, Milton, it doesn’t matter.”

“Allow me to rephrase. Thinking of dick?”

“Many, many dicks,” she said.

I got up off the bed to spank her bottom as she was bending over the sink to wipe down the mirror when I caught a glance into the tub and saw it was populated with not one, but four dildos!

“What the hell did you need four dildos for in there? You only have three orifices to fill.”

“I like to feel wanted,” she said as she set out to blow dry her hair.

“How many times did you cum?”

“Three or four or five.”


“No, deliriously. I used different dildos for different holes and different sorts of orgasms. I used this one,” she said, pointing at the one that was stuck to the tile wall by its suction cup base, “for my puss. Then I added this one in my ass,” she said, indicating her large red double-ended dildo. “And then I used that same one on both my ass and my puss before I used this one,” she said pointing to the horse cock dildo on the floor of the tub.

“What about that one?” I asked, pointing to the black dildo we call “Tommy gun” because it looks like a little machine gun the way the ball sack is attached to it.

“Oh, that one I just held in my hand for fun. You know my motto.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Be happy: jill off, jill often.”

“Well, you’d better clean up your bathtub toys before our guests arrive.”

“Why, were they planning on taking a bath?”

“You never know.”

“That would be fun.”

“I bet you’d like that. But, remember, Mark hasn’t had sex with Stephanie in over a year now.” We knew this from what Stephanie had told me at their Super Bowl party.

“First, that’s not due to any deficiency on his part. And second, even if it was, I know I could help him. I’m a cock whisperer.”

“I think you still aim to ‘help’ him,” I said, knowing that Lo is terribly attracted to Mark.

“So,” she responded, “Why do you think I have so many dildos in the tub? I like to get men hard. I like them to desire me. I like to be what gets them up in the morning and what gives them sweet dreams at night. I want to be a vessel into which men drain their lust.”

“Everyone but the shoemaker’s wife,” I said under my breath.

“What?” she asked as she slipped into her dress.

“Everyone except the shoemaker’s wife,” I said more loudly.

“What the fuck does that mean?” she asked.

I responded, “You have to clean up your language, young lady.”

“Fine, I’ll clean it up. I’ll take out every word except ‘fuck.’”

“You know what I mean.”


“Stop it.”

“Fuck fuck.”

“You’re being vulgar.”

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

“OK, I’ll play your game. What do you want to do tonight?”


“I bet you do. Fuck Mark. Like I said, everyone except the shoemaker’s wife.”

“That’s the third time you said that, now tell me what the fuck it means before I shove this shoe up your ass!” she demanded as she held her high heel in her hand.

“It’s a saying. Everyone gets a new pair of shoes except the shoemaker’s wife. The shoemaker never gets to her because he’s so busy making the shoes for everyone else.”

“And what does that have to do with us?”

“You’re the shoemaker. Everyone gets to drain their lust into you but me.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” she said, feigning playing the violin for me. “You get more than you can handle. Nine out of ten times you deny me. That’s why this shoemaker has to go all around town like the prince letting everyone try on Cinderella’s slipper.”

“Now this metaphor has jumped the shark.”

“Look, if you want some of this,” she said, slapping her pussy over her dress, “all you have to do is ask for it, or better yet, take it!”

“I want it!” I said, lifting up her dress and noticing that she hadn’t put on panties.

“Not now! They’ll be here in a minute or two.”

“I only need thirty seconds. You know that.”

“And people say romance is dead.”

At that moment the doorbell rang. I went to go answer it and Lo called to me and said, “Tell them I’ll be right out. Oh, and put the chips out and the dip. Oh, and can you turn on the Bluetooth speaker to some up-beat music?”

“Sure,” I said, trying to remember all I was supposed to do.

I took out the chips and dip, grabbed Lo’s phone and pulled up Spotify, and turned on the speaker so it played in the living room. Then I let in Mark and Stephanie.

I invited them into the living room and we sat down. “Lo will be right out,” I said as we made polite conversation.

They looked very dapper, all dressed up for the theater. She was wearing cute flats, tight jeans, and a very sheer white top. She doesn’t have very big breasts, but they are perky and she has a cute bob haircut. He was in nice jeans, leather shoes, and a tight fitting black t-shirt under a blazer. It was a dated, slightly “Miami Vice” look, but he can be forgiven since he is from Miami after all.

I offered them drinks and they both gladly elected for the harder stuff, passing over the beer and wine. I was surprised. Before theater events I find I can’t have anything too strong, except coffee, lest I pull a Jack Nicolson and fall asleep during the performance and begin snoring.

As I was entering with drinks in hand, Lo made her stunning appearance. I had seen her little, short black dress, but to see her with the sexy, shiny black heels, her full makeup on, and that smile of hers was really something. I wondered if she was still commando or if she had elected to wear panties. Ah, those perennial philosophical questions that I ponder in my life with Lo.

We sat in the living room talking since we had plenty of time before we had to leave for the play and somehow the conversation turned to the topic of tattoos. I pointed out that neither Lo nor I have any tattoos and we were discussing what and where we’d get them if we chose to do so.

“Do you have any tattoos?” asked Lo of both of them, but she touched Mark’s arm as she asked it.

“Lo, don’t you remember? — We went to the beach with them. I didn’t see any tattoos on either of them,” I interjected.

“Actually,” Mark said, “I do have a tattoo.”

“Na-ah,” said Lo in disbelief, grabbing his arm. “Where?”

“Well, I’m actually not too proud of it.”

“Come on,” she said. “Where?” she asked, turning to Stephanie for a hint.

“There,” said Stephanie, pointing at his crotch.

“Na-ah,” said Lo again. “On his. . . ?”

“No,” said Mark. “Not on it. Just above it.”

“What is it, I have to know,” said Lo.

“If you’re that curious, I’ll show you,” said Mark, standing up and moving to undo his belt buckle, but obviously joking. But Lo didn’t take it as a joke.

“Really?!” she said, the word escaping her mouth faster than her brain realized what she had said and with how much enthusiasm she had said it.

“No,” said Mark. “You don’t really want me to show you, do you?”

Lo unwittingly licked her lips and nodded her head “Yes.”

“Fine,” said Mark, “I’ll show you.” He actually unbuckled his belt.

I suddenly got up and said, “I’m going to refresh my drink. Can I get anyone anything?”

I was met with no answer. I looked at the tableau. There was Lo on the couch on one side of Mark, her head directly level with his pelvis, looking intently. Mark was standing, undoing his belt buckle, a big smile on his face. And Stephanie was sitting on the other side of Mark, almost unable to see the action, her legs crossed, a slight frown on her lips, watching her husband’s movements in front of this woman who was over ten years her junior.

I was in the kitchen and I suddenly heard Lo’s admiring voice coo, “Wow! Impressive!”

When I returned to the living room, Mark was buckling up his belt.

“So, why an eagle?” asked Lo, now touching his knee.

“I was in college, I was drunk, and I thought that. . . now this is really embarrassing.”

“Out with it,” demanded Lo.

“I was into the symbolism of spirit animals and I felt that the eagle was my spirit animal and this,” he said, running his hand across the top of his pelvis, “was the seat of my spirit.”

Lo did her best not to giggle and to really stroke his ego (though she wanted to stoke something else, I’m sure). But then she said abruptly, “Oh, fuck, I forgot, I have to send a quick email for work.”

I was confused and I saw her grab her phone and scurry off. “I’ll be right back. Just five minutes. Promise. I just have to take care of this little bit of business.”

OH! I thought, Is that what she’s up to now. You see, “TCB — Taking Care of Business,” is our little code for her masturbating. That’s what she texts me when she can’t come to the phone because she’s busy cumming to something else.

And just as quickly as that revelation hit me, a second, more menacing one alighted, “She took her phone. Oh, shit!”

But that second realization was just a bit too late in arriving. She must have already gotten into the bedroom or bathroom, took down her panties, if she was wearing any at all, and already found a dirty little video to watch because suddenly the music on the Bluetooth speaker switched to the sounds of two (or more) people fucking. Yes. Right there in the living room, the pornographic soundtrack filled the air like an ambient disembodied orgiastic orchestra.

“Ha ha,” I fumbled, “must be a random connection crossing paths with our wireless.” I jumped to shut off the speaker and couldn’t find the confounded button fast enough! Finally, in the awkward silence, we sat just sort of looking at each other as I struggled to fill the air that was now devoid of sex sounds but pregnant with nothing. Small talk into the void, I thought, not finding the words that would penetrate those deafening drawn out moments of muted embarrassment. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, that shriek of Lo’s climax cut the stillness with “Oh FUCK!”

“I’ll just go to check to make sure everything’s ok,” I said, in haste to remove myself not only from the living room, but, if possible, from the continent.

“LO!” I whispered as I entered the bedroom and found her with her dress up over her waist, one of her dildos up her crotch, on hand manipulating it as her other held her phone as she was kneeling on the bed. She scampered to make it look like she wasn’t up to no good, but there was no evading her shenanigans.

“What?!” she angrily asked, also in a whisper.

“They heard you. They heard everything.”


“Yes. The porn, the orgasm, all of it. Now, put your toy down and get out here. Oh, and make up some sort of an excuse.”

I returned to our guests, looking as if nothing was wrong and said, “Oh, Lo just, er, dropped her computer on her foot.”

“Is she ok?” asked Stephanie, seeing right through the ruse.

“Oh yeah,” I said, waiving my hand as if to say, nothing to worry about.

No sooner had I done that than Lo came out, in her heels, smiling, and she said, “Sorry about that, I just found out that something terrible happened at work.”

“How’s your foot?” asked Stephanie.

“My foot?” asked Lo, perplexed. “Fine.”

“We were all worried,” I said, “about the computer you dropped on it.”

“Computer I. . .” she began.

If I could have stepped on her foot to give her the hint, I would have, but as it was, I think my eyes were saying everything.

“Oh yeah,” said Lo, “my foot’s fine. Just a little bruise,” she said. “Will you rub it?” she asked me as she sat on the couch and took off her heel and put her foot up on my lap.

“I thought you rubbed it.” I said, accusatorily.

“Oh, I did. I did rub it, but it still hurts,” she said. “It needs more rubbing,” she added, and I could just hear her saying, “Daddio,” but she kept that to herself, thankfully.

She shook her foot, as if to demand my attention, and I said, “Wasn’t it your other foot Lo?” just to mess with her.

“No, silly,” she said, “I think I know which foot I dropped my computer on.”

So I began caressing her foot. We all continued our little chat, but this time without any ambient music.

Eventually it was time to go and we went to see the play.

[Excerpt from the story, “In the Next Room,” from the blog:]

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

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