There were ten of us sitting around a rectangular table in one of the swanky restaurants downtown. Though we all had the host as a mutual friend, we weren’t all acquainted with each other. Lo was nestled between me and a tall gentleman who had a shock of curly brown hair. They exchanged pleasantries and he informed her that he is a book reviewer for the local paper. Lo was intrigued. They began discussing literature and at one point he turned to her and, looking directly at her (while conveniently ignoring my presence), he said, “Lolita is my absolute favorite novel.”
“Really?” Lo asked as she flipped back her hair, returned his stare, and shot a flash of her seductive smile at him. “Why is that?”
“Because it’s, hands down, the best depiction of obsession ever written,” he said without a moment of forethought. I felt myself growing petulant at his treading upon my literary territory. He then added, “Obsession and infatuation. . . with language.”
This little snippet of conversation reverberated again and again in my mind the entire next day. Obsession and infatuation. . . with language. When I think of Lo, and that is pretty much always, I think of her body, her impetuous sexuality, her radiating attraction to all she meets, her unquenchable capacity for sex. . . and I long to translate that matter into form, energy into elevated language, longing into literature.
All day at work I dreamt of the syllables I would alliterate, the scenes I would sketch, the songs I would sing. But I was bombarded by a barrage of Porlockian intruders who did their very best to distract me from my literary lusts.
Lo and I had another dinner engagement for that night and, getting home late, she informed me that if I didn’t hurry we’d be tardy. She had arrived only moments earlier herself, and we were in the bedroom changing out of our work clothes and into our dress clothes. I had removed my shirt and was in the process of unbuckling my belt when I looked over my shoulder and saw her in nothing but her black bra and black, silk panties. Her breasts were full and curvaceous; her hips rounded and inviting. I slid out my belt with that sound the belt makes that drives her wild, dropped my pants, and attacked her with full force. I brought her to the bed, buried my mouth in the curve of her neck where it meets the shoulder and drenched her in open-mouth kisses. Her legs instinctually rose at the knees and I slid off her panties, grasped for the clasp of her bra and removed it and I slid my ready-rod into her wet and waiting womanhood.
She came four times in rapid succession. Then I flipped her over — her face buried in the blankets as she stood, bent over the side of the bed, and I went at her from behind. I saw her beautiful black panties lying on the bed by her head and I grabbed them. I stretched them from ear to ear on her so that they were a gag over her mouth. I pulled back on it as if it were a bridle on a horse as I rode her ass from behind. She grinded her hips into my thrusting pelvis. Eventually I let go of the panties in favor of wrapping my right hand around her long hair as if it were the reins of my mare. Her mouth now free she said, “What kind of sick fuck are you?! — Gagging me with my own panties?” I continued pounding her. She let out a few moans. Then she said, “You know what’s sicker? I like it. I like the wetness of my panties from my dripping pussy. I was so wet all day. I like smelling my own juices. I like tasting myself as you fuck me. Fuck me harder, Daddy. Make me cum again. Fuck me!”
I gave her what she asked for. She was secreting all over my cock and the inside of her thighs; dripping down both her legs and my own. Oh, how she screamed when she came the last time. I pulled out just as she did and I ejaculated upon her back in voluminous spurts — the first landing just at the nape of her neck; the second on the middle of her back; the remainder dribbled out between the two lovely dimples above her hips.
“Oh Daddy,” she said, “you’ve made me a dirty girl.”
She got dressed — no shower — and we went to our engagement. She had a knowing smile on her face all night as she exuded sex and smelled like the thick, sultry aroma that faintly resembles pancake batter.
[Excerpt from “Obsession & Infatuation,” from the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]