Masturbation Marathon

Lo and I were in the living room, sitting on opposite ends of the couch. She was looking at her phone. I sat with my laptop open, reading emails, when suddenly, up popped an email in our shared account. Unlike most of our fan mail, it wasn’t directed to Lo, it was addressed to me. And it had a few photos attached. Sexy photos. Of my female fan.

“What are you looking at?” Lo asked, never one to be unobservant.

“Nothing,” I clumsily lied.

“What do you mean nothing?”

“Just an email,” I said, telling the truth, trying to pass it off as nothing.

“Let me see,” she said, scooting over, closer to me, suspicious.

How does she do that? How does she know when something is amiss?

My heart was racing. She gets so jealous.

There was nothing to do but give in to the inevitable.

I showed her the email and the photos.

“Nothing huh? Who is she?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. Just a fan. A connoisseur of fine literature. A grateful reader. A woman of exquisite taste in art.”

“You really don’t know who she is?”

“I swear.”

“She just wrote to you for the first time?”


“You haven’t carried on a correspondence with her?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“You like her?”

“What do you mean, like her?”

“You find her attractive?”

That is a very dangerous question. The female author of the epistle in question was, in point of fact, appealing. As her missive made clear, she was a wife and mother whose sex life had fallen fallow in the past few years as the children occupied more of her time and energy. But reading about my sex life with Lola had rekindled something deep down inside her and she just wanted to show me exactly where it was rekindled.

“She’s not unattractive,” I said, attempting to be as neutral as possible.

“Let’s play a little game,” said Lo. I was quizzical. “I’ll go through photos of our fans and you tell me if you find them sexy. But let’s do it in the bedroom.”


“Yeah, just be honest,” she said as she walked down the hall.

“Are you trying to get me deeper in the hole?” I asked, following behind her.

“Depends on which hole you mean.”


“Let’s start,” she said as she took out her computer and went to her special stash of emails and photos. She unzipped my pants and grabbed onto my flaccid member as she pulled up photo after photo. Honestly, I was too scared to get hard.

After about five or ten, she paused and looked at me a moment.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Lo, you know perfectly well what’s wrong. For years now, you’ve made the nature of our relationship clear. Now you want me to look at other women? I think that I’m being set-up.”

“No no no,” she said with a smile. “I’m just feeling like changing things up a bit.”

“You know, I could get just as hard looking at photos of men who’ve sent you cumtributes.”

“Well, maybe I’ll throw in a few of those as well. But don’t be bashful. Let’s keep on playing.”

She scrolled through scores of sexy photos and, for each one she gave me a bit of backstory, telling me the names of each woman and a bit of bio.

“That’s Floss,” she said.

“Yes, I know Floss,” I responded as she went through photo after sexy photo of her.

“And this is Karla.”

“I know Karla too. In fact I wrote about her.”

“Yes, that’s right. Did you know her hubby, Chris, gets off to me when he has her at home?”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“This is the author, Larry Archer’s wife.”

“Is she a fan?”

“I don’t know, but I’m a fan of hers. . . and his!”

“And this is. . .” The list went on-and-on. With each new set of photos that Lo opened from her password-protected fap file, she grew a little more excited. If she was a guy (and she sure acts like one), she would have had a raging hard-on at this point. I have no doubt that her clit was fully tumid. She was reaching for it.

“Um, can you give me a minute?” she asked.


“Here,” she said, passing me the Stoya Destroya vagina. “You can use this if you want to wank. But only use my photos.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna have me a wank too.”

“But you want me to leave.”

“Yeah, is that ok?”

“Um no. Not really.”

“Just give me a little while.”

She got out of bed to escort me to the door as she got out of her clothes. She put her panties on the doorknob as if she had a paramour over, but it was just her and her fingers, toys, and binders full of women.

I went back to the living room, confused, carrying my vagina. Well, Stoya’s vagina. Carrying a vagina.

I returned to the bedroom and knocked on the door furtively.

“What?” she asked, not opening the door.

“Lube,” I said. “You didn’t give me the lube.”

The door opened a crack. I saw her standing naked. She looked good. Her arm extended, dropping the tube of lube in my hands.

“OK?” she asked, shutting the door.

I walked away again.

Finding my way onto the couch, I began writing — this story.

Lo’s orgasmic arias were audible throughout the house. They rose and fell, crescendo, decrescendo. So many ups and downs I lost count. I looked at the vagina sitting next to me and said, “It’s bad enough she needs more from me. Don’t you just sit there and look despondent at me that she’s getting all the action. It’s not my fault you don’t have arms, hands, or fingers to help yourself out.”

Finally, I made use of Stoya, more for her sake than mine. She looked so sad there.

I came, one brief onanistic climax, looking at Lo’s photos on the internet while Lo, in the flesh, was having a grand old time fucking herself just down the hallway. I got up to do the proper aftercare cleaning of Stoya in the second bathroom and saw Lo’s panties still prominently displayed on the doorknob as Lo went at it.

I returned to the couch and took a long nap.

I was woken up by the feeling of Lo’s lips on my flaccid cock.

“What are you doing?”

“Cock-warming,” she said as she lay naked on the couch between my legs, looking up at me.

“You want something?”

“No, Daddy.”


“I’m sore.”

“What the hell was going on in there?”

“You really want to know?”


“Well, I started off jilling to the women I was showing you, but then I was into the cumtributes I’ve been getting. I’m such a slut.”


“No, you don’t know why I’m saying that.”

“Do tell.”

“Well, I guess it’s bad enough that I am not faithful to you.”

“I don’t mind. . . usually.”

“But I have a sort of internet boyfriend.”

“What is that?”

“You know, like a work wife or a work husband.”

“You mean when people become overly chummy with people they work with?”

“Yeah, like that, but in my case, it’s with people I’ve met online.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I’ve been cheating on one of them with another guy.”

“I’m sure they don’t expect monogamy from you, dear.”

“Yeah, they’re both married themselves.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“That’s just it!”


“Do you think I have a problem?”

“Other than being a nymphomaniacal, egomaniacal hotwife attention whore?”

“Yeah, other than that.”

“No, not at all.”


“If your biggest problem is that you’re sexting with someone behind the back of your long-distance lover while shutting me out of the bedroom so you can fist-fuck yourself because you’re turned on by your fandom, well, hey, we all should be that lucky!”

“I love you, Daddy,” she said, before returning to cock-warming me.

“Want to watch a movie?”

“Sure. What?”

“How about Boogie Nights? Have you ever seen it?”


“Oh, then you’re in for a treat.”

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

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