It was a week of Christmas travel and we visited four east coast cities that week. Maybe all the travel spun me out of sorts. I don’t know but Tuesday night I told her I was tired and she jacked it in the bed next to me. Wednesday, much the same thing happened. And then on Thursday, to my surprise (and maybe in order to jump-start my engine), Lo bought tickets for us to go see “The Slutcracker” — a burlesque rendition of Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker. We had wanted to see it last winter, but it was so popular that it sold out before we could get tickets. Well, this year we scored tickets and went to the show. I will say, from a strictly aesthetic perspective, it was very well done. The dancing was well choreographed and executed. The costumes were imaginative and showed a lot of flesh. And the adaptation of the story was fantastic! Basically, rather than the classic tale of Uncle Drosselmeyer’s presenting Clara with a nutcracker that, in her dreams, comes to life, in this adaptation Aunt Drosselmeyer presents the newly engaged Clara with a bridal shower gift of a vibrator. Rather than Drosselmeyer and the nutcracker taking Clara on a magical journey through strange lands in order to facilitate her growth from childhood to womanhood, in this adaptation the vibrator comes to life and leads the sexually repressed and conventional Clara on a magical tour of various possibilities and permutations of sexual pleasure — from self-pleasure to multiorgasmic orgiastic festivals. In “The Slutcracker,” Clara returns to her groom a sexually awakened woman who is ready to explore with him the vast sea of fantasy and reality now opened to them both through the encouragement of her fairy god mother, Drosselmeyer.

Throughout the performance all manner of sexual innuendo and allusion were very seductively portrayed. I don’t know the effect all this had on Lo — who herself had dressed in a theme-appropriate getup — but it had next to no effect upon me. I took delight in the spectacle as purely an aesthetic phenomenon and nothing more. It appealed to my more salacious sense not a wit. I was libidinously limp to it all. I may as well have been Schopenhauer before Canova’s “Cupid and Psyche.”

After the performance, by mere coincidence, Lo and I met up with some friends who also happened to be there and we went out for some beers. While we were all talking about the show, Lo let out that she just loved the adapted storyline because, basically, “it’s the story of my life.” Perhaps, I thought, but only if Clara is her original 14 year old character.

At the bar I got far more intoxicated than I had anticipated and when we got back to the hotel early the next morning, Lo tried her best to rouse me so I could feed her famished sexual appetite, but to no avail. I simply fell right to sleep. For the two or three brief hours that I was nominally asleep I had many strange dreams involving Lo. This lovely little nymph was lying naked next to me in the bed and my hands and pelvis rubbed up and down her soft body unconsciously. I recall having some dreams and thoughts about how lucky I was to have this little Clara for my very own as I, an old Uncle Drosselmeyer, cast a spell upon her such that I was able to touch and imbibe her ripe, delicious, and forbidden fruit. These and other such dreams made for a tormented and unsatisfactory sleep. Why, in my semi-conscious state on the threshold of sleep, was I able to be fully erect in my fantasy world? Why, in complete wakefulness, was I impotent?

The next morning Lo awoke and was in a frisky mood, as usual. She grabbed at my loins and wanted to take me in her mouth, but I was rushing off to a meeting, already having overslept my alarm. “Please, Daddy,” she pleaded, on her knees. She could see by the look in my eye that there was no seducing me that morning. She reached in her travel bag and pulled out the largest dildo of her collection. She took it and got up to get into the shower. I heard the water stream and could see the steam wafting from the door. Her screams punctuated the otherwise silent morning and, as I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, she pulled the curtain back to give me a keen view of her on her knees in the tub, the dildo forced all the way up her tiny cunt, water jets from the hand-held showerhead shooting onto her clit. She looked up at me, as she rode her dildo and streamed steamy water on her clit, in such a way as to try and make me jealous of the various devices to which she made passionate love. She climaxed as I stood over her.

I departed into the bedroom to get dressed. A few moments later, when I went back into the bathroom to brush my hair, she again pulled back the shower curtain to reveal that she had taken the suction-cupped dildo and stuck it to the white tile wall of the shower and was now being fucked by the massive dick as she bent over and rammed her buttocks hard down the long, thick shaft of the appendage, all the way down to the prosthetic testicles, and her ass smacked against the smooth tiles. Her right hand was between her legs, rapidly fingering her clit as her left hand held the intensely pulsating jet spray, focusing it like a laser on her pussy lips. She came again and again, telling me that she was squirting all over that monster cock.

I ran my fingers through my hair and left for my meeting. All the way down the hall I could hear her screams, as could the rest of the hotel guests.

[Excerpt from the story, “Beauty & the Beasts,” from the blog:]

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

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