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As I sat in bed, reading my book, Lo was lying next to me, climaxing to the sensation of her fingers between her legs and who-knows-what thoughts in her mind. When she was done, I asked her, “What were you thinking about?”

“If you’re not going to fuck me, I’m not going to tell you.”

“Well, Lo, I’m not going to fuck you. I came twice today and you should know by now what the implications of that are for you.”

You should know by now what the implications of that are for you,” she repeated back to me in a nasally, snide tone mimicking me. “Yeah, well, you used to be good for three.”

“On occasion, Lo, on occasion.”

“Well, isn’t this an occasion? Look at this,” she said, pulling the covers down, spreading her legs, pulling her wet fingers up from between them and placing them deep in her mouth where she seductively licked them clean.

“Lo, you are wasting your time. You might as well be with a eunuch.”

“Grrrrrr!” she growled in frustration. “When you die, remind me to never ever date an older man. . . unless he’s filthy rich.”

“Why don’t you go marry that filthy rich old man now, and keep me on the side?”

“Keep you on the side? For what? You’re not even able to fuck me three times in a day. You know I require more than that.”

“You’ll keep me on the side because you can’t live without me.”

“Can’t live without you? I’ll have you know, I’m a very independent gal and I could do just fine on my own.”

“Well, you can’t live without cock.”

“That’s a different story. But I can get cock anytime I want.”

“But it’s the cock you can’t get that you want the most.”

“I only want you’re cock, Daddy,” she said, changing her tune and grabbing the object of her desire.

“You want my cock because it’s handy. If it weren’t, any would do.”

“That’s not true! You know that even when I masturbate, I’m thinking of you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said with a laugh.

“Like just now. I was thinking of you.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You have to pry it out of me.”

“That’s exactly what you want, isn’t it?” She smiled her lusty smirk. “Why don’t you read a book or something? We could read next to each other.”

“Fine!” she huffed. She pulled out her phone.

“What are you reading?” I inquired.

“I’m going to read about my favorite subject.”

“You?”

“Yes. I’m going to read the blog.” She opened it up and began reading “Daddy’s Desire.”

After a few minutes she asked, “What do you mean by ‘Daddy issues’?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Well, I want to know what that phrase means for you.”

“Lo, Roland Barthes argues that a reader searching for the author’s intentions places a limit on the multivalence of meaning. I am not about to place that limit on the text. Just because you have the author right here doesn’t mean that you should access that resource.”

“Oh please,” she said sarcastically, “I think I’m going to Barthe.”

“Funny.”

“Asking the author isn’t a limit, it’s a lens, it’s a critical methodology.”

“Yeah, one that Barthes rejects as reductionist! You really should read Barthes’ ‘Death of the Author.’”

“I don’t have to read it, I can make that happen!”

“I love you,” I said with a smile.

“Why?” — her perennial question.

“Because you make me laugh.”

“See, it’s you who couldn’t live without me.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I know I’m right.”

“You still should read Barthes. You might learn something.”

“You’re being so pompous. I used to love to hate that about you. Now I hate that I love that about you.”

“Well, are you going to tell me, or what?” I asked.

“Tell you what?”

“What you were thinking about when you were masturbating just now.”

“I already told you — you!”

“I want specifics.”

“Get over here and I’ll give you specifics.”

I finally caved. I curled up next to her.

“Closer,” she said.

I slid closer.

“Right here,” she said as she moved me between her legs.
“That’s better,” she said. “Now, take down your pants.”

I did as told.

“And get inside me.”

I slid in.

“Happy now?” I asked, my mouth up against her ear.

“Much better. Fill me up.”

I pushed just a little further, a little deeper. “Now, will you tell me?”

“I was thinking about going up to the mountains for the New Year.” We had planned on taking a winter vacation to visit our friends Hollis and Carl. They’re in their forties and have three kids. We were planning on staying with them for an extended ski weekend.

“What about it?” I asked.

“I was thinking about how I’d wear my tight yoga pants and my sexy tank top around the house. Do you think Carl would find that attractive?”

“You’re bad, darling,” I said.

“I know, Daddy. Do you think he’ll be distracted?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Do you think it will upset Hollis?”

“Very likely.” Her excitement at the prospect was mounting.

“Are you mad at me?”

“You’re a bad, bad girl.”

“I know. I can’t help it.”

“You see, you weren’t thinking about me at all.”

“That’s not true, Daddio,” she whispered in my ear, “I was thinking of you. I want to be bad for you.”

She came — just like that. She came as if a switch of high-voltage power were suddenly turned on for a few seconds and then, just as quickly, shut off. Bam!

“Now I want you to cum,” she whispered from her state of delirium.

“I’m not going to cum.”

“I want you to.”

“I’m not going to. I came too much already. I overcame.”

I pulled out. I lay next to her. I looked at her.

“What?” she asked, annoyed.

“Lo, you’re very bad.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It just turns me on. It’s not my fault.”

I got up out of the bed and began putting on my clothes.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

“I have to go back to the office.”

“What?! Why?”

“I have a client. Are you mad?”

“I wanted to be with you all day.”

“You miss me?”

“No. I want you.”

“But, we’re going on vacation tomorrow and. . .”

“I’m spoilt and I know it!”

“Oh, but now you’re finally admitting to it?”

“No,” she said, indeed, just as a spoiled child would.

“You admit to being high maintenance?”

“Oh, leave me alone.”

“That’s the problem — you don’t want me to leave you alone.”

“Screw you.”

“I intend to screw you, just as soon as I get back.”

“That’s better.”

“But sometimes you have to let go of what you want in order to get what you want.”

“Pompous ass!”

[From the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]

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Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail: downloladown@gmail.com

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