Morning. Silence. The sun has not yet risen. A bird chirps alone outside my window. Probably a baby bird waking its mother, no doubt. Hungry. In the dim stillness the sound of my fingers on the keyboard pecking away as I compose yet another ode to Lo. My e-mail is open, hidden behind my Word screen. I hear my computer chirp its own hungry sound as something arrives in my in-box. Who could be writing to me now at this ungodly hour? I check it out. There’s a missive from Lo, short enough to have been straight out of the period of Morse Code. “I require laying.” Stop. That’s all it says. I now know she’s awake in the bedroom. Horny. Wet. And wanting. I ponder the possibilities a moment. Do Lo and abandon my story of/for her, or ignore her and. . . . Wait. There’s another chirping from my computer. Another telegram from Lo. “And/or a set of Double A batteries.” I search. There’s a pair of Double A’s in the remote. I take them out and go to Lo.
Cracking the door, I see her naked body silhouetted against the pale window of the bedroom that faces east and the sunrise. She smiles, mischievously. But it’s not such a mystery what she wants and what makes her smile. Her hands are at work under her hips, manipulating her clit. “Here’s your batteries. I’m writing,” I say with a faux dismissiveness.
“Oh Daddy,” she begins in her pleading whisper, “But I’d so much rather have you.”
“Nothing doing. I haven’t had my coffee yet.”
She rolls over with a sigh and a pout.
I return to the quiet of the living room, but I’m distracted by the silence. I listen intently. A minute. Two. Three. Yes, there it is — the sound of Lo’s orgasm. Didn’t take long. I know she’s being loud purposefully. It’s her mating call. It’s her Siren song.
I play with the thought. Yes. Yes, that’s good. I like that. The thought, that is. I’m imagining what devilish fun it would be to deny Lo my manhood for a week and only indulge in interludes with her in my imagination. Deny her all physical pleasure. Deny myself as well. Mainly it’s the self-denial that allures me since I am intrigued by the thought of restricting my indulgences to only my words. But the thought of Lo going out of her mind with distraction delights me. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Is that how it goes? But with Lo it should be: Spare the rod, cajole the child right into temptation. Yes. What would she do? Jill it? But of course. Would she be reduced to taking ads out on Craigslist again? Calling strangers? Going down on men at clubs? Oh, to what depths will she plunge?
I decide this is a good week to deny her.
After her orgasmic groans fade away, I walk down the hallway to my little insatiable nymph and crack the door. “Lo, I’m telling you right now; I’m on the wagon.”
Swooooosh! She throws a pillow at me! I duck out of the way just in time. She pouts again and says, “Fine! I don’t need you.” She pulls out her little silver bullet battery operated vibrator and her ginormous red dildo and begins going to work on her puss a second time. All before sunrise, mind you.
When I get undressed to take my shower, she sits on the edge of the bed and fondles herself as her tongue glides over her sparkling teeth, her lips parted. I deny her.
When I get out of the shower, wet and dripping, she is on all fours on the bed, first facing me and then turning around wagging what would be her tail at me, naked, fingering her pussy and ass, enticing me to come to her with my glimmering cock. I deny her.
When I get dressed, she thrusts her hand down my pants. She grabs and says, “Oooh, Daddy.” I deny her.
During the day I get texts and pictures from her, showing and telling the nasty things she’s doing alone at home on the bed. I ignore her.
When I get home and pull the belt out from around my waist, she says, “Spank me Daddy, I’ve been bad.” I refuse her.
When she makes my dinner, she does so naked, taking every opportunity to bend over. I admire her.
When she sits down to eat, she pulls my foot up between her crotch to feel her wet pussy. I admonish her.
When we sit down on the couch and watch TV, she spreads her legs before the bay windows. I can’t help but look at her.
When she pulls and tugs at her pussy lips and asks me nicely to pet her, I can’t help but to give in to her.
When she fingers her pussy and asks me to lick her fingers clean, I acquiesce to her.
And then, then, just when I’m on the brink, her phone rings. Who is it, but Sylvia. Lo says, “Oh, hi.” Pause as Sylvia says something. “Oh no, we were just on the couch watching TV. Don’t worry. No you’re not interrupting anything.” Lo talks as her fingers fidget up and down the length of her pussy. I get on my knees on the floor and push her fingers out of the way and take her luscious, large pussy lips in my mouth and I lick them up and down, just as she was just doing for herself with her fingers. Lo’s head drops back. She continues talking. Nothing arouses me as much as Lo’s voice. I hear her sighing, but trying to keep the conversation going. Sylvia is going on and on about Clyde. I don’t know what she’s saying, but Lo, instead of ushering the conversation to a close, encourages the girl to go on. . . and on. I lick, I suck, I nibble and Lo is squirming on the couch, a small puddle accumulating on the leather. She turns to the side to sigh and let out a small scream. She whispers to me, “I’m cumming. Yes, Daddy, I’m cumming. Stop. No, I need you to stop.” Stop is supposed to be our safe word, but there are strong stops and soft stops. This is a soft stop. I continue. She cums — all over my face.
[Excerpt from the story, “The House-call,” from the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]