Sex is the Best Medicine

“OK — now, Daddy?” she asked eagerly.

“You really want this?”

She nodded vigorously.

“Please,” she begged, drawing out the “ee” vowel long and whiney, like a child.

I tilted my head down in consent, like Zeus granting the wish of Thetis as she pleaded at his knees for him to grant her favor, and Lo’s eyes lit up and she kissed me on the cheek, exclaiming, “Thank you, Daddy!”

No sooner had she received her permission than she was on the phone with Hunter, telling him that I had conceded to her desire to meet with him here, in our home, and to fuck him here, in our bed. Lo was naked and squirming over the sheets, her left hand holding the phone to her ear, her right between her legs pressing down on her clit.

She went on for some time having phone sex with Hunter while I sat, uncomfortably hard, next to her, hearing her every salacious word. He told her what he would do to her when he got here and, with each debauched and debasing deed he suggested, Lo took it one step further, one peg more perverted. If he said, “I’ll caress your soft breasts,” she said, “Will you pull my nipples?” If he said, “I will rub your pussy with my hand,” she asked, “Will you slap my pussy lips hard?” If he said “I will bend you over the bed and fuck your pussy till it’s sore,” she asked, “Will you have my ass and alternate between it and my puss?” When he said I’ll cum all over you, she said, “I’ll get on my knees and you’ll cum on my face and I’ll lick it up like the good cum-bucket that I am.”

When she got off the phone, I got between her wet legs and said, “You really have a calling.”

“What?” she said, confused.

“A calling, a vocation.”

“And what would that be?” she asked as she spread herself wide for me to lap up the juices she had squirted on her labia and thighs.

“Your calling is calling. I mean, you should be a phone-sex worker. You do it so well and your voice is incredibly hot!”

I dove in.

When I was done and I was sitting next to her, she said to me, “I wish I could be a phone-sex worker; I’m broke till January cause none of my student loans come through till next semester. But I’ll get a really good job soon and take care of you. I can sell my body.”

“That would be a real sacrifice for you,” I said sarcastically.

She laughed and reassured me, “My heart is only for you.”

“But your cunt is for everyone.”

“That’s right,” she said with a smile as she took out her phone to look at more pictures of Hunter.

I tried to get in between her legs and enter her with my stiff rod. To my surprise she pushed me away.

“I’m sorry, Daddy-o, I just can’t now. I’m too sore.”

I won’t deny it, I was let down and shocked. I rolled over like a disgruntled curmudgeon. (Who am I kidding with the simile? I am a disgruntled curmudgeon.) I went to sleep hoping that my very visible displeasure would register with Lo and she’d beg to have me. I woke up an hour or so later, squinting from my pillow, to the sounds of Lo jillin’ it to the pics on her phone. I said to her — the sound of my voice catching her by surprise — “If you can do that, then you can do me.”

She leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek and said, “Sorry, Daddy, but I just finished.” She clicked off her phone and went to sleep.

The next morning, as I was driving Lo to school we were stopped at a red light and a pretty blonde with a bouncing ponytail and wearing the ubiquitous black, stretch tights (the kind that Lo disapproves of saying, “Those are fucking underwear, not pants you fashion-challenged twit!”) ran past us in the crosswalk. There was no way of not seeing her unless I was to physically turn my entire torso around and face out the rear window. Lo gave me her death-stare of disapproval.

“What?!” I said, mustering as much innocence and protest in my tone as I could.

“I have resigned myself to the fact that I am dating a man who will always look at pretty women on the street corner,” she said with an air of indifference.

“And I have resigned myself to the fact that I am dating a woman who will always fuck other men,” I said, exchanging barb for barb.

“Oh, shut up,” she said, “you love it and you know you do.”

“I have told you, my dear, I am an aesthete,” I said with pride and superiority, “I live for beauty. You, however, are a hedonist. You live only for pleasure.”

“That’s right, Daddy-o,” she said, spreading her legs, “now pleasure this.” She took my hand from the stick shift and placed it on her crotch — the crotch of her own black stretch tights that, unlike the jogging blonde’s, were covered by her long sweater, concealing her sweet ass and crotch. A curl of a smile crossed my lips as I pondered the contradiction: the jogging blonde in the revealing tights probably hasn’t had a cock in ages, while modestly attired Lola fucks me and other guys she meets on Craigslist and posts naked and naughty pictures of herself on the internet. Go figure. Luckily Lo’s eyes were closed and did not see my amusement.

It was a busy week for her — finals week. And she was looking forward to some much needed stress relief. She had felt tense and stressed for the better part of December and Hunter had promised her a good, long massage. For Lo, there is no better medicine than sexual healing. How many times has she begged me to fuck her saying:

My back aches.

My pussy aches.

My stomach aches.

I’m stressed.

I’m wired.

I’m nervous.

I have a headache.

I have cramps.

I have my period.

I’m cold.

I’m wet.

I’m horny.

I’m tired.

I’m so frustrated.

I’m so relieved.

I’m so happy.

I’m so angry.

I’m so busy.

I’m so bored.

You owe me.

I owe you.

We owe each other.

You need it.

You want it.

I’m so mad at you.

I love you so much.

I was so good.

I was so bad.

Punish me!

Please me!

Pet me!

Pound me!

Pounce on me!

Fuck me till I fucking pass out!

Basically, every and any cliché excuse that you’ve heard a woman use not to have sex, Lo has used as a reason for having sex. She would say of my cock (or any cock, for that matter), “It’s the easiest pill to swallow,” and then she’d proceed to take my special medicinal formula orally. I have to say, most of the time, remarkably, it worked for her! And now was no different. The more stressed she was, the more she rubbed her stress out.

[Excerpt from the story, “The Easiest Pill to Swallow,” from the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]

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