“Share Me”
All tallied, Lo came about four or five times in the car. I lost track. When we finally got home and had a few hours to ourselves before Erin and Steve’s party, she brought me in the bedroom, first thing. She lay on the bed, spread eagle, and told me to get naked — an activity she loves to see. I obeyed diligently, for I was put into a state of distracted desperation by all her antics on the drive home. She said to me, “Admit you want to fuck me cause you’re hard.” Nothing gets Lo off like knowing that her body makes cock hard.
“No,” I replied, “I want to fuck you cause you’re easy.”
I gave her what she wanted and as I did her, missionary style, she whispered in my ear, “Daddy, you know I’m yours — only yours. Yours is the only cock I want. Yours is the best. I love you. Cum in me. Mark me. Show me that I belong to you. Fill me up. Make me your cum-bucket. Make it so that I’m dripping your cum at the party tonight, reminding me that I’m yours and only yours. Give it to me, Daddy. I need it. I need it.”
“No, Lo,” I whispered back in her ear, “I’m not going to cum.”
“Daddy, don’t deny me.”
She hates it when I refuse her her hot stream injection.
“Flip me over, Daddy, and fuck me like a dog.”
“No, Lo, I want to make you cum like this first.”
She spread her legs further apart, put her hand down between her legs on her clit and she stoked it hard, quickly flicking up and down. I could feel her straining fingers on the top of my shaft as I went in and out.
“Deep, Daddy, deep! Stay deep!”
I plunged in with all my weight and she convulsed and writhed and screamed. I felt something like a waterfall splashing between my legs.
“Now flip me over,” she said after a moment, “and fuck me like I’m your bitch.”
I did as she requested and as I did so she reached behind her and began fingering her ass. “Do you want to share me, Daddy? Do you want me to have one more in my ass?”
“Yes,” was all I could manage to say.
She inserted her finger deep and said, “Do you want to feel another cock inside my ass like this — rubbing up against yours?”
“Yes,” I panted.
“Do you want me to be filled up with cum and dripping from both holes?”
I slowed my thrusts. I tried to hold it in.
Lo knew what I was doing and what it meant. “That’s it, Daddy,” she said, “Let go. Let it go. Go on. Fill me up. You know you want to. Go on.” She’s such a little succubus, hungry for warm cum.
She slid in her finger as far as it would go and was fingering herself frantically.
That was it. Loss of control. Practically loss of consciousness. I exploded in her as she was screaming, “I’m cumming! I’m cumming in my cunt! I’m cumming in my ass! Oh God! Yes!”
After a few moments of recovery, I said to her, “I hope you’re happy.”
“Oh, I am, Daddy,” she replied with a smile.
“Well, that’s it for me for the night.”
We showered together and Lo said, “I want to suck your dick, Daddy.”
(Indulge me for a moment while I reflect upon how much the addition of “Daddy” to the statement, “I want to suck your dick” makes that statement so much more. . . je ne sais quoi.)
She got down on her knees in the shower and took my flaccid cock in her mouth, but to no avail.
Later, when we were in the car on our way to Erin’s I said to Lo, “So, what is this party all about?”
Lo said, “Erin just started her grad program and, since she’s from the area and a lot of her classmates aren’t, she’s having a party to help them all feel more at home here. I think she also is inviting a bunch of our mutual friends from college who are still in the area. It should be fun.”
I frowned.
“Awww, what’s wrong, Daddy?”
“Nothing.”
Lo reached over to tousle my hair with her fingers. “Come on, Daddy-O, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Is Cory going to be there?”
“Oh, is that it?” she asked with a laugh. “Yes, I think Cory and Kaylee said they’d be there too.”
“Are you still jonesing for his cock?”
“Oh, Daddy.”
“No, really, are you?”
“I told you, Daddy, it wasn’t Cory, it was Kaylee I was ‘jonesing’ for.”
“Well, that may be, but Cory certainly was a welcome fringe benefit.”
You see, this cuckolding thing is complicated. On the one hand, Lo’s lusting for cock — her unabashed longing for it, her exuberant search for ever bigger pieces of meat, her desire to be desired — turns me on. But, on the other hand, there is always the fear, the danger, the dread that she will find a cock, a man, a fuck that lures her away from me. It’s not jealousy; it’s insecurity. For years I’ve heard women say that exact same phrase, “I’m not jealous; I’m insecure,” but it wasn’t until I met Lo (and, in some ways our gender roles have been inverted) that I really, fully, experientially understood that feeling. At the same time, this flirting with this danger line makes the whole thing all-the-more exciting. It becomes an adrenaline rush — a high that is simultaneously incredibly uncomfortable and also addictive. I suppose it is somewhat akin to what thrill riders seek with ever scarier rollercoasters, bungee jumping, skydiving, mountain climbing, etc. None of those activities are addictive the way cocaine or heroin is addictive, where there is a rush of absolute pleasure, but they are addictive in the way that running close to a precipice can create a natural high from vertigo. That’s the best way to explain this kink for me.
Lo said to me, “My heart loves you, Daddy.”
“But your puss wants everyone.”
“Yeah, so?”
Well that settled that.
As a result of our post-vacation copulation, shower, and Lo’s trying on and rejecting three outfits before finally settling on the sexy little number (short skirt, jackpot top, black leather boots) she went with, we arrived at the party while it was in full-swing. Steve and Erin live in a rented house in the burbs, complete with a basement, second floor, and a backyard.
A grill was fired up. A few coolers were out, stuffed full of beer, wine, and ice. A stereo was set up and playing music. People were milling about inside and out. How they managed to prepare for this party after driving back from the beach house was beyond me, but there it was and my spirits lifted when I saw the bottle of Crown Royal on the bar, half full.
Lo and I wriggled our way between guests. She got a glass of wine, I got a tumbler-full of whiskey on the rocks. From afar we spied Sally, and that dolt Jeff. Lo grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the backyard in an attempt to forestall the inevitable interaction with them. In the back yard we met up with a bunch of Lo’s old classmates from college whom she hadn’t seen for some time (and wasn’t too keen on seeing). We chatted and ate and chatted some more, mingling with new and old friends. Word clearly got out about this party because rather than the twenty or so people I was told would be there, there were at least forty to fifty young folk there. I was the grizzled grandfather, but the more whiskey I imbibed, the more the years felt like they were shedding off my true age.
The conversations and interactions we had during the party were not in any way memorable, except one. A friend of Erin’s whom Lo knew in college, but never really liked, came up to Lo and pulled her aside saying, “So, you’re dating Dr. H.?”
Lo said yes to the obvious.
“You know,” this girl went on, “he was my professor too.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. I had such a crush on him. I mean, I’ve always wanted to have an affair with a professor, and if there was ever a professor I wanted to have an affair with, it would be Dr. H.”
Lo had no idea how to respond to that. First, Lo had been dating me, officially, not on the side, for over three years. It wasn’t an “affair.” Second, this girl was being very presumptuous about when our relationship began. Third, Lo was suddenly feeling very possessive of her old man. He’s my daddy, bitch. (She didn’t say that, but I could hear her thinking it when she told me about the conversation later.) Lo just smiled politely and excused herself from the woman’s presence.
As the night spun on, Lo and I drank a bit more excessively than planned. Alcohol is such a wily intoxicant; as soon as you hit the preset limit, then you feel like saying to hell with the limits. And that’s exactly what I did. Let the limits be damned. Lo was more together than I and so she spoke to Erin and got the ok for us to spend the night. We continued our merriment and slowly the guests all seemed much more interesting, fun, and friendly. Just as slowly, the ranks of the guests began to thin. It was past midnight and what had been scores of people was now only about ten or twelve.
In addition to us and our hosts, Erin and Steve, there were a number of people we had just met that night, as well as Sally and Jeff, Cory and Keylee, and an old friend of ours, Keith. Dan and Val didn’t make it. We were all very inebriated and at one point, while watching some people play Beer-Pong, two of the female graduate students started making out. They were clearly doing it to attract the attention of a couple of guys there and Lo turned up her nose at them because if there’s one thing she can’t stand it’s the playing of the “bi” card in order to impress men. Either that, or she was upset with me for gawking at their little tongue entwining tête-à-tête.
I followed Lo outside and there we encountered two graduate student guys who had suddenly come to fisticuffs. Nothing upsets Lo more than violence and her gut reaction to such displays of barbarity is to. . . be very violent. She marched up to the two pugilists and immediately, unhesitatingly, tried to separate them. It was in vain and, luckily for all involved, the police had just pulled up and they broke up the fight, the party, and sent all people who could drive on their way.
When the dust settled, it turned out that a few couples had already taken up the bedrooms upstairs, a couple of other random folks had bunked for the night in the living room — on the couch or on the floor — and Erin told us that we could have one of the two full-sized beds in the basement. She and Steve would take the other.
It seemed that Erin was drunk, maybe high too, and she made some untoward remarks while showing us to our bed. She hopped into bed with Steve and shut off the lights saying, “So you won’t be able to see what we’re up to, you two pervs.” I was already under the covers and Lo was silhouetted in the dim light from the door at the top of the stairs. She removed her shirt, her bra, and then her skirt and panties and hopped into bed naked next to me. Erin, from her comments, was eager for something to happen and before long, as I lay in the bed pulling at Lo’s nipples, we heard the unmistakable sound of Erin and Steve fornicating in the bed next to us. Lo whispered in my ear to smack her pussy lips. “No Lo, not now.”
“Yes, Daddy. Now.”
I gave them one light slap.
Lo let out a long moan.
My palm was wet from her pussy.
“Again,” she demanded.
I did it once more.
In what little light was available we could see Erin on top of Steve moving back and forth on him. Lo turned and whispered in my ear, “Will you fuck me, Daddy?”
“I told you not to suck it out of me at home.”
“Oh, come on!”
“No go.”
“Phhhheeee,” she said, perhaps an abbreviation of her Scarlett O’Hara “Fiddle-dee-dee.”
They were going at it next to us and Lo was keen on getting some for herself. She turned on her back and began her usual autoerotic stimulation. But before she could get very far, suddenly, running down the stairs was our friend Keith. He jumped into our bed, fully clothed and said, “Shhhh! Just let me stay here for a few.” We had no idea what was going on. Then, only seconds later, another party goer came running down the stairs, turning on the lights as he did so. “Did any of you see Keith?”
Lo and I shook our heads no, as Keith hid below the covers.
“Shut out the lights,” yelled Erin as she pulled the blankets over her naked body, riding cowboy on Steve.
“Sorry!” said the partygoer, as he shut off the switch and walked upstairs.
“Phew! Thanks!” said Keith from beneath the blankets, moving to get his head up above the covers.
Lo pushed his head back down and said, “Get under there.” I could feel on my legs that she had spread hers and that Keith must have had his face in her crotch. I knew he was doing something down there because Lo was writhing with pleasure. Before long she was cumming (and Lo doesn’t cum quietly). Then Lo went under the covers and did something and I realized only later that she had taken off Keith’s pants and, in a way that only she could do, had gotten a condom out of her bag and managed to put it on his erect cock. That girl is a magician, I tell you.
“Get in there,” she said as she came back up above the covers.
Keith went at it between her legs and in only a couple of minutes Lo was cumming again. A couple of seconds after that and Keith was cumming. That’s when I passed out.
When we woke up in the morning, Keith was gone and Lo was holding me. I saw next to the bed a used condom — the only evidence that what I recalled from the previous night was not just a late-summer night’s dream.
I saw Erin and Steve asleep in the bed next to us. I’m always an early riser and so I got up and snuck out of the bed, up the stairs, and fumbled around the kitchen to find the crucial items: coffee, coffee maker, mugs, and water. I brewed a pot and started cleaning up the awful mess. About a half-hour later Erin appeared.
“HH, you don’t have to do that.”
“It’s no trouble. I hope you don’t mind, I helped myself to the coffee.”
“No, of course not!”
“Is Lo still asleep?”
“I think so.”
“And Steve too?”
“Oh yeah. He’s not a morning person.”
“So, did you have a good time last night? It was quite a party.”
“I think so,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it kinda got out of hand. Police showed up, a fight, and. . .”
She clearly wasn’t fully awake yet. Some thought crossed her mind and she wasn’t sure about it.
“So many people slept over,” she said, bemused by the sleeping guests in the living room and upstairs.
I was putting what trash I had collected in the garbage and pulled it out, asking her where she’d like me to put it.
“Oh, in the garage is fine.”
I carried it out and when I returned, she rushed up to me with a look of concern on her face. “What happened last night?” she asked, pulling in close to me.
“There was a fight, the police came. . .”
She interrupted me, “No, not that. I mean, downstairs.”
“Lo and I went to bed in one bed and you and Steve went to bed in the other.”
“Did you. . . ? Never mind.”
“Did we hear you fucking?” I finished her question for her, unconcerned about whether it made her uncomfortable or not.
She turned away. “Oh God! You did.”
“You weren’t very discrete about it.”
“Stop!”
She turned toward me. “Did Keith get in your bed at some point?”
I nodded.
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure. He came downstairs, hopped in our bed, I fell asleep, and in the morning he wasn’t there.”
“Did Lo. . . ?”
“What do you think?”
She put her hand to her mouth, as if in shock.
“In the bed with you?” she asked in a hushed voice.
I nodded.
“I can’t believe that!” She was looking at me intently. “Wha. . . ?” She began to formulate a question, but it dangled in the air without being asked.
“You want to know details?”
She looked at me at first as if I were about to tell her all, but then she realized the full force of the question.
“No, no.”
“It’s ok, Erin,” I said, switching into kindly mentor mode, “you’re suffering from a classic case of Leontius’ conflict.”
“From what?”
“In Plato’s Republic he speaks of a man named Leontius who, upon returning to Athens, sees along his way a pile of executed criminals’ lifeless, naked bodies outside the city walls. His conscious mind is appalled by the sight, but his more prurient, subconscious impulses impel him toward the horrific sight until he stands before the pale white corpses and screams at his eyes, ‘Look, you wicked devils, feast yourselves on the beautiful sight!’”
“That’s a horrible story!”
“Yes, but it gets at truth of what you’re experiencing: attraction/repulsion or allure/revulsion. You are fascinated by Lo and our lifestyle, but you think you despise it. You judge her, but want to know more.”
“Ridiculous!”
“Really? You seemed to be quite the little sexhibitionist last night. I mean, not even Lo put on a show like you did.”
She laughed nervously. She picked up some beer bottles and emptied them out in the sink. She turned to me and said, “So, did Lo like sleeping with him?”
I said, “Like I said, I fell asleep right after and I don’t know where he disappeared to, but this morning Lo whispered in my ear that he was really, really small. Very disappointing for her, though he did the trick.”
She looked at me and said, “That doesn’t surprise me. I mean he’s a tiny little man. He looks like a boy, a leprechaun.”
“Lo lusts for a big cock — like Cory’s — but has yet to find the elusive Moby Dick.”
She looked over at me and I answered the question she was thinking but didn’t ask. “I’m well endowed, but, I’ll admit, not the biggest Lo’s ever had. And I certainly am not that massive meat she dreams of.”
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, “She’s such a slut!”
“Be careful how you use that term,” I said, getting way too philosophical for such an early Sunday morning. “It’s a fine term if you’re using it subversively, but if you mean it in the way that patriarchy has intended it then. . .”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Yeah, I guess it is too early for this. I’m beginning to sound like Lo. You’re right. She’s a slut, but she’s my slut and I love her.”
Not long after I said this, Lo staggered up the stairs.
Lo and I said our good-byes and hopped in the car before most of the other party-goers had woken from their slumbers.
On the way home Lo asked about my conversation with Erin. I told her about it and again she too put the question to me, “Daddy, do you think I’m a slut?”
“Yes, Lo, I do.”
“Good.”
When we got home we took a long hot bath together and then we got into bed, hung-over, tired, and ready to collapse.
Lo held me close and she asked me, “Daddy, do you think I’m a nympho?”
I was contemplating the question and before I formulated an answer, Lo had already fallen asleep.
I slept too, for a little while, but I got up and something about the strange weekend on the beach, the party, all of Erin’s persnickety questions, and Lo’s quiet wondering as she drifted off got me thinking again about that touchstone (if outdated, prejudiced, paternalistic, patronizing, and profoundly benighted) book, Nymphomania: a Study of the Oversexed Woman, by Albert Ellis and Edward Sagarin. I grabbed the book off my shelf and read the last few pages again:
A few women seem to reject social condemnation, and hold high self-esteem while asserting their rights to a free sex life. For these women, one writer (Hirsch, Arthur H., The Love Elite, New York, Julian Press, 1963) utilizes the phrase, ‘the love elite.’ A woman who belongs to this group, Hirsch contends, understands that she is free; and the love elite woman is capable of accepting responsibility with freedom. She makes her own distinction between the rational and irrational demands of society:
In love and in sexual relationships she demands to be free. She has asserted her equality with the man — has rejected once and for all an inferior ‘second sex’ status. She accepts no authority determining her use of her body or mind. Her affections and her intimacies henceforth will be freely bestowed — or not bestowed at all.
Thus she is sometimes at odds with society’s values — values still based upon a time when woman was subordinate. Because she has gone beyond society’s values — truly risen above them — her ‘indiscretions’ may lead her into difficulties. But if difficulties arise, they are less catastrophic because she knows, or believes that the values of society — not her own — are at fault.
America and the Western world must still make long strides toward the emancipation of women. Such emancipation will not exist until a female has the right to choose to have lovers as a man so chooses, and until she lives in a group that does not inflict upon her the notion that she is a fallen woman when she loves freely.
A few women suffer from nymphomania or compulsive promiscuity. But many many more suffer from lack of sexual freedom, from condemnation of their free lives, and from pressures to survive and retain a healthy self-image in an unegalitarian atmosphere. When sexually alive women are fully accepted, and are not considered over-sexed trollops, much of the anguish will be relieved. This will be a great stride toward implementing the progress made in the last century in regard to economic and political liberation of woman.
As I reread this uncharacteristically insightful passage, I thought about Lo and Erin. I also wondered why this Arthur Hirsch and his book, The Love Elite, is nowhere to be found. I’ve done extensive research and have yet to get my hands on it. Is it a conspiracy? While pondering these things, Lo sauntered into the living room, naked, and curled up next to me and snuggled under the throw. She saw the book in my hands. I read the passage to her and said in response to her question, “Lo, to some you might be a nympho, but to me you really are an example par excellence of the love elite.”
[From ~ mysexlifewithlola.com]
