“MmmmmHmmmm. . . Yeah. . . That’s right. Yesssss.”
These are the words I heard Lo saying as I walked in the door for lunch. I turned the corner and entered the living room where I saw Lo at her makeshift home office desk in front of the open window that looks out onto the street from our apartment. She was business on top, naked on bottom. Her legs were spread. She had a small oscillating personal fan on the floor under her desk blowing on her bare mons Veneris. She held her phone with her left hand and was stroking her air-cooled puss with her right. There was a small puddle on the hard wood floor beneath her task chair.
She looked over her shoulder at me and interrupted her self-pleasure just long enough to communicate to me in primitive sign language that the computer screen in front of her, on her desk, was on for a Zoom call with work. She covered up the speaker of her phone and whispered, “It’s on mute.”
“You sure about that?” I asked.
She gave me the finger before going back to finger herself.
“MmmmmHmmmm. Yeah, I’m here. Yeah. Tell me again what you are doing.”
I walked away from the sight and left her to her own coping strategy for remote work.
I was on a mission: Lunch.
I went to the kitchen and grabbed some bread, lettuce, tomato, and. . .
I dropped everything. Startled for a moment that Lo fell off her chair or that she lost all her work on her computer, I stopped cold in my tracks. Then I quickly recalled what she was up to in the living room.
I walked in to find Lo in the same spot, larger puddle under chair, phone hung up, and her panting.
I looked out the windows onto the street and there definitely were people looking into the building trying to ascertain the source of the alarming scream.
“Lo,” I began to rebuke her.
“Get me a paper towel, a mop, something!”
I returned with a whole roll of paper towels.
“Can you clean it up?” she asked.
“Can you clean it up? Just stay out of sight of the camera. I’m still on this Zoom call for work.”
“Yeah, I’m very talented.”
I surreptitiously got on my hands and knees and cleaned up the mess under her chair.
“This is all from you?” I asked, incredulous.
“Well, I started with an ice cube on my puss, then in my puss. But it melted. The rest, yeah. An artesian spring.”
“Maybe we should bottle that stuff. We could make more money than San Pellegrino.”
“Shhhh, I have to unmute.”
She clicked a button and then said, “Yes,” in a very professional voice — so different than the voice she was using with her paramour. “I think that sounds good,” she said to some pixilated person in the ether.
I took the wet towels and left Lo to her work.
As I sat eating my sandwich and drinking a cold beverage, Lo sauntered into the room, still pantless.
“Thanks Daddio,” she said, sitting across from me.
I grunted and continued to chew.
She could tell I was displeased with what I found. She tried to explain it away. “It’s just so hot in here. I don’t have central air like you at your office. I had to improvise. The fan and the ice cube helped.”
“And your phone-a-friend?”
“Well, that Zoom call was just so long and boring!”
“It’s called ‘work,’ Lo. Not every moment of every day is filled with magic pixie dust and populated with penises for your own personal pleasure party.”
“Oh, but why not?” she asked in her little girl voice.
“Who was on the call?”
“Who do you think?”
“I’m out of guesses and I’m almost out of time and patience.”
“Oh, you’re no fun! It was Scott.”
“Scott?! MILF Meri’s husband?”
“One and the same.”
“You called him or he called you?”
“Someone called somebody.”
“Well, he sent me an email and asked if I could talk.”
“Did you talk or did you listen?”
“A little of both, Daddio. You wanna know what was said?”
“I know what you’re up to and I’m going to tell you, I have to get back to work. No hanky-panky.”
“You use the oddest, oldest phrases.”
“I’m odd and old, so I can get away with it.”
“Well, you’re going to have to wait anyhow. I have to hop on another Zoom call.”
“You going to put on your pants?”
“What’s the matter, don’t you think work on top, party on the bottom is home-office appropriate?”
“Is this call for work, or are you sex-camming with an admirer?”
“I told you, I don’t do that anymore.”
“Well, the times, they are a changing.”
“Would you like it if I went back to it?”
“I’ve told you, Lo, you’re free to do whom or what you want whenever you want.”
“I know, Daddio, but I like to hear you say you want me to.”
“Would you do it?” I asked.
“Oh, gotta dash!” she said, returning to her makeshift desk.
She sat back down and I let myself out of the house to return to work without interrupting her work or pleasure call.
I wasn’t back at the office for more than ten minutes before I got a frantic call from her. “Daddy, Daddy!”
“What’s the matter Lo?”
“I need you!”
“Is this a mid-day booty call? Because I just. . .”
“No,” she interrupted, “come home right away!”
I returned to the house as quickly as I could and I found Lo on the living room couch, her panties around her ankles, her right hand on her pussy.
“Lo,” I said, suspiciously. “What’s this all about?”
“I accidentally broke the handle off of my favorite teacup and I was trying to fix it with superglue.”
At that moment I noticed the cup and the superglue tube on the coffee table in front of her.
“And somehow my index finger got stuck to my clit!”
“This is not the time to tease.”
“I’m not teasing. I just don’t know how that’s possible.”
“It’s very possible.”
“Only if your diddling the bean while engaged in a repair job. Were you diddling the bean?”
“That’s not the right question now.”
“Seems like a very pertinent question.”
“The question is how I unstick myself.”
“Maybe I should just let you stay stuck.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she growled, anger in her eyes.
“I might even invite the neighbors over. Maybe I’ll charge five dollars admission. ‘See the nympho who got caught with her hand in the cookie jar!’” I feigned being a circus barker.
“You’re mean and cruel. I don’t know why I love you.”
“You love me because I’m mean and cruel and I’m the only person on this planet who puts up with your hijinks.”
“What are you going to do about this?” she asked, indicating her sticky situation.
“Let me look up home remedies for girls who superglue their fingers to their clit.” I pulled out my computer and added, “Or maybe I should post on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram and ask the hivemind what they think.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
I Googled it.
“Do you have nail polish remover?”
“It says to soak a cotton ball in nail polish remover and apply to the stuck spot.”
“DON’T YOU DARE apply nail polish remover to my clit!!!”
“OK. Let me look up other remedies.”
I continued searching. “Ah-ha! You’re in luck!”
“What’s it say?”
“There are two mildly erotic ways we can go about undoing your masturbatory mess.”
“I wasn’t masturbating!”
“Of course you weren’t.”
“What’s it say?”
“We could either soak you in a nice warm bath with some soap.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Or, apply some vegetable oil to the affected area.”
“Hmmmm, that could be fun too!”
“Let’s do a little of both.”
“What do you have in mind?”
I led her to the bathroom and got her in the empty bath.
I went to the kitchen and grabbed some vegie oil and returned to her, dripping it on her hand and pussy, soaking both.
Then I turned on the warm water and let it fill up the bath. It only took a few minutes before she was unstuck. I poured more oil over her pussy and slid my fingers over her clit.
“Is this where you were stuck?”
“How’s that feel?”
I slid in a finger. Then another. Then three. Then four. Then my thumb as well. They all slipped right in without resistance.
“What were you doing?”
“When you got so attached to yourself.”
“I did it unconsciously. I didn’t even know I was touching myself. I swear.”
She reached down and pushed my hand from the wrist. In it slipped, a full fist inside her pussy.
“Yeah, Daddy. That’s it.”
The water was up around her ankles. She slowly stood up in the bath and bent over, keeping me inside her the whole time.
“Put your other hand in,” she said.
I slowly wedged my left hand in until it was clasped with my right hand inside her pussy.
“Have you ever been double-fisted before?”
“Noooooooo,” she said, cooing.
Her hips were rhythmically rocking forward and back, humping my two hands until she came. I felt her Kegel muscles clench, but, unlike when my cock is in her, she couldn’t possibly squeeze my hands out with her orgasm. I waited until she was good and done before I slid them out slowly.
“That was fun,” she said, sitting down in the bath, putting her legs up on the wall, letting the water splash down on her pussy.
“You may go now,” she said dismissively as she let the waterfall bring her to another climax.
I didn’t leave though. I dropped my pants and did what she always longs for me to do. I stroked my cock, using the vegetable oil as a lubricant. I stroked it over her naked body as she let the water run over her clit.
“You know,” I said, “Cleopatra used to bathe in a bath filled by her slaves with semen.”
“You’re so hot,” she said.
“I bet you’d like to have enough men surrounding you, stroking to the sight of your naked body, to fill your bath with their warm, pearly cum.”
“You know me too well, but right now, if you’d give me just enough for a nice facial, I’d be a happy girl.”
I needed no further encouragement. I provided the beauty cream she requested and she, in turn, reached orgasm #3.
“There’s nothing like learning history while masturbating,” she said.
“I hate to break it to you, but that story of Cleopatra is an urban myth.”
“Sad, but true. Its origins are unknown.”
“Hmm,” she said, pensively.
“I wonder if two thousand years from now stories about me will make a loving couple orgasm together.”
“If the reports of your contemporaries are any indication, then, yes, it’s very likely.”
“Good. Maybe they’ll report that you were able to fill up the tub with your semen single handedly just by looking at my face.”
“It sure feels that way.”
“I’m sure it does, to you anyhow.”