A Tawdry Halloween Tale
. . . I picked her up later that day and she put on the charm.
“Feeling better, Daddio?”
“Awwww, I wish you weren’t so cute when you’re brooding like this.”
“Because I find you irresistible!”
“Don’t get any funny ideas.”
“Oh, I don’t have any funny ideas. I have naughty ideas.”
“Well don’t get naughty ideas.”
“Or sexy ideas.”
“Or kinky ideas.”
“Perverse, twisted, X-rated — oh, I can go on with my ideas.”
“And get off to them too.”
“Can’t we have any fun tonight?”
“Will you still go out with me, please?”
“Why do you want a crank like me to go with you?”
“Because, believe it or not, I like you. . . against my better judgment.”
She was so smitten that I felt truly bad for being such a kill-joy.
“I’m planning on wearing something very special tonight.”
“OK, OK! I’ll go. Just don’t expect me to be fun.”
“I never do.”
We went home and Lo got right to work on her outfit for the night. “Don’t come in!” she shouted out to me while I sat down to have a beer and a sandwich.
“Don’t worry, you’re safe in there,” I called.
I actually fell asleep on the couch and almost an hour later, Lo appeared all dolled up in her sexy secretary outfit — glasses, skirt, nylons, cute little shoes, her breasts popping out of her blouse.
“Do you like, Daddio?”
“What are you supposed to be, a streetwalker?” I said, teasing her.
She pouted her cute, red lips and turned her tail on me as she stomped her foot. “Screw you! I spent an hour on this outfit.”
“I’m sorry sweetie,” I said contritely.
“I picked this outfit just for you, so you wouldn’t have to dress up.”
“What am I going to be?”
“A pompous playboy.”
“Oh, good, a costume that I’ve worked on for ages to perfect.”
I grabbed my pipe, my silk smoking jacket, and we were out the door.
In the car, Lo continued her machinations to cajole me out of my melancholy by masturbating under her skirt. She lifted the hem of it up to her waist and she slid down out of her tights to reveal her perfectly smooth puss.
“You like, don’t you Daddy?”
“Lo, you’re lucky I love you.”
“Because I’d turn you in to the proper authorities if I didn’t.”
“And who would those authorities be?”
“Masters and Johnson. You’d be a real curious case for them.”
“A mystery of science.”
“I don’t think I’m that much of a mystery. I prefer to think of myself more as a body of knowledge. A killer body of knowledge.”
“I’m sure all the men in white coats would like to put penetrating questions to that body.”
“Oh, Daddy. Go on.”
“I’m not going to go on because you’re getting off.”
“That’s precisely why you should go on,” she said, rubbing herself silly.
We arrived at our destination before she was able to finish. She pulled down her little skirt and looked at me. “Do I look presentable?”
“For a tawdry tart.”
She scrunched up her face into a little sourpuss look and said, “You’re rude!”
“And you’re falling out,” I said, indicating her breasts that were bulging out of the top of her unbuttoned blouse.
“You like?” she asked as she cupped them and raised them so that her cleavage was busting out.
“You’re not going to stop, are you?”
“Stop? Stop what?”
“Good grief! I give up. OK, already. I’ll be a good sport,” I said, placing the pipe firmly between my lips.
“Oh, Daddy! I love it when you’re angry,” she squealed as she got out of the car.
We entered the party and to my surprise we were among the first guests. Our hosts, Pam and her girlfriend Melanie, were dressed as two very scary looking ghouls. They actually put a fright into us at the door and then laughed maniacally. “Two more!” called out Pam to another friend waiting behind the door with a clipboard — recording how many trick-or-treaters visited that night and how many of them were scared. “We already sent two children home crying!” she announced to us with glee. . . .
The funny thing about the party was that everyone who greeted us did so with some variation of, “Great costume! I love the Playboy Bunny-and-Hugh Hefner theme!” To which Lo vehemently objected, pointing out that she was “a sexy secretary” and not a Playboy bunny. “Of course!” was the polite response, but after the first half dozen or so conversations like this, Lo finally gave in and accepted her role.
Numerous people came up to me and said, “Wow! I had no idea she would ever. . . .” You see, Lo’s “civilian” persona is that of the good-girl-feminist-sexual rights advocate who frequently gets up on her portable soapbox and delivers rousing speeches against oppression, exploitation, and inequalities of all kinds. Few people have any inkling of her “Down Lo” side. So, to see her in such provocative clothes, ostensibly portraying an explicitly exploitative dynamic such as that, well, that just runs counter to all of Lo’s professed principles.
Lo was hit on by many, including our host, Pam, and she would curl up to me and ask if she was allowed to “play.” I gave her permission. Kissing and heavy petting ensued, but the whole time Lo had at least one eye on me. Lo was very riled up by the whole role-playing façade and soon she sidled up to me and said, “Daddy, will you take me to the Playboy mansion?”
“Someplace where we can get you can get out of those clothes and into just that silk jacket.”
We spoke to Pam, our very gracious host, and told her that we were tired, but didn’t think we could drive home. She insisted that we stay over. She showed us to the guest room and there, with the door shut to the rest of the party happening outside, Lo got on her knees and begged for her treat. I took it out for her and she lapped it up and then she turned around, lifted up her little skirt, pulled down her tights, and had me bury it deep.
“Who’s your daddy?” I asked as I went at her.
“You are,” she panted.
“You were bad tonight,” I reminded her.
“I know. I know. I’m such a slut.”
“You are. You were whoring around like a slut.”
“I’m a whore. A skanky whore.”
“You had me bring you here, dressed like this to pimp you out, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Daddy. I’m sorry.”
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“You want me to bring you around to your tricks and wait in the car as you work. You’d come down to me after an hour or so, your bra stuffed with cash. You’d kiss me on the lips and tell me all about it on the drive home. Sometimes, just to be safe, you’d have me come up with you and tell me to sit in the other room where I could hear you as you worked your magic.”
“You’d like that, would you?”
“You’d want to hear me taking care of some guy?”
“You know it.”
“Maybe I’d schedule four or five in a row and then come back to you late at night, when I’m sore and have been filled and stretched. I’d be loose and tired and I wouldn’t let you have me. Would you like that?”
“That would be cruel.”
“I’d tell you I’m just worn out. I’d tell you in detail about my night and you’d be all hard and desirous of me.”
“I would be.”
“And I’d say, ‘I just can’t have any more sex.’”
“I’d be hard up for you.”
“But, I’d tell you that I’m still horny. I’d masturbate in front of you — rubbing my sore pussy lips and telling you how many big hard cocks had pounded me that night. I’d cum and then I’d go to sleep. Would you jack it over me?”
With that question she began howling like a hound and the bed was banging against the wall. Who knows what was heard in the rest of the house, but we continued like that till both of us collapsed and slept in what little clothes we still were wearing.
[Excerpt from the story, “Tricks & Treats,” from the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]