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As she made the ‘OK’ sign with her index finger and thumb, my hard cock filled the hole of that universal hand-gesture that indicates everything is alright. And everything was better than alright. She was lying under my arched, naked body, her left hand doing the bare minimum necessary to still qualify as a hand-job. I was doing most of the work, thrusting in and out of her digital aperture. She was lying naked on her back, her right hand doing more work on her clit than her left on my dick. But, hey, it’s not a competition. I was pleased. She was pleasing — herself and me.

“That’s it, you big, bad dog,” she said in a sultry tone, referencing the taboo topic of her acquired technique.

She knew exactly what that would do to me. She plays me like a fiddle with her nimble fingers, though I’m sure she’d rather play a long, black clarinet that requires both hands to get the proper fingering and also the use of a wet mouth and tongue to blow all those Ds loud and with proper dynamics.

Within seconds my baton was conducting the final climactic notes of this symphony.

As I write these tortured metaphors, I can hear Lo laughing and saying, “Symphony! P’shaw, more like a minuet.”

Be that as it may, she was covered in pearlesque droplets from chin to chest.

I fell back onto the bed, relishing the sweet release she uncorked for me.

But she, rather than lounge in the lethargic bliss I was enjoying, hopped out of bed, put on her jeans and a tank-top, and said, “Do you want to come walk with me?”

Or, at least that’s what I understood her to say. What she actually said was, “Do you want to cum-walk with me?”

“What?” I asked groggily.


“I don’t want to walk.”

“No, Daddio, a cum-walk.”

“What’s a cum-walk?” I asked, finally understanding what she was articulating.

“It’s like a walk of shame. A stride of pride, a victory lap, the trek of triumph, the Something About Mary hommage,” she said with a French accent.

“Since when is that a thing?”

“Oh, old man, hurry up, get dressed, and I’ll tell you as you accompany my for a strumpet stride through the neighborhood.”

“Ok, ok,” I said, laughing, “You’re killing me with these colorful combinations of colloquialisms for cum.”

“Say that four times fast!”

“Where’d you learn all those?

“Eskimos have forty different words for snow and I. . .”

“Forget it. I don’t want to hear what precipitated your poetic euphemisms.”

When I was dressed, we walked outside, arm-in-arm. She was proud to have the origin of her adornments accompany her as she displayed her latest accomplishment.

She said hello in a flirtatious voice to the others who passed us by on the delightful spring morning. Out of the corner of her eye, she tried to spy if they looked carefully enough to discern what was glinting in the sunlight on her cheek, chin, neck, and shoulder.

“So, when did this become a thing?” I asked again.

“It’s always been a thing. I mean, remember the time at the nude beach when you came all over my face and tits?”

“Which time?”

“Oh, Daddio. The beach with the geriatric gentlemen who genuflected at my altar.”

“Right. Yeah, so?”

“Remember, after you rained your love down on me, we walked together, saying hi to the beachcombers.”

“Yeah, I remember, fondly.”

“And the time I met that very nice athlete in the park.”

“You mean the big black guy who came on you?”

“You have a good memory for an old man.”

“That’s why I write these things down — to keep your paramours straight.”

“Oh, straight is ok, but I prefer kinky paramours.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Anyhow, after he came on me and I walked up to you dripping with his jizz. That also was a cum-walk.”

“I see.”

“Are you going to write about this one?”

“Of course I am, even if no one believes me.”

“They don’t believe you, Daddy?”

“Lo, you can understand that a lot of people find you unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

“Morning,” said a passerby.

“Hi,” Lo chirped back in a perky voice. Her tits were perky too in her see-through white tank-top.

“Getting a lot of looks,” I remarked to her.

“Yeah, but I made the wrong choice.”

“How’s that?”

“They’re all looking at my chest, not my face.”

“Ah yes, the age-old dilemma. What’s the reaction you’re looking for?”

“I’d just like a tall, dark, and handsome man to give me a long stare that says, ‘I know what you just did, you slut.”

“I think you take too much pleasure in this.”

“Oh, Daddio! The only thing more pleasurable is when it’s leaking out of my puss through my panties and shorts at the same time as it’s on my face.”

“Do you have a special name for that walk?”

“The Double-Stuff Strut, The Cream-Pie Promenade, The Spit-Roast Saunter.”

“I should have known.”

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Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail:

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