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After I came in her she pleaded, “Don’t stop!”

“Darling,” I said, pulling out and rolling onto my back, “every time I do you, you want more.”

“So?! Please, don’t stop. I beg you. I need it!”

Let’s be clear here, she had already cum five times to my one.

As I lay on my back, I grabbed a pillow and covered my head with it so as to block out her whimpering and fall asleep.

“Don’t tell me you’re not going to fuck me again. Come on. Just finger me. Do me with the dildo. Anything!”

“I’m not,” I said from beneath the pillow.

“I didn’t consent to this,” she said, perplexingly.

I could hear her fumbling around for something. In a few moments I felt the bed begin to rock and I heard a buzzing sound. I peeked out from beneath my pillow. She was on her tum, the phone propped up against the headboard with some porno flickering on it and both her hands are down between her legs — one fucking her cunt with a dildo and the other applying the quiver of her silver bullet vibrator to her clit (I assumed). Her ass was raised up in the air as if she was waiting for a man to take it.

After fifteen minutes of this dildo-humping, she finally came. But that’s not all. After putting her toys away she dived down below the covers, taking out my cock, putting it in her mouth, getting it hard, and mounting it to get her rocks off one last time — or so I thought.

I didn’t come (of course) and after she did, she continued to bounce up and down on me despite my feigning sleep (or trying to fall back to sleep).

“You’re horny,” I said, observing the abundantly obvious.

“And you’re boring.”

“At least I’m consistent.”

“So am I.”

“Lo, you are the definition of insatiable!”

“I can’t help it. I love you.”

“You’re confusing the feelings of your crotch with the feelings of your heart.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Exactly.”

“Fuck me damn it!”

“The only solution to this is taking out another ad for a new fuck-buddy. This time, one who’s not married.”

“No, the only solution to this is for you to fuck me!”

“I did fuck you.”

“You didn’t even like it.”

“When called, I stood at attention and did my duty.”

“Oh, fuck you!”

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“You didn’t even cum. You can totally do me again.”

“I did cum!”

“I mean this round.”

There was no talking sense to her so, for the sake of sleep, I did a not so admirable thing, but it was something that I’m sure millions of women do every night — I made love to her and at the end I. . . yes, I faked my climax. I faked it! — to get her off and get her to sleep.

The next morning I awoke early and I tried to sneak out of bed. Lo grabbed me.

“Stay.”

“Lo, I’ve got to get ready for work.”

“Stay.”

“Lo.”

“Have me.”

“No.

“Oh, come on!”

“No, you had your chance last night.”

“I’m gonna get laid this morning and you’re going to do it! I’m not getting up out of bed until you fuck me!”

Now, dear reader, please understand, I love Lo. I find her beautiful, attractive, sexy, hot, and eminently fuckable. This is not rejection that is taking place. This is the sexual exhaustion of a middle-aged man paired up with a nymphomaniac. I also apologize to you if all of this seems like the ʼenth time that I’ve told you some variation of this hot minx with the cold fish in bed, but — believe it or not — after Hunter’s outlet was deemed off-limits by Lo, her sexual appetite ramped up even higher than it was. Something had to be done. She was frustrated and I wasn’t getting any sleep.

That morning Lola and I crafted a new Craigslist ad. Among the other things that it said, it listed the necessary requirements:

1.) Be single

2.) Be honest

3.) Be D&D free

4.) Be good in bed

5.) Be attractive

6.) Be willing to talk on the phone first

7.) Be articulate, intelligent, and respectful of women

8.) Be interesting & fun

That’s right, we put the number one requirement right there so all could see it. That doesn’t mean that people are going to actually comply with our list of demands. They rarely do. While we were working on the ad I put a line in there about the reason for the post — that Lo’s a nympho and I need a relief pitcher to finish the game.

Lo objected, “Nympho — really? I’m so tired of people throwing that around — nympho, nymphomania, nymphomaniac — pathologizing a woman enjoying sex and sexuality! If a woman has sex, if she likes it (God forbid!), it suddenly is a ‘disorder,’ a diagnosis. Come on. Drop the N-word.”

“Lo,” I said as I gave her a long stare.

“What?”

“You know that in theory I agree with you 110%.”

“But?”

“But, seriously, we’re driven to this because you are driving me crazy!”

“Driving you crazy? I’m the one who’s sexually frustrated here.”

“Frustrated? You cum more in a morning than most married women cum in a month! This is not a case of sexual frustration. This is a case of sexual compulsion.”

“But it’s not compulsive. I don’t have sex with every Tom, Dick, and Harry.”

“Well, maybe Marge Piercy was right.”

“Who? What?”

“Marge Piercy, the novelist.”

“Right about what?”

“She said, ‘It is not sex that gives us pleasure, but the lover.’ Maybe you’re just compulsively, madly, in love with me.”

Lo stopped and pondered for a moment, “Hmmm, not the sex that gives pleasure, but the lover,” she said, adding, “That must be why I like masturbating so much.”

The ad was posted in w4m, w4w, and w4mw.

Written by

Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail: downloladown@gmail.com

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