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“I cum like a dog when you ring my bell,” she said.

Hunter, on the other end of the line, was not expecting this. Little did he know that when Lo had texted him and asked him to call, she was in the middle of a solo session. He had to pause for about a minute or two after “Hello” while Lo finished up — her mouth ejaculating expletives as if she had an extreme case of Tourette’s.

When she was done, she said, “Oh, hi,” a little embarrassed and shy.

“Feeling better?” Hunter asked.


They talked for a while and when they were done, Lo rolled over and put her head on my chest and said, “Have me!” Of course I did because nothing gets me off like the sensual, seductive sound of Lo’s voice. The entire time I was plunging in and further into her, she whispered in my ear the things she wanted Hunter to do to her. The simple sound of her breathy voice alone was enough to make me cum.

. . .

The next day. . . I met Lo at home around four and she did her usual pre-hotwife-sex routine. (Yes, it seemed to have become regular enough to be called a “routine.”) She got naked, hopped in the shower, masturbated once or twice (I forget) and, after an hour or so, came out all smooth, flush, and horny. “You like, Daddy?” she said (more than asked), stroking her pussy. I liked, all right, but she wouldn’t let me have even a taste of her. “There’s no time,” she said as she began to do herself up; diligently putting on eyeliner, make-up, brushing her hair, and so forth — all in the buff in front of the full-length bedroom mirror.

She was all dolled up like a dedicated groupie getting ready for the big show. She wore her tight blue-jeans with her sexy black, high heel leather boots, a frilly white sleeveless top, accented with a sheer white scarf wrapped over her bare shoulders. Oh, she looked good. Her hot red lipstick contrasted against her pale skin, white top and scarf, and black hair in such a way that it gave her more than a hint of sexual allure causing strangers turn their heads.

. . .

Very seductively, she said, “I want to play,” and she looked over at Hunter longingly.

. . .

“So, what do you have in mind?” I asked.

“I’m thirsty!” said Lo. “First, let’s go to a bar. Do you know any bars close by?”

I suggested one that was about fifteen minutes away.

“Can I ride with Hunter?” Lo asked, looking up at me submissively, as if I had the power to say no. It was a convenient fiction for both our parts.

“Sure,” I said, a bit disappointed that I wouldn’t get to watch my hotwife being the dirty girl. . . .

Hunter was unfamiliar with this area, so he said he’d follow me in his truck. We got on the road and when I looked in my rearview mirror all I could see were his blinding headlights shooting right at my mirror from over my trunk.

We drove down the dark streets and every so often I’d pull further away in order to try and see into the windshield of his truck — trying hard to glimpse Lo reaching for his cock, jerking him off as she kissed his neck, going down on him, and rubbing herself between her legs. But I could discern nothing but reflected lights on the glass.

The ride to the bar seemed interminably long to me. Every stop light felt as if the damned thing was out-of-order and never going to turn green. Every time it seemed like Hunter might not be keeping up with me, I feared losing my love to the night as if she were on a raft in the vast black sea. Even when we got to the bar, I parked on one side and they on the other and it took a small eternity before we met up at the door. I imagined that Lo was trying to finish up.

When she and Hunter finally emerged in the parking lot, Lo, knowing my kinky (dis)pleasure, came right up to me with a big grin on her face and kissed me passionately in front of Hunter before we entered. It was I who was in the dark — unsure as to what had happened between the studio and the bar.

When we were inside, we got a booth and Hunter sat next to Lo as I sat across from the two of them. It was a busy Thursday night. Just about every table was taken. The music was playing, the waitresses were bustling, the lights were dim. We ordered our drinks — both Hunter and I got Guinness — and Lo got a fancy cocktail. The waitress brought the three drinks and as she served Lo and Hunter, I wondered if she assumed they were a couple. The sight of Lo’s drink made her giddy — an elegant glass, a couple of cherries, some bubbly and an orange wedge with a tall straw popping up for her to suck on. The Guinness, by comparison, was very working-class and gruff, but that first sip of the black thick beer was so utterly refreshing after the long sobriety at the studio followed by the invariable dry-mouth that comes with the cuck-high of knowing that my hotwife is blowing another man just a few feet away from me, but out of my range of view.

The three of us sat in the booth, inconspicuously, like any trio of friends might, but little did the other patrons suspect that Lo, sitting across from me and having her thong panty pulled up tight from the back by Hunter, was my girlfriend and not his. We chatted affably as Hunter caressed Lo’s back and held her closely with his left arm draped around her. With each sip that Lo took from her drink, I could see she was growing more and more thirsty for something else. Eventually, she turned to Hunter and said very directly, as only Lo can, “I really want to suck on your straw.” I could see that as she said this she was reaching over with her left hand to squeeze his cock.

“Where do you want to go?” asked Hunter.

“Your truck,” said Lo, not mincing words.

They both looked at me and I said, “I’ll meet you at the Tavern when you’re done playing.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” said Lo as we all slid out of the booth and Hunter laid down some cash to cover the bill.

We walked to the parking lot together and then Hunter shook hands with me, looking appreciative. Lo gave me a long, open-mouthed kiss, before walking off with Hunter — her arm around his waist and his draped over her shoulder.

I walked to my car alone, got in, and texted Lo: “If he has a condom, you have my permission to fuck him if you so desire.”

A few moments later, as I was driving to the Tavern close to our house where we were to meet when they were done, I got a terse reply from her, “He doesn’t, so we won’t.” The brevity of the message either conveyed her disappointment or that she was engaged in other activities (or both).

They, for their part, hopped in the truck and went looking for a place to “park.” Lo was down on him even before they were off the main drag, but before long they had found a secluded, quiet neighborhood in which to hide in the cover of the lampless side street. Little did I know at the time that it was just around the corner from our house!

Lo’s hungry mouth took Hunter’s full, hard rod all the way down her throat as her hand fondled his balls — his pants halfway wiggled down his thighs. She was eager and ready to please — her conscience be damned!

But just as Hunter felt that he was ready to feed her all she could handle, Hunter spotted a cop walking the beat. Yes, actually walking the beat at 8 p.m.! That’s what you get for parking in a good neighborhood in this city. The cop was eyeing the truck suspiciously and before long, Lo detected a change in Hunter’s breathing, energy, and rigidity. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“A cop. I think he knows why the windows are fogged.”

“Let’s get out of here!”

For some inexplicable reason, Lo felt guilty — like they were up to something that could really get them in trouble. She wasn’t under age. He wasn’t forcing her to do anything, or paying her. Yet, both of them felt danger was lurking about.

The sound of Hunter’s engine roaring to life broke the tense calm of the air. His engine revved. And just like a few short weeks ago in his hot-rod, Lo’s own engine revved when his did — the way the truck rumbled, the smell of the fuel, the hum and vibration of the cab all had her slipping and sliding in her own juices, right through her jeans on the leather seat.

They drove a bit up and down the seemingly vacant, narrow streets past stoic old houses till they found a spot they thought was far enough off the beaten path to see this job through to completion.

He put his hand on Lo’s thigh and she encouraged him. “Come on, big boy, don’t be shy,” she said as she moved his hand up to her crotch. She undid her snap and wiggled out of her jeans and pushed his hands down between her legs. She pulled her panties up so that her pussy lips were surrounding her thong and she directed his hand to graze them. “That’s a boy. Oh, yeah,” she moaned as he felt her wetness.

She leaned over again to take his cock in her mouth and he put his right hand on her lower back, inching it down to her ass and then all the way to her puss. He fingered her slowly as she worked on his pole — up and down motions coinciding with his in and out. She came and she felt he was about to cum too. But suddenly he stopped. He pulled back.

“What?” Lo asked, very disappointed and a bit insulted.

“I’m sorry,” he began, “but I really have to go. It was a big Guinness.”

Lo understood what he meant as he snuck out of the cab and onto some stranger’s yard where she watched him water the snow — a secret kink of Lo’s actually.

He returned quickly and a bit embarrassed. As soon as he was back in the truck Lo went for his jeans again. “Why did you zip up?”

“Oh, just habit, I guess.”

Lo took care of that and like the little cum-slut she is, immediately popped his cock back in her mouth like it was a candy cane at Christmas time. She worked at it and she could feel his abs grow tight, his breathing quicken, and his legs tense up. She knew she was about to get what she came for. She could taste its harbinger on her tongue. She knew that taste well. She knew what to expect — and she loved it!

But, no! Not this time. What should happen but a cop cruiser making its way up the street, its search light on, looking in at every car, every yard. Hunter quickly performed fellatio interruptus; tucking his cock back in his pants, zipping up, and again, starting the truck with a thundering sound.

“Do you think they’re after us?” Lo asked, realizing how cliché she must sound.

“I don’t know. The people in this neighborhood — they could have called in my truck.”

“Do you want me to go down on you now?”

“While we’re driving?”

“Yeah. You must be so uncomfortable,” said Lo, feeling his hard cock.

“I am, believe me, but it’s probably best if I just go home. I’m running late as it is.”

“You sure? I could take care of you real good,” said Lo, eager to finish the job she started.

“No, I’m sure. Where’s this Tavern?”

“It’s actually right around the corner, here.”

Hunter drove her right to the door of the bar/restaurant where I was waiting, tense, nervous, and already onto my third whiskey. As she got out of the truck she said, “Remember, jack it when you get home and be sure to take pics and tell me all about it!” She blew him an air kiss and danced away, innocent as a lamb in her black leather jacket into the bar.

I met her, a bit tipsy, and I said, “No condom?”

She shook her head with disappointment.

“Fucking amateurs,” I said, quoting her favorite movie.

When we went back home she told me the story I just related to you.

Later that night, after I gave her a good taking care of for her slutty ways, she e-mailed Hunter asking him, “Have you gotten lucky lately? How long has it been?”

One of Lo’s great preoccupations is thinking about all the build-up of juices in a man and being the cause of their release and the site of their dissemination. Of course, she sent along some more pics with her little note. The next day Hunter responded with some more pics of his own and complimentary words for Lo about the evening, adding that he got a blow-job from his wife the previous night after he got home.

This news threw Lo into hysterics. She was pissed that Hunter was not in a state of pent-up sexual frustration. She said, “Well, isn’t he spoiled. He is getting some at home. Maybe not enough for him, but really?!”

“Are you jealous that he got a blow job from his wife?” I asked, not without irony.

“Yes,” she said. “I told him to go home and jack it to my pictures. That was my cum load. That was supposed to be my mouthful of cum. That was supposed to be my facial.”

“Don’t you want to ask him who gives a better blow job?” I was teasing her, but she took me very seriously.

“Yes, but I can’t. It’s not right.”

“I’m sure you do, sweetheart. I’m glad to hear you have such scruples. It’s a sign of being well bred.”

“Fuck you!” she said as I laughed.

[Excerpt from the story, “Blog Jammin’,” from the blog:]

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

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