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“No!” she said.

“Come on. One,” I pleaded.

“I said no,” she repeated firmly.

“Please. You look so good.”

“No. No more.”

This apparent role-reversal was not what you think. (I am assuming what you’re thinking, you naughty reader.) It was not that I was begging Lo for more sex the way she frequently begs me. Lo wouldn’t say no to that. Rather, I was standing over her by the bed in the cozy beach cottage we had rented for the weekend and she was naked on the bed. I had my camera in hand and was eager to be her personal paparazzo.

“But Lo. . .”

“You take another picture of me and I’ll stuff that camera where the sun don’t shine.”

She has a way of ending a conversation.

She lay sexily sprawled out on the bed while I placed the camera on the shelf and sat next to her, stroking her hair.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just don’t want you taking my picture, that’s all.”

“Is there a reason?”

“Yes, there’s a reason.”

“Care to tell Daddy?”

She cuddled up to me and held me for a bit. I slid down to be more horizontal next to her.

“I feel fat,” she finally blurted out.

“What?” I asked in disbelief.

“Fat. I feel fat.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous. Every day we go walking on the beach and there’s all these. . .”

“Stickskinnyblondebitches.” I finished the sentence for her. I had heard the refrain so many times.

“Not just them,” she said, “but everyone. I’m not feeling good about my body.”

The truth was that with all the stress she had been under for the past six months or so, with our interminable winter, and with my deplorable eating habits, Lo had put on some pounds. But the other truth was that I never found her more attractive than I did now. She could keep on putting on the pounds and I would keep on being more and more attracted to her. However, how to tell her that? Sometimes the truth, however well intended, just isn’t the right thing to say.

“Lo,” I cautiously began, “I think you’re lovely.”

“Do you think I’m fat?”

“Lo, you are the most sexy woman on the beach to me.”

“But am I fat?”

“Lo, isn’t it enough for you that you are more attractive to me than any woman in the world? Isn’t enough for you that I love you, that I find you beautiful, that I am crazy about you?”

“No, no it’s not.”

“What?! Well then, isn’t it enough for you that in addition to me, other men and women around the globe find you attractive, write you long, lusty e-mails, praise your beauty and send in photos of themselves getting off to pics of you?”

“No, it’s not,” she said obdurately.

“My God, woman, what do you need?!”

She cuddled up to me and slowly put her head closer to my lap, pulling down my bathing suit, and filling her mouth with my cock.

She didn’t need my cock at that moment, but she wanted it. What she needed was to feel good about her body, and there was nothing that you, or you, or I could do to change the way she felt about her body.

I was afraid that I was going to enter into a hornets’ nest, but I ventured a risky comment reflecting my feelings. “Lo,” I said to her as her face was buried in my lap. She looked up momentarily. “I find you incredibly desirable. I’d like to call you ‘phat’ — with a ph — meaning hot, sexy, beautiful.” As I said this, I grabbed the flesh of her tum. “I love this.”

“So you do think I’m fat! You do! I knew it!”

“You’re not listening to me. I’m telling you that I love you just the way you are.” Queue up the Billy Joel song.

“Fat.”

Zaftig.

“Now you’re just calling me fat in another language?!”

“Lo, I’m. . .” She didn’t let me finish.

She interrupted with, “And you know how that turns me on!” She continued her mouth-massage on my member.

I came in her mouth and she was momentarily sated.

[From the story, “Attention Slut,” in the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]

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

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