DAVE THOMPSON, ROGER WATERS AND THE STORY OF THE WALL
interview by Chrissie Bentley
With close to 150 books to his name, Dave Thompson must be one of the most prolific entertainment authors around. He is also one of the most heartfelt, layering his books with a love for (or, occasionally, hatred of) his subject that cannot help but ensnare the reader.
A few years back, Thompson's history of erotic film, Black and White and Blue, introduced readers to a flickering celluloid interview that many of us were unaware even existed. Earlier this year, his study of television’s Doctor Who, the Docto Who FAQ, almost caused certain corners of the Internet to meltdown as readers argued the merits of Thompson’s opinions, while another recent title, a biography of folk singer Steve Ashley, shines the brightest literary light imaginable upon a performer many people have never even heard of. And demands that they remedy that situation immediately.
Now Thompson brings us Roger Waters: The Man Behind The Wall, and if you think it’s going to unspool as just one more book about Pink Floyd, think again.... Once past the opening couple of chapters, they scarcely even get mentioned again until halfway through the book.
Q: You open the book with the making of The Wall, which I’m sure will confuse some people. Tell us why you did that.
A: I wanted to get it out of the way. Bloody thing. I really didn’t like it when it came out and I’ve not really changed my mind since then. I actually preferred The Final Cut when it came out But it’s also the lead-in to the solo career, because it almost was his first solo album. When it came time for Floyd to make a new album, Waters gave them two concepts, The Wall and The Pros and Cons of Hitch Hiking. And they chose Pros and Cons. They changed their minds a few weeks later, but that’s how close it came.
Also because too many books, and my own are among them, are obsessed with the music that an artist made first, charting the day-to-day doings of the sixties and seventies, then treating the rest of the career as an afterthought. Which runs the risk of encourages readers to do the same thing.
Q: Well, for many acts, it is.
A: Okay, that’s true. Not many people would argue that Paul McCartney’s post-Wings career is anywhere near as enthralling as his days with the Beatles. Or that Bowie in the Eighties and beyond tells a more intriguing story than the decade that preceded them. A Rolling Stones book that analyzed the years since Undercover would be an even bigger drag than getting old. There’s a reason why Keith Richards’ autobiography spends more time on his favorite recipes, than documenting the creative process of the 2000s.
Q: So how is Roger Waters different?
A: Because... okay, he’s scarcely been prolific, but the music he’s made since he left Floyd has been a master class in maintaining both relevance and opinion, without once sidelining any of the reasons we consider those qualities to be of interest. Again going back to why The Wall is important, in a lot of ways it was a sketchbook for concepts and imagery that he would return to and... it’s kind of like a demo for everything he would write about in the future. Plus, if we go back to the 1980s, The Pros and Cons of Hitch Hiking and Radio K.A.O.S. were, and remain, the finest efforts released by any so-called veteran mainstream artist that whole dismal decade long.
Q: Tell us about the first time you heard Pink Floyd.
A: It was fall 1973, newly returned from the school summer holidays. One of my classmates was raving about an album he’d discovered while we were away. It was called The Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd, and he was so mortified by my lack of interest that he insisted on playing the whole thing there and then.
Q: You weren’t impressed?
A: I was thirteen and I was into Glam Rock. Bowie, Bolan, Slade... wham bam thank you slam. Pink Floyd? Horrible, hairy... not one of them knew one end of a tube of lipgloss from the other, and listening to their endless album, I didn’t believe they had time for me. I remember suffering through the interminable “Us and Them,” and feeling it suck all the joy from the room. “Money” was a dour disco plod at a time when “disco” translated into anything that might make people feel like doing anything so uncool as dancing and, by the time the stylus hit “Brain Damage,” I was so dispirited that I condemned it as a pompous rewrite of David Bowie’s “Laughing Gnome,” and left the room.
Q: At which point, Bowie himself made you change your mind
A: Yeah. The rat. Bowie was the bee’s knees at that time. He was really only two albums into his reign of stardom, but he was already more than a simple pop star. He was also an arbiter of taste and, in the fifteen months since “Starman” set the children boogie-ing (in an age when fifteen months actually meant something, and wasn’t simply a moment in time that flashed by in ten minutes), he’d already bent my ears towards a wealth of music that I knew I’d be listening to for years to come. Jacques Brel, Iggy, Lou Reed and the Velvets... Bowie had never let me down, which is all a very convoluted way of introducing my next exposure to Pink Floyd, courtesy of the album he delivered just a few weeks after my encounter with Dark Side Of The Moon.
Q: That would have been Pin Ups?
A: Right. Pin Ups was Bowie’s tribute to the music that surrounded him as he was making his own way through the 1960s, and spending his spare time doing what every teenaged kid of the age was doing, listening to the radio and going to gigs. Pin Ups was him reliving it all, revisiting his favorite oldies on an album of covers that demanded you investigate the originals. Including the Pink Floyd song (“See Emily Play”), which I dimly recalled from the radio of the day, and which briefly made me wonder whether I’d misjudged my schoolfriend’s tastes. Or maybe even my own.
I made it my goal, with that evangelical fervor that so easily overpowers a lad of that age, to pick up the originals of every track on the album. The Who, Them, the Easybeats, the Merseys, the Pretty Things, the Yardbirds. Most were easy. Boscombe, the small town where I lived at the time, was lousy with used record emporiums, and between Steptoes on the Christchurch Road, and Boscombe Electrics deeper into town, I found most of what I was searching for, either on a well-loved old single, or on a battered used LP.
Now, “See Emily Play” had been a major UK hit, and it sold a lot of copies. But, either everyone who bought it had decided to hang onto it, or else there were other people bent on the same mission as me, who were snapping up every copy before I could find it. It wasn’t showing up anywhere. So finally I bit the bullet. A meander around a “real” record store, where pristine new vinyl was sold at full price, revealed a budget-priced Floyd compilation called Relics. It cost, I believe, a little less than twice the price of a new 45; which, according to a mathematical formula that I invented on the spot, meant if I liked four songs on it, I’d already broken even, and if I liked more than that, I was streaking ahead.
Q: I’m guessing you liked it.
A: I think I must have. Either that, or the cats have a very bizarre taste in music. I don’t even want to count how many times I’ve bought every single Floyd album, between vinyl, CDs, remasters, reissues, box sets... Right now, I’m looking at half a dozen different versions of Dark Side Of The Moon, without even considering six more in the Immersion box set; half a dozen Wish You Were Here’s, and as for Piper At The Gates Of Dawn....
Q: Is that your favorite?
A: Funnily enough, More was my favorite for a long time, especially when it was my turn to proselytize Floyd. “The Nile Song” never let me down. I also have an only partially suppressed memory of presenting an essay or poem to the school one day, with “Careful With That Axe, Eugene” cranked loudly enough on the school gramophone that it drowned out whatever twaddle I had composed for the occasion. More and Saucerful of Secrets.
Then I discovered bootlegs, beginning with Winter Tour 74, which appeared from nowhere that same Christmas, and fooled a lot of people, including myself, into thinking it was a new Floyd album. And when I realized that it wasn’t, I went looking for more. I didn’t get too far because at five pounds a pop, they were almost twice the price of a legitimate release.
But I found a few and I adore them still. In Celebration of the Comet: The Coming of Kahoutek; Magnesium Proverbs; Oenone. At a time when Pink Floyd were releasing new albums at what then seemed the hyper-glacial rate of one every two years or so, Floyd boots soon outstripped even Bowie on my shelves. And at least half of the thrill of first hearing Animals in 1977 was the realization that those two unknown songs on my first ever Floyd boot were now the centerpiece of their latest LP. Which might be why, to answer your question, that’s probably my true favorite Floyd record. Except when it’s Obscured By Clouds.
Q: What do you think of the current state of their catalog?
A: You mean the reissues and box sets? Well, obviously I won’t be happy until we have the Piper box. And another for Animals. But apart from Bob Dylan and King Crimson, I don’t think any band could claim to have better served its archive-scouring public. And the fact that Pink Floyd remain the only major act in rock’n’roll history to still be awaiting a career-spanning box set is readily balanced by the fact that almost every one of their albums deserves a box to itself.
Which is the other reason why I wanted to present the book ass-backwards, and why we begin in the middle, travel through to the end, and then loop around and continue on from the beginning. Which... to digress... is not to say you shouldn’t read it in chronological order, because of course you can. Just turn to the beginning of... I think it’s Chapter Nine.... and away you go.
For the rest of us, though; those whose journeys with the Floyd began in an age before The Wall was built, and certainly before it came tumbling down, the suspension of our own personal timeline allows us to investigate patterns that we might never otherwise have cared to; permits, too, the satisfaction of seeing how the past will always repeat itself, whether as an influence or an intrusion, without having already been reminded precisely what that past originally was. Because the story of the band in general, and Roger Waters in particular, is not a linear one. It does convulse, it does circle back and, most of all, it does demand that you pay attention.
Q: Even to The Wall?
A:Personally, I still don’t like The Wall, and I could probably tell you exactly the number of times I have actually listened to it all the way through, without taking at least one extended break. But it is where this story begins, and thanks to his current tour, it’s also where it ends. So I never did get it out of the way, really. It was always waiting somewhere.
Q: Finally, are you ever going to write a follow-up to Black and White and Blue?
A: In terms of a book about erotic film, I don't know - my own interest starts to fade once we reach the color and sound stage, plus the topic has been very heavily covered by other authors. But I do have a few other ideas, it's just a matter of sitting down and making sense of them.
Roger Waters: The Man Behind The Wall is published by Backbeat Books on September 17, 2013.
In London in the 1960s, pornography was a man’s world. It was viewed by men, written by men, directed by men and filmed by men. If they hadn’t needed actresses to play a part on camera, it would probably have been made by men as well. And then a woman came along, and changed that world completely. This is her story. The mid-1960s were the golden age of truly underground erotic film making, the last grand flowering of the trade before the progressive liberalization of the arts, the advent of new forms of technology (beginning with the VHS tape), and the mercurial success of the movie Deep Throat transformed a once deeply secretive and self-involved industry into… indeed, a mainstream industry. Tonight at 8 returns us to those halcyon days; to a gray and overcast landscape of dirty raincoats and secretive doormen, of darkened club rooms and menacing mobsters; and a square mile of seedy businessmen for whom sex films were made for fun as much as finance – at least by the people on either side of the camera. It is the semi-fictional, but wholly truthful autobiography of one of the era’s most prolific film-makers – a XXX novella that could double as a confessional text book, but which pulls no punches in either direction.
Girls... want to know the details before they’ll take the leap.
You begin by telling them who the films are being made for. Men. Then you tell them what men are like when it comes to sex. Stupid. You explain how there’s a certain sequence of acts that they all expect to see. They want to see you kiss. They want to see him sucking your titties. They want to see him licking your fanny. They want to see you sucking his cock, and they want to see you fuck. Then, at the end, they want to see him pull out of your body and spunk up somewhere else.
“On your titties if you’d prefer. On your face if you’ll let him. In your mouth if you want him to. And that’s the important thing. It’s what you want that matters. Not him, not the actor. Once the camera starts rolling, unless I call out something else, you’re in total command. And even if I do call out, it’ll be something that you and I have already talked about.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“As a film maker? Definitely on the face, preferably in the mouth.” I told her my thoughts on the grace and beauty; how even the most gorgeous woman in the world becomes even lovelier with a cock in her mouth, and how the moment of his orgasm, if she handles it without screaming or spluttering, is quite possibly the loveliest, sexiest, sight on earth.
“Who would I do it with, Kevin or Nick?”
“Okay, this is where you can say no if you want. It’d be Kevin and Nick. And, as it’s your first time, I’ll pay you seventy five.”
Now you know why Tina came to work with me the next day. She wasn’t going to let me out of her sight.
Kevin and Nick were bang on time, and they didn’t look at all surprised to see Tina waiting with me.
I explained the set up I’d devised, which was basically exactly what had happened last night when they met her. We’d go to the park, there’d be a long shot of Tina walking down the bridle path alone, then she’d sit on the bench with her face in her hands. Kevin and Nick would approach from the other direction, stop and talk with her for a moment, ask if they can help, and bring her to the flat. Kevin would produce an A-Z (I’d bought one myself on my lunch break), Nick would make some tea. Then, while Tina leafed through the pages, Kevin would stand behind her, reading over her shoulder, and…
I hadn’t told Tina this part, because I needed her to seem genuinely surprised, which is a lot harder on silent film than you might think. Of course she was expecting something, but I think… because that is how I explained things to her… I think she was expecting Kevin to at least caress her shoulders, maybe bend down to kiss her. Something like that, anyway.
Instead, standing behind her while she studied the map, he unbuttoned his trousers and pulled out his cock, and while Nick tried his best to stifle a giggle, pretended to be fucking her ear.
Tina saw the movement, turned around – and her reaction was better than I even dreamed. With a shriek of laughter, she fell back on the bed, the book for a moment laid across her face. Then she sat back up and with only a quick sideways glance towards me, she took hold of his prick and her mouth closed around it.
I hadn’t really asked her about her past sexual experiences, partly because it was up to her if she wanted to tell me, but also because I don’t necessarily believe that they’re relevant to our work. Obviously you don’t want an actor to completely fall apart when confronted with something they’ve not done before, but at the same time, the emotional and physical responses that you call on when you’re having sex with, shall we say a partner, a lover, a friend, are very different to those you call upon if you’re using your body to make a film.
Not everybody understands that, of course, which is why not everybody could be a blue movie star, and why most men should not even consider it. And I don’t agree, either, with those women who can casually shrug and say they’re not having sex when they’ve still got the spunk leaking out of their fanny. But somewhere in between the two extremes – over-involvement and over-detachment, there is a Happy Land where blue films can be made.
Tina was in that Happy Land. I closed in and her eyes met the lens for a moment, gleaming with pleasure as Kevin’s dick slid in and out. I moved the camera away from my face and mimed gnashing my teeth together; she took Kevin’s cock gently out of her mouth, then closed her teeth on the shaft, gnawing up and down as though it were an ear of corn.
Nick leaned in and said something; I didn’t hear it, but Tina laughed around her mouthful and feigned an elbow to his ribs. It was wonderful to watch them; Nick and Kevin had a chemistry that I knew I could rely upon, but Tina slipped in to their world of private fun and games as though she’d known them all her life.
"TONIGHT AT 8: Behind the scenes of the London blue movie industry, 1967-1969" by Chrissie Bentley. E-book and print, and starring this little lovely!
In London in the 1960s, pornography was a man’s world.
Stag movies and blue films were viewed by men, written by men, directed by men and filmed by men. If they hadn’t needed actresses to play a part on camera, they would probably have been made by men as well.
And then a woman came along, and changed that world completely.
This is her story.
The mid-1960s were the golden age of truly underground erotic film making, the last grand flowering of the trade before the progressive liberalization of the arts, the advent of new forms of technology (beginning with the VHS tape), and the mercurial success of the movie Deep Throat transformed a once deeply secretive and self-involved industry into… indeed, a mainstream industry.
Soho By Spotlight returns us to those halcyon days; to a gray and overcast landscape of dirty raincoats and secretive doormen, of darkened club rooms and menacing mobsters; stag films and blue movies; and a square mile of seedy businessmen for whom sex films were made for fun as much as finance – at least by the people on either side of the camera.
It is the semi-fictional, but wholly truthful autobiography of one of the era’s most prolific film-makers – a XXX novella that could double as a confessional text book, but which pulls no punches in either direction.
A gripping adventure littered with powerful sex; a fearless expose shot through with honesty and emotion, then draped by a sheen of fragile, furtive eroticism, Soho By Spotlight tells the story of Elizabeth Clark… the eye behind the lens of some of the best-loved British porn films of the era.
Rarely more than ten minutes in length, resolutely black and white, and determinedly dirty, movies like Little Girl Lost, Tonight At Eight and Satan's Children come to life in these pages. So does the world in which they were made, a world – once again - of dirty raincoats and secretive doormen, of darkened club rooms and menacing mobsters. And sex so hot that it melts the celluloid.
One of the largest internet credit card processors in the world has recently announced a policy of zero tolerance regarding the use of certain words on sites it represents. How long will it be before all the others follow?
Since writing the original article, I've received a more complete list of "banned" words. Again, you will notice that no actual vulgarities are included, but there's a lot of very innocent terms whose sexual connotations, while conceivably negative, are almost extraordinarily minimal. Okay, deep breath (you'll need it)... rape (and variations... raped, raping etc) scat / skat (and variations... scatology, scatalogical etc) be[a]stiality incest/incestuous abduct (and variations) kidnap (and variations - so there goes any attempt to dicuss Robert Louis Stevenson's second best-loved novel) Lolita (ditto Vladimir Nabokov's best-loved book) hypnotic, hypnosis, hypnotize, hypnotherapy... in fact, any word beginning with hypno-..., drugs celebrities (and variations/abbreviations thereof)
other terms... necrophilia, pedophilia (and associations - underage, pre-teen etc), zoophilia... fall into illegal territory, so their presence on the list could be considered understandable. At the same time as they brightly highlight another iniquity of this regime, the absolute absence of any human agency in actually checking the context of these words' usage. If you are going to police the Internet, then police it properly.
Right now, the companies employing this system are essentially practicing the linguistic equivalent of racial profiling... the assumption that all uses of a given word are illegal, just because a small handful of them might be.
I knelt on the soft carpet of our living room, my bare knees spread wide, my wet pussy lips dripping onto the shag. To my left stood Greg, his erect cock handsome and hungry. To my right... did I even catch the kid’s name? Maybe... maybe not. I had been so astonished when the now familiar cable truck pulled up in our driveway, and two men, not one, climbed out of the cab, that everything that had happened since then seemed hazy, almost a dream. Greg clutched the work order. This was... what, his fifth visit now; so many that I was sure the people at his head office must be wondering why I kept placing service calls, and so many that I was beginning to suspect that Mark, my husband, was in on the joke as well. First he needed the DVR looked at. Then there was a problem with an outside connection. Then something else, then something else, and each time he told me to call Greg direct, as though he was the only engineer at the entire cable company who understood the precise needs of our household. Which, I thought as I ran my tongue slowly up that beautiful shaft, he might have been. Normally, Greg came alone. And then we would cum together. Today, though, he was accompanied by a younger man, a trainee; he explained, new to the business, new to the world of installation and set-up. And new to the world of sex, I would guess. I don’t even remember how we crossed that border between an engineer doing what engineers do, and Greg and I preparing to do what we usually did, but the boy was with us every step of way, and the only difference between the two men now was, Greg was hard. His colleague was soft. Very soft. So soft that when I opened my mouth to suckle the tip of his dick as it curled down around his balls, I found I could take almost the whole thing inside. And what a treat that was for me, filling my mouth with that gentle warmth, feeling it stir uncertainly but never leaping to the rigid attention of a more experienced man. The boy was shy, he was nervous, he was scared. I would cure him of that. He looked vaguely familiar, said a quiet voice in the back of my mind, but I stilled it. I’ve lived in this city my entire life; maybe I’d passed him in a store, maybe we used the same gym, maybe he’d worked the registers at 7-11. He didn’t seem to recognize me, anyway, but I knew I could make him remember me now. I released him from my jaws and let my tongue tease his balls instead. “You like that?” I breathed as he let out a gentle moan. He nodded. “Yes ma’am,” and I giggled at his formality, then turned and sucked on Greg for a moment. “And did you like that?” I asked, and Greg hissed his approval as his cock twitched in my hand. It was a feeling I never tired of. Back and forth I went, softly sucking at one, gently devouring the other. Some girls love shoes, some girls love purses. I love cock. Always have. I can’t even remember how old I was, the first night I woke up from a dream so vivid that I could still taste the meat that I’d been sucking in my sleep, but from the first time a casual remark by a girlfriend at school filled me in on fellatio, no other sexual act had even registered in my mind. I was a born cock sucker, and I was good at it as well. Taking Greg deep into my throat, the boy’s cock still lay at comparative rest, swelling a little but still not at ease. I could feel his eyes on me, though; feel him watching as I sucked on his workmate, and my hand gently stroked him, approving as finally his softness began to uncurl and grow firmer. I turned my head and slowly closed my lips over his helmet, thrilling as I realized that, if he got much fatter and harder than this, I would barely be able to fit him into my mouth. His cock head was huge, growing larger every moment, and my jaw was already aching as the strength flowed into his shaft. I released him and shuffled back a bit. Remember the movie Reality Bites? Remember the bit where two boastful guys claim they had a swordfight with their cocks inside a girl’s mouth? I was still a virgin when I first saw that movie, but that image has clung to my fantasies ever since. I grasped each cock and tugged it, pulling its owner closer. Then angled them both to my wide-open mouth and invited them both to push in. Have you ever seen two cocks side by side, close-up? Two meaty firm helmets pressing together, pushing one another, thrilling to the touch of one another without their owners even realizing it? And have you ever then stretched out a questing tongue and coated them both in warm, hungry saliva, greasing paths already slick with precum, while they push at your lips and stretch your mouth wide... I knew I would never fit both of them in; knew that the boy alone would fill my head with his heat. But I was going to give it a good go regardless, and the feel of them fighting to slip themselves in... the moans and sighs the two men were making as their erections slid closer to orgasm... I cried out as I came with the sheer excitement and anticipation of it all, and as my mouth widened, the boy jammed himself in - and flooded me! Around my smothered gurgles, around my screaming jaw, his hot cum filled my mouth, and his hands were holding my head still as he fucked the last pumping spurts into me. Before abruptly pulling out as Greg plunged in too, and instead of fighting to swallow just one mouthful of cum, now I was choking on two. It was amazing how different they tasted; one sharply sweet, one tongue-teasingly bitter; one thick and heavy, the other light and juicy, then combining on my tongue and in my throat; a flavor, I knew, of which I’d never tire, but one that filled my mouth so much that I could never swallow it all. I could feel it seeping from my mouth, down Greg’s shaft; dripping onto my breasts, my knees, the carpet. I was drowning in cum and it was flooding my home, and even as the two men pulled their pants up and prepared to leave, I remained on the carpet, their cum drying on my face, gasping with shock and delight They left and the phone rang. I stood unsteadily and walked to the kitchen, where it was charging on the table. It was Mark. Calling to ask “has the cable guy come yet?” I summoned up whatever strength I had left, praying that my voice would not betray me. “Yes, he came. Everything’s good.” “That’s great,” Mark answered. “You can show me when I get home.” Then he hung up and my eyes fell automatically onto the wet patch of carpet where my pussy had dripped and two cocks had spilled their goodness. “Yes I can,” I thought. “But show you what?” Okay. You’re probably thinking, as I sometimes do, that Mark knows exactly what I do when he’s working. Knows and approves. His insistence on my always calling Greg to the house... his insistence on there always being one more reason to do so. The way he knows the precise moment to call, and knows the precise things to say as well. The first time it happened, I put it down to coincidence. The second time it happened, I went searching for a camera, or at least a hidden microphone. I’ve seen the commercials on TV, how you can set up your home security system to send live video feeds to your phone while you’re out, but I also knew that the only security we have is a burglar alarm which goes off when the wind blows, a dog who only barks at birds, and what may or may not be a working antique shotgun that Mark inherited from his grandfather. Besides, if there was a camera, I’d have found it when I’m cleaning; and, like I said, I’ve looked. Which left just one possibility. That Greg was in on it too, calling my husband as he left after each visit and telling him what we’d done. An idea which is simultaneously so damned hot, and so damned paranoid, that I put it out of my mind right away. It had to be coincidence. The same coincidence, I decided, that prompted Mark to walk straight to the stain on the carpet when he got home, kneel down and run his fingers over it, then ask if the dog had had an accident. No, but your slut wife did, I wanted to reply, because that way we’d get the whole thing out in the open, and I could stop wondering what was really happening. But of course I didn’t; I just got a damp cloth and did what I should have done when it happened. And hadn’t, for reasons I don’t want to think about. A week passed. I hadn’t seen Greg, because Mark seemed happy with the way his home theater set-up was operating, and he’d not brought over his friends since that night when Monday Night Football became a four on one romp, with me providing the fuck holes. To be honest, I think Mark was still feeling a little weird after one of the gang, Frank, gave his cock a little nibble after he’d finished fucking me. He didn’t say anything, but when I tried to bring up the subject again, and let him know how hot I thought it looked, he laughed and told me I had cock sucking on the brain... and then asked me to suck his cock. Today, though, he surprised me. “I want you to wear something kinky this evening.” I eyed him cautiously, my heart already beginning to pound. “Kinky as in... leather? Lace? A gas mask?” I once dreamed that I was sucking cock with a gas mask on and woke up to one of the most amazing orgasms I have ever had. I don’t even know if it would actually be possible to do it, and somehow I doubt that it would (at least while wearing any of the models I’ve looked at since). But a girl can hope.... “I’ll leave that to your imagination,” he smiled, but I already had my answer. Browsing the mall a few days before, dropping by the novelty gifts store that had been a fixture there since I was teenaged, I’d spotted rolls of yellow “crime scene” tape for sale. The same tape you see on television cop shows; the same tape, coincidentally enough, that bedecked the girl whom a guy at the gym had tattooed across his abdomen. It looked amazing on his flesh. It was going to look even better on mine. I bought the tape, drove home. A couple of hours with a needle and thread, a few tentative fittings as I made some adjustments; by the time I was finished, I not only had a new bikini with the words “crime scene’ emblazoned across my cunt, ass and tits, I’d also fashioned a matching harness that I could clip to any piece of furniture in the house. I didn’t know what Mark had planned for tonight, but he could never say I wasn’t prepared. He arrived home alone and I didn’t tell him how I’d spent my day. He didn’t ask, either, and we ate our dinner around the TV news as usual, loaded the dishwasher, cleaned up the kitchen, all those little domestic duties that married couples always seem to do together. Then he looked at his watch and smiled. “We’ll have company in about fifteen minutes. Do you want to get yourself ready?” I nodded and walked upstairs. He still hadn’t told me who we were expecting. But I kind of guessed that it wouldn’t be his boss. Or his mother. I changed and came back to the living room. He looked up at me and I saw approval etch itself over his face. Especially when he saw the harness. Even more when he saw the blindfold. “Tonight,” he told me, “I just want you to relax. I don’t want you to wait on our guests, I don’t want you up and down fetching drinks and snacks. I just want you sitting down, relaxed and enjoying yourself. And to make sure of that....” He rose and, figuring out my harness in a flash, lashed my body to the recliner I had just settled down upon. My arms were free, but my legs were spread wide, tied to the legs of the broad, heavy antique coffee table he’d inherited from his gran (I wondered what she’d think if she knew). And he’d arranged me so the first thing anyone would see when they walked through the door was - me, spread-eagled across the La-z-boy, bedecked in crime tape and... blind. Mark had found the blindfold. The doorbell rang just minutes later and I felt my heart leap into my throat. Mark opened the door and I strained to hear the low voices that murmured greetings to one another. There were two. One was Mark’s friend Brad... I smiled to myself. Twice in the past I’d had Brad in my mouth, once on my wedding night, once the other week. And I have to admit, he had the kind of cock that could make a girl go weak at the knees. Not too big, not too small, not too short, not too long... just right in every dimension. The other voice? I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t Frank, it wasn’t Tommy. My mind rifled through the other friends Mark spent most of his time with, but came up blank, and that excited me even more. Someone I had never met, who was now going to meet me in the most intimate manner imaginable. My mind flashed back to Greg and his buddy this morning. It was my day for sucking off strangers! Something I’d not done since before I was married, hanging out at nightclubs with a gang of my own friends, sizing up guys for one night stands, then taking them outside, or home, or wherever, and showing them tricks that they had only ever dreamed of. It always astonished me how, when I sucked them, they’d want to pull out of my mouth as they came. How they’d almost explode when I pulled them back in. How they’d look at me in absolute awe as I swallowed their cum and then wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, before licking that clean as well. “Nobody’s ever done that for me before,” they would say. “Nobody’s ever swallowed my cum.” And I’d look at them and smile, while my mind wrestled with the mystery. Why not? It’s the best bit! Well, apart from the rest of it.... A hand on my breast, fingertips trailing over my flesh then tracing the edges of the crime tape. Another on my face... that was Mark, I recognized his touch. Two on my thighs, one on each, caressing the soft skin at the tops of my legs. I writhed and moaned gently and a finger brushed my pussy through the tape. I held my breath then exhaled as a mouth moved to join it, licking on either side of the plastic, patient as I moistened and the crime scene grew slick. Exquisite teasing. I reached out blindly, brushed bodies that were still fully clothed; fumbled for a belt buckle, found one and tugged. Hands joined mine, loosening the buckle, undoing the buttons. My hand touched flesh, then was guided to cock. Brad. I smiled and squeezed and felt him shifting, raising a leg to straddle my chest, then lowering his prick between my breasts, beneath the crime tape, binding himself to my body. His hands crushed my tits together, squeezing his cock between them, and slowly he started to fuck them. I tilted my head, extended my tongue. My nostrils had caught the sweet odor of his cock and my mouth was already watering to taste it. I felt a sudden electric shock as my tongue tapped his cock head for the first time, a thousand flavors and sensations that I wanted to choke on, and then another jolt as hands elsewhere tore the tape away from my hips. Two cocks at my pussy, stroking my labia, taking slow turns to soak their tips in my hole. I raised my hips, my cunt sucking at whichever prick was closest, my body begging it to slam inside me, and I felt a maddening thrill as the other dipped to my asshole, smearing pussy juice and precum around the tight darkness. Mark read my mind. Or my movements. “I think we need to untie her,” he said, and suddenly my bonds were free. There was a jolt as someone jerked the handle on the La-z-boy, transforming it from a chair to a flat surface, then a body... Mark’s... lay down beside me, squirmed itself beneath me... and that moment of exquisite pain and pressure that suddenly transforms itself into unspeakable pleasure as his erection pushed itself into my slick ass. A second cock, the stranger’s, rammed into my pussy, tearing me apart with its unfamiliar girth - oh my god, I don’t know who this man is, but his meat is a monster. And a third, Brad, escaping my tits and plunging into my throat, deep enough that I almost choked, hard enough that my head tilted back and I lay, contorted, impaled by three pricks, motionless as their owners fucked me to paradise. “Relax,” Mark had told me. “Don’t move,” he had said. “Just lay back and enjoy yourself.” What choice did I have? Like voluptuous meat in a hot man sandwich, I could barely have moved if I’d wanted to. But my hips responded to the cocks in my asshole and pussy, my head moved to the rhythm of the one in my mouth. And my arms flailed, reaching out to caress each of my lovers. A hand grasped Brad’s balls, squeezing them, stroking them; his hands clutched my breasts, twisting the nipples hard and sharp. Teeth bit my shoulder, nails scraped my abdomen. I was high, I was flying, I was soaring, and when I felt my first orgasm approaching, it was as if I’d been raised so far above the ground that nothing on earth could make me return. My eyes were closed tight behind the sticky tight blindfold, my mind was whirling wildly. And I couldn’t even cry out as the first great wave hit me, because that was the moment when Brad’s cock erupted and I was drinking him down as the cocks down below hammered me harder and harder. Bam! Bam! A hot shot of Mark blasting into my gut, a wild wave of ... whoever he was... slamming into my pussy. Four people, four orgasms, in less than forty seconds. That must be some kind of record. It must be some kind of magic. Brad withdrew and at last I could howl, a moan of such utter contentment and joy. Mark moved away and my ass yawned in protest, wanting him back, wanting him hard. A plop as the other guy lipped out of my cunt, and I lay there in utter contentment and joy, feeling three men’s bodies as they bustled around me, and three men’s cum as it sloshed around my body. I didn’t even worry about the La-z-boy, which would certainly need good cleaning in the morning. I just lay there as Brad said he was going to grab some beers from the kitchen; lay there as Mark kissed me softly on the mouth and then gently slipped off the blindfold; lay there as my eyes adjusted to the sudden light and the faces around me swam back into focus. Brad, still grinning as he handed me a bottle. Mark, still smiling as he gazed down on his cum soaked wife. And the boy, the guy from the cable company, the one who had been here with Greg, but not so shy now, and not so unsure, watching me with laughing eyes as Mark made the introductions. No wonder I thought I knew him this morning. He’d been at our wedding reception, Tommy’s brother Lee. Fresh out of college and looking for work. “He’s just started at the cable company,” Mark said and I pushed away all the questions that flew to my lips as he spoke. Instead I just smiled. “You like that?” Lee’s eyes met mine, and I swear his cock twitched again. “Yes ma’am.” He paused and now he was holding his dick, massaging it slowly as his gaze shifted to my lips. “I’ve still got a lot to learn, but the guy they’ve teamed me up with has already shown me some really cool stuff.” I couldn’t believe it. He was already hard again. I stood, stepped towards him, then knelt at his feet. For the second time today, my lips stretched greedily to greet his fat, ripe cock. “I don’t doubt that for a moment,” I said in answer to his last remark. “but I bet you’re a very fast learner.” Then, as Mark placed his hands on either side of my head, holding it firmly as I angled Lee’s shaft, I engulfed him in my mouth. “She’s such a fucking cock-hungry slut,” Mark laughed. “But I guess that’s why I love her.”
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