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The Nympho Librarian - Get Her While She's HOT!

Eleven scalding tales of lust and love in the halls of public learning - the town library!

The sex is hot, but the librarians are hotter, as authors Chrissie Bentley and Jenny Swallows reveal the lip-smacking truth about what goes on behind (and on top of, and around as well) the bookshelves.

Includes the tales THE NYMPHO LIBRARIAN, SILENCE IN THE LIBRARY, COUSIN TOM’S FIRST BLOWJOB, CUM BREATH, THE LIBRARIAN’S CHRISTMAS STOCKING, THE STUDENT BODY, STICKY FINGERS, MY CIVIC DUTY, WATCHING THE CLOCK, THOROUGHLY MODEM MISS and CHECKING OUT.

BUY IT NOW from Kindle just $2.99

BUY IT NOW print edition

EXCERPT

THE LIBRARIAN'S CHRISTMAS STOCKING

Firm fingers pulled my pussy apart although it needed very little encouragement. I was wet even before his tongue lapped the pink, could feel the panties he’d dragged down sopping against my stockinged foot, and the tight fawn skirt bunched against my back and that, too, felt moist. Ridiculously, I hoped it had not stained, then feeling ridiculous, I stifled a cry out as his tongue pushed inside my folds.

He twirled it around, then looked up at me. “You like that.” It was a statement, not a question, and my hand fell to the back of his head, gentle pressure the only answer he needed. But he resisted and his eyes flashed in the harsh fluorescents that buzzed above us.

I was standing on one foot, the other braced against a bookshelf, my foot inching a far volume backwards. 891.7 - Russian literature. Not a section of the library that received many visitors, especially this close to Christmas, but the occasional voice from the far end of the room reminded me that we were not yet closed for business, and here I was with a stranger on his knees and his mouth... his mouth... he licked again and I bit my lip to keep from moaning, which was not the response he expected. Because now his tongue was flat against me as his fingers pulled me wider, long sweeps that stopped short just a wriggle from my clitoris, so that’s what I did. I wriggled a little but he was faster, rocking back on his heels and blowing instead, a sharp rush of warm air that collided with my liquid lust, and I turned my head to bite the arm that clung for support to the top of the shelf. 817 - American literature, satire and humor.

One finger inside me, then two and his mouth again, circling my clit, teasing it, teasing me. He broke again. “I like your hair like that.” It hung loose below my shoulders. “It makes you look abandoned.”

Abandoned. I could only imagine what else I looked like, my glasses pushed up to my forehead so they wouldn’t bump his face when we kissed, my blouse half unbuttoned and one bra cup twisted down and around, when his fingers grazed my nipples and his teeth bit sharp around them. My skirt round my waist, my panties on the ground and a guy two-thirds my age, with two-thirds of his hand sunk deep inside me, licking out the fantasy that he’d texted me this morning.

all i wnt 4 xmas is 2 lick a lbrns cunt

==================================

A true story? Perhaps. But I'll say one thing - I had no idea that librarians were the stuff of male fantasies until I actually started to work as one. And to prove this is not just some twisted Jenny fantasy, brought on by too many eggnogs behind the biology shelves, here's a fascinating paper on librarian imagery in the media, followed by a catalog of 70s librarian porn novels, as compiled by blogger memetician.

Bang the Librarian Hard.
Campus Lust.
Chained, Whipped Librarians
Eager Beaver Librarian.
Eager to Spread Librarian.
Eager Young Librarian.
First Rear Entry.
Helpful Head Librarian.
Horny Balling Librarian.
Horny Hot Librarian.
Horny Licking Librarian.
Horny Peeping Librarian
Hot Bed Librarian.
Hot, Licked Librarian.
Hot Loving Librarian.
Hot Mouth Librarian.
Hot Pants Librarian.
Hot to Trot Librarian.
The Hottest Librarian
In Heat Librarian
Lash the Librarian!
A Librarian Enslaved.
The Librarian Gets Hot.
Librarian in Bondage.
Librarian in Chains.
The Librarian Licks Big Ones
The Librarian Loves It
The Librarian Loves to Lick.
The Librarian Slave.
The Librarian With the Hots.
The Librarian's Boys.
The Librarian's Hot Fun.
The Librarian's Hot Lips.
The Librarian's Hot Urges.
A Librarian's Training.
Licking the Librarian.
Line Up for the Librarian.
Naughty Voyeur Librarian.
Nympho Librarian.
The Oral Librarian.
Overeager Librarian.
Raped and Roped Librarian.
Sally - Sexy Librarian.
Sex Behind the Stacks.
Three-way with the Librarian.
What a Librarian!

My Boyfriend's Boyfriends...

Another great collection from Mischief Books - ten greedy girl stories include original group sex erotica from Chrissie Bentley, Primula Bond, Janine Ashbless, Lisette Ashton, Penny Birch and many more.

When Sara entertains her husband’s friends, she makes every jaw drop, but that’s not all that goes down in a crowded room…

In a swingers club, Helen wants to enter a special space and accept all of the excessive pleasures on offer inside it…

Penny takes part in a glory-hole competition and gets more than she bargained for…

Smoking hot erotica stories where size and numbers matter.

EXCERPT FROM "FOR BETTER OR BETTER YET" by Chrissie Bentley

Oh my God, this was paradise.  I’d had threesomes before, but I was younger and my partners were younger.  Too much indecision, too much laughter, and too many distractions as nervousness danced a tango with desire.  This was the real thing, this was serious business, and this was bigger.  Fuck a threesome, I wanted all four!  Straining, I pulled an arm out from beneath the knee that had imprisoned it, raised the hand that had done nothing but make tight fists in the bedclothes, and gripped a third cock, longer than Tommy’s, thicker than… thicker than whoever was pounding my pussy.

Shrinking the gender gap, one taboo at a time

You’ve probably all seen it by now, the remarkable study that reveals how the more sexually aroused a woman becomes, the more willing she is to swallow her scruples. Well, in case no one had noticed, men are no different.

The first time I asked a guy to go down on me immediately after he’d "finished" down there, he looked at me as though I was mad, then changed the subject to something else. The same thing happened the second and third time.

The fourth time I asked, I thought he was going to explode, so exciting was the prospect. And the big difference was? The difference was he hadn’t yet cum. And once he had committed himself, he was too much of a gentleman to go back on his word. Afterwards, I asked him if he had any regrets. He looked at me as though I was mad, and then changed the subject to something else.

Because of these previous experiences, I read the report Feelings of Disgust and Disgust-Induced Avoidance Weaken following Induced Sexual Arousal in Women by Charmaine Borg and Peter J. de Jong with maybe a little less wonder and interest than others have. This isn’t a girls-only phenomenon, it’s all of us.

This is not the place to discuss what is and isn’t disgusting - that, of course, is a subject that we can all hold forth on and all of us would be correct. If something disgusts you, then it’s disgusting, no matter how anybody else might try to phrase it. I remember in my youth being fascinated by the notion of oral sex before I even knew it had a name, let alone that other people shared my fascination. One of my best friends, on the other hand, was onto her second husband before she ever put a penis near her mouth, and why? Because the very thought disgusted her. Just one example and I'm sure you could come up with many more.

We’re not here to talk about girls, though; there’s been quite enough of that done in other forums these last few days. Guys, on the other hand...

According to a random poll I created, conducted utterly unscientifically from my own possibly distorted observations over the past decade or so, the three things guys are most likely not going to want to try:

- Having a threesome with another guy completing the party - and being expected to touch him in the process.

- Tasting or ingesting their own cum regardless of where it has been collected.

- And, as Smokedawg so eloquently put it in an article a couple of weeks ago: eating pussy and kissing ass. (Does that count as two things? Not if it’s done correctly.)

Now, the chances are, a lot of guys wouldn’t change their stance on those issues, or whatever else their personal yuckies might be, no matter how sexually excited they get. Just as a girl can be on the edge of the greatest orgasm of her life, but still won’t let him enter your own private nastiness here.

The difference is, he (or she, this is an equal opportunities issue, after all) will at least be willing to think about it. They might possibly admit that the idea is intriguing and may even join you in spinning out a verbal fantasy in which it takes place.

I admit that this is not a huge news flash. Various surveys over the years have informed us that a very high percentage of straight guys have at least fantasized about having sex (usually oral) with another man. The key word there is “fantasized.” Already in a state of sexual excitement, they increase their arousal by imagining something that they would not even admit to having ever considered when their pants were up and their dick was soft. 

Why not? It’s because they consider it disgusting. For the exact same reason as they consider the three (or four) acts listed above to be disgusting, and for the same reason they, and we, will reject other notions. It doesn't matter what sex you are. Sexual excitement lowers sexual inhibition in everyone; lust makes lewd lovers of us all.

I’m not criticizing the report or the various sources that have reported and commented upon it. But the next time a group of researchers set out to tap another great untold mystery of feminine sexuality, maybe they ought to check to make sure that it’s not a masculine mystery as well. 

Humans like sex. And the hotter they feel, the dirtier they want it. It really is as simple as that.

But, no, I don't care how many orgasms I am in the middle of, I’m still not going to gargle cum out of a used condom. That's just... disgusting.

A slick, sweet velvety ride...

You know how it feels, opening your toy box to see what you can see, and suddenly feeling as though you'e on the flight deck of the Enterprise, moments after it has been overrun by the Strangely Shaped Silicone Beasts from the Planet Zarg... you know exactly the ones I mean. The nobbly dudes with the lumps and bumps, the external veins popping and a host of rigid tentacles that threaten to grab you in six places at once. With skin that feels like an over-cooked zucchini, and a color scheme that would blind you if you gazed at it too long.

Close the lid, then, and drift with me. Back to a day when things were simpler, back to a time when a vibe was a vibe, and not the kind of gizmo that gets rolled out at big budget high tech launch parties. Back to - oh, you get the picture by now. But when I say the Velvet Touch Vibe could almost be retro, believe me, that's a compliment. Because it's true. 

Read the rest at Eden Fantasys

The Goddess of No Return

Athens is hot at this time of year and Meletos slept naked, he said, even though he knew that he would probably be seen by the servants.  But it was not through vanity or some decadent sense of exhibitionism; just that the majority of the household... all of them apart from myself, in fact... had served his family since he was just a child.  if they had not seen him naked by now, they were either blind or blinkered.  In which case, it wouldn’t matter how he dressed.  Or didn’t.

Still, he was touchingly modest when I entered his sleeping quarters every morning, to draw back the nightshades and leave some fruit by his bedside; and even more so on those occasions when his dreams had obviously strayed in the direction of sundry physical matters, and he awoke with an erection you could tether a donkey to.  Blushing crimson, he would apologize profusely, and I would back out of the room with my eyes to the ground, apologizing just as vehemently.  Because that is how we do things in this household, and I for one am glad of it.

I like the young master, and not only because we were both given names that, sometimes, cause strangers to look at us sadly, and wonder what awful pains we must have caused our mothers at birth, in order to be saddled with such pregnant titles.  He is Meletus, a name most people know only for the legend of Timagoras - Meletos was the boy’s lover, a foreigner who Timagoras treated like garbage, but who obeyed his partner’s every word.  Including the instruction to “go take a flying jump....”  And I am Empousa, named for the daughter of the Goddess Hecate and her lesbian consort, the ghoul Mormo.  Who inherited Mormo’s traditional penchant for biting bad children, by raising her target towards young men.  According to the legend, she travels by night, seeking out suitable sleepers, then swoops in to drain them of blood and devour their flesh.

Which, Meletos laughed when first we discussed our misbegotten names, might not be such a bad way to go, and it was only when I was older, and an older man still had taught me to love, that I realized there is more than one way to devour a youth’s flesh.  And more than one life force that you might want to drink.

I cast one more shy and, I hope, unnoticed glance at Meletos’s impressive morning erection, visible even after he draped it with a sheet, then went about the rest of my duties.

If I could see into the future, then perhaps I would know that in millennia to come, world would be that of the Ancient Greeks, my Gods and Goddesses would lie abandoned in the ruins, and every single thing that I consider commonplace would be awesome to your archaeologists.   I tell you this because you need context for the story I am about to relate.  You need to understand that for us, the mortal world and that of our deities are so close that we can reach out to touch one another.  That the spirit world, too, exists as just another plane with which we interact.  Man will lose those abilities, those familiarities; “civilizations” that consider themselves superior to ours will rise in our place, and measure their progress by their loss of awareness.

This is a story from the days before that happened.

This is the story of Empousa.

The fountain where the old men meet is all but deserted at this hour.  The morning’s liaisons are already in full swing, away from the prying eyes of passers’ by, and the afternoon’s trysts have yet to be arranged.  I usually stop here on my way back from the market, to pet the stray dogs and throw them some scraps, and talk with the other women who, like me, are happy to have discovered such a well of tranquility in the heart of the city, even if it is just for a matter of minutes.  

Soon the baying boys will begin to descend, jockeying for position as they primp, preen and pose themselves, all desperate to catch the eye of one of the old man philosophers, artists and authors for whom a fresh, virile youth is just another meal in their daily diet.

It is amusing to watch them; to pick out the men who consider themselves “famous” (even though few of us could name, or even recognize one of them), and go to extreme lengths to disguise their intentions. There is one, who I have heard is a great mathematician, who will loudly declare, in the hope that all will hear him, that the young man with whom he is disappearing home is his very own son, home from wars that we here have never heard about.  All I can say to that is, he has an awful lot of children.

In fact, I was just casting my gaze about for him, for I have to admit that he does have an eye for handsome boys, when I saw a familiar figure striding purposefully towards the fountain.  Meletos.

He had not seen me, and to ensure that he didn’t, I moved myself slightly, positioning myself beside, and behind, one of the tall pillars that surround the fountain.  And I spied on him.  Watched as he joined the preening throng; watched as his own eyes sought a likely looking consort; watched as they linked arms and disappeared together, in the direction of the bath house.  And I thought again of what I had witnessed that morning, that handsome cock of just nineteen summers, rising javelin hard (and almost as long) to greet the new day with such strength and vigor.

I hoped the old man choked on it.

Then smiled to myself, and wished I could, too.

When did I discover the art of laikazo?  Of sucking a cock?  Was it indeed from that older man, who bedded me with promises that he would show me Olympia, and came close to fulfilling his promise?  Was it from the younger one, who worked alongside me as a servant for a year, before moving into the service of another family?

Or was it from my own dreams, pieced together from the bawdy plays I would take to bed to read at night, and from the insinuations I found on vases and bowls?  A maiden kneels before an athlete.  Her mouth is open, her nostrils flare, her eyes are dancing.  What does she see, I would ask myself, that fills her with such wild excitement?  What does she scent, that her senses should suddenly be so alive and electric?  And what does she yearn to taste so badly that, even through the medium of clay and glaze, you can see her mouth watering, watch her tongue lolling?

What indeed?

I imagined the act long before I experienced it; I dreamed of it before I even knew it had a name.  In my dreams, he would be tall, strong, an athlete or a warrior, unbowed by battle, unscarred by his wars.  He would be tattooed, and the ink would wind mysteriously around his limbs and torso, like so many serpents consuming his flesh, and my hands would follow the sway of the snakes, down his arms and up his legs, with my kisses just a few sweet moments behind them.

And where the reptiles ended, and his own serpent began, that is where I would concentrate my kisses, bathing his shaft in the softness of my tongue, whispering words that as yet I could not even imagine (my vocabulary was so unadventurous in those days), but which I knew would come to me when the moment was right.

It was strange.  These imaginings never strayed any further.  It never occurred to me a lover might slide his tongue through the moist groove of my kusthos.  That any place other than my mouth should accept him, should worship him, should satisfy him.  I lived to eat, I knew that even then, and when I made that other connection, between my name and my vocation, I will not lie to you.  I gave my favors freely.

Ah, but that is not something to broadcast around the world in which I live.  We talk freely of love and sex amongst ourselves, for what is there about the act that should be hidden?  But the cunt and the ass are the sole holes of choice.  The mouth is the preserve of the immoral and degraded, the mouth is the one hole that should never be defiled.

I am named for a Goddess, so I talked to my Goddess.

One temple.  In all of Athens, perhaps in all of Greece, I know of just one temple that is dedicated to her, an impoverished shack so far removed from the glories erected to her mother, Hecate.  I had some coin, saved from my last wage, and a dress that I consecrated the evening before, allowing a stranger to press me to the ground behind an apothecary’s stall, and use my mouth as another man might have paid to use my cunt.  His payment, too, I would dedicate to the temple, yet the crone who watched as I entered hallowed ground brushed my offerings aside like they were worthless.

“You are here,” she told me in a voice as old as the bricks around us.  “That is the only offering our Mother requires.”

I looked around.  Short candles guttered in recesses cut into the old stonework; others had burned down long ago, and never been replaced.  Next time I visited, I vowed to myself, my offering would be spent on replacing them.

Empousa waited on the altar.  I had never seen a representation of her; had imagined from the stories that we hear of her that she would be somehow misshapen, inhuman, a monster.  Instead, she was beautiful, a woman of my age, her breasts bared and shapely, her body lithe and athletic.  Below, her sex was clearly defined, with an artist’s eye for the symmetry that nature herself overlooked; above, her hair flowed long and golden, picked out in colors that absorbed the candles’ glow and then reflected it back like a thousand prisms.  Her eyes were clear, soft and seductive.  Her cheekbones rose sharp, her jaw was firm.  But it was her mouth that drew you in, not for any reason that you could ever explain, but because that is how the sculptor intended it.  Your eyes appreciate every contour of her body.  But your attention is consumed by the mouth.

Behind me, I sensed the old woman turning and shuffling almost noiselessly back into the anterior room.  I was surprised; I had expected, because that is what I’d experienced elsewhere, a Priestess to remain with me, to guide me through my first meeting with the Goddess, to shape our encounter so that we both might learn to know one another.

Instead I was alone, and for a moment, reluctant to breathe, for fear of breaking the silence that now pressed against me.  

But my words were there anyway, tumbling over one another in my head, as my hands reached out towards the statue and I placed one finger at that mysterious mouth.  “My mother Empousa...” I began, and I was aware, for the first time, of the incense that was burning, thickly sweet, but fragrant too... a scent I knew well, an aroma I craved.  I dropped to my knees, my arms embracing the Goddess’s form, and the warmth of my body was the heat of hers as I poured out my dreams in the form of new questions, and asked her my questions in the words of fresh dreams.

And Empousa embraced me, with determination and strength... and pride.  With pride in who I am, with pride in what I do, with pride to bear her name abroad, her arts as my art, her heart as my heart.  I stepped back and for the first time, I understood.

A few words with the crone as I left the temple.  Promises made, promises accepted.  She would become my teacher, I would become her successor.  And together... well, maybe we would never raise Empousa from the ranks of what even acolytes call the “minor” deities; would never see her preside over a city of her own in the way that Athena stands over Athens.  

But that is not what she requires.  Empousa is stealth, Empousa is seduction.  Empousa is the Goddess of giving a man what he thinks is the greatest gift of all, and in return being granted every favor that he has.  In the past I had noticed how gentle men become, how helpful and obliging, after I have had them with my mouth, and I never really understood why, because surely I had just as much enjoyment as they - surely that was thanks enough?

But no.  I could be the happiest woman in the world, but the man I have satisfied will be happier still.  And now it’s only natural that he should want to balance the scales.

Empousa is the Goddess of that balancing.  Devouring flesh and draining blood, the Goddess of No Return.

And I am her servant.  I am her Priestess.

Morning came and Meletos awoke, slowly, unwillingly, from what he dreamed was a dream, but one that was not ready to end.  I felt him stir as I tongued his flesh in my mouth; heard the moan of exquisite pleasure push the startled question away from his lips; and as his hand fell onto my head as though to make sure I was not a figment of hid mind, so my hand took it and squeezed it tight, as my jaw tightened around his throbbing cock.

My questions of the day before had already been answered by the gossip of the servants.  In order to progress in the field of his ambitions, Meletos needed to attract a wealthy sponsor to guide him.  A sponsor who would also become his male lover.  His erastes.  And whose guidance would be all encompassing, spiritual, intellectual, financial... and physical.  In return, Meletos would become his eromenos, a vessel that should overflow with all that his sponsor saw fit to fill him.  Spiritually, intellectually, financially. and physically.  Yesterday was the first time they had met, introduced by Meletos’s father who knew the older man from past business dealings, and the family hoped the relationship would prosper and grow.

For me... well, I had all the growth I could dream of, a cock that entered my mouth so soft, small and coiled, and had flowered and blossomed, stretched out and raised up, so strong I had to grip it with one tight and tiny fist just to keep it from springing out of my grasp altogether.  And its owner, Meletos, between whose legs I crouched, was moaning and moving his hips to my rhythm, his cock pulsing and pulsating as I sucked at his soul through that miraculous shaft.

He was nearing his climax, and my fist stroked him faster; I felt him throw an arm across his mouth, to drown out the cries that he could not prevent, and his whole body jerked as his orgasm spilled, into my mouth to be savored then swallowed, or dripped from my lips to be tasted anew.  

I sucked as he softened, I sucked till he stopped me, and when I kissed with lips that were flavored with him, I could see in his eyes that the Goddess was with us, that blessings had been given and were about to be received.

Meletos asked me a question.  I answered it softly.  He made me an offer.  I accepted it gratefully.  And the day that we were married, the scion of minor nobility and the peasant-born Priestess, resplendent in the glorious temple that his newly-acquired riches caused to rise from the rubble of that original shack, his dedication to Empousa was no less impassioned than mine.  

For he was her acolyte and her mouthpiece as well, and the old moneychanger smiling at the back of the room had proved as grateful a recipient of the Goddess’s gifts as any man I have ever known.  

There truly would be no return.

How far is too far?

A recent French movie shattered mainstream cinematic expectations by incorporating scenes of real sex in place of the usual simulation. And a lot of people got very upset. Were you one of them? A few thoughts on a theme of the movie world’s final frontier.

One of the most edifying discussions (and some of the most unedifying responses) of the last few months, at least in the realms of modern cinema, has asked how far a movie should go in its quest for realism?

We are far beyond the days of porno chic, when the likes of Deep Throat and Beyond The Green Doorshowed up at the multiplex down the road, and bands of outraged citizens piled down there to protest and wave placards around. Adult/XXX today is a world unto itself, a niche that might aspire towards the budgets and billings afforded mainstream Hollywood movies, but which knows its place in the cinematic pecking order, and has shown little inclination to break out of it.

But what happens when the boundaries blur? That may or may not have been the question asked by French director Laurence Bouhnik as he started work on his latest movie Q.

The basics.  Q is the story of Cecile (actress Deborah Revy) as she mourns the death of her father (his ashes are in a tupperware container) by bedding or thereabouts almost every guy she meets. Matt (Gowan Didi), who we first meet driving her home from the funeral; her boyfriend (Johnny Amaro) naturally; one of his friends. Matt again. A businessman on the ferry. 

The thing is, and this is where the fuss starts to stir, when she beds them, she beds them. No soft focus insinuation, no strategically-placed sheets or lamp stands. The sex in Q is for real. And yet this is NOT a porn movie. It is not on the top shelf with the rest of the adult fare, and while a few choice scenes have leaked out onto the XXXtube circuit, where I’m sure they have drawn many more eyes to the movie, it’s not the kind of film you’d be lining up on the DVD player as the set up to a night of hot passion.

Rather, it is a very sensitive, and beautifully realized study of grief and the way it can make people behave, of loneliness and frustration, of sexual longing, of course, but also of the obligations that someone else’s longing can sometimes make us feel. When Matt’s girlfriend Alice (Helene Zimmer) gives him a blowjob in the car...and yes, once again it’s the real thing...she’s not doing it because she’s consumed with lust. She does it because he seems to expect it, and her commentary lets both Matt and the viewer know that.

Awkward? Yes. Uncomfortable? Yes. But realistic? Fuck, yes. As realistic as Cecile’s increasingly desperate attempts to interest her boyfriend in doing something more than sleeping; as realistic as the men’s room scene where she plays Matt like a harp, only to change her mind at the crucial moment...and have him do the same back to her a little later.

All of which could have been portrayed without recourse to the realities of sex. We don’t need to see Cecile’s lips wrapped around Matt’s cock to know what she is doing...plenty of other films have played out similar scenes, and a bit of eye-rolling from the male is usually all it takes.

But would the rejection feel so ruthless if that was all we had to go on? Would Alice’s sarcastic scorn feel as weary if there was a car seat in the way of her head? Would the scene in the beach hut feel as hurried and desperate if the camera cut away to crashing waves and a jetty?

No they wouldn’t, and this is where things get interesting. Internet discussions of Q, particularly those that disapprove of its content, will tell you that sometimes, reality can be taken too far. We see people being murdered, getting tortured, or beaten every day in the movies, they say; would their perceived suffering feel more “real” if we knew that the blood and guts were genuine? 

But the question is irrelevant to the issue because murder and torture at least are illegal. Sex, the last time I checked, is not. Neither is filming people having sex, at least so long as they approve the cameras. So why do we insist that sex should not be shown on screen? Or, if it is, that it be filed away in the XXX ghetto, never to show its face in polite society again?

Because it is private?

Well, so is grief. But that does not stop news teams from shoving cameras in the face of the recently bereaved and asking how they feel.

Because it is embarrassing/disgusting/rude? Well that says more for whoever feels that way than it does for the act.

Because it is gratuitous?

Not if it’s done for the right reasons. A well-lubricated anal sex scene halfway through Lord of the Rings would probably be grotesquely out of place. But what about Midnight Cowboy? And while we’re on the subject of art imitating life, anyone who has seen Mick Jagger’s 1968 movie Performance is likely also aware of the rumors that some of the sex in that wasn’t simulated, either.

And so on?? Before you ask, no. I do not want to see unsimulated sex every time I turn on the TV...but is simulated sex (which you cannot escape from) any better? (Cos I don't especially want to see that, either) If Actress A has to suck Actor B's cock as part of the story, which is the case in Q, what difference does it make whether she really does have it in her mouth, or is just kneeling in front of him with it pressed against her face, and is pretending to be doing it?

Yes, there are scenes that you would not want your children to watch, but hopefully you feel that way about a lot of other things on television and DVD, sexual content or otherwise. But please don't say that "real" sex on screen is a hallowed societal taboo, the last thing that stands between mankind and his ultimate descent into a gutter stuffed with depravity, because so were a lot of other things, including many that movies helped us to break down. Fifty years ago, married couples on TVs had to sleep in separate beds. 

Q isn’t simply my favorite movie of 2012. It’s up there among my favorite movies ever, certainly within the ranks of European cinema...and as that’s a large part of what I watch, then hopefully that demonstrates just how highly I rate this movie. And how much I admire Bouhnik and his cast for having the balls and the vision to make it.

But still I am interested; what is it about Q in particular, but the whole concept of real sex taking place in a non-porno movie setting, that gets so many people bent out of shape? 

Forget the reviews (many of which, even in France, were less than complimentary); I discussed the movie on my own blog back in May, and am still warding off the hate mail. And seriously, I never imagined that visitors to a site whose primary content comprises short stories and videos of people having oral sex would be quite so hostile, quite so conservative.

What line has been crossed? What unwritten rule has been shattered? What sacred cow has had its tail tugged?

I’m at a loss. And I hope you are, as well. Please leave a comment, and let me know.

The Cream of the Campus

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Two cocks jerked in my fists, two cocks shot hot white over my face, two cocks traced paths through the dripping mess, pushing it towards my open mouth and grasping tongue.  

Flat on my back with a guy on either side of me, my taste buds dancing to the creamy tang, my lips closing over the softening helmet of one prick while the other jousted for position on my cheek... I don’t think I had ever been so happy as I was at that moment.  And the great thing was, we had the rest of the night in which to get even happier....

six months earlier

It had been one of those parties where the anticipation certainly outstripped the actuality; where the guys seemed more interested in getting toasted than doing much of anything else, and the bulk of the conversation revolved around the baseball team’s latest activities.  Which, in fairness, were worth celebrating - undefeated all season, they were closing in on the pennant for the first time in half a century, so if the players wanted to let their hair down and get absolutely plastered, good luck to them.

Just do it without me.

I caught Janis’s eye.  “I’m going back to the room.  Coming?”

She nodded.  She’d had her eyes on this one guy all week, and was sure that tonight would be the night she finally got him.  Wrong.  The last time either of us saw him, he was falling face first into one of the pizzas that were scattered around the room, and then staggering drunkenly off towards the rest room.  College parties - you have to love them.

We crossed the campus, took the shortcut around the pool, then climbed the two flights of stairs to the room.  Janis and I had been roomies since we were freshmen, a relationship that worked so well because neither of us had actually wanted to share a room with anyone.  She respected my space, I respected hers, and we wound up sharing almost everything.

Almost?  We didn’t know it, but that was about to change, big time.

Brad Westman lay on my bed.  Brad Westman, the team coach.  Brad Westman, the guy who was responsible for nurturing more up and coming players over the past fifteen years than any other coach in the state.  Forty-something years old, but still built like a teenager.  I think every girl on campus, and that includes half the faculty too, had the hots for him at one time or another, and rumor insisted that a few of them had taken things further than that.

Not that you’d have guessed that from looking at him now.  Slightly unshaven, dishevelled in t-shirt and shorts, he was also passed out drunk.  Very passed out, very drunk.  How he’d even got up to our room, I couldn’t imagine.  Why he was here was even more mystifying.

I nudged him.  “Brad?  Time to wake up.”

He didn’t move.

“Brad?”  I shoved him harder and was rewarded with a light snore.  Behind me, Janis giggled.  “Looks like you’ll be sleeping with somebody, after all.”

I snorted.  “In his dreams,” and then I gasped as Janis stepped over and started unbuttoning Brad’s shorts.  “What, you’re undressing him now?  You’ll be tucking him up under your favorite blanket next.”

She shot me a glance.  “No, but I figured this does give us the chance to check something out.”  And we both burst out laughing because I knew what she was talking about.

College is a small place.  It doesn’t matter how many thousands of students fill the halls, sooner or later you get to hear something about all of them.  And Brad... well, we’d heard lots of things about him, a consequence of his fame and talent.  And the fact that he had the biggest cock on camous.

Or so it was said.

I slapped her hand.  “You can’t do that!  It’s practically rape!”

“I’m only going to peep.”  She continued fumbling with the buttons, then started tugging at the shorts.  It was difficult and, more than once, I was sure Brad was about to wake up.  But he didn’t and suddenly there it was, soft across his thigh in all its... well, rather unremarkable glory.  

“It’s not bad, I suppose,” Janis giggled.  “I was expecting more, though.”

Mentally I compared him to the others I’d seen.  “Give the boy a break.  He’s still soft.”  I knew from experience that some of the saddest softies you’ve ever seen can spring into astonishing life with the right kind of handling, and I guess Janis knew that as well.  For now she had him in her hand, gently palpating his cock with fingers and thumbs, and getting exactly the response she hoped for.

First he thickened; I could see her fist being forced open as he grew, and now he was beginning to lengthen, dwarfing her hand against the flesh that seemed to expand another inch with every sweep of her wrist.  She caught my eye.  “Okay, now I see what the fuss was about,” and I nodded.  He wasn’t huge, in that “oh my god, it’ll never fit” way that you sometimes see in the pornos.  But compared to anyone I’d been with in the past, he was hung like a horse.

Janis was still jerking him, finding a rhythm that was as smooth as it was seductive; I’d never ever seen someone else doing this before, not outside of the movies or the Internet, and I was amazed at just how hot it was making me.  Janis knew that, as well, fixing my eyes with hers as she worked, and then splitting her face with a broad, hungry grin.

“Let’s suck him off.”

I froze.  Her words ... I knew what she said and I knew what she meant.  But my mind refused to acknowledge them.  

“What did you say?”

“I said...” Janis grinned.  “Let’s... suck... him.... mmmmmmmmmmm” and then she was doing it, stretching her mouth around the fat tip of his cock, bobbing her head as she struggled to accommodate him, while her hand continued to jerk him.  Then she reached and took my hand, wrapped my fist around that fat, hard shaft, and now I was milking him into her mouth, I could hear the soft slurps as her saliva soaked his flesh, and I could feel the heat radiating from his cock and balls.

She raised her head, angled his cock towards me.  “Go on.”

In a trance, I leaned forward, let her hand replace mine at the base of my trophy, and traced my tongue over Brad’s spit-slicked knob.  He tasted different to my usual conquests, too; a spicy, heavy taste that sent fresh alarm bells ringing all the way down to my cunt.  My jaw ached as it closed around him but I didn’t care.  Slowly, hungrily, I lowered my head, taking him as deep as I could, not caring that teeth were scraping his flesh, not caring that my gag reflex was dangerously close to twitching.  

I

Want

This 

Cock.

Janis’s free hand was on the back of my head, not pushing but holding me, with just enough pressure that I continued to sink down.  I was never going to fit the whole thing in, and the blur of her hand in front my eyes reminded me that I wasn’t even halfway there.  But I held him still for a moment in my jaws, then started to slowly fuck him with my mouth, losing myself in his taste and the texture, the sheer delirious madness of having a man’s cock in my mouth, instead of the usual boys.

My minds eye flashed on the scene; Brad out cold on the bed in my dorm room, Janis jerking while I blew his cock.  We were both still dressed, Janis in her old jeans and a frilly pink tube.  Big earrings.  Me in a white blouse and denim skirt.  Would I have worn something different if I’d known what the night had in store?  Would I ever look at that outfit in the same way again?

Janis’s hand in my hair, brushing it away from my face.  I raised my head.  “Your turn.”  And immediately felt a twinge of unexpected jealousy as she swooped down and took that man so deep that her nose was touching my thumb as I stroked him.  I tried to estimate how much cock she was swallowing, gave up with firm numbers and just registered “a lot.”   She wasn’t going to stop, either.  Her head was bobbing fast, long sweeps up and down his shaft, and my hand moved to the same wonderful rhythm, jerking him into Janis’s mouth, feeling Brad as he grew even harder... was that possible?  Even thicker... ditto!  Even longer... oh my god!  My other hand went to his balls, cupping them as they tightened, and then Janis moaned a long, deep, greedy moan, and now there was a new sound as she frantically tried to swallow his cum, but she couldn’t help lose some as it flooded her mouth and dripped back down his prick, to my fingers.

Then, as I was about to raise my hand to my mouth, to taste the milky mess my best friend had devoured, suddenly she was clamping my head in one hand and pulling me close, kissing my hard and wide mouthed on the lips, sharing her treasure, smearing her cum-drenched tongue against mine, and we fell back on the bed, Brad squashed beneath us, feasting on the sweet, sweet spunk with which he’d filled her mouth.  Feasting on one another as well, and not even caring how we’d feel when it was over.  

Her hand was on my breast, her knee between my legs, and I rode the gentle pressure, rubbing myself against her as our kisses became more tender, and I still wonder what else might have happened if Brad hadn’t suddenly let out a loud snore, and we both collapsed in giggles beside him.

He was soft again now, but still a good size.  Laughing, we tucked his cock back into his shorts, then I buttoned him up as Janis mopped up some stray cum with a tissue.  Then, calm as you like, we walked back down to where the party was still swinging, and asked the last few semi-sober jocks in the room to come and collect their coach.

Which they did, and that was it.  Janis and I went to bed, in our own beds, thank you very much, and although we both had fits of giggles and whispers when we saw Brad out on campus the next day (and for a few more days after that, I’m afraid), neither of us ever mentioned that night again.

Brad, however, was not so polite.

six months later

I was making my way to the student union when Brad suddenly swerved out of one of the offices that line the poster-strewn corridor, and called my name.  “Miss Bentley.  A moment of your time.”

I stopped and followed him into the office, closing the door behind me. The events of that night were not even on my mind; Brad was always around the campus and our paths had crossed so many times before, and I had no doubt whatsoever that he was oblivious to what had happened.

He sat down hard on the old oak desk, and gestured me to sit - and yeah, I could say that I noticed that my face was now eye level with his crotch.  But I didn’t.

The end of the season was upon us, he wanted to talk through a few of the ceremonies that were being set up to celebrate the all-conquering giants.  I wrote occasionally for the college newspaper, and was part of the team that had set up its website, too.  Would it be possible, he asked, to embed some video of the season’s highlights... and talking of video, had I seen this?

OH MY GOD.

OH MY FUCKING GOD.

“Where... what... when.....”

I couldn’t even frame a couple of words, let alone a question, a sentence, a denial, an explanation.  All I could do was stare as his iPad buffered and whirred, and then flickered into HD life, every moment of every thing that Janis and I had done with him.  Every word.  Every slurp.  Every suck.

His eyes never left my face; and thank you Brad for not even smirking at the sight of my mouth opening and closing in mute horror.

Finally, I found some words.  “I’m... sorry?”

He laughed.

“What for?”

I stared at him blankly, and his mouth creased into a wide smile.  “Two beautiful girls suck my cock, and then one of them apologizes.  That’s a first.”

“But.... you were sleeping.  We shouldn’t have... oh shit...” and so on, babbling and beginning to cry now, and then he folded me in his arms.  “”What do you think I was doing in your room in the first place?”

“You were drunk.  You needed somewhere to crash.”

He shook his head.  “No, I wanted to see you.  And I did.”

He paused the video... forwarded through a few minutes.  “Look.”

I looked.  There I was, crouched down and sucking.  There was Janis, laughing and jerking.  And there was Brad, eyes open watching us, then turning towards the door... turning towards the friend who was standing there preserving the scene on his cell, and giving a broad smile and a thumb’s up.

“Jerry was meant to come in with me, and we were going to take you two ladies out for a drink.  He was late, and I was just resting... and then you two came in and - well, you know the rest.”

“So Jerry filmed it?”

“Jerry films everything.”  Of course he does.  He teaches film class.

“It’s okay, nobody else knows.  And this is the only copy of the file in existence... unless you want me to make you one?”

I shook my head.  “So Jerry...” I began, but Brad interrupted me.  “Jerry won’t say a word.  In fact, if you want to ask him yourself, his office is just down the hall.”

I shook my head.  “Maybe later...” and then collected myself.  “Maybe the four of us should get together and - well, it sounds like you owe Janis and I an evening out.”

Except Janis couldn’t make it because her boyfriend wanted to see her, so I went out with the pair of them alone.  And back at Jerry’s apartment, surrounded by so many cameras and machines that he could have been filming us from every angle on earth, the two hottest guys in faculty fucked me six ways till Christmas, and then shot their hot loads on my face.

And I discovered something else.

Brad did not have the biggest cock on campus.

Jerry did.

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