You can find anything on the Internet. Including, apparently, footage of your friends having sex.
It was an e-mail from my friend Margie that started me thinking. “Doesn’t this look like Sheila?” she wrote amid a sea of the most evil smileys she could find, and when I clicked on the link, I had to admit... yes it does. But not doing anything I’d ever seen her do before. Or, I imagine, anything she’d want to know I’d seen her do.
Or would she?
Homemade online porn is an interesting phenomenon, quite possibly the single most liberating development that the Internet has yet delivered to us. Pictures of cats, message boards, Facebook, EdenFantasys... all have opened up the world to us in ways that were unimaginable a couple of decades back. But it’s homemade porn that has really changed things. Not just from the perspective of the viewers, but for the makers too.
I’m guessing that most of us, whatever age we may be, have thought at some point of taking a few pictures. Maybe we’ve fantasized about movie cameras too. And maybe, just maybe, we’ve acted on those impulses and, tucked away in a drawer some place, there’s some Polaroid snaps... or a roll of undeveloped film... of our younger self doing, wearing, or posing in a fashion that definitely won’t be appearing in the family album.
In the old days, pre-Internet, that was as far as it went. And today, for many people, it remains that way. Yes, they’ll maybe admit under threat of dire torture that there’s a memory stick somewhere, and an “ex- and I” frozen forever in a sequence of blurry, under-lit hot shots. But no, you can’t see it and I may have thrown it out already.
But watching Sheila’s “movie,” and then exploring the rest of the site upon which her three minutes (and forty-three seconds) were posted, I suddenly started wondering. How many people are actually up on this site? And all the hundreds of other sites like it?
We’ll excise the pro-shot movie clips from consideration, and the dubious “reality” of the gonzo brigade. Yes, perhaps there are a couple of guys who tour the country with hard cock and camera, convincing total strangers to bare all for fun. But they’ve never slowed down beside my bus stop, and their cast always seems too casual for this to be anything but a set-up.
No, we’ll concentrate only on the obvious amateurs, the shaky cameras and muffled sound, the TV too loud in the background and the dog barking out in the yard. To the girl who looks at the camera cautiously even as she tries to muster the right sultry glance, and the guy who can barely point the camera straight, and holds his breath throughout the whole thing, for fear of breaking her concentration.
I bookmarked three sites that upload new films daily, and over the course of the last seven days, I counted no less than eighty three clips that meet those criteria. Some were better shot than others, a couple suggested that the makers were already au fait with the demands of the home-made porn movie. But still; eighty-three couples equals 166 people. Across three sites in one week. Let’s say there are seven further sites that I didn’t check, but maintain a similar ratio. That’s 1,660 people a week and 86,320 a year. And that’s a conservative estimate. Add in the weeks with heavier traffic and a few smaller sites. Then round up to the nearest whole number and suddenly you are looking at 100,000 people a year who not only film themselves having sex, they then post it online for the rest of us to watch.
Excuse me while my mind boggles.
Researching my study of the London porn industry Soho By Spotlight a few years ago, I ran across a couple of women who, back in the late 1960s, “starred” in a handful of “stag” films. They did it for the money, and/or as favors to other people involved, confident in the knowledge that very, very few people who knew them would ever have the opportunity to see their work. And, for the next thirty or so years, that was the case.
But now? Erotic archaeologists have digitized every old film they can access and posted them online in sundry collector’s forums, and both the women I spoke to claim now to be living with the constant, daily, threat of exposure. No matter that the movies were made close to half a century ago; that they are wholly anonymous; and you really do need to dig around some often scholarly, somewhat arcane, and generally subscription-only websites to find them. The movies are up there and anyone can see them.
Take those risks and multiply them by the sheer popularity, and ease of access, of the various Tube sites. Multiply them, too, by the fact that sociologists reckon we have far greater circles of acquaintances today than we ever had in the past. True, my 100,000 figure is worldwide, but still. Each of those 100,000 has friends... family... co-workers... any and all of them could be surfing one day, and pause to watch “fucking my gf while we listen to Adele.” And stare in disbelief because - well, as Margie put it, “doesn’t this look like Sheila?”
I’m not condemning here. I’m not even questioning. It’s just an observation. We think we know the people we know, and we’re all largely certain that they could never shock or surprise us. I’ve been writing erotica for a decade now, and most of my friends are well aware of it. But Sheila? To the best of my knowledge she has never more than glanced at one of my stories, and her idea of a good time is the Wednesday night crocheting club.
And now she’s an Internet porn star.
A very accomplished one too, if that clip is to be believed. Certainly she’s better at on-camera sex than she is at denying it was her, but I wasn’t going to argue with her because her denials, in a strange way, actually answered the question I most wanted to ask her. What will you say if anyone asks?
Multiply her response by 100,000 as well. That’s an awful lot of body doubles! I just hope mine keeps her clothes on.
Immortalized in fiction, fetishized in art, and lionized in some of the internet’s most fascinating corners, we probably think we know everything about the life of a Dominatrix. In which case, we are in for a few surprises. Note: I've chosen to present this strictly in the words of the interviewee, removing my own questions and prompts.
There is one conversation that I can guarantee I will have, at least three times a week, every week of the year. And it goes like this:
“Mistress, I have been a bad boy.”
What did you do?
“I insert some piddling minor fantasy usually involving boots and/or masturbation here. I should be punished.”
And how should you be punished?
“You should force me to lick your pussy/asshole.”
Is my pussy/asshole so disgusting that you would consider licking it a punishment?
“Oh no. I would be honored to lick it.”
Then it wouldn’t be much of a punishment, would it?
Followed by the suggestion that my visitor is not so much in need of a Mistress as he requires a woman who will tell him what she wants, and not leave all the thinking to him all the time. At which point a light will go on in his eyes, and nine times out of ten he will answer that that’s precisely what he needs.
Which says a lot about the nature of sexual relations today; not that there are still women who won’t tell their partner what they want him to do (and there’s a million reasons for that, most of which we all have used), but that there are guys who won’t tell their partner that that is what theyneed. Who would rather seek out the services of a professional...and in my case, a professional Dominatrix...than whisper seven little words in their lover’s ear, and not take “I don’t know” for an answer. What would you like me to do?
Forbidden Fruit A professional Dominatrix. It sounds so grand, doesn’t it, and occasionally it can be. For some men - the stereotypical management types who need a spot of role reversal, ex-military souls who still crave order and discipline, and yes, a handful whom you can only describe as momma’s boys, taking their fantasy to the next level - I provide a regular and reliable service that they would be uncomfortable, if not altogether incapable of, enjoying elsewhere.
But for others, and this is the majority of my clientele, I am a taste of forbidden fruit, a once (or sometimes twice) in a lifetime experience that scratches an itch, resolves a curiosity, answers a question. Again, we come back to regular relationships; it requires a lot more courage and sexual confidence than Mr. Average usually possesses for him to turn around to his wife, Mrs. Average, and tell her he wants her to spank him, to make him dress in her clothes, or to be tied up and denied orgasm for hours.
Not because any of these things are in themselves wrong. But because he worries about her response. He fears her scorn. He dreads the morning after. “How,” one client asked me, “could I face her over the breakfast table, knowing I spent the night before licking my own cum off her boots?”
Well, there is an answer to that question, and indirectly it is what brought me into this field in the first place.
Behind The Scenes I majored in psychiatry and worked in the field for several years before I realized...no, let me rephrase that, before I had the courage to admit to myself that the vast majority of what my colleagues call the “bread and butter” cases (which is the vast majority of what I was getting) related to sexual issues that neither patient nor doctor was willing to discuss. And I don’t mean the Freudian cliches of everything going back to your mother, or the phallic properties of a cigarette. I mean personal fantasies, sometimes bleeding into unconventional desires, which even the unconscious mind doesn’t want to unwrap.
This is not a secret. Most of my colleagues are aware of it. But it is difficult to act upon an awareness that at best could see you accused of malpractice, and at worst could lead to a prison cell. All too often, and all the more so now society is so litigious, it is for the patient to make that breakthrough him or herself, and for the patient to realize that, while professional help should still be sought, maybe it’s not the same type of professional that your friends at work all recommend.
Many of my own clients have confessed that at some point in their life, they had sought psychiatric help for what they considered to be their “problem”; some acknowledged that it was that that opened their mind up to investigating matters for themselves. But others stumble upon their “answers” on the internet, in conversation with friends, in dreams...or, most recently, in their reading - Fifty Shades of Grey has a lot more to answer for than putting porn to the bookshelf at Walmart. It has also brought a lot of work in my direction, men who read it to find out what the fuss is about, and now need a little Mr(s) Grey in their own lives.
Back to my story. My own “great reveal.” The day I realized that so many of the problems I was hearing every day could be resolved if people just talked to one another. The client licking cum off the bathroom floor, for example. He worried about what his wife would think of him afterwards. Well, she would probably have been as excited by the spectacle as he was, and might well be fearing his response to her reactions. So - easy. Create a “safe place” in your lovemaking, within which anything goes, and outside of which, nothing is said.
Which is easy to say but not, I fear, so easy to stick with. It only needs them to have one major argument, in the heat of which she brings up something that happened in the safe place, and uses it to beat him with (figuratively if not literally), and the entire edifice collapses. And that does happen, it has happened, and I have picked up the pieces on more than one occasion.
So the safe place moves outside of the home, outside of the marriage, to the basement apartment in a well-to-do side street to which potential visitors are directed by discreetly worded advertisements placed within the network of magazines, websites and outlets that cater to...shall we call it “a certain lifestyle” for now? Where I await, with whips and chains, should they be required, with menacing dildos and terrifying plugs, but also with an open ear and a cup of tea. Because that is where reality diverges from everything you may have heard about my trade, and certainly from everything that fiction paints it to be.
Don't Believe What You Read I have read, and possess a vast library of, the literature of dominance and submission, and I can safely say I have rarely read so much hooey in my life. It would take me a year to live what the average fictional Dominatrix paints as a typical week in her life; and while I readily admit that that is partly my own doing (for reasons I will explain), all the other women I know in this business will agree. Ninety percent of what we call the foot traffic (pun intended) come because they are curious. Seventy-five percent of professed fetishists likewise. Fifty percent of masochists. And so on. They just want to find out what it’s like. And the rest? Most of them just want to talk.
I said there were reasons why my average day is, by most folks’ reckoning, so dull. One of them is my insistence on finding out exactly what a client wants before proceeding to dish it out. The exchange with which I opened this story, for example. He did not want to be punished for what he had done. He wanted to be told what he should do.
Another reason revolves around my refusal to step in to where the (in inverted commas) “real action” is, hanging around the hardcore BDSM scenes that flourish in most large-ish cities, and which advertise their presence by staging regular “munches,” word-of-mouth open days designed to attract aspiring Dominants and subs for a taste of what “it’s really all about.”
My refusal. That’s not strictly true. I have attended several (make that “many”) and I am a willing participant too. But I tell myself it’s professional curiosity that keeps me there, storing up the absurdities that people say and ask for...the wanna-be submissive who marches in and announces she has absolutely no sexual limits, then faints at the first swish of a crop. The so-called Master who blithely dismisses everyone as amateurs unless they agree that knife play is the only practice that matters. The guy who wants to go down on a woman while she’s having her period, and has convinced himself that this qualifies him among the sickest creatures ever born.
And why do I store these up? Because I know, sooner or later, I will be meeting these same people, or someone very much like them, in somewhat more intimate surroundings, and will spend the next hour unraveling the myriad contradictions and erroneous convictions that “someone I met at a munch once told me....”
None of which, I’m sure, is what you want to hear. You want to learn about bank presidents who like to be treated like toddlers, the top politicians who pretend they’re bad doggies...how about the guy who asked me to waterboard him with urine and a pair of my panties covering his face? (I said no, by the way, and sent him packing.)
Well, I could tell you about them, but really, you already know their stories. Because they’re the ones who you can read about in every memoir ever written, and you know what’s really strange about that? The fact that the story never changes. Minor details may waver according to personal kinks, but it is almost like there’s a sausage factory somewhere, churning out identical chains of Submissive CEOs, all with the same basic needs and desires, and all with the same excuses for having them. And if you really want to know more, you should head down to the bookstore and browse the erotic fiction shelves. Because that is where the real action is.
I sometimes don’t think I’m a Dominatrix at all. But I am a very demanding listener.
It lay propped against a table, a sheet of almost opaque plastic, stretched between two pairs of poles, one set long and vertical, the other, short and horizontal. As I approached, a figure lay it on the floor and pulled back one sheet of plastic… no, latex. A second sheet lay beneath it.
A voice commanded, “Get in.”
Gingerly, I stepped onto the sheet, then lay down at an angle, my head poking out of the turned-back corner. Someone kicked me in the side. “Get in properly.” Feeling the first flush of panic begin to flutter in my chest, I obeyed. What was this thing?
I lay down “properly,” my face beneath the latex layer. Somebody shifted my arms and legs, spreading them until I lay in an exaggerated X. Hands then pulled the top layer tight and secured it.
“Does she know where the breathing tube is?” I heard someone ask.
“I hope so,” somebody else said. “She’ll be needing it.”
I felt with my lips, shifting my head slightly; my nose, then my mouth, met a plastic nozzle; I clasped it greedily between my lips. However it worked… later, I saw a black plastic tube leading away from the mouthpiece… it brought me air. And, as I’d been warned, just in time. A high-pitched whine kicked up, followed by the indescribable sensation of all the air being sucked from the sack. I was being vacuum-sealed in a latex bag.
I could hear everything and, as the latex formed itself tightly over my body and face, see everything. I could even feel everything; I realized that, when a hand slapped down onto my thigh, then lingered long enough to draw its fingertips up my leg towards my groin. But I could not move a muscle; even breathing was an effort, although I was in no danger of suffocation. I just hoped that my body wasn’t nursing some long-hidden latex allergy.
I lay there, my eyes alone moving, following the figures as they drifted around me. Somebody knelt and pressed fingers to my lips; somebody else was stroking something hard against my pussy.
I resolved to remain calm. True, I was trussed up like a turkey. But if I couldn’t touch them, it meant that they couldn’t touch me, not really. And that meant there could be no penetration, not so long as I was protected by that membrane-thin latex barrier.
I don’t know how long I lay like that. Periodically, somebody would pass, glance down at me, maybe run a hand along my body. One pair of fingers tweaked my left nipple viciously; another spent an inordinate amount of time pushing ineffectually at my pussy. It appeared that this contraption was as novel to them as it was to me, and I wondered if that was the point of the exercise… a demonstration of some new invention by the friendly neighborhood scientists.
Penelope appeared. At first I didn’t recognize her; I’d never seen her, after all, from my latest perspective, spread-eagled on the floor while she stood directly above my head, affording me an unrestricted view straight up her skirt, to the shaven pussy that crowned her thighs.
She crouched slowly, her fingers between her thighs, spreading her pussy lips wide. I watched as she started to masturbate herself with one hand; then, as she replaced her fingers with a vibrator. She did not enter herself, merely played the humming toy around her lips, letting it dip occasionally to brush against my mouth. It felt like an electric toothbrush.
Suddenly she spoke, as though she’d just noticed me for the first time. “I told my Masters about you,” she chirped happily. “They said I should show you what I like doing. They were amazed when I told them that you didn’t know how to… you know.”
Taboo is always a tricky subject to define. What I might consider a genuine no-go area might strike you as the most natural thing in the world, and any book that flags itself with the promise ;f "forbidden desire" is essentially going to be walking a tightrope with a blindfold on. And maybe a ballgag as well.
That said, I trust Violet Blue to talk that walk with a little more finesse than most, and so it transpires. Not every story in Sweet Danger is going to leave you wide-eyed and breathless at the feats framed within, and I must confess that the opening tale, Donna George Storey's "Picture Perfect" left me ice cold, not because I didn't enjoy it, but because I cannot see how shaving can even be considered a taboo any longer. To judge from most movies, picture spreads and stories, it's the girls who don't who are the real revolutionaries. Maybe we should start a club? read the rest at Eden Fantasys
Lemuria was hungry. Her whole body lit up with sensation. Her neck prickled, the fine downy hair on her shoulders and back was erect, vibrating beneath the sun's touch, her small breasts ached and the tiny nubs of her nipples pushed hard against the thin fabric of her dress, caressing themselves endlessly against the material's soft touch, whilst her lower stomach tingled as a never ending drumbeat of sensation played within her and between her legs and an unstoppable, endless flow of moisture was seeping from her, sliding down her legs, leaving her thighs soaking, shiny, and aromatic.
The scent felt thick in her nostrils, reminded her of bodies that had danced until their skin had glowed and small droplets of moisture had formed. She tasted it with a curious finger, thick and sticky like honey but with a warm, salty flavour. She'd tried to clean herself with her hand, but every time she wiped the liquid away, a spasm shook her body and fresh juices seeped down to replace what she'd removed and as much as she licked off one finger, there was enough left to coat two more.
Suckling happily at her fingers, Lemuria, barely notice the thinning of the trees as she approached the forest edge, and she passed down amongst the thick long stems of the meadow grasses. Butterflies fluttered about her, bees zipped past on important business, crickets and grasshoppers chirruped out greetings but Lemuria was unaware of anything beyond the steadily building crescendo of her own bodily needs.
If she was wet before, she was drenched now; where her fingers had once merely tasted pleasant now they seemed coated in nectar; where once her skin had been happily caressed by the breeze now it burned at its touch. Now her breasts throbbed and her nipples were a thousand pinpricks of delight. And between her legs ... oh most majestic Titania ... between her legs was an inferno, a fiery fantasy, every step a tumult of throbbing, quivering, aching, and spasming pleasure; every step leaving her breathless beneath the baking midday sun.
Quite how she got to the stream she did not know. The journey from forest to waters edge was a blur, but she had never been more pleased to see water in her whole life. Fortunately, the stream had a little sand beach and Lemuria fell to her knees, formed a cup with her hands and sated her thirst with the clean fresh water.
Kneeling, hands clasped helpless in front of her, droplets of water trickling down her face, droplets of come streaking her thighs, Lemuria never saw him until he was stood over her, till his reflections sat beside hers in the ever-changing mirror of the water's surface, till his hand was in her hair turning her towards him.
He was magnificent. A little bigger than herself and certainly broader, his fair skin bronzed, his arms and legs muscled, his hands strong, making her shrink back a little in fear. She looked up at his face, tried to read his intentions, but it was indecipherable, though rather pleasant to gaze upon.
She was transfixed. Kneeling on all fours before him she found herself unable to move, found herself lost in his blue eyes, found herself with gaping mouth awaiting him.
Something came between them. Something grew out from between his legs. Something long and thick and smooth, gradually yet steadily expanded out until it hung in mid-air before Lemuria's face. Hung their demanding recognition, demanding attention, demanding that she ... what should she do?
She could see that the shiny, bulbous end seemed to be coated in moisture and that there was a thin slit with fine dew trickling down the head to form a pearlescent droplet on the underside of her Sprite's protuberance. With the taste for her own moisture still fresh in her mouth, Lemuria couldn't help but wonder whether this new liquid would be so delightfully flavoured. Without a second thought she began to extend her tongue. Her heart thumped noisily inside her chest at the excitement, the danger, the tension. She was quite helpless knelt like this and had no idea how he would react but that single droplet looked so tempting, so tasty, so in need of a hungry little mouth to savour it.
There Lemuria knelt, hands and knees covered in dust, her tongue poised no more than hair's breadth beneath his dewy moisture. She shut her eyes, held herself steady and slowly started to glide her tongue upwards. Upwards till she felt the droplet collect amongst her saliva, upwards so that she might feel his skin, upwards so that she could slide her tongue over his shiny end collecting more moisture along the way, upwards so that she could press her tongue into his tiny slit and lap at the liquid held within, upwards till she passed over the top of his stiff shaft and her tongue hovered once again in mid-air. Her Sprite moaned; a long exhalation of breath squeezed out between quivering lips.
He tasted ... Lemuria's mind searched frantically for the answer. He tasted as she tasted; yet more so or may be less. It was the same yet different; where she tasted of the air, the trees, acorns and forest, he tasted of grass and earth and water and him; and Lemuria loved it.
She flicked her tongue out again, found his end, and ran herself across it, lapping at his flesh, soaking him, her saliva mingling with his heady scent. It was fabulous, it was wonderful; it was not enough. She needed to wrap her tongue around him, hold him along His length, slide her silken skin over him, dribble over him till he was as soaked as the hot slit between her legs, and squeeze him so that she could feel the stiff muscle at his core, then slowly but surely feed him into her warm wet mouth.
Gradually, she wrapped her tongue round him; willing it to extend until it coiled like a snake around his branch. Lemuria slid it slowly back and forth till she had embraced it all. Beneath her ever moving tongue she could feel him growing; pushing hard against her constraining coils, expanding ever outwards as if it was filling with something.
Lemuria's body shook as a spasm flooded out from between her legs. Whatever it was making his 'thing' expand she wanted it and she wanted it now. Squeezing with her tongue she dived her head forward, opened her mouth as wide as nature would allow and tried to get her distended lips over his bulbous head. It was a struggle, but with a little effort she soon had succeeded in sucking at least his head inside her.
She'd been hoping to suck on him, to use her mouth to strip him of all his fabulous flavouring and drink down his delicious droplets; what she hadn't realised was that his shaft would get bigger and bigger and bigger, her jaw aching as his cock expands ever outwards filling her needy mouth till is stuffed to overflowing, whilst her soaking pussy cries tears of come, desperate for the Sprite's cock's fulsome attention.
And then he came. The Sprite came and nothing in her life had prepared her for this moment.
Lemuria's mouth was stretched beyond endurance, stuffed with her Sprite's pulsating hot flesh, thick globules of come shooting down her yawning throat, coating her oesophagus and bubbling back up to her cock filled mouth. She tried to swallow, tried to take it all down, tried to feast on her Sprite's delectable thick semen but there was too much. The ache; the delectable shuddering ache between her legs; not so much an ache anymore but endless spasms pushing wave upon wave of sensation through her soaked and dribbling nether regions. If only he'd fill her there. If only he'd take his tumescent pulsating thing, position it behind her upturned rear and ram it deep into the centre of her pleasure.
Maybe it was the bucking of her hips that grabbed his attention or perhaps the gasping redness of her face that inspired him. Maybe he simply could read Lemuria's mind for with one swift movement he pulled himself free of her clutching lips. Hungrily Lemuria gulped in air, her head swimming dizzily. Hot sticky liquid splashed across her face, nestled in her hair, splattered against her fluttering wings as her Sprite coated her with his pleasure. Lemuria lashed her tongue across her cheeks determined not to waste a single drop of his sweet essence.
As she licked happily at her chin, she felt a spurt of liquid hitting her rounded arse cheeks, felt it trickling down to pool between her pinched waist in the small of her back. He was behind her. Did he know what she wanted? Did he know what she needed? Lemuria thrust her hips upwards and backwards offering him a home in her dripping pink centre.
He thrust into her and she opened before him eager to feel his length within her, eager to have his cock spread her aching muscles, eager for his head to nestle in her stomach. He thrust again driving her forward in the dirt, pushing her along on her hands and knees, unbalancing her so that she had to rest her sticky face in the dust to absorb him. Her hair, streaked and glistening with his come fell over her face to halo her head. Stable, Lemuria pushed back, meeting his next thrust with one of her own and was rewarded with the feeling of him sliding to her depths. His muscled stomach pushed firmly into the soft flesh of her arse. Lemuria moaned, lost in pleasure.
She could feel him pulsing deep inside her; feel his spunk spurting forth to coat her from the inside; feel her own wetness surrounding and absorbing him, making him part of her. She could feel his come cascading out of her dripping flesh to splash down and wet her knees. His hands found her hips, and she relaxed in his grip, gave herself to him, became one with the hard burning flesh that filled her to her very core, that was pistoning into her, pummelling her, stretching her, caressing her, fucking her in an escalating frenzy of flesh, juices and pleasure.
Lemuria's body tensed. The muscles in her stomach gripped down firmly on her Sprite's intrusion, held him fixed, squeezed him, milked him, throbbed as if with a life of their own. Then it started. A tingling in her toes growing stronger and stronger till her feet were shaking uncontrollably, till vibrations spread up her aching calves to her quivering thighs. Her stomach was jelly, her breasts wobbling beneath her shuddering shoulders, her neck tense and her dribbling mouth panting into the dust.
She felt a slither of pleasure between her legs and her muscles contracted in reply. A second, more intense, and another on top of that; more and more, faster and stronger, wave after wave of sensation building and growing till there was nothing but his stiff cock filling her wet pussy and everywhere white hot burning pleasure. And then ...
When she was found Lemuria was still lying face down in the dirt by the riverbank coated in dust and come. Her skin was bruised and cut, her wings stuck to her back soaked through with semen, thick and aromatic juices dripped out of her pussy which still bucked and quivered in mid-air. The faeries that found her carried Lemuria to the river and revived her in its sparkling waters. As they fussed around her, cleansing her skin and tending to her abrasions, Lemuria sat silently amongst them, her eyes half closed, her mind elsewhere and a beatific smile playing around her bruised and swollen lips.
A word to make guys go weak at the knees... and some girls to go weak in the stomach. A look at the cultural and societal background to the power of seven little letters.
“Swallow.” It’s one of the most provocative words in the erotic lexicon. It’s one of the most electrifying, and also one of the most unique. I cannot think of a single other word that defines a sexual act that does not have a plethora of alternate slang terms, any and all of which are just gagging to be used. “Swallow,” though - it says it all. Even those other phrases that are sometimes used as substitutes, “gulped” and “glugged” and so on and so forth, that is all they are: substitutes, hanging around on the sidelines, waiting for someone to let them play.
All of which is fitting, because “swallow” is also one of the most divisive acts around. Those who love it love it. Those who hate it hate it. That’s normal. But then there’s everyone else. Because, for every girl (or gay guy, let’s not forget) who will happily down their partner’s pleasure in one, there are probably a dozen more who have never even tried it, but who “know” they will hate it regardless.
Or who caught a mouthful by accident one night, and before they could even make their own mind up, were being battered and bewildered by their partner’s response.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry, so sorry. I can’t believe... oh yuk, in your mouth....”
And even the mildest hint of cautious curiosity is spat out onto the nearest Kleenex, never to be sampled again. After all, if it’s so bad that even its owner thinks it’s icky, why would anyone else want to sample the stuff?
Let’s not get into the health and “how to’s” of the subject. Assuming your partner is healthy and clean, there are no harmful aspects to his cum. Assuming he consumes a reasonable diet, and doesn’t live exclusively on fast food and beer, there’s no reason for it to taste at all bad... elsewhere you’ll have read, I’m sure, about how fruit juice and pineapple can the way for guys to go, but really all he needs to do is make sure he’s well-hydrated - which, in turn, simply means not filling himself with those liquids that have the opposite effect like coffee, spirits, soda, and diet drinks.
But it doesn’t matter, because those are not really the issue here. Taste, texture, viscosity, whatever... they’re just excuses. What it really comes down to is the self-perpetuating fact that “most other girls” dislike it, so why should I be different? And why do they dislike it? Because “most other girls” dislike it, so why should they. Round and round in an urban mythological circle whose closest non-sexual comparison would probably be a schoolyard full of middle school aged children being asked what they think of broccoli. Their friends don’t like it, so why would they? And even if they do, they’re not going to admit it.
I did admit it once, in one of those ladies’ room conversations that teenagers are so prone to. And I won’t say all my friends stopped talking to me, but one or two shifted awkwardly, and a few more pulled faces, and maybe it was just my imagination but I definitely felt excluded from similar chats in the future.
And that was just for eating broccoli.
Where did this loathing come from in the first place? (We’re back on subject now, by the way; let’s put the broccoli back in the fridge.)
It has certainly not always been this way. Folkloric medicine and remedies aren’t exactly overflowing with jizzum, but there are certainly a few that prescribe it as a cure for sundry ills. Internally and externally, by the way. Magical beliefs that are, shall we say gently, a little more traditional than mainstream modern Wicca, likewise recognize the healing and other properties of what were once referred to as “the living waters.”
But both the ancient Greeks and Romans regarded oral sex as a form of bodily defilement (at least outside certain Goddess cults); an act so far beyond the traditional wifely duties that prostitutes alone were considered willing participants. The brothel at Pompeii still displays its menu - the price of a blowjob ranged from two asses (the cost of a cup of wine, and not a reference to backsides) to five and one wonders; did the more expensive of the two include a swallow? Or was the giver just considered more skilled? Either way, author Ray Laurence (see bibliography) states "the classification of a woman... as a cheap prostitute specializing in fellatio [may be] a denigration of her character." And as the Roman ideal of civilization first spread, and was then subsumed into early Christianity, this distaste was among the elements that the newborn societies inherited. And again, not on religious grounds.
Or not wholly. The Old Testament condemns Onan from spilling his seed on the ground, rather than utilizing it for its stated purpose of procreation, and that explains why masturbation is still occasionally described as a sin. (Although I always thought “abusive self-amusement” a far more entertaining term.) So while no Holy book specifically admonishes any other horny ancient for spilling it somebody’s mouth, we can assume that the same principle holds good.
But this specific aversion goes deeper than that. The ancient Chinese approved of fellatio, but not of ejaculation as the climax of the act, fearing the loss of the man's yang essence. But you will look in vain for more than the vaguest references in the literature of either ancient or medieval times. The English poet possibly alludes to cunnilingus ("shouldst thou sucke my sweete and faire flower") in 1594's The Tears of an Affectionate Shepherd, and Chaucer's Canterbury Tales details a trick that a pair of lovers play on a man begging a kiss from the woman. He raises her skirts and he kisses her "other" lips and is disgusted when he realizes what he’s done. But that's about as far as it goes.
Now look into the law books of these United States, and as late as the early 1960s, oral sex was against the law; not because it wasted good seed, but because it was “a deviant practice.” (A topic I broached in an earlier article). Of course it stands to reason that if the act itself is considered deviant, then its logical conclusion... because swallowing is logical... must be even worse. Double deviant! Supersized double deviant with extra fries!
And once you move into that kind of arena, the notion that “good girls don’t” takes on legal and cultural ramifications that go way beyond a simple matter of taste or texture.
Society has, by and large, overcome that old aversion to oral sex. They joke about blowjobs on prime time sitcoms (a late 1990s episode of Just Shoot Me had the character of Nina explaining unconvincingly why she used to be known as BJ, and it wasn’t because “I always wore blue jeans”); it was the trigger for the Bill Clinton impeachment hearings; and even the Christian Right has given it the green light. Within the context of marriage, of course.
That’s another matter of entirely. A matter of taste, if you’ll pardon the pun, that merges with so many other societal pressures and practices that even anal, fisting and BDSM sometimes appear more appropriate topics of public discussion. And by public, I mean outside of a forum of hopefully like-minded (or at least understanding) peers, and back into the ladies room with a handful of friends.
The interesting thing is, I’d rather like it to stay that way. It’s nice to know, in the days of so much rampant permissiveness and possibly even promiscuity that there remains one term, two little words, three tiny syllables, that won’t simply shock and awe your date for the evening; they will continue to do so for years to come.
The title tells you what to expect. Frenzy. Fast and furious. Very little set up, no time to waste on in-depth description. Just get down and with it, and then walk away.
Which may or may not be the best approach to writing erotica and, having finished Frenzy in a couple of evenings, I'm leaning towards the former. Editor Alison Tyler explains at the outset, "I want you to lose yourself in the sizzle of a single sentence." And occasionally the authors within pull it off. But too often, a promising scenario is over so quickly that the book could as easily have been titled "Premature Ejaculation," and you're left sitting there wondering... wow, was that it? To paraphrase Julius Caesar, "I saw, I conquered, I came in seconds." Read the rest at Eden Fantasys
Once upon a time, the sexual content of our favorite fairytales was the province only of learned academics, and a faint stirring of familiarity once we were old enough to have figured out what they may have been about. Nowadays, the bookshelf fairly groans with adult renderings of the classics but, of them all, Lustfully Ever After might well be the best. Read the rest at Eden Fantasys
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MISS AMERICA - A BDSM VAMPIRE TALE
An ancient cult, a modern secret society and one of the most extreme erotic adventures you have ever read. Buy it now from Amazon.
The Nympho Librarian & Other Stories
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.