Swimsuit, sunblock, shades...we all know the things that we tick off on the shopping list before venturing away for a foreign vacation. But there's another one that we rarely mention, least of all to ourselves but which, so long as we play our cards just right, will inevitably be on the agenda at some point.
A holiday romance.
A foreign affair.
Twenty-one stories, twenty-one exotic locations. And yes, I'm including Biloxi, Mississippi, in there, because Gwen Masters paints it in such livid brushstrokes that you'd need to be soulless not to fall in lust there. "His voice was low and reminded me of a sultry summer might in the South...." Who can resist? Read the rest at Eden Fantasys
A few years ago, attending an online seminar on erotica, somebody asked a question that I have often pondered. Why do so few writers write well about cunnilingus?
Because, someone else shot back, so few people know how to do it properly.
Hmmm. I didn't pursue that response at the time, and I'm not going to do so now. But before we get into Tasting Her, an observation. Twenty-one authors contributed to this pussy-licking paradise, of whom just five are male. Three more are girl-on-girl gay. Which means more than two thirds of the stories here are by girls who know precisely what they want, and have now fictionalized a guy who is capable of giving it to them. Which is a pretty dismal success rate when you really sit and think about it. Read the rest at Eden Fantasys
Among the friends with whom I share my love of reading erotica, Alison Tyler definitely appears to be something of an acquired taste. A little too eager to shock, and a little too willing to sacrifice a storyline for the sake of an unexpected twist. Which are not bad qualities by any standard. But they can be disorienting.
Which means Playing With Fire was something of a shocker, in that even its theme is tamped down and guarded. I'm not quite sure what I expected from the twenty-two stories within, but a few tales of fucking too close to the firelight, the odd human ashtray and, of course, the sexual heat of the habitual arsonist would not have been far from the truth. Instead.... read the rest at Eden Fantasys
...is being honest about why it happened. To yourself and to your partner. What follows is part fiction, part memoir, and part a piece of advice which hopes, once you’ve finished reading, it might help you figure out how not to wind up in this position.
The story is called “Love, Judy,” but it could as easily be “Love, John.”
You asked me to tell you why I moved out of our apartment. I'll probably regret it in the morning, but maybe I do owe you an explanation and, if you think any less of me once you've read it, then I guess that'll make things easier for you in the long run. Or maybe not. I’m not sure I even care any longer.
Do you remember when we first met? How we sparked immediately; the afternoons that we spent just running around the city; the evenings we went out "on the town"; and then the first night we spent together? We’d barely been indoors ten minutes and we were naked on my apartment floor. Our hands were everywhere and our kisses were endless. Your fingers were inside me as I touched your raw hardness for the first time. Oh, it felt so good in my fist, so thick and strong, an iron bar popped straight out of the furnace, and the harder I jerked you, the harder it grew. I knelt and took the hot head in my mouth, sucked until you cried out loud, and you came so hard that I had to step back – a jet like that could have blown my brains out. And then you went down and sucked me back; you never did locate my clitoris, but you licked as though your life depended on it and, once you were hard again, we fucked with a fury I had never experienced.
I still think about the way you entered me that night, teasing me with the tip of your cock, pushing inside a tiny fraction at a time, paying as much attention to your withdrawal as your penetration. I was almost crying with desire when you finally slipped your full length in; and, when you came, I tightened every muscle I have, to hold you clenched inside me for as long as I could.
We made love twice more that night. You seemed to stiffen at will, I didn’t even need to touch you for you to be thrusting inside me, hotter and harder every time. And, when you left for work the following morning, I spent half the day in bed, simply breathing in the scent of our love-making. I couldn’t believe it when you called around that evening, with that huge bouquet of flowers, to ask if I’d move in with you. I gave my landlord four weeks’ notice that weekend.
Our first month together, we were rarely out of bed. We made love in every position we could think of, and a few we couldn’t believe we’d discovered. I don’t think there’s an inch of my skin that never felt the hot splash of your seed and not much of yours’ that wasn’t bathed in my juices. And it’s funny, looking back, because in every other aspect of our life together, you were so … not predictable, because that sounds like a put-down. But reliable, steadfast, a creature of habit. As a lover, in that first tempestuous month, however, you were spontaneous, wild and absolutely astonishing. I was thrilled by the contrast. I never dreamed that it might change.
I moved in on a Saturday, but we didn’t make love that night. You were tired, I was exhausted. We didn’t do it the following night, either. Or the next. Suddenly, what had once seemed a nightly ritual was receding into the back of our life. But it didn’t matter at the time. We had our whole lives in front of us, didn’t we? And I was happy in your arms whatever happened; happy, too, to know that, at any moment, you might roll me over without a word, your fingers coaxing me to wetness before you slid… sometimes you slid, sometimes you plunged, once – and I almost exploded with pleasure when you did – you just rammed yourself in, and came within seconds. As the days continued slipping past, the waiting was almost as exciting as the act.
But a week became two, then folded into three. Close to a month had gone by in the blink of an eye. One night I reached for you, and you told me you were too tired. Another night you had a headache. Another, you didn’t say anything, and just feigned sleep instead. But, finally you came to me, entering me gently, riding me slowly, teasing out our orgasms as though we might never have another, and you wanted to make the most of them. I didn’t think that at the time, of course; I just marveled at your beauty, strength and the tenderness with which you loved me. Then you came home the next evening and asked me if I would please change the sheets, as though they were a horror that had been haunting you all day at work.
I think I knew then that something wasn't right between us, but I thought with time... patience... love (and I did/do love you)... we'd be able to work it out. That's why I didn’t say anything for so long. Time, patience and love. The problem is, time and patience finally ran out. And do you know how many times we made love, Steve? We lived together for almost three years. We had sex nine times. And, you know what? Suddenly the waiting wasn’t half as exciting as it used to be.
I was frustrated. More than that, I was heartbroken. I always believed that a relationship was built around two people acknowledging one another’s needs, going the extra mile for the person they say they love. I know I did it for you. Was there ever a day you went to work in anything but a clean shirt and trousers? Was there ever an evening when dinner wasn’t waiting for you? Was there ever a time I said I’d rather stay at home, than visit your parents or brother once again? There was nothing I wouldn’t do for you, and all I wanted… yearned for… came this close to begging for… in return was a little excitement, and the chance to demonstrate with my body, all the love that I felt in my heart.
We quarreled. One night I asked you outright why you so rarely wanted to touch me any longer, and even before I’d asked the question, I could hear you framing your answer. You were tired… you were busy… not feeling too good… not in the mood.
Do you know how much I hate that expression? You’re not in the mood for what? For letting your lover know that you love her with something more tangible than words and a couple of Xs on a birthday card? For switching off the TV and spending some time with the one thing in your life that is physically aching for your attention? For not worrying about work and money, and giving yourself over to pleasure, for once? Rejection is a melodramatic word, but that’s what it felt like, night after night, when you fell asleep without touching me, brushing my hands off your body as you did so.
I had dreams of the way we used to be, of the way I once thought we’d always be. I dreamed of your tongue in my pussy, chasing around my clitoris, licking and flicking me till I begged you to fuck me.
I dreamed of you pressing me harshly to the bed, crushing my breasts beneath my body as you slicked my ass with saliva and cunt juice, and then took me from behind, your massive cock tearing at my tiniest hole, pounding into my stomach with every rough thrust.
I dreamed that you straddled my chest while I lay on the couch, and how my jaw would ache as I stretched my mouth wide to accept your firm cock in my mouth. I remembered how my taste buds would jangle, overwhelmed by the myriad flavors of your hard flesh, the sharp tang around the tip, the musky velvet of the head, the warm salt of the shaft; the changing textures and sensations as you forced yourself deeper; the hot shock flood when you came in my throat, and I almost choked on your sweetly tart nectar.
And then I would wake up to find my mouth still dry, my pussy an aching hollow, my heart a darkening pit of emptiness, and another day would yawn ahead of me before we climbed back into the bed we “shared,” and the whole dispiriting saga could play out again.
One morning while you were sleeping, I decided to see what would happen if…. I drew back the bedclothes as you lay on your back, reached my hand inside your pajama pants. You were soft, but still amazingly long. I raised you gently, taking your warm weight into my mouth, amazed at how quickly you started to swell, till it felt as though my head must burst. Nothing tricky, nothing fast. I held you tight, my lips so close to the base of your cock that my nose was pushing against your balls. I was contracting and expanding the muscles of my mouth, different pressures on different points, then slowly I began to bob my head, long smooth sweeps that couldn’t help but thrill you, that sent harmonic tremors pulsing through the thick, dark veins.
I imagined that you’d wake up as you came, and finally realize all that you’ve been missing. I convinced myself of that fact. And then you did awaken and you pulled yourself free; clucked a brusque “don’t do that” that stung like a slap, then slammed the door for a noisy piss. I could still taste you on my lips at lunchtime, but it wasn’t the victorious tang I’d expected, just the bitter bile of rejection once more.
I asked you that night – am I doing something wrong? Is there something you’d prefer? Don’t you want me any longer? You lay down your paper and sighed in annoyance. “Nothing’s wrong. Now leave it.” I told you I was miserable, that I couldn’t live a life without touch and pleasure. You told me I had sex on the brain. And then you asked me to shut up. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not in the mood.” Well fuck you, I do want to talk about it, and I am in the mood.
It wasn’t just the sex I wanted, it wasn’t merely the relentless pursuit of an orgasm. It was the sense of total togetherness that is also so much a part of making love, the tenderness, and the pure joy of absolute, uninhibited intimacy. There was nothing I would not do for you, if you’d asked me to. And so much I wanted to ask you to do for me.
I have never come to the tune of a lover’s tongue. I would show you how to eat my pussy, until the orgasms sent me bouncing off the walls, and then turn around and do it back to you, a vibrator up your ass while you’re coming down my throat. We explored one another with lust in the past. Now let’s do it with love as well. Except….
You said you loved me, and my brain believed you. But my body rebelled, and screamed out defiantly… how can you love me if you never want to touch me? How can you love me, if my touch makes you roll away, if the very thought of my body seems to flood your brain with a thousand other things that you’d rather be doing? I want to suck you off. You want to grout the bathtub. I want to sit on your face. You’d rather sit on the john. I want to fuck you. You’d rather I fucked myself.
I fought back. “Let’s spend Thanksgiving with my parents,” you suggested. No, I’m not in the mood. “I’d like to have some people from work over this weekend.” No, I’m not in the mood. “Let’s watch a movie.” No, I’m not in the mood. You didn’t like that, did you? You sulked like a six year old, stamping around the house until I finally gave in and we did what you wanted. Always what you wanted. Why is it that you are so protective over the stupid things that don’t mean anything to either of us. But the one thing that should be the most precious of all, our life together… that doesn’t matter, does it? And why? Because you’re not in the mood.
Do you remember when you had me that morning last summer? The reason I was still in bed was because I had a splitting headache and my period was coming. I felt shitty. But you came to me and kissed me; and, when your hands spread my legs, I let you in because I loved you. That’s right, Steve, I wasn’t in the mood. But you know what? That didn’t matter because I wanted you to feel good, I wanted you to feel loved… and I didn’t want you to suffer the agony of rejection that you put me through every night. I don’t know why. You probably wouldn’t even have noticed.
I did notice. Every time you rolled away, every time you told me no, every time you changed the subject, I noticed and it never stopped hurting, until I couldn’t take the pain any longer. And that’s when I left. That’s why I left.
My last thought. This letter’s gone on far too long as it is, and you probably stopped reading a few pages back. Maybe I’ll save a stamp and just post it on your website. Maybe I’ll read it in the morning, and throw it away. But first, let me to tell you what I did this evening.
I went out to a club with some girls from work, sat at the bar in that short skirt you bought me, let a smooth-talking surfer dude buy me cocktails all evening. And when I went to the ladies, he followed me in, said the condom machine was broken in the men’s room, then he fucked me against the washbasins. He was hot and hard and he moved like a piston engine. I came before he even got going. So you know what I did? I stepped away from him, then fell to my knees. I grabbed his ass and jammed his cunt-soaked cock into my mouth, as far as it would go, as far as I could take him. And then I fucked him back with my face; fucked him and sucked him, bit his balls and licked his knob, wiped his pre-cum all over my cheeks, worked him until he couldn’t take anymore – and when he came, I swallowed the lot, drank it down in one scalding mouthful. Then, when I’d sucked him completely dry, and the poor kid could hardly stand up any longer, I wiped my face, kissed his cheek, left the club and drove home.
That could have been you and me, Steve. That could have been your cum that I can still taste in my mouth; your cock that I still feel bruising my pussy; and you who I’ll be looking for tomorrow night, when I go out again to a different club entirely. But no. You’ll be sitting around feeling sorry for yourself, and probably cursing the waste of the last three years. Me, I reckon I wasted them as well. But at least I intend making up for lost time.
Sorry if any of this upsets you, Steve. But you did ask….
Okay, I’ll admit straight away that computers have come on a long way since the old days of staring at manuals for weeks, wondering whether you should have taken that course in pidgin-English after all; when new toys and devices were less “plug and play” and more “plug and fuck around for three days.”
But the time and energy that it took to get this thing up and running... not to mention the conscience-wrestling dilemma of wondering whether you really want to give your credit card details to a company who know exactly what you’re spending your money on.... Well, let’s just say you have to really want to try it out, if you’re going to go through all that.
A friend whose “partner” is someone she knows only through Second Life (and I’ll say no more than that) tells me her Internet Rabbit has improved her sex life beyond all recognition, and that now they’re searching around for a similarly operated Fleshlight for him.
I'm sure there are less flippant theories than this, but for me, Steampunk Erotica first chugged into view aboard an old Leonard Cohen album that a college boyfriend used to play all the time. I've forgotten what it's called, but one image has always lived with me, that of Queen Victoria dispensing sound spankings with her mechanical corset. Wow, I still get a shiver just thinking about it, with the sheer implausibility of the scenario only adding to its allure.
Steampunk is not concerned with implausibility. Quite the opposite, in fact, as even a brief inspection of its essential tenets makes apparent. It posits an alternate world that could have been, as opposed to the one that was, while raising itself above the rest of the science fiction universe by establishing some very firm groundrules as to what those "could-have-beens" are. Steam replaces electricity and oil. Zeppelins instead of aeroplanes. Corsets instead of t-shirts and bras. My Leonard Cohen fantasy grows moister by the moment. Read the rest at Eden Fantasys
Okay, confessions time. First, I love the subject; and second, one of my own stories appears within. And no, I'm not going to tell you which one, but I promise I won't be mentioning it again. Which may still disqualify me in many peoples' eyes from writing a fair review of the rest of the book, but I promise I'll try because... because I love the subject. And with just a couple of exceptions, I loved the stories within.
It's funny; it really doesn't seem that long ago that oral sex was considered one of those subjects that polite conversation would never embrace, and which polite girls had never even heard of. Even during my own schooldays, which came to an end in the mid-late nineties, blowjobs were something you whispered about... and reciprocal behavior (why has our language yet to come up with a single, simple word for that?) rarely even got mentioned. That's how far we've come in fifteen years; imagine how far we've come in fifty! I once read an early 1950s FBI description of a recently busted stag film. The fellatio scene was described as a deviant act, and one of the first stories you'll find in Going Down, Sylvia Lowry's "Etiquette," kind of dances around that same subject matter with its own narrator's questions regarding the nature of good manners.
The words (and I quote) "can you shoot your fucking come in my mouth" probably don't quite fulfill those requirements. But the upshot maybe does. "The damp blast of semen cascaded from my lips and onto my tits like vanilla creme anglaise descending onto succulent white cake."
Well, at least she wasn't wearing her work clothes.
She may not routinely be described as the greatest porn star who ever lived, and the full length movies that she made were decidedly disappointing.
But across a string of pre-fame shorts shot in the early 1970s, and a mountain of magazine photo shoots that took her through to the end of the decade, actress Mary Millington took English-made porn to brand new heights, not only in terms of adventure and variation, but also because she never once behaved like she was acting.
Even more exhilaratingly, she did so at a time when British porn was so underground that it made American morality look like Sodom and Gomorrah. While married couples Stateside were lining up to watch Deep Throat and Behind The Green Door at the not-yet-a-Multiplex down the road, and TV talk shows were seriously discussing Porno Chic, British film makers and distributors were being seriously and severely hounded for their handiwork, with police harassment a part of daily life, and media assaults a constant.
No more than half a dozen of Mary’s sex shorts are known to circulate today, and that despite her shooting close to four times that many, often under the watchful eye of one of Britain’s most revolutionary movie makers, the great John Lindsay. His eye for detail, and taste for the bizarre, pushed buttons that would still get a reaction today - one of the most astonishing scenes in Miss Bohrloch arrives when Mary stands up to answer the door... and a pingpong ball falls out of her pussy. The viewer didn’t even know it was in there. (Deservedly, Miss Bohrloch], won the Golden Phallus award at the 1970 Amsterdam Wet Dream Festival.)
Her other shorts are just as enjoyable - and Mary was obviously having a ball as she shot them. Few XXX actresses, even today, ever captured the look of absolute pleasure that constantly shone in Mary’s eyes, yet to describe her as one of the most beautiful women ever to fuck on camera for a living is to overlook the sheer girl-next-door homeliness that was her other most potent quality.
It was that which established her as the face of British porn, and the mouthpiece for it as well. Indeed, even more than her films, she is probably better remembered for her figurehead role at publisher David Sullivan’s Whitehouse magazine, a publication that sailed so close to the legal winds of the day that police raids were an almost regular occurrence, while the movies that brought her to household name status, led off by 1977’s Come Play With Me, were little more than a lightly raunchy variation on the kind of sex comedies British cinema had been making for years. It was Mary’s name that made the movies move, and that was as true for the other starring vehicles she appeared in (The David Galaxy Affair, Queen Of The Blues and The Playbirds) as for the one movie she made which is still a national treasure, the Sex Pistols' The Great Rock’n’Roll Swindle.
Indeed, given time she might even have made the crucial transition into some form of “acceptable” mainstream superstardom, although her crusading spirit would never have been crushed.
Her personal life was under constant scrutiny by the police, and her popularity was no guarantee of security. Constantly speaking out against the weight of the laws that suppressed all but the most anodyne attempts to illustrate human sexuality in the UK, Mary made some appallingly powerful enemies - so powerful that there was no way in which her story could have a happy ending.
Hounded by every authority that could possibly have a bone to pick with her, from the taxman to the police, and onto the sundry guardians of British morality that roamed those days, Mary was first backed into a corner, and then pushed further from there. Thirty-three years ago this weekend, August 19 1979, unable to see any life beyond the incessant harassment, Mary committed suicide. She, too, was thirty-three.
Her life has its celebrations today. Author Simon Sheridan wrote a wonderful biography, named for her first full-length movie, a variety of websites exist to remember her, and at least a few of her movies - long form and short - can now be purchased by anyone with a desire to possess them. Precisely the state of permissive affairs that Mary spent her adulthood fighting for, and possibly gave her life for as well.
Even if you’ve never heard of her before reading this today, please spare her a thought this weekend.
I knew he was coming long before he said anything. I could feel the tension building in the balls that tightened in my hand, in the sudden flexing of his cock as it strained against my jaw, and in the barely perceptible sensation that he’d grown an extra half-an-inch, as though preparing to leap down my throat. Believe me, it's a moment that cannot be mistaken for anything else. My fingers clenched around his buttocks, holding him tighter, drawing him closer and twisting the rather nifty cock ring that the mailman delivered that very morning. He cried out, first my name, and then a sharp word of warning, my throat opened up to accept the coming flood. And then he was gone, jerking out of my mouth with such violence that I almost toppled forward, while his seed spurted thick and white across his belly. “Wow, that was close!” he smiled. “I’ll try and give you a bit more warning next time.” I smiled and kissed his chest. The sign of a true gentleman. Or as much of a gentleman as a guy could be, with his balls banging against somebody’s chin, and his prick rammed down their throat. Looking back, I should have said something there and then. But it didn’t seem necessary. I’d get him next time. Or the time after that. Or the time after that….
It’s strange, but the longer you’re going out with someone, the harder it becomes to tell them your fantasies. I don’t just mean the weird “I’m a BBC weathergirl, you’re a Viking stormtrooper” ones, because I’ve never really been able to get into those. Well, with one or two exceptions.... No, I’m talking about the common-and-garden “I wish you would…” things that cross everybody’s mind when they think about their lover, but which we keep to ourselves because… why? You know exactly what I’m talking about. When you’re in that first flush of lust-driven romance, anything goes and, if there’s anything lacking from your love life, it doesn’t seem to matter because there’s so much more to discover. And there’s always tomorrow night, as well. But the days turn into weeks and suddenly three, six months have passed you by, and now that need isn’t simply unfulfilled. It’s eating you alive. And, somehow, you can’t say a word about it. Relationships are strange. Again, in those first few weeks, you go out of the way to seem perfect. You don’t fart, you don’t inadvertently twirl a finger around in your ear… I know one girl who won’t even use the bathroom until she’s sure the romance is stable. But soon enough, you’re scratching and belching like an old married couple, there’s tampons in the rubbish bin, and you’ve even heard him pee with the door open. But not every barrier comes crashing down. Some go up, and the sexual ones are usually the first to raise. Once you’d have thought nothing of suggesting… well, whatever…, secure in the knowledge that your partner would leap at the chance to do it. Now you’re not so sure, because you know them better, they know you, and the dreaded word “no” is no longer taboo. Neither is “yuk,” and I’m not sure which would bother me more. Probably both of them together. Marty and I had been dating for two months, and the first few weeks were so phenomenal that it was ages before I started to notice that there were certain places he wouldn’t go, and even longer before it started to bother me. Once the idea was in my head, though, there was no way of shaking it out.
Like I said, it took a while before it started bothering me. We’d settled down for the night, and I was almost asleep when I realized that what I thought was a knee digging into my back was actually an erection. I reached an arm behind me and stroked a finger up its length, and was rewarded with such a sweet, gentle, groan that I knew he must be feeling as sleepy as I was. So I rolled over and, laying my head on his stomach, began simply nuzzling at him, feeling his thick helmet resting on my lips as my tongue flicked slowly across it.
His hands were in my hair, caressing my scalp, and exerting just enough pressure that I knew he wanted my lips to slip lower, to take him deeper into my mouth. I did so, feeling a tingling in my belly as his flavors swirled on my tongue, and my jaw opened wider to accommodate him. His breathing remained gentle, belying the strength of his cock as it strained against my mouth. I shifted my weight a little, tightening my lips around him as I raised him up, alternating smooth bobs of my head with the sucking motion that I knew drove him crazy. My fingers were on his balls, swirling in time to my tongue, and drifting closer and closer to his asshole. And then that familiar twitch, that unmistakable tensing of every muscle in his body… my finger jammed hard into his anus – and he was away, rolling out from beneath me, while his ejaculation fountained onto my shoulder, and his mouth cried out his ecstasy. And I just lay there feeling drained and empty, cheated of the greatest prize that any man can give his lover. Well, maybe Marty is in for a surprise tonight....
I'm a writer, not a photographer. So just be aware that the pics on this site were not taken by me, and aren't owned by me either - not even the ones that I'm in. If you are a photographer and find your pics on this site, please get in touch - I'd love to credit you (if you wish), and even use more of your work. If you're here it's because I love the photo!
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.