Wednesday, April 28, 2010

You're With Her Again

I’ve had a couple of threesomes and, to be truthful, I don’t especially enjoy them. Yes, it’s fun. But it can also be very frustrating… the biggest problem I have, when you’re with two guys, is they’re so worried about appearing “gay” that they never let go in the way you’d hope they would. Or the way they’d expect two girls to.

I love to see a guy take a load from another guy; I'd really love one guy to eat the other’s come out of my pussy. But the closest they ever get is one on each nipple. I don’t think they even especially enjoy watching what the other one was doing. If I ever find myself in that situation again, I’ll be setting some very firm ground rules before a single piece of my clothing comes off.

You’re with her again
Why don’t you draw the curtains?
You’re with her again
Do I have to see you flirting?
I want to watch TV
But all that I can see
Is the couple cross the alley do the dirty

You’re with her again
I watch as you undress her
You’re with her again
I watch as you caress her
Your mouth is on her breasts
She’s shrugging off her dress
Well it really didn’t take much to impress her

You’re with her again
What a place to put your bed!
You’re with her again
Now I can see her spread
While you’re slipping off your clothes
And I’m wondering where you’ll go
First? Will you fuck her? Or ask her for some head?

You’re with her again
Hey, move so I can see
You’re with her again
And she’s down upon her knees
I watch her as she’s stroking
Hope she loves a man with foreskin
Because there’s so much more there waiting to be pleased

You’re with her again
She’s laughing while she’s licking
You’re with her again
Her mouth strains, you’re still thickening
But now she’s in the groove
And I watch your bodies move
Some girls have all the luck, you know. It’s sickening

You’re with her again
I feel my heartbeat thudding
You’re with her again
I feel my pussy flooding
I imagine your cock stretching me
First my jaw, then my pussy
Then I see your silent cry; at last! You’re cuming

You’re with her again
I watch you wildly humping
You’re with her again
Will she swallow all you are pumping?
Just when she’d got the rhythm
You swamped her mouth with jizzum
And her eyes are wide with shock… or lust… or something

You’re with her again
I lip-read her: “please feed me!”
You’re with her again
My God, the bitch is needy
Then she shuts her eyes to swallow
And you signal me to follow
Cos a two-some is much more fun when there’s three

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Mirror Mirror

“Mirror Mirror” holds some very special memories, as anyone who has ever shared the experience would probably agree. However, it also reminds me of the hardest part of my writing - finding multiple rhymes for “scrotum” and “throat”… in fact, I once wound up rhyming them together, and it remains the single most atrocious couplet I’ve ever written – “Want to see you in my throat/Watch my chin as it taps your scrote.” I can’t believe I even thought of that, let alone published it. And here it is.

Mirror mirror by the bed
Watching while I’m giving head
From the corner of my eye
I see my tongue trace up your thigh
Pause to tease your balls a bit
Take one deep and suck on it
Hear you gasp, I gently blow
Your hand keeps my strokes so slow
I grasp your cock and raise it to
My mouth; I plant a kiss or two
I watch my tongue so greedily slip
All around that velvet tip
I watch my jaw so slowly parting
As I take your helmet right in
My cheeks sink in as I start to draw
Deep on your shaft; and I want more
Want to see you in my throat
Watch my chin as it taps your scrote
See the expression on my face

As my mouth devours your heat and taste
See the shock flash in my eyes
When you flood me with your salt surprise
Then I want to watch as just a little
From the corner of my mouth trickles
And that’s the moment I want to freeze
In my mind – so camera, please
Catch that brief split second bliss
When your cum starts leaking from my lips
Catch the droplet before it falls
Catch me before I swallow it all
My eyes are wild and my hair’s a mess
But I call that picture HAPPINESS

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Ambrose Horne - a Press Notice

eBook Review for the Adventures of Ambrose Horne by Chrissie Bentley
reprinted from rude

Review by Korben Rushe

This might be controversial, but for me, the best erotic fiction isn’t all about the sex. With no pun intended, it really should be about the full package. And that’s what Chrissie Bentley delivers in this collection of short stories which sway from the poignant to the ludicrously funny. And that package includes – rest assured – lots of hot Victorian action!

Set in the era already SO dominated by that other fictional detective, Ambrose Horne does a very good job at establishing himself as the sleuth who takes a refreshingly different approach to uncovering the truth – more often than not a horizontal one.

When I started reading this book, I worried that after the first few stories, the plots would grow a bit samey or contrived (as they did in that TV programme Rosemary and Thyme – after all, just how many murders can a couple of landscape gardeners unearth?!) but thankfully this is not the case here. In fact, not only has the author managed to create a charismatic hero (who has a Bond-esque way with the ladies) and some entertaining and testing plotlines, but she’s impressively highlighted a social truth: that almost everything in this life comes down to sex, greed or both.

I can’t wait to read the next two instalments of Ambrose Horne.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

I Love It When...

A little late for Valentine's Day... maybe I should save this verse for his birthday card?

I love it when…

You press down on the back of my head
To make me take you deep
You touch the tip to my closed lips
When I’m fast asleep
You cum when you’re not in my mouth
And I lick it off your tummy
You cum deep inside my puss
And suck it from my cunny

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Ambrose Horne - Buy Two, Get One Free

To celebrate the publication of the third volume of Ambrose Horne's memoirs, Xcite Books present a very special and very limited offer... buy the first two Ambrose Horne collections and get the third one absolutely FREE!

Yes! The loin-lunging adventures of Victorian London’s most unconventional detective can be yours for one third off!

Armed with only his relentless curiosity for the darkest recesses of human sexuality, Ambrose Horne is the enterprising eroticist for whom no puzzle is too perplexing, no secret is too scandalous, and no position is too impolite. Now, gathered together for the first time in three volumes, The Erotic Adventures Of Ambrose Horne reveal fifteen tales from the Carnal Casebook of the Idiosyncratic Inquisitor, the Horny Holmes… the man who put the Dick into Private Investigator… the one-and-only Ambrose Horne.



Sebastian Longfellow… few men have been so accurately named as he… raised himself from between his wife’s luxurious thighs and, in one deft movement, slid his stiff cock between her bountiful breasts. Her hands clasped his as they pushed her tits together so that he might fuck them; then reached around to his buttocks, to push his enormous tool towards her open mouth.

Stella’s jaw strained to accept the throbbing purple head. Not for the first time in their lovemaking, she felt as though tendons would tear before she was able to fully accommodate the object of her desire. But, as her facial muscles relaxed around the hot meat that she so desperately craved, so he felt himself being drawn in, filling her mouth with his brick-hard heat, feeling her sharp teeth grazing his shaft with a myriad delicious sensations.

He would not, could not, seek to enter her wholly. With close to ten thick inches of manhood at his disposal, it would be a skilled fellatrix indeed who could devour him to the root and Stella, though they had been married more than two years, had still to learn that particular secret. But she pleasured him regardless, her twinkling blue eyes gazing lovingly into his as she scanned his face for the first signs of the intense rush of pleasure that warned her to close her lips around the merest tip of his rod, while his thick cum slammed against the barrier of her teeth.

Longfellow, too, watched her intently, conscious from the expression in her eyes that, while she sucked, she also fingered herself, gently at first, but with increasingly urgency as the throbbing of his shaft communicated itself to her nerve-ends, and filled her sex with its own exquisite juices. And, when he finally climaxed, so would she, her body writhing beneath him as her other hand slipped off his cock, to let his semen jet where it would. It was a moment that neither of them had ever experienced with any other lover, a communion of cum that left both sated and exhausted, collapsing tenderly into one another’s arms to whisper the sweet, sweat-soaked nothings of two devoted lovers.

What a contrast that portrait painted to the furious gentleman who now paced around Ambrose Horne’s office, impatiently mumbling while his insurance agent, a tiny weasel of a clerk named Simpkins, conferred with the Great Detective by the dying light of a winter afternoon. “It is not a detective we require,” Longfellow snapped for the third time since the interview began. “It is a policeman, a court room and a hanging judge. What will the detective detect beyond wanton vandalism? And we already know that has taken place. It is the vandal himself to whom we should be attending, so that we might string him up from the highest gallows in the land.”

“So you have said,” Horne spoke up wearily. “But you have brought us no evidence that this vandal actually exists… nor, from the evidence before me, that any act of vandalism has even taken place. We must weigh up all the facts before we rush to any form of judgement.”

Longfellow wheeled angrily across the room, placing his face just inches from Horne’s. “No evidence?” He jabbed at the insurance report that lay on Horne’s desk. “Some of the most valuable postage stamps in the world have been destroyed. The 5c rose of Vancouver Island. The 2c black and rose of British Guiana. A pair of Trinidad’s legendary Lady McLeod imperforates….

“You, Sir,” he jabbed a finger at the wretched Simpkins. “You asked me what is stamp collecting, beyond the accumulation of so many sticky labels from around the world. And you, Mr Horne, seemed more interested in pedantically declaiming the erroneous Greek derivation of the word ‘Philately,’ than acknowledging the seriousness of the crime. But, when the Fellows of the Royal Society hear of this, and some jolly powerful fellows they are, it will not be your scorn upon which you choke, but the very foundations of all that you deem of value in this world.”

“And what do you consider the value of the damaged items?” Horne asked – then blanched as his visitor spoke a number in the thousands of pounds. “Furthermore, I can provide both written and verbal testimony to that fact. But I see I am wasting my time here. Simpkins? Convey to your masters that I revoke all my insurance policies with their company forthwith. And Horne? I will convey your regard to Mr Sherlock Holmes. I am certain he will take this matter somewhat more seriously than you.”

Horne bowed politely. “You must do as you see fit, as I am sure Mr Holmes will. Certainly details of your loss and, indeed, of any similarly valued items that have not been lost, will make a tasty filling for his assistant’s next essay in the popular press, and I am sure you will meet many new acquisitive enthusiasts as a result. I wish you luck. And, should you then require a less voluble detective to assist you in any matters that might ensue from those meetings, I will be as willing to help you on that occasion as I am on this.”

At the thought of the publicity that was, indeed, the inevitable consequence of any dealings with the ubiquitous Holmes and his loquacious biographer, Longfellow paused at the door. “I thought you dismissed my complaint?”

“No. I dismissed your contention that the term ‘Philately’ means what you claim it does – a love, ‘philos,’ for a pre-paid item, ‘telos,’ when in fact the correct construction of those words would be ‘atelophily.’ I do not dismiss the seriousness of your loss; nor, without having seen the items in question, or the room in which they are kept, do I dismiss the possibility that some form of malice has been perpetrated upon your collection. However, if you believe Mr Holmes offers you the best hope of bringing the felon to book, then my duty is to defer to your own convictions.”

Longfellow shook his head. “My carriage is outside, Mr Horne. Perhaps you would care to make your inspection this very day?”

Read the conclusion of this tale in The Erotic Adventures of Ambrose Horne

And then discover even greater thrills in The Erotic Memoirs of Ambrose Horne and The Erotic Return of Ambrose Horne. And if you buy two now, you'll receive the third for free!

Three great books, one great detective!

Deflowering David

His name wasn’t really David. But everything else is the honest truth – and even while it was happening, it felt as though it rhymed. Probably the easiest verse I’ve ever written!

He told me that he was a virgin
That he wanted me to be first in
Which was fine because I was thirsting
For a piece of untouched meat

But oh what a shock, what a surprise
What a disaster awaited my eyes
Soft, small and flaccid, it disinterestedly lies
My poor piece of untouched meat

I froze for a moment, what could I do?
He was looking so hopeful, and I felt that too
And I knew if I failed, the poor lad would stew
Over his piece of untouched meat

I stroked its loose skin with a light moistened finger
Gave his ballbag a pinch (it’s okay, not a stinger)
Then stroked his soft helmet, and let my hand linger
On his piece of untouched meat

His voice was a whisper, barely a hiss
I strained to make sure not a word I would miss
He said “it might help if you planted a kiss
On my piece of untouched meat”

Was that a slight twitch? Or was I just dreaming?
I licked it again, my mind slowly scheming
How to get him erect and hot, get some creaming
From his piece of untouched meat

I used finger and thumb to so gently raise it
And I let my soft lips so delicately graze it
Let out a soft moan so he knew that I’d tasted
His piece of untouched meat

I opened my mouth and slipped in the end
I held his shaft straight so that it couldn’t bend
Then worked my jaw slow, made some ripples to send
Through his piece of untouched meat

I must have laid there and suckled for a good 20 minutes
I remember I’d almost decided to bin it!
And then my mouth realized there was something hard in it
Life floods his untouched meat

Now that is more like it! I thought as I wallowed
And opened my throat so he slipped in the hollow
I’m glad I was patient, I smiled as I swallowed
Every piece of untouched meat

I was tempted to stay, to blow all the way
But I’d promised that I’d take his cherry away
So I let him go with a plop, there’d be other days
Fed pussy his untouched meat

All of that happened a long time ago
What happened to him I really don’t know
But there’s one special memory that gives me a glow
I touched his untouched meat

Monday, April 12, 2010

The Erotic Return of Ambrose Horne

Xcite Books bring you the second COMPLETELY UNEXPURGATED collection of adventures by Victorian England's most unusual detective - AMBROSE HORNE!

Five new thrilling tales of mystery, suspense and, of course, MOUNTAINS of sex!

Click here to buy The Erotic Return of Ambrose Horne.

Click here to buy The Erotic Adventures of Ambrose Horne.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

The Moment is Mine

It’s not only the girls who can be reluctant. In fact, guys can be even harder to turn around!

“I don’t want to cum in your mouth,” he said.
“Too bad,” I answered.
I wouldn’t want to start this
If I didn’t want to taste you
I might not want to keep you
But I sure don’t want to waste you
I want to feel your muscles tense
The pressure build inside you
I want to feel you hold me fast
Want you to feel me ride you
I want to feel that pulse and punch
As you ram your cock in deeper
I love the taste when we start out
But the end tastes even sweeter

I know I started slowly but
That’s just the way I do it
Tiny kisses, little licks
Before I get down to it
Licking my lips slowly
So your knob end slips in gently
Relax my tongue and flex my jaw
And your flavor floods and sends me
Sucking, seeking, fresh firm flesh
While you fill me to my limit
Then when you think I’ve done my best
That’s when I begin it

I love to hear my sucking sounds
Around my moans of pleasure
I love to hear you gasp and sigh
As my tongue swirls, seeking treasure
I love to feel your balls contract
As the tension starts to rise
I love to see the magic as it
Dances in your eyes
And when you reach the very edge
And try to pull away
I clutch your ass and hold you tight
I know what you’re trying to say

The first jet hot and thick delight
The second pumping, fills me
I swallow hard so I don’t choke
I hear my gulps, they thrill me
You shout my name, and God’s and more
Your hips pound fast and frantic
Your cum still floods, I feel like I’ve
Just swallowed the Atlantic
But when the waves at last subside
And you’re softening in my jaw
Oh shit, I sound like Oliver
“Please, I want some more.”

I hold you as you melt away
And lick away the drips
Feel strings of cum cling taut between
Your helmet and my lips
Feel it drying on my chin
Damp drips upon my breast
But the taste that thickly lines my throat
Hey baby, that’s the best
So next time you’re on a one night stand
And the girl gets on her knees
Just let her do it her own way
She knows what you both need.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Victorian England's Least Victorian Detective

When a Faberge dildo goes astray... when you are woken up by the spirit of your long dead wife... when your stamp collection is suddenly sealed to the table by a mysterious liquid... WHO YOU GONNA CALL?

Ambrose Horne, Victorian England's most discrete detective, of course.

Torn from the pages of the kind of magazines that his century would probably have denied even existed, and certainly doing things that polite society would rather die than indulge in, Ambrose Horne is here to fuck, suck, lick and flick his way through some of the most perplexing mysteries ever to haunt the civilized man.

Such as...

Who stole the secrets to the military's latest invention?

Why is the town filled with ginger haired children?

And... can ladies really squirt?

Find out in The Erotic Adventures of Ambrose Horne, available now from Xcite Books. And, coming soon, the Erotic Memoirs of Ambrose Horne and the Erotic Return of Ambrose Horne. Three great books, one amazing lover.

Ambrose Horne. yes, he's got it.

The amazing new book by Chrissie Bentley

Available now from Xcite Books.

F***king Australians

I remember having to study the settlement of Australia in school, around the time of their bicentennial. But we never covered this!

Sometimes I need

Sometimes I need him to pull my hair
Sometimes I need him to bite my breasts
Sometimes I need him to bind my hands
Sometimes I need him to pull open my legs
Sometimes I need him to make me to talk dirty
Sometimes I need him to call me a slut
Sometimes I need him to fuck without mercy
Sometimes I need him to lick till I scream

But right now I need a mouthful of cum
So where is he?

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Dont Try This At Home

and talking of fakery, you have to wonder how this was done... I defy anyone to keep their mouth open like that under water. But it looks amazing anyway!

Photoshop has a lot to answer for

Instinct kicked in. I leaned forward and my tongue flicked across that full, meaty helmet. I heard a tiny moan behind me and I licked some more. My eyes scoured the thick shaft - the ridge beneath the helmet intrigued me and I let the tip of my tongue run beneath it. There was a shiver and I angled my target slightly, tapping my tongue against the slit in the tip. My thumbs gripped the firm flesh on either side of it, opening it slightly... and it tasted like pussy.

It’s probably quite normal (at least, I hope it is) but as I grow older – fuck, I’m almost thirty! – I find my tastes in erotica taking some very unexpected twists and turns. And I thank the Goddess of Technology for ensuring that the internet has kept pace with them, at the same time as I regret that I didn’t pay a lot more attention on the occasions that I may have dabbled in those same waters for real…

I guess I’m lucky – a lot of my fantasies have at least come partly true, and that adds a certain extra fission to my imaginings.

I did spend a wonderful night with a girl who modern webmasters would call a Shemale – and she was a real one, too; I know that the vast majority of those we find on the net these days are more Photoshop than flesh and bone, but Lisa was “the genuine article”; no trickery, no surgery and no smoke and mirrors.

I have watched as two straight guys suck on each other’s cocks – more than once, in fact. But the heat of the moment has always kept me from asking them how it felt, and afterwards, too often, they’re too… I don’t know; embarrassed? Shocked? Numbed?… to talk about what they felt, what they tasted, what they loved about it. I’d love to climb inside their minds for a moment to discover how they processed the experience, and discover if they’ve ever done it again?

And I have watched back a short piece of film in which the cock in my mouth suddenly explodes without warning, and the cum cascades from my lips down the shaft, while I suck and lick and try to call it back. (Sorry, I don’t have a copy.)

I can remember all these things, but what I’d really love would be to relive them. My first lesbian experience – the thrill and the nervousness and the anticipation. The first time I went down on a guy… again, the anticipatory knowledge that I was about to step into the unknown. First times fascinate me, as regular readers of this blog have probably already guessed. They are what inspire me to write… hell, there are days when they are what inspire me to get up in the morning. And they are certainly what inspire me to fire up the computer on sleepless nights or boring weekends, and type a few of my favorite phrases into the search box.

Because, who knows? One day I might find what I’m looking for. But I sort of hope I don’t….

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Jenny's Hall of Fame is getting bigger

And it's not the only thing. All men should have a pair of jeans like these - it'd save a lot of fishing around inside their briefs.

Thank you, I love it AND it made me laugh!

Jenny's Hall of Fame (continued)

One for the ladies - and the guys, too, if they're in the mood. I don't recall precisely when I was sent my first photograph by a fan, but I've been collecting them for what seems like years and, if the sender is willing, I love sharing them as well.

An anonymous gentleman sent in today's portrait in pink... and I thank him. My mouth is watering already!

Saturday, April 3, 2010

A Man In My Mouth

He told me he lived in a shit-hole but it was even ghastlier than I'd imagined. Six floors, three barked shins and a bicycle handlebars-shaped blow to my left hip later, Joe was letting us into his room and, no matter how appalling the picture I’d drawn from his descriptions, it was worse. Damp, decay, despair… the one ring stove, the dripping tap, the single bar electric heater, the worn-out armchair, the unmade bed. He’d done his best to brighten it up – a few posters, colored light bulbs, a pile of scratched CDs. But the ashtray overflowed to the floor to meet the unwashed laundry, and dirty dishes tottered in the tiny sink, as though wondering whether they should join them there.

“Grim, isn’t it,” Joe shuddered. “But at least there’s no bugs. I’ve heard the worst stories…”

“It’s alright, you don’t need to tell me,” I told him. And then, “where’s the bathroom? I’m bursting!”

“Back out in to the hallway, first door on your left. And this time, don’t get lost on the way back.”

I laughed and promised I wouldn’t. The less time I had to spend in any of these dingy rooms, the better, and then the realization hit me. Twenty miles from home - thank God I didn't have to work in the morning - obviously, I’d be spending the night here and, equally obviously, Joe was expecting me to spend it with him. With him. That wasn’t so bad – we’d spent so long together already that I felt I knew him at least as well as I did my "real" boyfriend, Jake. And, once you got past that kitten-like boyishness, he really wasn’t bad looking. But he also didn’t look like the sort of fellow who kept piles of condoms lying around the room, in the hope of the occasional brunette dropping in unannounced… in which case, then what do we do?

“What we do,” Joe whispered as we lay together, and I blurted out my panic the moment I felt his hand on my breast, “is stop worrying. We lay here. What happens is what happens, but just because we can’t do one thing, it doesn’t mean that we can’t do anything else.” He was pulling up my T-shirt as he spoke, exposing my stomach slowly, then dipping to kiss round my navel. It tickled and I giggled, then gasped as he uncovered my breasts and began kissing them.

Again that unreasonable voice in the back of my mind… why did it sound so much like my mother? “One thing leads to another, and nice girls don’t, you know.” Yeah, well sometimes nice girls want to, and we’ll see what leads to what. His lips closed around a nipple, sucking gently as it erected itself, drawing it deep into his mouth and playing the tip of his tongue across it. I stroked his hair, then remembered the state that mine must be in.

“You know I’m getting mud all over your bedclothes?”

He released his grip. “So? I can always change the sheets. But maybe we’d better get you out of the rest of those clothes. No point in messing up the blankets as well.” He was fumbling with the button of my jeans; I swung my legs onto the floor, out of his reach. “I’ll do that. You…” I looked at him sitting there, his eyes bright and expectant behind his glasses. “You should get out of yours, as well.”

“I suppose so,” he said softly, then reached out and switched off the lamp. A street lamp outside still illuminated the room, and like a scene from an old American detective film, a neon across the street flashed a repetitive pink reflection off the TV screen. I scrambled out of my T-shirt, pulled my jeans and panties down in one movement. My mud-caked socks peeled away, and I sat back on the bed, watching as Joe removed his own trousers. Then he was alongside me again, his mouth back at my breast, while his fingers traced lightly down my abdomen.

“Have you ever…” he began.

I waited for him to complete his sentence. Instead, he buried his face into my cleavage, kissing and sucking at the flesh as I sank back against the pillows, luxuriating in the warmth of his kisses. He was moving now, his mouth sliding back towards my belly button, to my waist, to either hip – first one, then the other.

Without even being aware of it starting, I felt my body straining against his face, as though trying to guide his lips towards some place that it wanted them… some place that I had never really, consciously thought might want to be kissed… tasted… licked. For a moment, I was shocked at my own brazenness; wondered what he must be thinking. But his movements did not slow, just deftly sidestepped my own baby shifts and stretches, as though he could read every wriggle, and could draw this out forever.

A finger brushed my inner thigh; I gasped as my nerve-ends grabbed at that fleeting contact, and again as he repeated the gesture, a little firmer this time, and for a little longer. I was soaking wet down there; I wondered if he could smell me, and what the scent was doing to him? I once read that the smell of sex is the greatest aphrodisiac there is – did that mean his cock was hard? I strained my eyes through the darkness, but could see nothing; I thought of raising my foot and trying to touch it that way, but held back. The last thing I wanted to do was move too quickly and kick him there.

Oh my God. Now his lips were on my thighs, and his tongue, warm and rough and wet, sliding across the skin, breaking me out in goose-pimples as he traced towards… around… he licked up my groin and I jumped with the shock of the sudden glorious tickle. His hands on my hips held me down. “Ticklish, eh?” he murmured, and he did it again, but slower this time, as though his tongue was reluctant to leave one spot of flesh, though there was another just like it immediately above.

He bit me, gently but firmly, and I jumped again, but this time he allowed me the movement, as he clamped his hands beneath me, clasped my butt cheeks and, as he squeezed, he drew my pussy to his face. I know I gasped, I think I squeaked, and I still recall the sudden stab of pain as his finger drove into me without a care in the world – later, I realized I’d lost my virginity on a rumpled bed in a filthy bedsit, to a man whose cock was three feet away.

But I didn’t care, because something else was happening, building up within me, gathering force and rising fast… and it wasn’t the things that he was doing that were driving those sensations, but the thought of it, the fevered realization that I was lying on my back with my legs around his neck, while he sucked on my cunt like it was candy. That’s what really excited me and, when I came, this time it wasn’t a squeak, it was a full-blooded scream, one that could wake up the pigeons and stir all the neighbors, and which shocked Joe so much that he would have stopped what he was doing if my hand hadn’t pushed him back there, to taste the grinding epicenter of my soul.

“Wow,” he murmured as he finally got free. I kissed him, tasted my juices thick on his face. “Wow yourself,” I breathed. This was not the moment to start acting all lovey-dovey, although every fiber in my being cried out to say something, anything, to let him know just how fabulous I felt. No, actions speak louder than words, and the only way to repay him for what he’d done for me was to turn around and do it straight back to him. Now, before I changed my mind; now, before I chickened out.

I reached for his cock, the first I had ever held. Velvet soft and hot metal hard, it reminded me of the evening, long ago, that a boys school came to use our gymnasium, to warm up for a local sports meet they were taking part in. A group of us sat watching as they leaped, jumped and hurled things around and, afterwards, a couple of us ventured over to talk. One of the boys flexed his biceps and invited us to touch the muscle. Joe’s cock felt exactly like that, but the thrill that passed through my body as I contemplated what I was planning to do was something I had never experienced before.

I looked up at him. His eyes were closed… I’d swear he was holding his breath, as well, while he waited to see what might happen next. I squeezed his shaft and moved closer, breathing in his scent and realizing, with a sudden start, that no matter how much my conscious mind continued to question my actions, every instinct in my body was crying out to taste him. Fear and hunger. It’s a potent combination and my only conflict was, which would win out in the end?

My tongue flicked tentatively out and whipped quickly across the head; he gasped aloud and I paused. The world did not end; I was not violently sick (both thoughts had rushed through my mind). I licked again, slower this time, coiling my tongue around the alien fruit that I held so tightly in one hand. Around and around, in ever wider patterns, accustoming myself to his thick, salty flavor, preparing myself for what I knew should come next.

I was perfectly aware of what I was preparing to do in theory. My girlfriends and I used to laugh all the time about how (once we got past the “if”) we would go about it. But there’s a big difference between talking about it, and actually doing it, between the idea of sliding a hot cock into your mouth, and the reality of the hard flesh passing deep between your lips, of your jaw stretching wide to accommodate its thickness (whoever knew that a cock could feel so huge?), and between wanting to “suck him off” and even being able to suck. As I lowered my mouth over him, felt my jaw screaming stop, and my breath cutting short, a single, awful thought hit me around the head.

I didn’t have a clue what I was meant to do next

Friday, April 2, 2010

Speaking As A Man

"Just out of curiosity," a friend asked recently, "have you ever tried writing anything from the guy's point of view?" In fact I have, a long time ago in a notebook that I'd filed away years back, although I'm not sure that this is what he was hoping for. Comments welcome!!!

If I really put my mind to it, I’d say that Mark had been my best friend my entire life. We grew up just a couple of houses from one another, attended the same schools until it was time to leave for college, and had spent most of our vacation time together since then. Even after he left home to take an apartment closer to college, in Rhode Island, we saw one another as often as we could, and this latest visit – a few days before the spring semester began – was just one more in a long line of the things.

We had nothing planned; we’d drink, we’d chase girls, we’d catch a movie or two, and the only thing that was at all different was, the guy he shared the apartment with, Tom, would be in town at the same time as me, which meant I wouldn’t be sleeping where I normally did. But no matter. Mark had the biggest of the two bedrooms, with a couch and a camp bed for me to choose from – although, as we settled down for the night, I found myself wondering whether the floor wouldn’t have been more comfortable than either.

“Having trouble over there, Pete?” Mark’s voice cut through my latest impatient sigh, as I tried to squeeze my six-foot frame into a five-foot space.

“If I could just get my legs comfortable, I’d be okay,” I murmured, and he laughed. “You can always hop in with me. I promise I won’t snore.”

“Okay.” I couldn’t count the number of nights that he and I had shared a bed in the past, and wasn’t certain why we were so adamant that tonight would not be another one. Sleepovers at one another’s homes while we were growing up, saving money on motel rooms when we went out to Colorado for a week of skiing… I’d probably spent more nights asleep alongside Mark than I had ever spent with a woman, and not given the matter another thought.

“Thanks.” He flicked on his bedside lamp as I maneuvered myself off the camp bed and into the queen sized that he was nestled up in, and if I noticed that he was naked as I pulled back the single sheet that covered him, it didn’t register. Again, why would it? You spent as much time together as we had, and you’re certain to see one another’s todger at some point.

We talked for a while, till I felt myself drifting; said goodnight and I was away…. Away, that is, until I found myself awake again, to feel his body nestled tight against mine. Tight and, although I knew from his breathing that he was fast asleep, insistent. I can safely say I had never previously been awakened by the weight of a hot, hard cock pressing against the small of my back. But I could certainly feel one now and, as I lay there in the silence, I could feel my own prick stirring as well.

What the fuck? I’m not gay. Not even mildly bi. In fact, I’ve never even given that side of life a second thought, and I’m damned certain Mark hasn’t, either. He’d have mentioned it if he had, because I know there is nothing that we haven’t shared at some point in the past. Including every last dirty detail of our sex lives. And, if I’d thought about it, I’d have figured that his hard-on was just an involuntary reflex, his dick sensing the warmth of another body in the bed, and simply trying its luck.

But I wasn’t thinking about it. Or rather, I was, but not in any way that I would ever have dreamed of doing. My own cock was rock hard now, reacting exclusively, and exquisitely, to the feel of his against the bare flesh of my back. I could feel my boxers tenting around it, and thought about slipping out of bed, running to the bathroom and jerking myself off. Moving, though, would disturb Mark, and for some reason that was one thing I didn’t want to do.

I adjusted my position a little, rolling until I was half on my back, and his cock rolled with me, resting on my hip. There was, what… six inches of space between my cock and his. I rolled again, flat on my back now, with one hand pressing down on my shaft, angling it towards where his cock head now lay. So close!

I was holding my breath now, fearful that the slightest sound might disturb him, cause him to roll over and away from me. But feigning sleep as well, so if he did wake up and discover how we lay, he wouldn’t know I’d had anything to do with it. Just like he wouldn’t know if my hand slipped away from my throbbing cock, and gently touched his.

At twenty-one years of age, I knew exactly what my cock felt like, and - assuming I'd even given the matter a moment's thought, which I hadn't - I guess I just assumed that every other guy’s would feel the same. Right? Wrong. The moment my fingers brushed his… and that’s all they did, they brushed it… it was as though I’d stuck my hand inside an electrical socket. The heat was unbelievable, the feel of the flesh was astonishing. And when I raised my hand to my face and sniffed, the faintest aroma almost caused my heart to burst.

How long did I lay there, touching his cock and then breathing it in? Two minutes? Five? Twenty-five? I don’t know, but every time I did, I moved down the bed a little, curling up into what could have been called a fetal position, but which had just one thought in mind. To bring my face closer to that magnificent cock. And suddenly Mark moved as well, stretching in his sleep, as though he were trying to hoist himself up the bed – and now his erection was no further from my face than it had been from my cock a while before. I didn’t even need to use my fingers anymore. I could smell him without moving, tart and taunting, an odor unlike any I had ever smelled before, and more alluring than any as well.

More minutes passed, as I inched down and he inched up; it could almost have been a ballet if he wasn’t so obviously sound asleep, and I wondered what he’d say now, if he woke up to find my face just inches from his helmet, and stretching my tongue out as far as it could go, in the hope of tasting the aroma that now obsessed me. The sheet was bunched up somewhere below my armpit and his balls, and the streetlight that shone in through the uncurtained window was just enough to illuminate the shadow of his shaft. I lowered my head a little further.

At the back of my mind, a tiny voice suddenly spoke. You’re trying to lick your best friend’s cock.

Wrong. I’m not trying. It was just the tip of my tongue that made contact, but his flavor flooded me, incinerating my taste buds with delight and desire. I withdrew it for a moment, to try and savor the flavor some more, but it was gone in an instant and I knew I needed more.

I tried to picture his cock in my mind. Like I said, I’d seen it a thousand times in the past, and once or twice – first thing in the morning, on his way for a piss – I’d seen his erection as well. Back then, though, it was just a biological function, a bit of his body that I had no interest in. I hadn’t mapped the veins or studied the ridges, hadn’t paid any attention to the thickness or the length, hadn’t gazed longingly at the meaty helmet… it would be meaty, I knew that, thick and full, soft behind its iron-hard strength… and I cursed the street light for not being brighter.

How far could I go? My tongue was on him again, and this time I held it there for as long as I dared. I let it swish over his helmet, felt the faint ridge of the eye in the tip, and let my tongue probe the entrance. Moisture met me. Pre-cum. It tasted even better than the flesh, and now a new thought obsessed me. I wanted him to cum. I wanted him to cum in my mouth. And I didn’t care whether he woke up or not.

My hand grasped his shaft, held it upright, as I rearranged my legs beneath me, and moved to kneel alongside him. I glanced up at him one more time. I didn’t know what this would do to our friendship… everything else I’d done, I could have still feigned sleep. But this? I lowered my head. It wasn’t too late to stop. It wasn’t too late for me to turn over and try to go to sleep, or get up and make do with the couch once again. Or even the camp bed.

And then a hand on the back of my head forced me down, at the very same moment as my mouth stretched around him, and now I knew that Mark had been awake this whole time, as desperate to feel my mouth on his cock as I was to taste his cock in my mouth.

No words passed between us, no sound more than a deep sigh of pleasure as my jaw relaxed and I drew him in, and the barely audible squeak of the bed frame as my head bobbed up and down, his cock slipping in and out of my salvia-flooded mouth; or a groan as I released him and allowed my tongue to do the walking, bathing his shaft in sensation and spit. I nuzzled down to his balls and sucked on them tentatively – he groaned again, and I drew one testicle into my mouth, sucking harder and then releasing it to return to the main attraction.

I broke. “Turn the light on,” I whispered, and Mark obeyed. And now I could see him, fat and firm, a lighter pink than the rest of his body, but proudly veined and surmounted by a thick purple helmet… as meaty as I’d hoped… that begged me to take it back into my mouth. “This is fucking amazing” – I didn’t intend to speak aloud, but I did, and Mark agreed. “You are fucking amazing,” he replied, and the hand that had been on my back was suddenly slipping down towards my ass, then between my legs to cup my balls, and then on to grasp my shaft.

He was jerking me and that was all I could stand. I needed all my concentration for this, for the wonderful cock that was back in my mouth, and now I was fucking him as hard as my head could bob, praying for him to cum before my neck muscles tired… and my prayers were answered with a lurch and a jerk that I needed all of my wits to withstand. And then he was flooding me, filling my mouth and leaking out around the thickness that I so resolutely clung onto, sucking as he spurted, fighting back the urge to cough or breathe, just drinking him in and swallowing as he twitched and twisted in my grip, and still sucking as he softened and I could take even more inside. Until my chin was on his abdomen and my nose was in his balls, and he was gasping and laughing and still jerking me off… jerking me till I came, and my jet soaked his hand – a hand that he slowly raised to his own lips and licked, before pulling me around till my cock was in his face, and then sucking me to satisfied softness as well.

We slept well that night and late into the following day. Neither of us mentioned what had happened that night and, all these years on, we still haven’t spoken about it. But occasionally, when we’ve had a few drinks, and the rest of the company… usually our wives, sometimes our kids, too… have gone to bed or elsewhere, Mark will laugh and remind me that he still owes me a favor. And one day, he insists, he’ll deliver.

My cock is waiting.


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An Evening’s Tale... a tale of bawdiness from the reign of Good Queen Bess. History refers to her as the Virgin Queen. But history only talks about one of her holes. She had another that was always full!

Three Nuns and a Motorcycle... two young lovers, three passing sisters, and an act of penance that the Archbishop would certainly not approve of.

Three Guys Walk Into a Bar... and one walks out with the girl of his dreams. A weekend in the mountains has never sounded so delicious.

Revenge... there's a certain type of frat boy who will never take no for an answer. But does he always get what he expected? Butch gets a blowjob he'll remember forever.

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Thursday, April 1, 2010

Sucking On Her Cock

It was my first ever solo trip to “the big city” – a girlfriend and I took the bus to Dallas for a museum opening, booked a downtown hotel on Elm Street and had three days (and nights) in which to live life without a single parent to frown at us. So I was pretty pissed when Alice, my friend, suddenly announced she’d made arrangements to meet up with a boy she knew on our first night in the city, meaning that I was going to be on my own for the evening.

I wandered down to the hotel bar and looked around. Businessmen, hookers, other guests – what else did I expect to find? But I ordered a drink and a salad and took a seat by the window, wondering what a lone woman in a strange city was supposed to do when she didn’t know a soul.

It’s a long story – I’ll shorten it. Lisa was also on her own, also in a strange city, also staying at the hotel. We met when she walked in about ten minutes after I arrived to find every table had now been taken and her choice of dining partners was limited either to a few lonely-looking salesman types, a couple with a rambunctious baby, or me. “Do you mind if I join you?” I shook my head. “Please….”

She was stunning. Taller than me, with reddish hair that cascaded to her shoulders, perfect features, perfect figure. Her top was tight enough to show off the swell of her breasts, her pants framed legs that went on forever. I wanted her more than I had ever wanted any other woman.

We talked, we laughed, we got on well. We took a walk through downtown, we stopped at a liquor store and picked up some wine, and then back at the hotel, we agreed to take our party up to her room… Alice had said she’d be back before midnight… and with my heart in my mouth, I kissed Lisa for the first time as we sat dialing channels on the hotel TV. Neither of us had said, or even hinted, at anything in that direction, but the wine we’d sunk over dinner was already swimming around my head and it just seemed the right thing to do.

Lisa kissed me back; the remote control was forgotten and her hands were on my breasts, first through my blouse and then in between the buttons. She moved swiftly but gently – my attempts to caress her felt clumsy by comparison, and she knew it. “Lay still,” she whispered. “Let me….”

I obeyed. Off came my blouse and the skimpy bra I’d been wearing, and her mouth was playing magically across my flesh, licking my nipples until I thought they would burst, and then sucking them hard, till my back arched and my pussy screamed for a taste of the same treatment. She knew it, too, and a hand sank between my legs, gently stroking me through my sodden panties, until suddenly she had whipped them off and two fingers slipped effortlessly inside me.

Lisa’s mouth was on my abdomen, my tummy, my waist. She was taking her time, and every minute stretched out into hours of exquisite tease and tension, until at last her face was between my legs, breathing me in and purring as I bucked my hips towards her, crying out with impatience and lust, and reaching out too, to touch her where she was touching me, to feel her and taste her and drink her in…. She moved away quickly, but I moved even faster.

My hand clasped her pussy – and something else. A strap-on. She was wearing a strap-on. My mind jolted for a moment, wondering when she’d put it on. Or had she been wearing it all evening? And did it even matter? My right hand held her face to my cunt, my left hand felt her toy’s length and thickness, and wrestled with her pants to free it from its cage. She was still struggling to get away, but with less and less conviction as her buttons finally parted and I pulled her towards my mouth, breathed in and… it wasn’t a strap-on. It was a cock, a long, hard, beautiful and very real cock. As real as the bare breasts that she’d revealed when she undressed me, and which she’d let me suck on just a few moments earlier, as real as the orgasm that was building up inside me. I pulled her into my mouth and sucked.

I gripped her length, guess-timating how much of it I could comfortably fit in as she started to move, and now she was fucking my face, the thick meaty helmet thrusting inside me, her movements matching my own as I moved closer and closer to my climax – and then I released hershaft and slapped both hands to her ass, pushing her deep inside my mouth as my entire body shook to my final explosion, and she came as well, a flood of cum that poured down my throat, so hard and fast that I barely even felt it, but so thick that I tasted it backing up in my mouth, for me to swallow more luxuriously as her pounding slowed down and our bodies calmed.

And afterwards… Lisa tried to explain, but I hushed her. I didn’t care. Later, I wished I had asked more questions; later still, once the Internet began making stars of so-called she-males, I wondered how her life has panned out since our frenzied encounter that night ten years ago. I still do, but one thing is for sure. In my mind, she is still one of the most beautiful women I have ever met. And she owned one of the most beautiful cocks.

My Favorite Face-off

Sometimes, you don't need words at all... just watch.

Jenny's Hall of Fame (continued)

Come on gentlemen, don't be shy...
Show us pics to make us sigh
Send me pics to make me wet
And this is one of the best dicks yet

Thank you Jon!