A wonderful jacket photo promises so much - and so does the subtitle: "spells, rituals and recipes for a healthier love life." But how healthy would you be after devouring, for example, chicken livers and eggs? Pork chops Valaria (take two large thick pork chops)? Or Eggnog Erotica... four eggs, a pint of heavy cream, bourbon and cognac.... Happy, yes, but primed for anything more energetic than an evening glued to the couch? Hmmm.
Yes, it's a witchy recipe book, courtesy of a pair of New York based witches writing in 1971. And the food looks good. Interspersed with the Fanny Farming, however, are sundry charms, spells and rituals for everything from "turning a quickie into a longie" to getting rid of a Freddie. (Fans of My Fair Lady will understand.)
Or try this one, from the chapter "Food & Charms for Carnal Calisthenics." Take a hot shower, stand in a hot room until you've worked up a sweat, and then cover yourself in flour. When it dries,scrape it off and use it to make cakes. Serve them to your lover and make sure he eats every crumb. "This will bring you everlasting luck and happiness." Yum yum.
One further element of this particular charm fascinated me. Back in my schooldays, a fellow pupil fancied himself (very convincingly) as a Black Magician, and delighted in scaring the younger kids with his Evil Eye and a wealth of charms and spells he'd picked up who-knows-where, a five letter, five word chant that could conjure up the greatest demons of all. You probably know it as the Sator square, a Latin palindrome that may be Mithraic, might be early Christian, and was later used by the Pennsylvania Dutch as a charm to protect cattle.
SATOR AREPO TENET OPERA ROTAS
Abragail and Valaria include this same charm in the above piece of spellwork, to be written on a piece of paper before the cakes are baked. Now all I want is for somebody to come forward who has actually tried this.
TOP FLOOR… GARDEN FURNISHINGS, SPORTING EQUIPMENT I saw her when I stepped out through the elevator doors She stood there looking radiant, just like Drew Barrymore Really hot and sexy in a downhome sort of way The girl next door you wish would come for something more than play I couldn’t help my staring as she glided down the aisle I wondered what it might take to turn on her brightest smile I wondered what she looks like when she’s really having fun? I wondered what she looks like when she’s about to come
FOURTH FLOOR – KITCHEN WARE, BATHROOM ACCESSORIES I saw her look at toasters, and idly scan the pots I paused to take my jacket off, I’ve never felt so hot I felt confused; I didn’t ever act like this round chicks I tried it out at college, but I’ve always preferred pricks But I felt my puss get moister every time she looked my way My panties growing damper as I wondered what I’d say I wondered if she’d ever guess she was having this effect? I wondered what she tasted like when she was soaking wet?
THIRD FLOOR – BEDDING AND BEDROOM FURNITURE I saw her look at mattresses; I felt like I should shout “Hey wait for me!”; the two of us could give it some work out! The lighting in this display room illuminates her splendor Her backlit dress was transluscent, her legs looked long and slender I wondered what they’d feel like, pressed against my crack I wondered what they’d feel like, wrapped around my back I wondered what they’d taste like as I licked up from her feet I longed to feel her silky thighs pressed against my cheeks
SECOND FLOOR – LADIES KNITWEAR AND FASHION I saw her as the escalator swept me to the bottom She was standing by a looking glass, trying a hot top on I wanted to rush over, “you look so great in it!” I watched her as she straightened it; my God, she has great tits I wondered what they’d feel like cradled in my palms Her nipples firm against my flesh, as she writhed in my arms I’d shower her with kisses as she whispered “now you’re mine” And pushed her crotch against me and began to slowly grind
FIRST FLOOR – PERFUMERY AND ACCESSORIES I saw her in the purses aisle, where there isn’t that much room I felt my legs grow weaker as I breathed in her perfume I could barely speak; “excuse me,” I whispered as I passed My heart was pounding loudly as my hand brushed her firm ass I didn’t think she’d notice as I paused and briefly lingered Let my pores breathe in her beauty through my gently questing fingers Then she turned around to look at me as she felt me touch her coat She turned around and smiled at me as they softly, softly stroked
BASEMENT LEVEL – LADIES LINGERIE I saw her in the changing room with a pile of bras and panties She beckoned me, said “do you think that this pair are too scanty?” I went to speak and then she lunged, a hard kiss on the lips Pulled me inside the changing room, her hands tight on my hips Her tongue devoured my mouth, while her hand explored my breasts Then she dropped down to her knees and she sucked out all my breath My panties down in one swift move, her tongue upon my clit I couldn’t last! I came so fast! And she lapped up all of it
I’m on my back, I lick her crack – oh God, I see a camera! She laughed “it’s just security, watching while I bang ya “It’s the day after Thanksgiving, let’s give the boys a treat” I smiled and waved up at the lens, then began to gently eat This goddess of the shopping mall, this Queen of Sears and Penny’s This screaming, squirting Princess who’s now gasping my name! “Jenny!” Her cries subside, she kisses me, then smiles and softly says “I love the sales, let’s meet next year? Same time and same place”
I wanted turkey He offered me cock I wanted stuffing He said, “babe, no prob” I want some green beans I got meat, two veg I said “lay the table” He laid me instead - I want sweet potatoes “That’s what I yam” I asked for some cream “Hey, woman! hot damn!” I wanted cranberries He gave me white sauce I begged him “hang on” Then he served second course - “Let me finish this mouthful!” But he just thrust in more I said “let me swallow!” He asked “are you sure?” And out at the table The family clucked While the butler and I So languorously fucked
Yeah, right. Most families spend Thanksgiving slouched around the dining table passing wind. Mine spend it sprawled around a photo album, passing comment, and while I can’t say I’ve ever contributed much to the conversation… I’ve certainly never brought one of my own albums along for inspection… it’s hard not to get sucked into the occasion. Especially when cousin Margie is around, with half your own teenaged years in glowing Kodachrome.
Gary, her husband, tore his eyes away from the television. “Hey, I remember that outfit,” he laughed. And, a little later, as we made our way into the dining room to eat, he sidled up to me again. “I remember what happened to it, as well.”
I smiled. Well, he had a better memory than I did. “Really? It probably ended up in a charity store somewhere.”
“Yeah. And Monica Lewinsky bought it.”
It took me a moment, but… oh. My. God. Suddenly I remembered what had happened to it, too, and the only saving grace, as my face turned cranberry color, was that he and Margie barely knew one another at the time. Whereas he and I had been study hall buddies back in High School, and still occasionally came across one another in town. Literally, as it turned out.
Barely legal, but dressed to impress. I was working my way through my freshman year at college, shut up in a downtown insurance brokers, mindlessly typing my way through the reams of documentation that the most innocent fender-bender spontaneously created, and wishing every day away, not because I had anything to do at night, but because I hated that job with a passion. So when Gary turned up in the office one day, a motorcycle messenger who viewed his job with only marginally more urgency than I viewed mine, it wasn’t exactly a wrench to put my thoughts of premiums and deductibles to one side, and catch up on what we’d been doing since graduation.
Which took all of thirty seconds, so we moved on to more engrossing topics and, by the time my boss came out to see how I was getting on with the Harrison claim, we’d already set up a lunch date for the next day, and a gig for the weekend as well.
It was the gig where it happened. Shit, I don’t even remember the band we were seeing, one of those early Noughties alt rock whiners that would have one singalong hit and then disappear. I do know that we were dancing all evening, though, and I also know – ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back to the beginning of the night.
We met outside the club. It’s not there anymore, the building was razed about five years ago, to make way for another one, all ugly and new. Lunch had gone well, but it was tentative and nervous; maybe it was the crowd and the noise in the bar, but our conversation was hesitant, punctuated with so many “sorry, I didn’t hear you”s that it was almost a relief to go back to work. There wouldn’t be any better opportunities for conversation tonight, of course, but that didn’t seem to matter so much. Different surroundings, different expectations.
And a very different Gary. At school, he stuck to T-shirts and jeans, at work he was encased in his motorcycle leathers. Tonight, he could have stepped out of an MTV video, looking so good that I felt positively dowdy alongside him. But he was the same Gary underneath it all, and as we took up our positions at the front of the dance floor, and the crowd began to push in around us, I realized that I was going to get to know a lot more about Gary’s “underneath” than I’d expected. Stretch-jeans never left much to the imagination when you looked at them. They leave even less when their owner is wedged against your ass.
The band came onstage, the crowd started moving, and Gary, to put it bluntly, started growing. At first I thought it was my imagination; that I was focusing so much on the bulge that was pressing against me that even the slightest motion set my mind in motion. But no, it was definitely bigger, firmer, warmer. And the crowd was so tight around us that he couldn’t have moved away from me if he’d wanted to.
I wondered what was going through his mind? It’s easy to think that once the blood starts its pumping, a guy loses all sense of decorum and shame, and just lets his lust take control. But on a second date with a girl who he’d never even kissed before? Hmmm… well, maybe there was something I could do about that. With a hand on his shoulder to help keep my balance, I stood up on tiptoes, turned my head slightly, and brushed his cheek with my lips.
I was aiming for his mouth, but feigning towards his ear; that way, if he said anything, I could always claim I was trying to whisper something. But, if I shocked him, he didn’t show it; with one hand on my waist (and the other still clutching his beer), he pulled me close again and this time our mouths did meet, as tongues entwined and he was holding me so tight that the next time his bulge moved, there was no doubting what he was thinking. Because it did move, straining against the fabric of his pants. Hell, that couldn’t feel comfortable, could it?
One song ended, and we broke our kiss to applaud. Then I lowered my hands to my side and I touched it. I jumped, he… I don’t know what he did, but the back of my hand was on his cock, and I wondered how big the damned thing was, because it was pressing against my hip as well.
He leaned in and kissed me again, and I almost shifted my position to put my arm around him. Almost. But I didn’t want to move my hand. Well, not that far, anyway. Instead, I bent my wrist just enough that now it was my palm that was against his dick and, if I inched my fingers just enough, I could slip them over his waistband as well. Over and behind. Now all he had to do was take just a tiny step backwards and I’d be there.
Except he didn’t. Maybe he couldn’t. The crowd was jammed around us, after all. My fingers strained against the so-tight fabric, and I felt one fingernail make contact. I wriggled it a little, felt him stirring in response. But I could go no further. There was just one thing for it. I extracted my hand and unbuttoned his pants, squeezed his cock and then raised my fingers to my mouth. His eyes never left my face the whole time.
“Do you want to step outside?” he whispered.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
We went out through the back door that was left open for smokers, and looked around. The alley led a few hundred yards in both directions… one way led to the street, the other to the parking lot of an apartment block. I took his hand and dragged him that way, paused as we reached a long row of skips, and then pushed him against the wall. I didn’t know how busy this stretch of emptiness might be at night, and I didn’t really want to find out. But I had a burning need that stretched from my pussy to my tonsils, and one of them was going to get drenched.
I knelt and tugged; his pants were still open and his hard cock slipped out without a thought. I swallowed it, and kept on swallowing, his helmet lodged in the back of my throat and every gulp I gave sent fresh shockwaves through his body… I know, because I could feel him twitch, hear him gasp.
I started to move, bobbing my head back and forth down his shaft; pausing occasionally to lick, nip and breathe. And then back to the main course, sucking him down, sucking him off, and sucking so much come out of his gorgeous cock that I never imagined there could be anything left by the time I let him fall from my lips.
But there was, one last blast, and you can guess where it went. Splash down the front of my favorite outfit… the one that I’d remember at a Thanksgiving Party years later. And the one that Gary remembered as well.
Flower Play is alternately one of the most exquisitely beautiful, and – under certain circumstances – exquisitely painful of all the traditional BDSM experiences.
For many people, its derivation lies in art – the imagery of the naked body on a bed of roses, tiny streaks of blood on the flesh pinpointing the entry and scratching of the thorns… of course, there is also a religious/sacriligeous aspect to this, in the replication of Christ’s Crown of Thorns, and that in turn has inspired a number of impressive collars and cuffs. A slave who will wear such a collar, knowing that even the slightest movement will cause his or her flesh to be torn by the thorns, is truly a dedicated creature.
In other play, too, flowers represent a blending of sexuality and nature that it is impossible to replicate elsewhere. The bed of roses is a delightful torture, every tiny thorn a fresh reminder of your partner’s love; and the firmer the bed, the greater the stimulation. Wrapped in lengthy clippings from a climbing rose plant, and then secured to a table will test even the most stoic submissive's will.
LIkewise the use of a length of bramble… blackberry, for example… or a stinging nettle, utilized as a lash in the usual style but then allowed to rest, or rub against the flaggellant’s flesh. This is not only deliciously painful, but also (in the latter instance) allows for a lingering sensation that will remind the victim of the experience for days to come. One word of caution, however. Do not use Poison Ivy, or any other oil-based irritant, unless you both want to wind up with a serious case of the itchies.
Bondage using some of the stronger vines found in forests and unkempt gardens is also a popular theme, and as one browses through any wooded area, one will certainly discover other plants, herbs and growths whose erotic potential suddenly seems astonishing.
For the most lastingly memorable experience, however, there is nothing that surpasses the simple cactus, a truly succulent succulent that, in the right hands and with the right amount of imagination, can be utilized as a substitute for almost any conventional sex toy you can think of – including an anal or vaginal dildo. Varying lengths and thicknesses rival any "store bought" dildo, while the degrees of sensation that a skilled practitioner can readily be compared to having a Pain Threshold setting on your favorite cinrator.
The sensations during use are as intense as they are intolerable; an orgasm drawn through the manipulation of the tiny thorns is one that will never be forgotten. But, best of all, you will never again need to worry about how your slave is occupying its time following an afternoon with a cactus. It can take hours to remove all those tiny thorns from the skin. (Handy hint - duct tape is often the best solution).
Another picture that I've published before but, judging from how many downloads it's had (over 100), there's no harm in posting it again, with a few ruminations to keep it company.
Facials are interesting. They've been a staple of the porn industry for a couple of decades now, although it's only been since the arrival of the Internet, and its own ovsession with naming ansolutely every sexual act imaginable, that they have become a widespread end in themselves. Before that, they were simply a/the consequence of other forms of love making, and maybe that was better.
Because naming something doesn't just make it "tangible," it also allows people to take a stand pro or con, and it is astonishing, reading through other blogs and writings, how many women (and occasionally men) will speak out against receiving, or administering, a "facial" - as though it were one sexual deviation too far, or something even worse than that.
Personally - well, the fact that I've now published this picture twice in the space of a couple of months should let you know my feelings on the subject. So today's competition is... what do you think the girl in the photo's feelings are?
The smile gives a lot away, I think, and the fact that if you look at the picture closely enough, you can almost see her lips about to part, to draw in what she has alreadt started to taste. But what would you say if you were her? Or if you were with her?
And Everynight Erotica's interview with Chrissie, with a little mention of me in there too!
QUESTION 3. Do you have a favourite story within the anthology?
That’s a tricky one – they’re all favorites in a way, otherwise I wouldn’t have included them. But the ones I direct people to first are the poems; we have two poets included in the book, Jenny Swallows and BL Morticia, and they both have very different approaches to verse… in fact, if Jenny reads this, she’ll kill me for even calling her a poet. But between them, they remind us of the sheer power of the simplest words and sentiments, and just how important they are in this field.
Which gives us all another excuse to look at that amazing cover. OMG I'm hungry!
First, can I just say that I am thrilled beyond words by the inclusion of Chrissie Bentley's story "Pictures Of Lilly" in the newly published Women's Best Erotica 2011, edited by Violet Blue and including the series' usual round-up of the finest female erotica writers around...
So thrilled that I don't even have the words to talk about it, so I pulled this from her website instead.
"The story of four teenaged girls who find their way, week after week, into the confines of a rather "exclusive" movie house, "Pictures Of Lilly" is also a slice of personal autobiography about that moment when fantasy and longing is suddenly confronted with the reality of a sex act that I'd been dreaming about since I first heard about it. Shot through with my love for what I believe remains the greatest porn film ever made, the immortal Sexorcist Devils.
"Eighteen stories pack this book to bursting, eighteen authors with some amazing tales to tell. You can buy your copy from all the usual places... Amazon among them, of course... and... did I mention that I'm thrilled beyond words?"
Yes you did, Chrissie. And so am I. Congratulations!
I couldn't resist this... NOT because I find it an especially hot picture, nor because I'm particularly attracted to either of the people in it. What I love about this picture is...
Look at the way he's holding her cock.
Thumb and forefinger... neither squeezing nor caressing, barely even touching it. What is going through his mind? Eeek, will it bite?
It's so cute! And why? Because all of us... us girls, anyway, I won't presume to speak for the boys... have been there. Our first touch of cock, that first nervous, giggling, tentative tap... neither squeezing nor caressing, barely even touching it. Eeek, will it bite?
No it won't. But if you stroke it enough, it will spit.
The Fifth of November. I can't believe I spent twenty-odd years thinking of it as Just Another Day, when across the ocean, it's the excuse for all manner of incendiary wildness - think July 4, Thanksgiving and Columbus Day all rolled into one, with bonfires instead of marching bands, baked potato instead of turkey, and a cellarful of conspirators instead of a boatload of very lost explorers.
But then I watched V For Vendetta - my choice for the best movie of the past however-many years, and one that I now religously worship once a year, on... the Fifth of November.
So Happy Guy Fawkes Day to all my UK readers, and to the rest of the world... you don't know what you're missing.
Another day, another dollar... but I'm working my ass off for the things today, as half the staff seem to think that the first Thursday in November has been proclaimed a federal holiday and none of them need show up.
So... regrets. Out of my office, away from my computer... out on the front desk and "yes, I'm sure we have something by (name the best selling author) in stock - maybe you should go and look in the fiction category instead of hanging around here giving me a hard time because you're too lazy to walk five feet to that section." People - can't live with them, can't live without them being a pain in the ass.
Standing out on the frontline of the sticky end of literature has given me some time to think, and to realize that the last week or so has given me some of the most amazing emotional experiences of my entire on-line life. And also the opportunity to look back on some of those experiences' predecessors and to finally understand, regardless of the means by which we relate to another person, there is nothing in the world as important as friendship.
And if that friendship happens to include a bucketful of orgasms... every night of the week... then it not only transcends the medium, it transcends mere physicality as well.
Which isn't something I ever thought I'd sit down and say about a bunch of pixels, wires and an internet connection, topped off by a voice server that transforms conversation into a series of morse code messages. Seems like there really is a first time for everything.
"Yes, I'm sure we have something by (name the best selling author) in stock - allow me to stop doing whatever it is I need to get done, and I will graciously accompany you on the long and perilous journey to the relevant bookshelf."
He'd been on at me for weeks to let him take me dancing. He asked me himself, he passed messages via my friends, he even left a note on my locker between classes, all of them promising me the sort of good time that few girls could ever resist - fine music, pricey drinks and the opportunity to wear the sort of outfit that the average night out in town never allows. So finally I said yes. I admire persistence - especially when it's cute.
He picked me up on his parents' car - that was a good start; his own was a rattling death trap. And he cleaned up nicely as well. His name... oh shit, have I really forgotten his name? Brad, I think. Or Brent. Let's call him Brent. He was tall, buff, muscled without being over-done. I'd watched him at football practise; he was fast, he moved well... oh, and he had the brightest eyes I'd ever seen.
Where was he taking me? A new club that had just opened in town. Except we got there and it hadn't quite opened.. he'd got his calendar muddled; we were seven days early. Never mind. There's a place on the edge of the city limits, his elder sister and her boyfriend went there... three years ago. It was closed now. Sheee-it. Okay, how about...
"But that's practically in Abilene!"
"That's okay, it won't take long." We got onto the highway and headed south... and that place was closed as well, for redecoration.
Brent (or was it Brad? This is awful) got out of the car. I thought he was going to put a brick through the darkened club window, he looked so mad. And then I realized he wasn't mad, he was sad. He'd been looking forward to this for who knows how long, first plucking up the nerve to ask, then having to deal with my evasions... for the first (and, possibly, only) occasion in my long career as a Teenaged Tease, I regretted not having simply said yes when he asked me the first time.
I got out of the car and walked around to where he was standing, still staring at the closed venue; put an arm around his waist and wondered what to say. "Oh well, at least we're together" sounded weak, but it really was the best I could manage, and when he turned to face me... and kiss me of course... I had to press my body tight up against his and stand on tiptoe simply to reach his lips.
Which is when I felt... it. The hardness between his legs that seemed to go on forever. Other guys, there was a beginning, there was an end and there was awarmth. Brent had a blazing hot rod that ran halfway up his torso, and as I pressed harder against him, an answering twitch sent shivers through my whole body.
I looked around. The parking lot was deserted; so was the side road we'd turned off. A few moving lights in the distance marked out the highway but the way this place was situated, we'd see anyone coming towards us long before they saw us.
We kissed and my hand dipped, stroking his cock through his t-shirt and jeans, then unbuckling his belt and releasing him, to grasp him with the savage enthusiasm of a girl who thinks she has more experience and expertise than she has; while he responded with the unself-conscious moans of a guy who's simply grateful to have someone touch his cock to begin with.
He came fast... too fast... and I didn't know what to do so I shook my hand to flick the cum off onto the gound, then wiped the rest on his T-shirt, while he panted grateful platitudes in my ear. Then we kissed some more, got back into the car and he dropped me off at home before midnight. And it was only once I was tucked up in bed, running over the events of the evening in my mind, that I cursed the maddened excitement that consumed me the moment I felt that magnificent cock in my hand.
Why didn't I slow down, why didn't I look at it? And why didn't I fall to my knees on that dusty parking lot concrete, and pop him into my mouth, to suck that cum right out of his balls instead of smearing it over half his outfit?
I know I thought of it, as my hand pulled his flesh; imagined how good it would feel, that length in my throat. And when he came and it dripped from my fingers, the flash of imagination, licking them clean with my tongue. But I didn't because... well I didn't.
And although I would, a few days later, get the chance to do it properly... I didn't on that occasion either because... because it felt like he was expecting it; because the first time we dated, he wanted me, but the next time he asked, he wanted the hand that had jerked him off in the dark. I wanted the spontaneity, the lust, the fury of discovery and delight that I should have grabbed the first time we were together, not the constant wheedling from a bratty jock, reminding me "but baby, you did it before...."
I tolerated his hand pulling mine to his bulge three times before I finally grabbed my purse and stomped out of the bar. Afterwards, I heard he promptly went down to the dancefloor, pulled a girl twice my size and disappeared into the night without a second thought. I went home and watched PBS. So I guess we were both happy....
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.