Tuesday, May 31, 2011

French Kissing

He was waiting, as we’d arranged, by the florist, clutching a bouquet of flowers that he handed to me with what I can only describe as a Gallic flourish. At least, I hope they were intended for me. A blind date is one thing; a blind date with someone who doesn’t even speak your language, and who isn’t a date either, is something else. But Genevieve had sent me a couple of photos, and I assumed he’d seen some of me as well, and as she couldn’t make it to meet me from the ferry, her dad was the next best contender.

France. For a girl who’d never even visited Paris, Texas (350 miles), let alone Paris, France (5,000 miles), this was a serious adventure, even if it did turn out to be simply an extension of a business trip to London. And I wasn’t going to Paris, either; a ferry over the English Channel dropped me in Le Havre, and Genevieve’s dad would see to the rest. The rest being, taking my luggage in one hand and my arm in the other and, while I clutched my flowers and smiled like an idiot, ushering me out to the parking lot. While keeping up a non-stop barrage of what may have been questions about my health and journey, but could as easily have been the soundtrack to an unsubtitled European porn movie.

I know it’s a clich√©, but it happens to be true. There is something so fucking hot about a cute guy speaking French to you, especially when you don’t have a clue what he’s saying. My grasp of the language is the written word only, and even then I need a dictionary, phrase book and thank-god-for-Google-Translate to get me past more than a basic “bonjour.” Which was never an issue with Genevieve, whose English is better than most Americans I know, and whose e-mails and IMs were what brought me this far. We’d been internet friends for so long that I felt we were already the best friends in the world, so when this trip came up and I looked at the map… mon dieu! Le Havre is about the same distance from London as my local Borders is from my house. And I make that journey every month.

It was good to be back on the correct side of the road. I’d spent a week in England alternating between pedestrian roadkill and panicking passenger, but the moment I climbed into Didier’s jeep, I felt … well, not quite at home, because the road signs, the buildings, the everything was alien. But at least I wasn’t covering my eyes every time we took a corner.

At least I’m not doing that! Didier kept up his monologue of whatever-he-was-saying, and I nodded and giggled as he chattered away because he knew perfectly well that I was not comprehending a word of it. And I didn’t care because … sacre bleu! Genevieve had told me her dad was a looker and yes, his photos were kinda hot too. But in the flesh? Eeeek! He was positively edible. Dark hair that was just considering a distinguished gray tint; piercing dark eyes that I’d swear I could still feel despite the shades that he put on in the car. A white shirt open just enough to look good, and I swear, a pair of shorts that could have been cut specifically for him.

Tanned skin, strong legs, bare arms, and not too much body hair. A voice that made me think of chocolate √©clairs, a laugh that would melt the polar ice caps, and a touch… I read somewhere that the French are a very tactile race, that they will embrace you at a moment’s notice, and lay hands on your arm with every other sentence. And I’d wondered how I’d react to that.

With laughter! Because the laughter covered the hunger that swept through me every time his fingers traced a line on my skin and I swear, if we’d not been haring down the N182 in an open top vehicle with the whole world looking in… and then I had to laugh even louder because I was going to be staying in this man’s house for four days, and if ten minutes in his company left me melting into my car seat, what would I be like after a couple of days?

Well, now I know.

It was late afternoon of my last day in France. Genevieve, who was everything I’d ever hoped a friend could be, had taken the whole week off work, but was called in last minute to help chair a meeting. So Didier decided to keep me entertained. Which could have gone in any one of a thousand directions, but somehow wound up at the end of the garden, baking under a summer sky while we threw the names of our favorite authors at one other and laughed at the ensuing mispronunciations. And laughter leads to tickling, and tickling leads to wrestling, and suddenly I was pinned beneath the most handsome man I’d been this close to in way too long, while birdsong and bug buzzes melted into the fragrance of the garden, and his own sweat sheened sweetness made me dizzy with joy…

… then he kissed me, and it was my turn to melt, folding myself into an embrace that had swung from rough-house to romance in less time than it takes to type the words, and the wine we’d been drinking tasted better on his tongue than it ever could in the bottle. And now he was speaking words that I understood, slow whispered murmurs that made my heart pound, and his body against me was translating them for me…

I knew that the next move had to be mine. He was too considerate, too polite – and maybe, too romantic – to push any further. So I did the pushing for him; pushing him onto his back, pushing his shorts down over his hips, and then pulling him into my mouth. All of him.

He tasted… he tasted of Didier. All of the sensations I’d felt when we first met; all of the laughter and cool, gentle gallantry that had kept my heart pounding all the time I’d been here; all the imaginings that I’d pushed away at night, and the giggled “he likes you” that Genevieve dropped; all of those things leading to this, his cock in my mouth and my mouth on his cock, my tongue tracing from base to tip with such greed, my teeth on his shaft and the head in my throat… my feast, my fun, my fervor.

I knew he was coming long before he said anything. I could feel it building in the balls that tightened in my hand, in the sudden tensing 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.

My fingers clenched around his buttocks, holding him tighter, drawing him closer, taking him deeper. And, as he called, 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 over, while his seed spurted thick, wet and white across my face.

He laughed and, though his words eluded me, I knew what he meant. “Wow! That was close!”

Yeah, but not close enough. I smeared a hand through the goo and licked it, then smiled and kissed his chest. 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 her throat. And then my eye caught a shadow in the lee of a tree, a shadow that didn’t move fast enough when it ducked out of view.

I raised my head, cum dripping from my chin, and my tongue swooped to clean some from my lips. I smiled, and Genevieve smiled back, shyly at first but with a grin that kept growing, and then a laugh that took me completely by surprise.

“Typical dad. Always making a mess.”

Next time (and I was already sure that there'd be one), I'll make sure he doesn't.

Erotic Memoirs of Ambrose Horne



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 your reading pleasure, The Erotic Memoirs Of Ambrose Horne reveals 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.

There was never any sign of a break-in or, for that matter, a break-out. Lady Batsford’s own love of the culinary arts, and her insistence on cooking many of her own meals, ruled out poison. And, when Horne jokingly suggested that the culprit might be a magpie, or some similarly acquisitive bird, he was astonished to discover that Lady Batsford herself had already conducted her own search for some form of feathered felon.

Going over Lady Batsford’s story in his room after dinner that evening, Horne confessed himself perplexed. Doodling at the bureau, his pen hurriedly sketching out the spurting penises, myriad breasts and bountiful buttocks that were his subconscious mind’s favoured means of relaxation, he knew that the answer lay within his grasp. But there was one piece of the puzzle missing, and the solution to this entire mystery lay in him finding it, wherever it lay.

Crossing the room, Horne rang the bell that connected to the servant’s quarters. Katie had been assigned to his needs for the duration of his stay, and she hurried to answer it.

‘I was wondering,’ he asked as she entered the room. ‘Does your mistress entertain visitors ... shall we say ‘outside’ of her normal social circle?’

Katie giggled. ‘Like a fancy man, or something?’

‘If you want to put it that way, yes.’

‘Well…’ the girl lowered her voice. ‘I shouldn’t really say anything; in fact, we’re not even supposed to know. But the Squire spends an awful lot of time here of an evening, at least three or four visits a week. And we are never to disturb them while they are together.’

‘Where do they hold these assignations?’

‘In the morning room. He arrives around seven and leaves around ten. My mistress says they are discussing private estate business.’

‘But the servants think there’s something else going on?’ Horne ventured.

‘Well, wouldn’t you?’ Katie laughed. ‘He’s married, you know, but the mistress is still a royal beauty, and if you saw the Squire’s wife!’ Her voice trailed away. ‘But please don’t say anything to anyone. If they found out I’d said anything to you, there’d be hell to pay.’

‘I won’t say a word,’ Horne assured her. ‘But tell me, do the thefts coincide with the Squire’s visits?’

‘I really couldn’t say. He’s here so often, and the thefts are so random. Maybe they do ...’

‘Hmmm. And, finally, is he here now?’

She nodded and Horne dismissed her. It was time, he decided for a little snooping. Yet, when he returned to his room later that evening, he had to confess himself no wiser than he had been. Yes, the servants’ suspicions were confirmed; in the 40 minutes that Horne spent crouched in an outside flower bed, squinting through the one set of curtains that had not been drawn tightly, he had been gratified only to discover that his own first impressions of Lady Batsford, a 25-year-old girl trapped in the body of a 50-year-old woman, had not been mistaken.

Local author, Chrissie Bentley, goes back in time across three books of short stories featuring everyone’s favorite erotic detective, Ambrose Horne!

The Erotic Adventures of Ambrose Horne
The Erotic Memoirs of Ambrose Horne
The Erotic Return of Ambrose Horne

With Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes movie going gangbusters on the DVD circuit, there could be no better time to step back in time with another of Victorian England’s greatest detectives – although you will quickly discover that Ambrose Horne had a penchant for somewhat earthier pursuits than Holmes.

The brilliant creation of Philadelphia author Chrissie Bentley, Ambrose Horne is the sleuth that society calls upon to unravel the mysteries that delicacy and discretion dare not discuss with anybody else. Three volumes of his adventures – each containing five full-length stories – include such seemingly unfathomable puzzles as a mysteriously damaged stamp collection (“The Coagulated Conundrum”), a lost book of the Bible (“the Rediscovered Heresy”), a plague of ginger-haired children (“The Midnight Succubus”), and more. But behind those simple descriptions, and the deductive process that solves them, there lurk secrets and situations at which Holmes would have blanched before he even picked up his deerstalker.

Each of the stories is genuinely gripping, littered with both arcane historical observations and fascinating period trivia, and all pose genuine mysteries for the reader to attempt to solve alongside Horne. Where Bentley steps away from the detecting norm is in the sheer eroticism of her storytelling – anybody familiar with her other writings will already be aware of the full XXX impact that she brings to every tale, and Ambrose marches proudly to the same delirious drum.

From the genuinely idiosyncratic manner in which he contemplates the matter at hand, to the distinctly unconventional means by which he concludes every case, Horne’s adventures are exhilarating excursions into a world that is as far removed from the typical view of Victorian England as it is possible to journey. At the same time, however, it is very easy to believe that both Horne and his memoirs really are genuine survivors of an age in which the merest glimpse of a lady’s bare ankle was sufficient to morally bankrupt a passing gentleman, suppressed for so long that society itself had forgotten him. Now he is back and, needless to say, he discusses a lot more than mere ankles.

These three fantastic books are all available at : Xcite Books

Amy Hanson, Wilmington Examiner

Sunday, May 29, 2011

The Erotic Adventures of Ambrose Horne



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 your reading pleasure, 'The Erotic Adventures Of Ambrose Horne' reveals 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.

‘Head shrinkers. Whatever will they think of next?’

Horne had little time for the newly emergent art of psychiatry ... like most learned men of the late 19th century, he believed that there was nothing wrong with a fellow’s mind that a little hard work, a few years in the military and, if all that failed, a padded cell at Bedlam Hospital, could not cure. And how was he so sure? Because his own life’s work was intimately bound up in examining the minds, and deducing the motives, of his fellow man – a life’s work at which, if he said so himself, he excelled.

Twenty-three times he had been called in to solve riddles that the best minds in the land had been unable to crack; and twenty-three times, he had succeeded. The nameplate on his door in London’s fashionable Belgravia read, simply, ‘Ambrose Horne – Detective.’ But his reputation in the corridors of British Law screamed ‘Genius.’

Major Carpenter reminded him of that fact when they met at dinner that evening. ‘You know the British Army really doesn’t like to bring in outsiders,’ he said in-between mouthfuls of piping oxtail soup. ‘But, quite frankly, Horne, we’re at a complete loss. We know our secrets are getting into the wrong hands, and we know the leak is here in this town. But neither our own top brains nor Scotland Yard’s have been able to track it down.’

‘Does anybody else at all know of this investigation?’ Horne asked.

‘Not a soul. In fact, you only got clearance because somebody remembered that you signed the Official Secrets Act back in ‘86.’
Horne nodded. August 1886. Somebody had walked into a Naval laboratory and, apparently, sailed out again in a top-secret prototype submarine. It took the authorities six weeks to admit they didn’t know how it was done, but it took Horne just two days to produce both the thief and the submarine, while a certain Foreign Power gnashed its teeth and wondered where its ill-gotten prize had so mysteriously gone.

‘But surely I’m not the only private detective who’s had that honour?’ Horne asked, genuinely surprised at the Major’s revelation.

‘No, but you are the best ... and you know how to keep your mouth shut. Unlike certain others in your trade.’

Horne nodded. ‘You mean Holmes.’ Sherlock Holmes, the bright light that beamed from Baker Street, was at the peak of his personal renown at that time, and Horne was constantly aware that, in terms of general public recognition, the absurdly-outfitted sleuth was streets ahead of him. And that, Horne contentedly knew, was his downfall – as Major Carpenter was swift to confirm.

‘Of course I mean Holmes. The pompous ass. Yes, yes, he’s brilliant, everybody admits that. But having that preposterous little assistant of his, Watson or whatever his name is, write the cases up for the popular press is nothing short of shameless self-aggrandizement. Mark my words, he’ll never work for this country’s government again ... and I don’t care what Watson writes to the contrary.

‘But you, Horne, you have admirers that even you are not aware of. From the lowest parlour maid ...’ and here, to Horne’s wry amusement, he gestured at Mary, as she hovered at the foot of the table, preparing for the arrival of the main course ‘... to the highest seats in the land. And there is nothing that they would not do for you.’ This time, Horne’s eyes met the girl’s, and he saw her tongue flick lasciviously across her lips. He cleared his throat, and turned his attention back to the Major. ‘And why is that?

Because we know that what you are told will never be heard again.’

Horne lowered his eyes. ‘Well, Major, that might be for the best. Some of my methods are, shall we say, a little unconventional for present day tastes.’

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.


Local author, Chrissie Bentley, goes back in time across three books of short stories featuring everyone’s favorite erotic detective, Ambrose Horne!

The Erotic Adventures of Ambrose Horne
The Erotic Memoirs of Ambrose Horne
The Erotic Return of Ambrose Horne

With Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes movie going gangbusters on the DVD circuit, there could be no better time to step back in time with another of Victorian England’s greatest detectives – although you will quickly discover that Ambrose Horne had a penchant for somewhat earthier pursuits than Holmes.

The brilliant creation of Philadelphia author Chrissie Bentley, Ambrose Horne is the sleuth that society calls upon to unravel the mysteries that delicacy and discretion dare not discuss with anybody else. Three volumes of his adventures – each containing five full-length stories – include such seemingly unfathomable puzzles as a mysteriously damaged stamp collection (“The Coagulated Conundrum”), a lost book of the Bible (“the Rediscovered Heresy”), a plague of ginger-haired children (“The Midnight Succubus”), and more. But behind those simple descriptions, and the deductive process that solves them, there lurk secrets and situations at which Holmes would have blanched before he even picked up his deerstalker.

Each of the stories is genuinely gripping, littered with both arcane historical observations and fascinating period trivia, and all pose genuine mysteries for the reader to attempt to solve alongside Horne. Where Bentley steps away from the detecting norm is in the sheer eroticism of her storytelling – anybody familiar with her other writings will already be aware of the full XXX impact that she brings to every tale, and Ambrose marches proudly to the same delirious drum.

From the genuinely idiosyncratic manner in which he contemplates the matter at hand, to the distinctly unconventional means by which he concludes every case, Horne’s adventures are exhilarating excursions into a world that is as far removed from the typical view of Victorian England as it is possible to journey. At the same time, however, it is very easy to believe that both Horne and his memoirs really are genuine survivors of an age in which the merest glimpse of a lady’s bare ankle was sufficient to morally bankrupt a passing gentleman, suppressed for so long that society itself had forgotten him. Now he is back and, needless to say, he discusses a lot more than mere ankles.

These three fantastic books are all available at : Xcite Books

Amy Hanson, Wilmington Examiner

Friday, May 27, 2011

Three Nuns and a Motorcycle

A lipsmacking collection of short stories and book excerpts, including highlights from all of my novels and novellas, plus previously unpublished adventures for Ambrose Horne and Cousin Tom, and much more.


The Cock-sucking Chronicles
A Christmas Gift
Cousin Tom’s Motorbike
How Many Times is the First Time?
Ambrose Horne & the Strange Case of the Midnight Succubus
An Evening’s Tale
Three Nuns and a Motorcyle
Three Guys walk Into a Bar
A Fast Learner (by Jenny Swallows)
Welcome To Spain

I walked over to the pool table, and I was looking fucking hot. Tits tucked high, shorts cut higher... you know what they used to say about English girls' clothing, when the first American servicemen got there during World War Two? "One Yank and it's off." My ensemble barely needed a gentle tug, and I'll tell you what the best part is? I wasn't
wearing anything underneath. I was 20, I was tight in all the right places, and I didn't need the panty lines to add contours to my ass. Yeah, Bill may think he's God's gift to women, but I know I was the Goddess' gift to men that night, and I was waving my bounty in his face.

I picked up a cue, stroked my fingers down the shaft. "So, Billy boy, fancy having your ass whupped tonight?"

"Yeah, right." I could feel his little ferrety eyes boring into my cleavage, and I braced my back just a little, to give him a better view.

"Come on. One frame, and I'll tell you what. Winner takes all." I raised one leg, put my foot on the edge of the table. "And I mean all," I smiled, and felt all five pairs of eyes staring into my crotch.

"Go on, Bill, you can take her," one of his cronies smirked. "And then you can take her again. Come on, she's offering it to you on a plate."

Bill was stupid, but he wasn't dumb. "Yeah, but I don't trust her. She's up to something."

"You reckon? Or maybe you're just chicken." I picked up a ball from the table, balanced it on my palm, then traced a fingertip lightly across it.

"Chicken? Around you? Fuck off, Witch Bitch. I just don't trust you, that's all."

"Yeah, you might turn him into a frog or something." That was Butch.

"I might turn you back into a human being if you don't watch yourself," I snapped back, and there was a laugh from the others, despite themselves. "So Bill, are you game? I'll even let you break."

Bill still looked doubtful, but things had gone too far for him to back out. His pride depended upon it. "Okay. But you heard her, guys. Winner takes all. And I warn you, Witch Bitch, I don't go lightly on anyone."

"I wouldn't expect you to, champ," I cooed. "But I'll warn you. Neither do I."

I'll say one thing for Bill. He's not a bad pool player. Unfortunately for him, neither am I. Three years hanging with completely the wrong sort of guy (or so my folks used to complain, when I came home with hickies all over my neck) teaches you a lot of tricks, and playing pool is one of them. So bang-bang-bang and the game was over before Bill
was even warmed up.

I stood silently, still stroking my cue; Bill just glowered, while his disciples watched him uncertainly. The guy's an asshole, and he has an asshole's temper. But tonight he simply shrugged. "Luck. The balls lined up for you. You probably put a hex on them or something." It's funny, he ripped seven shades of shit out of me for being a witch, but
he certainly didn't have any problem believing it.

"Maybe I did," I smiled. "But tell you what. We'll play again, and this time, no tricks, no hexes. You up for it?"

Again he looked uncertain; again it was the nudging and nods of his crowd that made him back down. "Okay. But someone, get me a drink first." "Get me one, too," I snapped. "Pernod and ice, not too much ice."

"She even drinks like a fucking witch," I heard Butch growl. "What the fuck's Pernod?" My God, where do these people come from?

This game went much the same as the last, except this time, Bill barely got started. You know what it's like when every shot you take is the right one, and you've got the ball ricocheting off the cushions, knocking everything down that it's meant to? Even I was surprised how easy it was, and the look on Bill's face was just priceless.

"Okay, so winner takes all, right?" I leaned the cue against the table, walked around to where Bill was standing. It was funny, but his crowd all stepped away as I approached, lining up against the wall like they were scared I was going to eat them or something. Which, had they only known, was sort of what I had in mind. But first, I was going to have my fun.

"Okay, all of you, into the Ladies."

"Fuck you."

"Not if you don't go into the Ladies, you won't!"

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Don't Forget To Breathe

DON'T FORGET TO BREATHE by Chrissie Bentley and Jenny Swallows
DON’T FORGET TO BREATHE launches an XXX-hilarating new series of e-books, available exclusively from Jennyswallows.blogspot.com. Each volume contains at least FIVE full-length, red hot tales of lust, love and the most explosive oral sex imaginable. That’s around fifty pages of sucking, blowing and, of course, swallowing. Because good girls don’t spit.

ONLY $2.99

Flowing from the ever-fertile pens of Jenny Swallows and Chrissie Bentley, each volume is published in the popular PDF format, to be enjoyed either on your computer or an ebook reader. Your purchase will be with you within 24 hours (and usually much, much sooner), e-mailed directly to your specified address, a discreet and easy way to enjoy the very best in erotic writing.

Don’t Forget To Breathe volume one contains the following stories:

The Cocksucking Chronicles (or, Don’t Forget To Breathe!)… an all girls’ book club changes the subject, from the last novel they read to the first cock they sucked. With some surprising confessions!

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.

Welcome To Spain… a few days in the sun with an old friend, a video camera and a favorite record to soundtrack all the action.

Monday, May 23, 2011

Screaming Orgasm


Cocktales is a fabulous new series from Xcite Books that offers a quality selection of erotic stories with mixed themes. If you are looking for variety and the very best erotic writing then you will love these especially selected titles.

includes BACK TO NATURE by Chrissie Bentley


We got here last night, Rosemary and Kevin in his cute little Volkswagon Bug, Peter and I in style aboard his SUV, and it’s been a non-stop laugh; indeed, by the time he and I actually turned in for the night, with our sleeping bags resolutely lined up against opposite walls of the tent, I was asleep before Peter even put the light out. Tonight, on the other hand… I was still drifting when I heard a movement; and opened my eyes to catch him swinging his bare legs out of his bedding, reach for his trousers and then stand up butt naked. Except it wasn’t his butt that was facing me.

I was lying on my side, my face squashed in the pillow, and hidden within enough shadow that he’d never have known my eyes were open. It was the sound of me catching my breath that he heard, and one hand shot down to cover his modesty, even as he breathed an apology. The maneuver didn’t work; at least an inch of his cock was still tantalizingly visible, peeping out from behind his hand.

“Sorry Chrissie, I thought you were sleeping.”

“Yummy.” Oh God, I can’t believe I said that. Fortunately, neither can he.

“Sorry? What did you say?”

“Uh… I said ‘not yet.’”

“Okay…”; he zipped up his jeans. “I’m just running to the bathroom. Is it alright if I leave the light on till I get back?”

“Sure.” I watched him leave, feeling my heart pounding in my chest, and trying to recreate what I’d seen in my mind. He wasn’t huge… or, at least, I’ve seen bigger. And he wasn’t hard… halfway there, maybe, and I think that was part of the attraction, the knowledge that he could have been going either way, so it hung uncertainly in-between, straight out with just the suggestion of an upward curve. But the head was full and the flesh looked smooth, a kind of reverse silhouette against the dark patch of his pubes. I hoped I’d get another look when he returned; and I wondered whether I’d ever get a closer one.

He came back and I could tell from the shape of his trousers that things had calmed down a little. He was also a lot more careful taking them off than he’d been putting them on, killing the light before getting undressed, then diving back into his sleeping bag just in case I could see in the dark.

“You tired?” I asked.

“No, it’s just good lying here, listening to the night.”

I listened. Bugs, birds, mysterious rustles and grunts. Wild bears. Psycho killers. “I’ve not been camping since I was a kid,” I told him. “I can’t believe it’s so noisy out there.” I lightened my voice as much as I could; I don’t care how much I wanted him… and the wet warmth spreading between my legs suggested that I wanted him a lot… I wasn’t going to snare him with the silly frightened girl act.

“You get used to it.” He paused. “Of course, there are some sounds that you can never escape from.” I listened and heard the rhythmic creaking of a metal-framed camp bed, as Rosemary and her companion took their own selves back to nature in the next tent. “Can’t be too comfortable,” I replied, but Peter laughed. “I lost my virginity on a camping trip,” he said. “In the pouring rain, in a pile of dead leaves. Now, that was uncomfortable.”

“For both of you, I’d imagine,” I said. “Wet leaves… yuk.”

“Ah, so you’ve done it as well?”

“Haven’t we all? Still, at least if it was your first time, you didn’t know it got better. For me, I remember wondering if it was possible for it to get worse. And I was sure I was going to get poison ivy.”

“Nowhere awkward, I hope?”

“Knowing my luck?” I chuckled. And then, daringly, “especially as you can’t even ask anyone to kiss it better.”

Now it was his turn… I think… to catch his breath. “Now, that is a shame.”

Saturday, May 21, 2011

and sometimes...

... you don't.

We've all been there!

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Merryland by Roger Pheuquewell

Given that even main street chain stores now have a shelf or two that heaves with erotica in all its squelching, squishy, juicy glory, it is sometimes difficult to remember a time when we couldn’t just walk into Borders on our lunch break and pick up a few volumes of Best Anal Erotica or whatever floats your boat... and incomprehensible to imagine a time when this kind of stuff wasn’t simply hard to find, it was utterly illegal.

Of course that didn’t stop it appearing; indeed, just as sex was one of the first things anyone thought of once moving pictures were invented... and before that photography, and so on and so forth (and there’s a thought - when Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone, how long before he made the world’s first dirty phone call?)... just as blah blah blah, so what do you bet that the moment man figured out how to read and write, the first thing he penned was a XXX story?

The oldest erotic book I own is dated 1740: Merryland by Thomas Stretzer. I don’t have the original, of course; just a 1932 reprint by Robin Hood House of New York, a limited deluxe edition of 777 copies, and permeated with that delicious smell that haunts all old books and musty bookstores. But it’s a handsome edition, as befits one of the classic works of old English erotica.

Stretzer wrote under the desperately appropriate name of Roger Pheuquewell (say it fast) and his master piece was originally titled A New Description Of Merryland. And, on first inspection, it appears to be a travel guide, an account of the author’s roaming through one of the manifold new lands that were popping up on the map in those days... “a delightful country,” says the author, albeit one whose “laws, customs and curiosities” have yet to be fully discovered.

Where is Merryland? “It is situate in the low part of... that vast continent called by Dutch geographers Voiflandtscap... bounded on the upper side, or to the northward, by the little mountain called Mnsvnrs, on the east and west by Coxasin and Coxadext, and on the south or lower part it lies open to the terra firma.”

And with that established, the narrator goes on to discuss his first entrance into this wonderful country... his adventures therein... his discoveries, its climate and soil (“very wet and fenny”). And so he continues in this vein, quoting classical sources and contemporary scholars, in such a manner that an innocent chancing upon this book really could believe it to be as innocent as it seems.

In other words, it is one of the most outrageously funny pieces of erotica you will ever read, a perverse parody not only of the travelogues that the author admits he is tired of in his opening remarks, but also of mankind’s attempts ever since then to camouflage our most basic lusts and desires beneath the veneer of respectability.

We laugh at Merryland because we know what Stretzer is writing about. We admire it because it is a truly brilliant piece of satire. But most of all, we marvel at it, because is there any author alive today who could write a 136 page book about a pussy, and then file it away with the Lonely Planet guides?

Or who would even feel the need to do so?

Sometimes, I think, our modern freedoms spoil things for us.

All Night Long


includes BUMPY ROADS ARE BEST by Chrissie Bentley

Cocktales is a fabulous new series from Xcite Books that offers a quality selection of erotic stories with mixed themes. If you are looking for variety and the very best erotic writing then you will love these especially selected titles.


With the exception of the moron I’d been dating for the last six months, who was probably still up to his neck in pussy right now, how long was it since I was last this close... this incredibly close... to a decent-sized penis? So close I could almost smell its musky odor; so close I could almost taste it....

My heart was beating so loud that I was sure Brendan would hear it above the engine, but he showed no sign that he even knew I was awake. Occasionally he wriggled a little in his seat, and his prick shifted with him, almost as if it had a mind of its own, and didn't want to lose its place. And I was a little shocked to find myself hoping that it wouldn't.

I pictured Brendan in my mind. Not a bad-looking guy - nothing you'd chase down the street on first sight, but cute in an everyday kind of way. Nicely spoken, smart, thoughtful, probably reliable. Give him a job where he'd be home every night, and he'd make someone a great husband one day.

Still feigning sleep, I shifted a little, moving my head to give his dick a little more leeway. I was rewarded with another twitch and, bolder now, I moved my left arm, so that I could cradle my cheek on my hand... palm down, of course. My hand lay across his left thigh; my fingers just resting on his cock. Lightly, I pressed down with my fingertips, trying to measure his thickness. Not bad, not bad at all.

I didn't want to move too fast; I was still meant to be asleep, after all. But I was wondering what thoughts were going through Brendan's mind. It was 1.25. I determined not to move again for 10 minutes, but it was difficult to resist. The heat was rising from his lap, and now my nostrils really had picked up his scent. My fingertips squeezed him again and, this time, I heard him give a sharp gasp. When he looked down at me, though, my eyes remained closed, my face the impassive innocence of a happy sleeper.

Again I lay stock still, waiting for ten minutes to pass. Again my resolve cracked after just four or five. I'd teased boys before, of course I had. But never this deliberately, this delightfully. I shifted my position, raising my head a little, then laying it down again. If I'd got my bearings right... yes. The tip of his dick was pushing into my cheek now, and I could half feel, half sense the dribble of pre-cum that was soaking into the fabric of his pants.

Brendan, too, now seemed finally aware of what was going on, and one hand dropped from the steering wheel to brush my hair lightly. I responded with another gentle squeeze, then let my fingers slide a little, to touch his balls. Brendan didn't speak, but started stroking the side of my face, very gently.

I slid my finger back up his shaft, tracing the line of his fly. A zip. Raising my head slightly, I sought out the tab and unlocked his trousers - his cock leaped out almost comically, relishing its sudden freedom and pressing hot and naked against my chin. I paused for a moment, breathing in his sharp scent and feeling a welcoming pulse in response. Then my tongue flicked out to greet His Majesty, wrapping around the swollen head and testing his juiciness. He was delicious.

Slowly my lips closed over the very tip, suckling gently before I drew a little more of him in, mere fractions at a time, until at last I held the hot head enclosed in my mouth. I wished there was more light in the cab than the faint glow of the dashboard instruments, and the muted streetlights that rushed past us; I wanted to finally look at the shaft I'd spent the last 45 minutes blindly toying with, admire its color, its size, its unbelievable hardness.

I couldn’t, so my eyes settled on the odometer instead. I remembered years ago, going down on my boyfriend of the time and, once it was all over, thrilling as he told me I'd just given him the greatest ten minutes of his life. Brendan, I determined, was going to get the best ten miles of his life. And then some.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Sex On The Beach


includes CATCH OF THE DAY by Chrissie Bentley

Cocktales is a fabulous new series from Xcite Books that offers a quality selection of erotic stories with mixed themes. If you are looking for variety and the very best erotic writing then you will love these especially selected titles.


“Turn around.”

I did so, knelt expectantly on my hands and knees, my ass in the air, as he ran a hand gently across my buttocks and then slowly entered me from behind, pushing himself deep and then remaining motionless, so that I crouched, skewered on his organ. His hands clenched my sides and he began rocking me back and forth, while his own body remained as still as a statue.

I closed my eyes, allowed him to control my every movement… sometimes fast, until my pussy felt as though it was turning inside out; sometimes so slow that I thought his shaft would never end; sometimes so deep that every thrust sent my innards lurching; and sometimes so shallow that I could feel the rim of his helmet against my outer lips, and hear my hole sucking noisily at his glans.

Trusting one arm to hold both my weight and my balance, I reached the other between my legs, to cradle his scrotum. It felt heavy, sticky, hot… I imagined pressing my face to it, sucking at the skin before enclosing one ball, then the other, in my mouth. But he held me firm, groaning as my fist squeezed his sac. “Keep doing that.” I obeyed; when one arm tired, I switched, all the while conscious of the ever-changing sensations that he was drilling into my pussy – and drilling faster now, his own hips finally joining the party, to roll against my rocking.

I clamped both hands into the sand beneath us, slowed my own motion… I caught my breath, then hissed insistently. “I want to take your cum in my mouth.” I didn’t give him a chance to react; he slipped out of me as I whirled around, crouched, and plunged him into my mouth, his movements growing faster as I sought out his rhythm and rode with him. In and out he flowed, as I placed both hands on his hips, allowed him to sink as deep as he could into my throat, and taking him in my hand only when I needed to catch a breath.

I held the tip of his cock to my open lips, cradled it on my tongue, jerking his shaft with one fist, while the other reached for his chest, tweaked his nipples. I lapped at his leaking hole, thrilling to the conjoined flavors of my puss and his pre-cum, pulling on his prick all the time.

His hand fell on my head, holding it still for a moment, before pushing me back against the boulder, his body moving seamlessly with me, so that I never lost the tantalizing taste of his knob-end for a moment. Only when I was flat on my back once again did he shift, flipping himself around so that his mouth was at my pussy, and his cock was again at my lips.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

No Warning Necessary

Thanks to my friend SunLover for this striking image... the moment when, with your eyes closed and heart pounding, the first lash of cum slaps your face with a splash.

And guys... don't worry about warning us when it's about to happen. We already know....

Friday, May 13, 2011


Paperback: 256 pages
Publisher: Virgin Black Lace (April 22, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 9780352345189
ISBN-13: 978-0352345189

includes GIRLS TALK by Chrissie Bentley


I guess I just wasn’t thinking straight.

I was so excited when he started to come, and the thin milky liquid gently seeped across his helmet, that I was already leaning forward, my tongue tip poised to taste him, completely forgetting there was more to come.

Spurt! Instinctively I flinched back.

Splash! A thick streamer lashed itself to my cheek. It was on my nose, it was on my lips, it was in my hair, and it was still pumping. Above me, Dave was groaning his ecstasy, and… I don’t know what I was feeling. A rush of excitement like I’d never experienced before. A sense of lust that I could not control. And a depth of hunger that only one thing could satisfy. I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and clamped down on the end of his cock, feeling the spurting start over again as his hands closed around the back of my head, and he raised his hips to meet my face, moving himself inside me, fucking my lips and flooding my mouth.

I’d done it. After so many years of dreaming of this moment, after all those nights spent caressing myself to sleep while my mind conjured hot, hard cocks for me to devour, I had finally sucked and swallowed… yes, mustn’t forget to swallow it all… a man. And I loved it.

It was strange. Listening to my girlfriends talk, I really wasn’t sure what to expect. It’s slimy, they’d warn. It’s sticky, they’d shudder. And it tastes of salt and old cheese. Maybe it is, maybe it does. I’m sure there are times when it really isn’t pleasant. Like, if he hasn’t bathed in a while, or he’s sweating a lot, or if you simply aren’t in the mood, but decide to do it anyway. But right here, right now, with my pussy screaming so loudly for attention that the juices were trickling down my leg, with one hand massaging my own breast while the other held his cock upright, and every other fiber of my being focused firmly on drawing as much of his magic as I could milk from his balls… fuck going for a slap-up feast at the ritziest restaurant in town. I could dine like this forever.

Dave was softening now, but I continued to suck. In fact, I was sucking harder now. As his thickness ebbed away and my jaw finally relaxed, now I could really go to town. I pulled him in deep, felt my nose brush his stomach; liked the way it felt and drew him in even deeper, enfolding his entire prick in my mouth while he just lay there gasping, his hands idly stroking my hair while I ground my face into his stomach and my mouth still clung onto its prize. And that felt good as well. Next time, I resolved, I would do it while he was still hard. I didn’t know how my mouth would accommodate his whole length, but now was not the time to worry. Details. I was going to deep throat this boy, even if it meant drilling a hole in the back of my head.

I sat up, looked him in the eye. Dave was still lying there, exhausted, his body a liquid pool of putty. I kissed him on the mouth, wondered if he could taste himself all over my lips, and what he was thinking as he did. I soon found out.

As ever with Black Lace titles, the quality of writing is superb, and there's something to surprise even the kinkiest of readers Scarlet Sizzling ... the most sexually explicit reading material available Cosmopolitan There's enough variety to please erotica fans of every taste ... titillating entertainment Romantic Times

Product Description
The creators of the bestselling Wicked Words and Quickies collections bring you Misbehaviour.
Leyda is short of cash but an indecent proposal could solve her problems... Mr Morrell is hotter than hell and he proves it in the stationary cupboard... When it comes to weddings it's best not to seduce the bridegroom... Lisa likes to meet married men, in groups... In this new collection of all original fiction, Black Lace proves there is nothing as exciting as a woman up to no good. And these red hot tales and passionate trysts will be sure to push your buttons. Be it at work, on the phone, in a hotel, on a highway with an officer of the law, in an alley, in a library, or just over at a friend's place, Misbehaviour explores a wide range of illicit and daring encounters between feisty modern women and their lovers.

Like all girlfriends it is common to talk about your guy and your love life, but Chrissie is having decidedly un-girlfriend feelings for her friend.

The writer of the erotic, Jenny, takes it upon herself to plan a surprise for their mutual friend Martha.

They discuss using Chrissie’s boyfriend for the Martha experiment, but when he comes down with a nasty cold, Jenny finds them a replacement. Since Chrissie has no desire to cheat on her boyfriend with another man, she is thrilled to finally get to experiment somewhere else.

A little naughty and a whole ton of fun is the basis behind this sexy little story.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Something Steaming Hot and Sexy in the state of Denmark

There was a time, and not so long ago, when it was virtually impossible to turn around without being confronted by an impossibly obscene cartoon, usually involving one famous figure or another. Remember all the cartoons of Clinton and Monica? Jacko and Bubbles? Prince Charles and a tampon? Those were the days....

Maybe it still goes on. But, if it does, it is buried beneath so much other "information" that it simply doesn't receive the attention it deserves. Maybe the slow and lingering suicide of magazine publishing, as every publisher becomes hell-bent on making his magazine look identical to every other one, has ensured that the day of the truly brutal cartoonist is now dead. Or maybe it's the fear of legal action that has seen a nation's worth of flesh colored crayons tucked away out of harm's reach?

We're not talking Tijuana Bibles here... or even Robert Crumb. Just some good old fashioned celebrity smut... the kind of smut, in fact, that has been creating such a stir in Denmark recently, following the publication of a new portrait of the Royal Family - that is quite unlike any portrait they could ever have dreamed of sitting for.

Or maybe they could. It was a Danish cartoonist, after all, who raised the ire of the Islamic world with his depiction of the prophet, a while back. And now two of his countrymen are sticking a similar pin into the hide of the Danes themselves.

The cartoon is the work of the already-controversial artistic duo Surrend, Jan Egesborg and Pia Bertelsen, and was intended for inclusion in a retrospective exhibition of the group's work - 100 old posters and 15 newly-created pieces - at the Poster Museum in the Old Town in Aarhus last fall.

And then Surrend delivered the poster and all hell broke loose. The exhibition was canceled, and if you look closely at the work, you can probably guess why. Or can you?

Look in the center - Queen Margarethe masturbating. There;'s the Crown Prince doing the doggy with his son... oh, and there's Prince Joacim with a sheep. And so on and so forth, beneath a banner that translates roughly as "pubes are back." Which may or may not mean more than my poor old Danish-English dictionary lets on, but it's funny either way.

And yet - it was not the abuse of their royals that seem to have got the Danes hot and bothered. It was the question of - was the museum right to cancel the show and, effectively, censor the artists? Or should artistic freedom be sacrosanct?

"It's grotesque and says something about Denmark, when the Old City already had displayed posters which are satirical towards Jews and Muslims," Surrend's Egesborg remarked. "But when the royal family members and patron of the Old City should feel stepped on toes, then the answer is censorship." (Possibly coincidentally, the Queen is that patron).

Unfortunately I've not been able to find any English language coverage of the controversy, and that despite seven months having elapsed since it began dominating the Danish press. But it's an issue that we should all pay attention to. After all, if even the ever-liberal Danes, the inventors of the modern porn industry, have finally found a prudish bone in their body, what chances do the rest of us have?

(Thanks to Luna the Otter for bringing me this!)

Black and White and Blue

Paperback: 350 pages
Publisher: Ecw Press (September 1, 2007)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1550227912
ISBN-13: 978-1550227918

includes introductory essay by Chrissie Bentley

Editorial Reviews
"If you have any kind of rock'n'roll reference library, chances are you own at least one book by Dave Thompson" —Paper magazine

"Thompson tells the story behind milestones in the genre's history . . . cultural historians will delight in Thompson's tale." —Playboy.com

"Definitely enlightening, and entertaining." —The A.V. Club

"The book is effective and moving." —Alarm

"A comprehensive historical view of adult cinema." —The Hornet

"In a series of chronological chapters, [Thompson] takes a scholarly look at an industry for which there is little mainstream archive or history." —Rambles.net

Product Description
In the 1920s they were called stags, smokes, or blue movies; today it's adult films. But until now, apart from brief summaries in film histories and scholarly articles, there has been no complete history of the pornographic film industry. That gap is filled by this lively and insightful book that provides commentary on individual movies and traces the evolution of film styles and storylines through nearly a century of X-rated material. All the research for the book is based on viewings of the movies—many of the oldest are now archived on DVDs—and on interviews with living actors and producers. Tracing an arc from the masks and dim lighting of the earliest days to the realism and absence of trick photography in the 1920s and 1930s, the account then ponders the obsession with close-ups of body parts in later decades. The overview ends in the late 1970s, when the advent of home videos changed adult entertainment completely.

About the Author
Dave Thompson is the author of more than 100 books, including Cream: The World's First Supergroup, Go Phish, Moonage Daydream, Never Fade Away, and Smoke on the Water. In 1998, he was ranked one of rock's five foremost authors in Mojo magazine. He lives in London and Delaware.

Thirty-five years after its taboo-busting release, 1972′s Deep Throat is still the most iconic symbol of the adult film world. The movie raked in an unprecedented $25 million in theaters (unrivaled to this day for a pornographic film). It introduced fellatio into popular culture (paving the way for Bill and Monica). Perhaps most trenchant, it ushered in the modern age of porn cinema. Make no mistake, the present day, silicone-jiggly, multi-billion dollar porn industry owes much to director Gerald Damino’s erotic breakthrough. In many ways, Deep Throat was the beginning of porn as we know it.

Interesting, then, that author Dave Thompson opts to end his latest book, Black and White and Blue: Adult Cinema from the Victorian Age to the VCR, with the release of Deep Throat. Thompson tells the tale of what led up to the modern age of erotic cinema, surveying the fascinating, dark, backroom cultural history of stag films before the arrival of Linda Lovelace and Harry Reems. Black and White and Blue traces the earliest pornographic movies — grainy, silent, hardcore, contraband productions dating all the way back to the early 1900s. Thompson estimates that 1,500 to 1,700 American stag films (hardcore porn made before the late 1960s) still exist. It is likely, he posits, that a vast number of films either vanished due to the decay of time or were destroyed by the morality police. “It is only in recent years that society has become concerned with preserving every possible facet of its entertainment past,” writes Thompson. “No matter how worthless or sordid it may once have seemed.”

Thompson goes a long way in contributing to the cultural study of dirty movies. With a pedigree in rock music books (U2, David Bowie, Deep Purple), his latest, while ostensibly a scholarly dissertation on the history of stag films, is written with a certain punk aplomb. Black and White and Blue shines when Thompson tracks down and interviews the little old ladies who starred in the pictures of porn past and when he tells the story behind milestones in the genre’s history, such as the dubious achievement of the first golden shower captured on celluloid. While Black and White and Blue is not quite mainstream pop culture fare, neither is the subject it covers. Still, cultural historians will delight in Thompson’s tale, and hardcore porn purists will finally learn what set the stage for Deep Throat.

Monday, May 9, 2011

The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica

Paperback: 576 pages
Publisher: Running Press (September 7, 2007)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0786720441
ASIN: B003A02S9S

Includes "Gone Fishing" by Chrissie Bentley

She was everything he’d described in her e-mails… mid-40s, good-looking, well-rounded, tall. Her voice was soft, as though every word was a precious commodity to be drawn out of her with the most exquisite tenderness… and that is how she fucked me (yes, that was everything she said it was, as well); calmly and deliberately, her face and her fingertips flowing across my body, everywhere at once and one place in particular, testing and teasing my flesh before settling down to one spot for a moment and then, tantalizingly, flying away to caress some place else.

Now I was crouching over her, my breasts just inches from her mouth. Sheelagh reached up, squeezed and then pinched each nipple, not hard, but just enough. Her tongue darted out and brushed them. I know what I was thinking, but I think I murmured it too, because she was sucking at it now, my nipple and a sizeable portion of my tit sinking into her mouth.

I held her to me, willing her to draw even more of me in, feeling her hands shift to my back and then down to my ass, stroking and squeezing my cheeks as a finger traced lightly between them. I felt the first stirrings of a distant orgasm, as she released my nipple from between her lips and we hung unmoving for a moment, as I wondered what next.

Sheelagh decided, grasping my hips and hauling me up, my pussy firm to her face. But I wasn’t going to let her have all the fun. Deftly I flipped, parted her legs and gazed down at her slit. She’d shaved and I wished I had – although she didn’t seem to care, as gentle fingers parted my lips and a tongue traced slowly up and down before nudging my clitoris for the first time, an electric shock that shook my entire frame.

I tried to concentrate on what lay before me, the sweet pink slit, the swollen clit that peeked out at me. But it was impossible. Her tongue was dancing between my legs and my body was completely out of my control. Her breathing was hard, her movements insistent and her rhythm was unchanging, even as I bucked my own hips, urging her to pick up the pace, bring me to the orgasm that was shuddering just on the other side of bunker-busting.

“Faster,” I hissed, and she raised her head. “Not yet. You’ve teased me with your stories for months. Now it’s my turn.” And she shortened her strokes, her hands pushing down on my hips until I could barely move them, but increasing the warm pressure of her tongue, so that every breath I took had a sharp, audible edge of pleasure; an edge that only heightened her determination to keep me dangling – which she did. I had never known anybody to be so painstaking, so patient, so totally in control of her own body that, even with a hellcat screaming seven shades of lust beneath her, she simply stretched the ecstasy out even further.

Finally I came… there wasn’t a power on earth that could have stopped me; and, as I writhed in the uncontrollable spasms of my own joy, I felt Sheelagh, too, pause… plunge… and then cry out as her lust blew up inside her.

We lay silent, shattered, sticky with sweat, and I think we must have slept. It looked darker when I opened my eyes, and Sheelagh now lay dead weight across me. I squirmed out from beneath her and crept to the bathroom. She hadn’t moved when I returned and, for a moment, I stood there, wondering what to do… which of the two or three thoughts that were now racing through my mind I should act on first? But before I could move, she opened her eyes and smiled. “We really need to make a move. I have that reception this evening, remember? You will come along, won’t you?”

“Why not?” I threw on the clothes I’d arrived in, then headed back to my own room to shower and change. Half an hour later, she was guiding her hired car around the snaking bends that led towards the ocean, and the row of exclusive waterfront homes that were dotted along the coastline. “Dinner,” she promised me, “alcohol, some tremendous people – you’ll love Debbie and Mandy… and then, your choice. I can call you a cab back to the hotel… or else, we fish.” I laughed. “I’ll let you know.”

Amazon.com Review
For readers devoted (or addicted) to erotic fiction, here is a welcome British twist on the genre. Though an uneven collection, The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica is nevertheless large enough to contain some real gems from writers around the world. The strongest work comes from the British contributors, such as Emma Donoghue and Stella Duffy, among others. "Sweet Violet," by Ruby Vise, is a classic tale of first love. In Mary Gerideau's "Marvin the Mouse," on the other hand, a stifling mouse suit is the scene of a literally steamy encounter. Be warned, though: several of the pieces are protoerotic rather than the graphic fare readers have become accustomed to. Nina Rapi's "Josie's Restrooms" purports to be the transcript of a toilet attendant's video diary, with a lot of bragging and a bawdy business plan but no real sex scene. And the two-part story that brackets the collection, Daphne Adams's "I Married Madam," reads like the opening pages of an Edwardian novel: promising characters, interesting settings, lively dialogue, but precious little action. Happily, however, there's also a lot of humor in the collection, and even some slapstick, as when the heroine of Karlyn Lotney's "Clash of the Titans" accidentally grabs a bottle of sex-toy cleaner instead of lube and watches in horror as bubbles pour out of her demanding new lover. New meaning for a romantic "bit of the bubbly." --Regina Marler --

Product Description
This all-new volume of lesbian erotica brings together a dazzling selection of new fiction from around the world. Here are 50 short stories from a still-growing genre, most of which have been specially commissioned. The writing covers the emotional spectrum, from intimate reminiscences and intensely personal experiences, to wild confessions and magical encounters. Contributors include Chrissie Bentley, Fae Gordon, Lindy Edwards, L. S. Bell, J. Barfoot, Vav Garnek, Georgina Taylor, Anna Smith, Deva Shore, Cynthia Richards, Elsbeth Potter, L. C. Jordan, and Elizabeth Cage.

About the Author
Barbara Cardy is an experienced editor of erotica, and also publishes the bi-monthly erotica collection The Hot Spot. She lives in Brighton, UK.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Meet The Boys (Excerpt from a Work In Progress)

The way the apartment was laid out, I rarely saw Barry, even though we’d been sharing for half the school year. He had his friends, and did his thing, and I had and did) mine. We got on well enough and spent more than a few nights just sitting around watching TV and sharing a pizza. He did his share of the chores and we split the bills without fighting about them – in other words, he was the perfect room mate. But we didn’t socialize outside of the home and, as I said, rarely saw one another unless we intended to.

So when I got back from class that afternoon and heard music pounding in his bedroom, I just went about my business, putting away the groceries I’d come home with, switching on the local news… and it was only because I had to pass his room to reach the bathroom that I even thought of sticking my head around the door and saying….


Policy. We were both young, both single, and both prone to bringing people home with us for a night (or evening, afternoon or weekend) of fun. We also had a system, a plastic pig ornament that we would place on the television so our room mate would know that we weren’t to be disturbed. There was no pig on the TV today (not unless you count the weathergirl – where do they find these women?) so I assumed…

I assumed wrong.

Barry was on his knees, his mouth around – well, it wasn’t the biggest cock I’ve ever seen, but it was certainly up there with the best of them. His eyes were closed, and so were its owner’s, at least until he saw me in the doorway. He stepped back, his hands falling to cover himself (and failing… I told you he was big), and Barry just looked mortified… especially when he opened his mouth to speak, and a great glob of cum dripped out of it.

Thank goodness I’ve always had great powers of recovery. “See, I told you it was fun” I blurted, then I closed the door and locked myself in the bathroom. Jesus, that was hot.

I don’t know about you but I’ve always been fascinated with the idea of straight guys sucking each other’s cocks. I know when it started as well – two friends and I were attempting a threesome one night, during my sophomore year at college. I was raring to go, and so was one of the boys. The other, though, just stood there like a lemon, with his dick a shriveled gerkin between his legs. And nothing I could do seemed to make a difference, not even when I took the whole thing in my mouth and almost sucked his whole body in with it.

“Let me have a go.” Terry, the boy who was ready for action, joined me on the bed and, as I moved away, he took the tiny piece of meat in his mouth and slowly… very slowly… began to blow life into it.

I watched, fascinated. I’d known Terry for a year, and he was as straight as they get. So was Tom, the boy we’d selected for our little bit of fun. But Terry was mouth fucking him like an expert, lapping and licking and taking the very tip of the dick into his mouth… later, he told me that he just did what he enjoyed having done to him, and even chastised me a little for being too eager, too greedy. “Sometimes,” he told me, ‘a cock needs a little encouragement as well.” This was one of those times, because Tom sprang to attention as fast as you like – and now it was my turn to be a lemon, because the two of them were obviously having so much fun that they didn’t stop, not until Tom was crying out loudly, and Terry was gulping and swallowing a mouthful that… well, I hate to sound greedy, but that was meant to be mine.

But of course I didn’t mind, because I came as hard as he did just from watching the two guys go at it and, although they never touched one another again all night, I could never shake the picture from my head. And now? Now it was back again. I finished in the bathroom, flushed and opened the door. Barry’s door was still open and, as I passed, he called me in. The two of them were sitting on the bed, still naked, Barry with an impressive semi-erection that seemed to reach halfway to his knee (funny, I’d never noticed that before), his friend more cautiously sitting with his legs tightly shut.

I entered and crouched on the floor, apologized for disturbing them and then waited for someone to speak.

Barry first. “have you met Kevin?”

I said no. I had seen him around campus a few times, but he ran in a very different circle to me – and to Barry, I’d have thought. Tall, good looking, and dressed on the edge of the goth crowd. I smiled, said “pleased to meet you,” then waited. I had a hundred questions I wanted to ask, beginning with the obvious “I didn’t know you were gay,” to Barry. But the words wouldn’t come… unlike Kevin, I thought to myself. The sight of his cum falling from Barry’s mouth was not something I was likely to forget.

Slowly the story came out… and I must admit, I was surprised. Like most colleges, ours has an internet noticeboard, where people advertise whatever, and for whatever, they like. I’d used it a couple of times, to pick up a few course books that I didn’t want to buy new, once for a refrigerator and once for a new room mate – which was how I found Barry. He, on the other hand, had used it for something else… a message that read something along the lines of “bicurious straight seeks first time similar to find out what the fuss is about.” Kevin replied.

“So now you know,” I said to Barry, “what did you think?”

“Well, I can see why girls enjoy it so much,” he laughed, and back-and-forthed for a few minutes, on just how good a hard cock feels when it slips into your mouth; the taste and the heat and the texture… “and the orgasm,” Barry said softly. “I thought I was going to explode when he came.”

“I’m sorry I interrupted,” I said softly, but he shook his head. “To be honest, I’m glad you did.” Kevin looked at him expectantly. “We were talking on our way here, and Kevin told me that the only thing he wanted more than to suck some cock was to have a cute girl watching while it happened.”

Fuck, I thought I’d died and gone to blowjob heaven. “Well, what are you waiting for?” I answered, reaching over and tugging at one of Kevin’s legs, pulling him down to the ground beside me, between Barry’s now open legs with that glorious cock now standing to attention just inches from his face. “Because if you don’t suck him off,” I whispered into Kevin’s ear, “I will.”

Kevin didn’t need to be told twice. He bent his head forward and got to work….

Thursday, May 5, 2011

"Liking sex" ... or "like insects?"

I hate it when you don't quite catch what someone says....

It's been a long time since I last caught a good condom commercial (it's what Youtube is for, after all). But those nice people at Pinewood Design certainly took the pain out of searching, and my only question is - am I the only person who finds these photos hot?

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Cigarettes and Semen

As food groups go, they're higher on the list than the FDA let on...

Monday, May 2, 2011

Everyone's wearing 'em

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Sand and Sun


includes HOW MANY TIMES IS THE FIRST TIME? by Chrissie Bentley

Product Description
A collection of five stories with gay themes. Stories include:
Sand And Steel by Shanna Germain: He is my prisoner. He is a SEAL. I know that no amount of pain that will make him crack and tell me what I need to know. But he has not been trained to withstand pleasure. Yet, even though he is blindfold, there is something familiar about him. When he asks me to remove his blindfold I decide it will be in my best interests. Too late, I realise I’ve made a mistake that will cost one of us our life....

Beauty And The Beast by Penelope Friday: Len and Sebastian are an unlikely couple: the carpenter and the aristocrat. It’s a relationship that’s going nowhere. Yet, in the bedroom they are equals. In the bedroom they belong to each other in total oneness. And then one night everything changes...

How Many Times Is The First Time? by Chrissie Bentley: No one at work knows for sure if Marty is gay. But he’s such a nice guy it doesn’t matter. I have to admit I’ve had more than a few passing fantasies about him, though. And then one day fate intervenes and I realise my fantasies are about to come true. And what’s more, Marty is a man full of surprises....

It’s A Sin by Alex Jordain: I’ve been brought up to be a devout Roman Catholic, but Jerry, with his blond hair, pretty face and lithe athletic body is just too much of a temptation. When he invites me to his house I can’t resist. And being initiated into the delights of boy fun turns out to be the most satisfying as well as the most sinful time of my life...

Snow Wolf by John Connor: Russia, winter, 1905 – it’s a time full of chaos and uncertainty. I have chosen to live a hermit trapper’s existence, it’s more peaceful that way. But when I find an injured soldier, half dead beneath the snow of a frozen forest, I cannot leave him to die. I take him back to my cabin to recover and as his frozen body slowly revives, I discover that we have a great deal more in common than it would first appear...

These stories have also been published by Accent Press in 2010 in ‘Boy Fun’.