Saturday, December 31, 2011

Happy New Year!

Friday, December 30, 2011

Happy New Year!

I found and loved this on my friend Three Spelling Mistakes' never less than fun fun blog.

But the real reason I was there was... to find THIS. Proof that not all censorship is performed by the humorless.

Very funny censored porn brought to you by PornHub


Thursday, December 29, 2011

Another Amazon review for the Nympho Librarian

I should probably just send you direct to the page but... what the hell. Another great review!

5.0 out of 5 stars Loved it..., December 28, 2011
By Jan Prins - See all my reviews
Amazon Verified Purchase(What's this?)
This review is from: The Nympho Librarian and Other Stories (Kindle Edition)
There are a few reasons I will thank the gods for the internet tonight. One of them would be for allowing me to find the writings of a certain Chrissie Bentley.

Today I finished reading the Nympho Librarian and Other Stories. And in all honesty, I'll have to say it has been a while since I found erotic writing that is so thoroughly enjoyable as this compilation of short stories.

Chrissie Bentley obviously knows how to titilate without being overtly sleazy about it. (Make no mistake, this is by no means your granny's romance stories, unless your granny has got some wicked good taste)

And for most of the time spent reading this, you have this feel good vibe coming from this book, with a few "What the hell?" moments in there as well.

If you want a good read, and some excellent eroticism to boot, then give this a chance.

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Thank You Red Region!

Thank you!

Voted "one of the 45 sexist blogs of 2011" by Red Region Inferno

Monday, December 26, 2011

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.


BUY IT NOW from Kindle just $2.99
BUY IT NOW print edition
BUY IT NOW Nook just $2.99

Sunday, December 25, 2011

and one more for luck!

Jingle bells, everyone!

Saturday, December 24, 2011

Cumming hard for the holidays

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me... oh, chocolates or something. I gave him a blowjob.

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me... chocolates and a bottle of wine. I gave him a blowjob

Christmas Blowjob Doggystyle by Hot Girlfriend brought to you by Tube8

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me... chocolates, wine and a novel I'd wanted. I gave him a blowjob

HEATHER IN CHRISTMAS brought to you by Tube8

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me... chocolates, wine, paperback and a DVD. I gave him a blowjob

christmas blowjob brought to you by Tube8

On the fifth day of Christmas... blah blah blah. I gave him a blowjob

Christmas Blowjob
from sunie6
on EmpFlix.

Who says the spirit of Christmas is dead?


Friday, December 23, 2011

All I want for Christmas is a mouthful of cum...

Hot cum! Delicious.

You can't miss it... and neither does she! That little look of triumph is a true Kodak moment!

Thursday, December 22, 2011


Great news for Nook book readers....

The First Time & 59 Other Magic Minutes, the first collection of my erotic verse, is now available for Nook readers from Barnes & Noble, price 2.99

And still available - Kindle edition; print edition

Driving home for the holidays

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Hands in pants!

Sometimes I like... to just sit back and watch

Thanks to Hands In Pants for letting me!

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

My Lollipop Tastes of Cock

"NORTH HOLLYWOOD, Calif.—Adult novelty manufacturer Doc Johnson has just released their highly anticipated line of Good Head Suckers, a variety of four flavored oral sex enhancing lollipops."

I was so excited when I first saw these... and then I read the small print.

Oral sex enhancing?

No! We want oral sex flavored!

Monday, December 19, 2011

The Nympho Librarian and 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.


BUY IT NOW from Kindle just $2.99

BUY IT NOW print edition

Firm fingers pulled my pussy apart although it needed very little encouragement. I was wet even before his tongue lapped the pink, could feel the panties he’d dragged down sopping against my stockinged foot, and the tight fawn skirt bunched against my back and that, too, felt moist. Ridiculously, I hoped it had not stained, then feeling ridiculous, I stifled a cry out as his tongue pushed inside my folds.

He twirled it around, then looked up at me. “You like that.” It was a statement, not a question, and my hand fell to the back of his head, gentle pressure the only answer he needed. But he resisted and his eyes flashed in the harsh fluorescents that buzzed above us.

I was standing on one foot, the other braced against a bookshelf, my foot inching a far volume backwards. 891.7 - Russian literature. Not a section of the library that received many visitors, especially this close to Christmas, but the occasional voice from the far end of the room reminded me that we were not yet closed for business, and here I was with a stranger on his knees and his mouth... his mouth... he licked again and I bit my lip to keep from moaning, which was not the response he expected. Because now his tongue was flat against me as his fingers pulled me wider, long sweeps that stopped short just a wriggle from my clitoris, so that’s what I did. I wriggled a little but he was faster, rocking back on his heels and blowing instead, a sharp rush of warm air that collided with my liquid lust, and I turned my head to bite the arm that clung for support to the top of the shelf. 817 - American literature, satire and humor.

One finger inside me, then two and his mouth again, circling my clit, teasing it, teasing me. He broke again. “I like your hair like that.” It hung loose below my shoulders. “It makes you look abandoned.”

Abandoned. I could only imagine what else I looked like, my glasses pushed up to my forehead so they wouldn’t bump his face when we kissed, my blouse half unbuttoned and one bra cup twisted down and around, when his fingers grazed my nipples and his teeth bit sharp around them. My skirt round my waist, my panties on the ground and a guy two-thirds my age, with two-thirds of his hand sunk deep inside me, licking out the fantasy that he’d texted me this morning.

all i wnt 4 xmas is 2 lick a lbrns cunt

A true story? Perhaps. But I'll say one thing - I had no idea that librarians were the stuff of male fantasies until I actually started to work as one. And to prove this is not just some twisted Jenny fantasy, brought on by too many eggnogs behind the biology shelves, here's a fascinating paper on librarian imagery in the media, followed by a catalog of 70s librarian porn novels, as compiled by blogger memetician.

Bang the Librarian Hard.
Campus Lust.
Chained, Whipped Librarians
Eager Beaver Librarian.
Eager to Spread Librarian.
Eager Young Librarian.
First Rear Entry.
Helpful Head Librarian.
Horny Balling Librarian.
Horny Hot Librarian.
Horny Licking Librarian.
Horny Peeping Librarian
Hot Bed Librarian.
Hot, Licked Librarian.
Hot Loving Librarian.
Hot Mouth Librarian.
Hot Pants Librarian.
Hot to Trot Librarian.
The Hottest Librarian
In Heat Librarian
Lash the Librarian!
A Librarian Enslaved.
The Librarian Gets Hot.
Librarian in Bondage.
Librarian in Chains.
The Librarian Licks Big Ones
The Librarian Loves It
The Librarian Loves to Lick.
The Librarian Slave.
The Librarian With the Hots.
The Librarian's Boys.
The Librarian's Hot Fun.
The Librarian's Hot Lips.
The Librarian's Hot Urges.
A Librarian's Training.
Licking the Librarian.
Line Up for the Librarian.
Naughty Voyeur Librarian.
Nympho Librarian.
The Oral Librarian.
Overeager Librarian.
Raped and Roped Librarian.
Sally - Sexy Librarian.
Sex Behind the Stacks.
Three-way with the Librarian.
What a Librarian!

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Love and Lust - A Sex Journal, by Susie Bright

Filling in one of those year-end “best book I’ve read” surveys, I found myself in a peculiar position - knowing exactly what my favorite book is, but never having actually read, or even seen, a complete copy. And by “complete,” I mean with every page filled with words (and illustrations), and every word meaning the world to its author.

Susie Bright’s Love and Lust: A Sex Journal is one of the gifts that appeared for my birthday this year, and it’s been by my bedside ever since. A lot of it has been filled in as well, with the random thoughts and memories that a journal invites. But I really don’t care about my copy. I want to read yours. And yours. And yours. And you over there/ Yours, too.

Sexual confessions are fascinating, but all the more so when they’re written without any thought for some future audience. Because who, aside from the occasional megalomaniacal “man (or woman) of letters,” would ever keep a diary with the intent of it some day being published? And even they would probably draw the line at going to town with this one.

Have you ever had sex with a person you didn’t know at all - a stranger?

What’s the fantasy that would be most likely to arouse you [when you’re not]?

What’s a sexual secret you’ve never shared with anyone?

The format is simple; every page or thereabouts is headed with a question. And the rest of the page is blank, for you to fill in as you wish.

What kind of sex do you think you’ll never like very much?

What’s the sexiest thing to eat or drink before bed?

Okay, I’ve read all the reviews of this book on Amazon, and very insightful they are too, discussing all the ways this book might open your mind to the true sexual being that lives beneath your exterior. How you will reveal hidden depths and uncover secret fantasies. All of which is very honorable, and I’m sure you’re all itching to make such discoveries about yourself. And others.

Do you know anything about the sexual history of any of your family members?

For me, though, this book’s allure would be what you might discover about total strangers, were you to get your hands on their private versions of the book. I don’t know how many copies this book sold... right now, it’s Amazon ranking is 721,118, for what that’s worth. But, just so we have a number to play with, let’s say there’s around eight thousand copies out there, of which three-quarters were started and around half that were completed. That would mean there’s three thousand editions of this book sitting out there, and every single one of them is different.

Imagine that! Three thousand completely unique, handwritten stories, and every word in them tells a truth that the author never dreamed would be read by someone else. Well, almost every word.

Write three sexual confessions about yourself. Make two of them true and one of them a lie.

It’s a voyeur’s utopia, a pervert’s paradise, and quite possibly the greatest erotic treasure trove in existence today. The greatest, and the most unobtainable, because even if the author of every edition was a blogger, whose life is lived so lividly on (updated daily, so my stalkers don’t feel lonely), still there will be secrets that only they know. And which would only be shared here.

Are there any sex words you won’t say?

What was the most embarrassing, stupid moment in your early sex life?

The journal is not perfect. More than a handful of questions could have been lifted from a women’s magazine quiz page, and a few of them would be more suited to one of those bumper books of word games and brain teasers that gather dust in the drug store. I neither know nor care what my favorite sexual quotations might be... or does “fuck, you’re a dirty girl!” count?

But there’s no rule that says you have to take the questions literally, so long as you take your answers to heart, because nobody’s going to see what you wrote unless you ever choose to let them.

So, in the spirit of full disclosure, nine questions from the diary are scattered through this posting. And I will now give you the answers. In no particular order, of course....

The human tripod.
I honestly didn’t know what to do next!
Drew Barrymore.
I always come from anal, I have at least two blowjob dreams a month and I once masturbated with my mom’s vibrator.
Not that I can think of.
More than they realize!

Thursday, December 15, 2011

A Night at the Ace

It’s one for the money.... The music was loud but the room was even louder, two hundred voices raised to make themselves heard and setting up a wall of sound that was almost physical, buffeting you the moment you squeezed through the front door. The air was thick too, with cigarette smoke and sweat, but something else too, the smell of the beach that was in everyone’s clothes, sea air and seagulls, cheap deck chairs and ice cream, pumped up adrenalin and the tang of spilled blood.

“Held him down and smashed his fucking face in.”

“Cracked him round the head with a piece of fucking driftwood.”

“He looked like he’d gone twenty rounds with Cassius Clay.”

“Fucking Mods.”

We’d been back from Brighton for less than an hour and already the legends were beginning to grow. By tomorrow, a handful of parka-clad pansies with bright bloodied noses would have become a slaughter of Somme-like proportions. But we bathed in our triumph regardless, and the victory party was just getting started.

Come on little baby, let's move it and a-groove it.... Vintage Cliff on the jukebox, and the first girls had already wriggled out of their shirts, to dance giggling and topless beneath unzipped leather jackets. A few guys followed suit and my hand brushed tight stomachs as I pushed through the crowd, to be brushed back by hands that did not know who I was, but didn’t especially care. My eyes were caught by liquid brown, the guy we called Buddy because that’s all he ever played, and he laughed as he lifted me up off my feet, till I popped like a cork above the heads of the crowd.

Laughing back, I wrapped my arms round his neck, my fingernails digging the hot flesh of his back, and he twirled me round a couple of times before depositing me back on the ground. I clung to him still and his hands cupped my breasts, still covered by the shirt that I’d slept in last night. I broke my own grip and pulled the fabric up; my nipples grazed his palms and he squeezed as he kissed me, his tongue driving in like his bike through that cafe, sending seniors screaming and flying out the door, but my tongue fought back, coiling round his as I pulled his head down to my height.

If you knew Peggy Sue.... My body fell back against whoever stood behind me, and other hands cradled me as Buddy pressed against me, kneading my ass through my tired, dirty Levis. I broke the kiss to breathe and Buddy bit my neck... the bastard, how did he know to do that then? My legs liquified and I scrabbled for balance, my hand hooked the buckle of his BSA belt and I tugged just enough to squeeze fingers inside.

Now it was his turn to groan as my nail grazed hot flesh, and I felt him suck his stomach in to give me more room to maneuver, fishing around inside his tight pants, seizing his cock as it hung halfway hard, and drawing it up to point at the sky. Then I flattened my palm and started to rub, feeling him swelling and growing beneath me. I matched my rhythm to the pounding of the jukebox... be-bop-a-lula, up down faster, my wrist against the helmet that spread against my pulsebeat, my middle finger at his balls, feeling great and fiery as Jerry Lee roared out. Goodness gracious....

Buddy bit my ear and I bit him back, clinging to the flesh of his neck, tattooing a lovebite into his throat and he pinched my nipples in response, as those other hands strayed between my legs to my cunt and started to rub through the seam of my jeans. I thought of the surf that crashed on the beach, and it felt like those same tides were flooding my crotch. Without thinking I ground my hips hard against those fingers and knowing that no-one would be letting me fall, I chanced reaching out with my other, free hand, returning the favor against coarse denim and fly.

My hands moved in unison, my cunt grinding greedy, sucking Buddy’s tongue till I thought my jaw was breaking, then turning as other lips fell on my face, and licking the skin that brushed unshaven against my cheek. Then a cry and a splash of thick burning wet as Buddy’s legs buckled and he came against my hand, his cum splashing up to the sleeve of my leather, and I pulled my arm out from the grip of his pants, smearing his orgasm across his bare stomach, then raising my hand to my mouth for a taste of what remained... the taste that sent me hurtling over the edge, and as I came the guy behind me seemed to melt into my grip and I was squeezing sodden denim over a pumping, pulsing bulge.

Buddy was still looking at me, grinning sharp teeth as he lit a cigarette... handed it to me then lit one for himself. Since my baby left me.... I reached up on tiptoe and kissed his lips softly, the tang of his cum still sharp on my own, and I set my eyes once again on the bar at the back. I had a long way to go before I got there, and a lot of hot bodies to push through till I reached it.

Tall and dark, tattooed and DA-ed, in grease-stained denims, a body half tumbled, half threw himself in my path, his hands on my shoulders to break his fake fall as his mouth opened wide to suck on my tit. My head twisted round to where I’d left Buddy, and that might have been his head I saw tipping backwards, as a slender beehived shape knelt at his feet. Good luck to her, I giggled, if he has any strength left. And I dropped to my knees as well, tearing at the trousers that were thrusting out at eye level.

I still wanted that drink.

The Best Advice I've Had All Year

Thanks to my friend Eli....

"You are young and pretty - get drunk, go for it and think 'ewww' afterwards"

So last night, that's what I did.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Just because she's lovely

I've not mentioned Faye Reagan for a few weeks, but having just emerged from a marathon viewing of Girlfriend DVDs, the best of which all seem to feature her in one stunning capacity or another, I thought I'd share another favorite pic. You'll find more, as usual, here, but in the meantime, here's an extra treat for anyone (me, me) who wants to see Faye Reagan sucking cock. She does it so well!

And for fans of the younger Ms Reagan, in her early-porn days as Faye Valentine, here's something else. My advice... fast forward through the opening chatter (the guy doing the interview sounds like one of the dudes from Ghost Hunters).

CD art of the Week

My latest discovery and, therefore, musical obsession is Zazie, a French singer who has been around since the late 1990s-or-so, but who wins my heart with this cover design....

see and hear more here.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Jerking on the dancefloor

It was one of those clubs where they make you check your bags at the door, and big red-lettered signs warn against taping, filming or smoking.

But they never said anything about the use of sex toys. Especially ones you weren't even expecting to find.

The music was so loud that you had to shout when you whispering, and the dance floor was so packed that you had no choice but to move with the rest of the crowd, a rhythmic swaying and surging that threatened to knock you lurching off balance even as the people packed against you made certain that you wouldn’t ever fall.

I closed my eyes and went with the flow, only dimly aware of all the points on my body where others were squashed against me – an elbow here, a shoulder there, a purse somewhere else, and I don’t know what it was about that pressure on my ass but I knew it wasn’t anything I’d have expected to find. I turned my head as much as I could and the guy standing behind me caught my eye and smiled, which was when I knew for sure what it was. He had a hard-on like you wouldn’t believe and the only thing stopping it from sliding up my ass were his jeans and mine.

I tried to wriggle away but I couldn’t; the crowd was simply too thick. And talking of thickness... I smiled to myself which is when I realized that a part of me really wasn’t trying too hard to get away. There’s something oddly arousing about having a complete stranger just a few millimeters of denim away from fucking you up the ass, arousing and forbidden and heart-in-mouth scary as well, like when you're sitting on the couch while your parents are visiting, knowing that your favorite remote control vibrator is still stuffed down the side... and the remote control itself is in full sight on the table.

And when a particularly hard surge separated us for a moment, I was shocked to find myself feeling disappointed. He was still behind me, I knew, but his body had changed its angle just enough that the wonderful pressure I’d been riding for so long was gone. And I missed it.

I wriggled my ass, hoping to make contact again. Nothing. Just the hardness of his hips… but at least I knew I was close. I shifted from one foot to the other, stepped a little to the left – ah, that’s better. He was still off target but an inch or two more – and then I felt him again, hard between my butt cheeks and I wondered what had changed to make him feel so much more “real”? Which was when I reached behind me with one hand and came into contact with flesh. Hard, hot flesh.

My mind somersaulted. I turned again, and he was still looking at me. Not a bad looking guy, either – probably no-one I’d have gone home with, or even looked at twice under normal circumstances. But the volume of the music, the heat of the crowd, the sudden unexpectedness of everything else ensured that these weren't normal circumstances, I curled my fingers around his cock, moved away slightly to give myself room, and began gently jerking him off to the rhythm, long hard tugs that pulled the breath from his body, short, fast twists that just seemed to make him harder.

My wrist was twisted but I didn’t care, and I'm fairly certain that whatever I was doing is not in the Handjob Handbook, either. The last time I browsed through my copy (last week, if you must know... ), I would have sworn there wasn't a grip that wasn't included, and I still recommend it as a Bible to anyone who thinks a quick flick of the wrist is all you need to master.

With one exception. I don't think anyone has put this position in a book. I don't even know if he was comfortable, his penis a pretzel that followed my fist no matter where the sway of the crowd sent it swinging. My grip was tight but the crush kept jogging me, and there was one point where my arm was bent at such at a sharp angle that I can only imagine what it felt like for him. But I think that was when his arm draped my shoulder and a hand slipped down to my boob, roughly massaging through my tee until one nipple felt like it was ready to be shot out of a cannon, and the other was screaming "hey, what about me?"

And me, I just kept on jerking him, pulling on that long, fat cock and trying to close my mind to all the other thoughts that were cascading through my mind, like dragging him out via the back fire exit and fucking him senseless in the alley outside; like pushing him into the ladies room and blowing him against the wash basins... like all these things that just weren't going to work because the club was too crowded, the pit was too packed and it's too late now because ... oh my! He's coming, a sudden flood that splashed hot on my fist, and I kept going, still tugging and rubbing, massaging him back to warm, sticky softness until his hand touched mine to let me know I should stop.

I wiped my hand dry on his jeans and turned my attention back to the concert, and the next time I looked around, he was gone.

I went home and wrote some notes in the margin of my Handjob Handbook.

This post was sponsored by EdenFantasys.
Sex toys - EdenFantasys adult toys store

Sunday, December 11, 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 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.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011


It wasn’t quite our first date. We’d already spent a few evenings dancing round the local beer and burger bars, and there was that night out in the city where something might have happened if it hadn’t been so late. So no, not our first date. But it was definitely the first one where I knew in advance that it was time to have some fun, and as I dressed in the time before he picked me up, I made sure that it would be as easy to undress if I needed to.

Mark was, as a friend pointed out, quite a catch. Good job, good looks, good taste. Tall enough that I could listen to his heart when we danced close, and when he met me from work one night and a colleague remarked what a big car he had, it was fun to reply with a knowing pause. “Yeah, he has a very big... car.” I’d felt that while we were dancing, too, straining to get out of the garage, its engine roaring and the oil already boiling. I like a big... car.

I sat on the bed and opened the drawer, the one where I keep my motor maintenance tools. A packet of condoms, because you never know. A cock ring (unused, haha) because... again, you never know. And a tube of Good Head because, whatever else happened, I had made up my mind that that would.

The first time I encountered an oral sex potion, it struck me as one of the world’s most redundant inventions, a sex toy for people who just didn't want to play. I like (strike that... I love) my cock raw. I like it real. I want to taste the sweat and the flesh and the thrill. The idea of wrapping my mouth round a strawberry shortcake and expecting to get off on that was - well, think about it. You may want to orgasm every time you go to Dairy Queen, but I’d rather save some things for later. Plus, there’s a lot of things I look for when I’m giving a blowjob, but a sugar high is not on the list.

And then I worked out that it’s really not for me, is it? The flavor is just a bonus (or not) and the real thrill lies in the tingle and torment that the potion pours onto him. And so I shopped around discretely, and tried them all out curiously, and I’m sure glad that AmEx don’t itemize every purchase. Because my bill sometimes reads like a candy store. And I dread to think what the garbage man thinks....

Anyway, I tried a lot and tested more (guys sometimes come prepared as well), but finally settled on this one. Doc Johnson's Good Head. Cinnamon flavor. There’s a passion fruit flavor as well, but we’re getting back into the realms of food tasting there. Cinnamon, on the other hand, dances just close enough to the right earthy taste, with enough of a tang to accentuate his, and just a hint of exotica to keep your mind focussed. And I don’t know how long a tube is supposed to last, but I’m onto my third. Yeah, it’s that good. I weighed the tube in my hand and figured it was good for a little while longer, then dropped it into my purse. Okay, I’m ready.

So was Mark. A thirty minute drive, a homely Italian restaurant, and then onto the dancefloor where he held me so close that it felt like he was fucking me through four layers of clothing. He knew it, too, his eyes holding mine every time that I opened them, and his hand pressing gently into the small of my back, in that spot that always makes me gasp “yeah.” I was impressed. Most guys aren’t even aware of that one. Then out into a completely unforecast rain-that-comes-sideways for a run across a mall-sized parking lot to where he’d left the car. And we sat in there steaming for a few laughing minutes, as he apologized for not having an umbrella or a towel, and I berated Chevrolet for not including a clothing-sized heater among the car’s basic features. It seemed to have everything else.

Mark leaned over and kissed me, and a proper kiss tonight, not the tentative peck or the softly probing tongue tip that had wrapped up our other evenings, and I kissed back, my hands bunching tightly on his shoulders, then breaking away as I wrung out a handful of rain water. “Wow, we really did get soaked through,” I laughed, and then a little more seriously, “we probably should get out of the wettest.”

He laughed. The image of us driving naked back to town probably hit us both at the same time, but he wriggled out of his jacket as I removed mine, then seeing him pause to watch what I did next, I scooted my ass off the seat a few inches, and unbuttoned my skirt, laying it flat across my lap but relieved to no longer be sitting in a puddle. Well, not a rain puddle, anyway.

He still looked uncertain, but even in the dark I could see his pants were sopping, dark patches of damp that reached up to his knees. “I won’t watch,” I giggled and I turned to face the side window, as he sighed and I heard him begin to wriggle, unclasping his belt, popping the fly button, then squirming to tug wet cloth from his flesh.

A truck turned into the parking lot, the lights bright in my eyes and I instinctively turned towards an interior that suddenly was bathed in light, with Mark frozen in mid rearrangement of his briefs. They’d hoisted themselves down with his pants and right now, he was wrestling to pull them back up. But even once he’d succeeded, and though the moment barely lasted more than maybe ten seconds, one sight was seared into my mind. He was magnificent.

I leaned across and kissed him again, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his tummy, and I felt his cock strain towards it as he shifted in his seat in that way that guys instinctively do when fresh flesh gets that close. Another flash as a car came into the lot, and I saw his eyes flicker, first down and then outside. “Maybe we should move to a less populated area?” he asked, and as I kissed him again, I let my hand slip, a few inches down but not quite all the way. “Yes, let’s.”

I sat back in my chair as he buckled his seat belt, reached into my purse as he ran the wiper blades for a moment, clearing the windshield of puddles and glare. I fumbled, but I’ve done this before; flick the top off with one finger, then squeeze with my fist; replace the lid with a thumb, then raised his hand to my mouth as he finally put the car in gear and eased his car gently out of the parking space. His big... car.

I held him now and my tongue danced with flavor, and we were moving so slowly as we headed out of the mall, out onto a slip road that ran down the side. And my fingers followed his driving, circling then straightening out, and as he looked around for somewhere to park, I opened my mouth and garaged him.

His foot hit the pedal as the good old, good tasting Good Head hit his nerve endings, and he cried out a “fuck!” as I started to suck. And I don’t know where he ended up parking one car, but I’ll say one thing. When he finally unloaded the other one... the big one... well, I never dreamed it had so much trunk space.

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Sunday, December 4, 2011


The hotel bar was more or less exactly as I expected it to be, The usual gaggle of businessmen, brokers and touristy types, their general uniformity broken only by the occasional girl who might have been a hooker, but was as likely somebody’s mistress, tarted up for a night of naughty passion with some guy she only suspected might be married. I ordered a drink and a salad and took a seat by the window, wondering what a lone woman in a strange city was supposed to do when she didn’t know a soul.

I pulled out my book, and was glad that the front cover didn’t really give too much away, at least to anyone passing by. Editor Rachel Kramer Bussel’s Do Not Disturb doesn’t completely hide its light beneath a bushel, the subtitle “Hotel Sex Stories,” is clear enough if you look. But two bare legs on a bed could be anything in these days when book covers have so little to do with their contents, and when I opened the book, my fingers covered the words. I know, because I checked.

Hotel erotica is a peculiar beast. Bussel’s introduction sets the stage, by telling us all the options that could be open, and hinting at a few of the ones that will be taking place. But the first and third stories once the book gets underway Amanda Earl’s breathtaking “Welcome To The Aphrodisiac Hotel” and Stan Kent’s “From Russia With Lust” don’t really go in the expected directions, as they concentrate more on the voyeur than the vice girl in us all; Earl’s heroine watching and willing a couple to hook up; Kent standing at his window, masturbating while he watches another couple fuck. And there’s more in “Mirror Mirror” too, although Andrea Dale’s darlings aren’t the strangers in a strange town, meeting for the first time in a tangle of unfamiliar limbs. Because that’s what hotels are really all about, and that’s why I bought this book with me. When in Rome, after all....

I turn back to my paperback, the first I pulled from the teetering pile of erotic books that live by my bed, and leaf back to a story I’ve already read. Author Tess Danesi at “The Royalton.” A high class call girl on her latest assignation. I gazed across at the woman who had just entered the bar, and was standing in the doorway, her eyes uncertainly searching the room. She is dressed in the same way that Danesi writes, not outwardly of course because it’s too public for that, But “lace topped thigh highs and delicate lacy undergarments” would suit her to a tee and maybe she catches the light in my eyes, or maybe she just doesn’t want to share any of the other half vacant tables. A few lonely-looking salesman types, a couple with a rambunctious baby... she looks around and makes her choice.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

I shook my head. “Please….”

She was stunning. Taller than me, with reddish hair that cascaded to her shoulders, perfect features, perfect figure. Her top was tight enough to show off the swell of her breasts, her pants framed legs that went on forever. I wanted her more than I had ever wanted any other woman; wanted her like the two women in the book wanted one another, Elizabeth and Maxie in a cheap hotel, one newly married and convinced she is frigid, one older and gay with a psych degree. “Heart Shaped Holes” by Madlyn March, I wondered if my companion had one of those? And what it would taker to fill it?

Her name was Lisa. We talked, we laughed, we got on well. We took a walk through downtown, we stopped at a liquor store and picked up some wine, and then back at the hotel, we agreed to take our party up to her room. And with my heart in my mouth, I kissed Lisa for the first time as we sat dialing channels on the hotel TV, feeling just like... I flicked through the chapters in the book in my mind. The housewife on the sequestered jury showing off her sex toys to a fellow captive? No, not her. Teresa fantasizing tropical grottoes in a snow-swept Massachusetts motel room? Not her, either.

I closed my eyes and wrote my own story, Jenny in a hotel bar being swept to paradise by a girl she’d never met and maybe that was the most exciting part of it all. In all the stories I’d read and grown wet to, there was always that one point where you just know that something’s going to happen. A word, a gesture, a glance, a something. Like in “Tightly Tucked,” when the cleaner comes along and catches Elian alone with a boner. You just know she’s going to want it, even before you know that he wants her. That wasn’t what was happening here. Neither of us had said, or even hinted, at anything more than a drink and conversation, but the wine we’d been sinking since we got here knew otherwise. It just seemed the right thing to do.

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

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

Lisa’s mouth was on my abdomen, my tummy, my waist. She was taking her time, and every minute stretched out into hours of exquisite tease and tension, until at last her face was between my legs, breathing me in and purring as I bucked my hips towards her, crying out with impatience and lust.

“I lifted my ass and thrust against her mouth... she sucked and licked and nibbled my pussy like she’d been doing it all her life. Maybe she had.” A line from Kristina White’s “The Other Woman,” and when I read it on the plane home, when tonight was all just a memory, I knew exactly what she meant when she wrote that. “This was real and hot and I wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything in my life.”

I reached out too, to touch her where she was touching me, to feel her and taste her and drink her in…. She moved away quickly, but I moved even faster.

My hand clasped her pussy – and something else. A strap-on. She was wearing a strap-on. My mind jolted for a moment, wondering when she’d put it on. Or had she been wearing it all evening? And did it even matter? My right hand held her face to my cunt, my left hand felt her toy’s length and thickness, and wrestled with her pants to free it from its cage.

She was still struggling to get away, but with less and less conviction as her buttons finally parted and I pulled her towards my mouth, breathed in and… it wasn’t a strap-on. It was a cock, a long, hard, beautiful and very real cock. As real as the bare breasts that she’d revealed when she undressed me, and which she’d let me suck on just a few moments earlier, as real as the orgasm that was building up inside me. I pulled her into my mouth and sucked.

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

The book was forgotten, my mind drained of its contents because it was drained of everything. The threesome that got me so hot on the plane, and the short trip to Memphis that sucked me so deeply into author Gwen Masters’ plot that I actually had to put the book down and remind myself that I was only going to Dallas. All the stories were forgotten because I was living them now, and who cares about plot when you reach the denouement? “My body felt like liquid fire,” Masters declared and that’s not a feeling you get every day. “I exploded... with a cascade of color behind my eyelids.” Yes! That’s it exactly.

And afterwards… Lisa tried to explain, but I hushed her. I didn’t care. Later, I wished I had asked more questions; later, I wished we'd swapped cell numbers of e-mails or something, wished I'd handed her my copy of Do Not Disturb for to scribble her info on the fly leaf, in the knowledge that she could disturb me whenever she wanted. And I still regret that we didn't.

But one thing is for sure. I love this book, and I love the things it reminds me of. Lisa is still one of the most beautiful women I have ever met. And she owned one of the most beautiful cocks.

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Thursday, December 1, 2011


by Dave Thompson and Chrissie Bentley

Coming in 2012

We are seeking adult movie fans to contribute to an exciting new book on the world of adult parody movies.

We are looking for short (250 word average) reviews of your favorite (or otherwise) XXX parody movies - visit and check out their user-supplied reviews for the format. There is no limit to the number of submissions by any writer. There will be no payment for these reviews, but all published contributors will receive a copy of the final book.

THIS AIN’T THE OFFICIAL PORN PARODY XXX ENCYCLOPEDIA (YES IT IS), by authors Chrissie Bentley and Dave Thompson, is the first authoritative guide to this new world of Triple X cinematic sensation, a fully illustrated encyclopedia that weeds the great from the grisly, then draws out no less than 50 parodies for the full behind-the- scenes treatment, including interviews with the cast and makers, and side-by-side comparisons with the original program/movie.

Both writers are well-known in the field, Thompson as the author of Black & White & Blue, a study of the erotic film industry in its vintage infancy; Bentley as one of America’s leading erotic short storytellers, whose work has appeared in such titles as Best Women’s Erotica 2011, X-Cite Books’ Cocktails series and many more.

The book will be irreverent, fun, entertaining and rude. But it will also be authoritative, educational and eye opening, with a widespread appeal to both the erotic and the mainstream movie fan. Its visual content, utilizing material from both the parody and the original movie/program will ensure a vibrant and exciting presentation, while chapters of interest beyond the individual movies will include the views and opinions of an estimated fifty adult and non-adult film stars and makers, past and present.

These will include genre-specific fields such as the history of the XXX parody; problems faced (and solved) in creating a spoof; crossing over to the mainstream viewer; and more general topics such as censorship and piracy.

please e-mail submissions, and other inquiries to: Chrissie Bentley, bentleybook (at) yahoo (dot) com

Deadline March 31 2012