In London in the 1960s, pornography was a man’s world. It was viewed by men, written by men, directed by men and filmed by men. If they hadn’t needed actresses to play a part on camera, it would probably have been made by men as well. And then a woman came along, and changed that world completely. This is her story. The mid-1960s were the golden age of truly underground erotic film making, the last grand flowering of the trade before the progressive liberalization of the arts, the advent of new forms of technology (beginning with the VHS tape), and the mercurial success of the movie Deep Throat transformed a once deeply secretive and self-involved industry into… indeed, a mainstream industry. Tonight at 8 returns us to those halcyon days; to a gray and overcast landscape of dirty raincoats and secretive doormen, of darkened club rooms and menacing mobsters; and a square mile of seedy businessmen for whom sex films were made for fun as much as finance – at least by the people on either side of the camera. It is the semi-fictional, but wholly truthful autobiography of one of the era’s most prolific film-makers – a XXX novella that could double as a confessional text book, but which pulls no punches in either direction.
Girls... want to know the details before they’ll take the leap.
You begin by telling them who the films are being made for. Men. Then you tell them what men are like when it comes to sex. Stupid. You explain how there’s a certain sequence of acts that they all expect to see. They want to see you kiss. They want to see him sucking your titties. They want to see him licking your fanny. They want to see you sucking his cock, and they want to see you fuck. Then, at the end, they want to see him pull out of your body and spunk up somewhere else.
“On your titties if you’d prefer. On your face if you’ll let him. In your mouth if you want him to. And that’s the important thing. It’s what you want that matters. Not him, not the actor. Once the camera starts rolling, unless I call out something else, you’re in total command. And even if I do call out, it’ll be something that you and I have already talked about.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“As a film maker? Definitely on the face, preferably in the mouth.” I told her my thoughts on the grace and beauty; how even the most gorgeous woman in the world becomes even lovelier with a cock in her mouth, and how the moment of his orgasm, if she handles it without screaming or spluttering, is quite possibly the loveliest, sexiest, sight on earth.
“Who would I do it with, Kevin or Nick?”
“Okay, this is where you can say no if you want. It’d be Kevin and Nick. And, as it’s your first time, I’ll pay you seventy five.”
Now you know why Tina came to work with me the next day. She wasn’t going to let me out of her sight.
Kevin and Nick were bang on time, and they didn’t look at all surprised to see Tina waiting with me.
I explained the set up I’d devised, which was basically exactly what had happened last night when they met her. We’d go to the park, there’d be a long shot of Tina walking down the bridle path alone, then she’d sit on the bench with her face in her hands. Kevin and Nick would approach from the other direction, stop and talk with her for a moment, ask if they can help, and bring her to the flat. Kevin would produce an A-Z (I’d bought one myself on my lunch break), Nick would make some tea. Then, while Tina leafed through the pages, Kevin would stand behind her, reading over her shoulder, and…
I hadn’t told Tina this part, because I needed her to seem genuinely surprised, which is a lot harder on silent film than you might think. Of course she was expecting something, but I think… because that is how I explained things to her… I think she was expecting Kevin to at least caress her shoulders, maybe bend down to kiss her. Something like that, anyway.
Instead, standing behind her while she studied the map, he unbuttoned his trousers and pulled out his cock, and while Nick tried his best to stifle a giggle, pretended to be fucking her ear.
Tina saw the movement, turned around – and her reaction was better than I even dreamed. With a shriek of laughter, she fell back on the bed, the book for a moment laid across her face. Then she sat back up and with only a quick sideways glance towards me, she took hold of his prick and her mouth closed around it.
I hadn’t really asked her about her past sexual experiences, partly because it was up to her if she wanted to tell me, but also because I don’t necessarily believe that they’re relevant to our work. Obviously you don’t want an actor to completely fall apart when confronted with something they’ve not done before, but at the same time, the emotional and physical responses that you call on when you’re having sex with, shall we say a partner, a lover, a friend, are very different to those you call upon if you’re using your body to make a film.
Not everybody understands that, of course, which is why not everybody could be a blue movie star, and why most men should not even consider it. And I don’t agree, either, with those women who can casually shrug and say they’re not having sex when they’ve still got the spunk leaking out of their fanny. But somewhere in between the two extremes – over-involvement and over-detachment, there is a Happy Land where blue films can be made.
Tina was in that Happy Land. I closed in and her eyes met the lens for a moment, gleaming with pleasure as Kevin’s dick slid in and out. I moved the camera away from my face and mimed gnashing my teeth together; she took Kevin’s cock gently out of her mouth, then closed her teeth on the shaft, gnawing up and down as though it were an ear of corn.
Nick leaned in and said something; I didn’t hear it, but Tina laughed around her mouthful and feigned an elbow to his ribs. It was wonderful to watch them; Nick and Kevin had a chemistry that I knew I could rely upon, but Tina slipped in to their world of private fun and games as though she’d known them all her life.
"TONIGHT AT 8: Behind the scenes of the London blue movie industry, 1967-1969" by Chrissie Bentley. E-book and print, and starring this little lovely!
In London in the 1960s, pornography was a man’s world.
Stag movies and blue films were viewed by men, written by men, directed by men and filmed by men. If they hadn’t needed actresses to play a part on camera, they would probably have been made by men as well.
And then a woman came along, and changed that world completely.
This is her story.
The mid-1960s were the golden age of truly underground erotic film making, the last grand flowering of the trade before the progressive liberalization of the arts, the advent of new forms of technology (beginning with the VHS tape), and the mercurial success of the movie Deep Throat transformed a once deeply secretive and self-involved industry into… indeed, a mainstream industry.
Soho By Spotlight returns us to those halcyon days; to a gray and overcast landscape of dirty raincoats and secretive doormen, of darkened club rooms and menacing mobsters; stag films and blue movies; and a square mile of seedy businessmen for whom sex films were made for fun as much as finance – at least by the people on either side of the camera.
It is the semi-fictional, but wholly truthful autobiography of one of the era’s most prolific film-makers – a XXX novella that could double as a confessional text book, but which pulls no punches in either direction.
A gripping adventure littered with powerful sex; a fearless expose shot through with honesty and emotion, then draped by a sheen of fragile, furtive eroticism, Soho By Spotlight tells the story of Elizabeth Clark… the eye behind the lens of some of the best-loved British porn films of the era.
Rarely more than ten minutes in length, resolutely black and white, and determinedly dirty, movies like Little Girl Lost, Tonight At Eight and Satan's Children come to life in these pages. So does the world in which they were made, a world – once again - of dirty raincoats and secretive doormen, of darkened club rooms and menacing mobsters. And sex so hot that it melts the celluloid.
One of the largest internet credit card processors in the world has recently announced a policy of zero tolerance regarding the use of certain words on sites it represents. How long will it be before all the others follow?
“Gazing out over the verdant fields of rape, my soul abducted by the strains of scat jazz as they drifted hypnotically through the evening air, I could not help but feel....”
There is a war taking place on the internet, and I bet you haven’t even noticed.
It’s not a conflict that will affect many of you. Yet. You know how things work these days, though; you give someone an inch, be they lawmakers, politicians, or just big business mavens, and soon they’ll be taking a mile. There’s not a thing any of us can do to stop them, either.
As regular readers will be aware, I write erotica. Nothing too harsh, nothing too extreme; just good old fashioned girl-meets-boy-and-fucks-him smut. No rape, no incest, no toilet games... nothing nasty at all. In fact, the sentence that opens this article could easily have been drawn from one of my tales. However, if I were to publish it on any one of several erotically themed websites, this is how it would be forcibly rendered:
“Gazing out over the verdant fields of censored, my soul censored by the strains of censoredjazz as they drifted censored through the evening air, I could not help but feel....”
Who is it making this decision? Well, it’s not the webmaster, and it’s not the law. It’s also not the government. It’s not even some shadowy campaign for the removal of filth from the internet, because I am (for now) still permitted to use words like fuck, shit, cock, cunt, and “oh my god, there’s a seventeen inch fluorescent dildo pumping gallons of jizz up my asshole.” It’s a private business that's making the decision.
Credit card processors (IPSPs, or Internet Payment Service Providers) are the lifeblood of the internet. It is they who collect your money when you make a purchase; they who facilitate your subscriptions to pay sites. They're the ones who ensure your financial security whenever you make a payment of any kind.
They are now in such a position of power that they are arbitrarily censoring the content of the websites that rely upon them to sustain the business in the first place.
With minimal editing, this is an e-mail I received today from the webmaster of one of the sites I contribute to:
This concerns your story called "Welcome To Spain"
Unfortunately, I have been forced by the credit card processor to censor certain subjects. Even simply the use of certain words is now strictly forbidden by the credit card processor censored.
I'm afraid your story is affected by this.
In the actual text of your story: Found 1 occurrence(s) of the word hypnotic
To prevent trouble with censored, your story has been adapted. This means the offending words have been replaced with the text [censored]. I am very sorry about this, but I'm afraid I have no reasonable alternative but to comply with the credit card processor's demands.”
Like I said, this probably doesn’t affect you. Or, if it does, maybe you will shrug and say “okay, I’ll just use another word.” However, that’s not really what it’s about, is it? The four words highlighted in my sentence (and the one that proved so offensive in my story) are words that, in the context used, could not offend anybody. “Rape” and “scat” have negative connotations if you wish to see them in that light. However, what if you represent an agricultural organization or cookery website, and wish to highlight your use of rape seed oil? Or what if your site represents a women’s shelter, or even a news site? What if you’re a jazz critic discussing a very specific style of singing? What if you are musician Scatman John, or actor Scatman Crothers? What if you are a psychiatrist offering hypnosis therapy, or a UFO buff discussing alien abduction?
I’ll tell you what -- you’re screwed.
A decade or so ago, when word filtering was still a new toy for internet providers to play with, America Online made major headlines around the world when they outlawed the use of the word “cunt” (among many others). This was great until the local government in the English town of Scunthorpe found their e-mails being routinely blocked by the filters. Filters, presumably, became smarter thereafter, or at least somebody found a way to prevent similar errors from being perpetuated. Common sense spoke out.
Right now, we have to hope that similar lightning will strike again, and that common sense will prevail once more.
Because it’s not the language that is under assault; it’s not erotica, it’s not one person’s right to write smut and call it art. It is free speech. It is creativity. It is the First Amendment, for heaven’s sake. The Supreme Court could not dislodge an author’s right to write, neither could the government, the FBI, or any other legal body in the land. A lot of people fought, were imprisoned and even died to preserve the right of free expression. Perhaps we were naive, but a lot of us thought they had won the war.
Think again. A private company, one of the largest IPSPs on the entire internet, with offices and representation throughout the United States and Europe, has stepped in where politics, religion, and all the other forces of censorship could not, and snatched away that right regardless.
I do not use the IPSP I’m referring to here. So, for the moment, we can continue writing about mesmeric jazz vocalists who steal our souls. We can discuss our favorite 1994 episode of Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman, and our favorite song from Fleetwood Mac’s Mystery To Me CD. We can even post photographs of those beautiful fields of bright yellow that adorn the French countryside between Paris and the Loire.
However, a lot of websites cannot, because someone, somewhere, has declared that the use of certain words to be prohibited. These words are not, incidentally, posted on the company’s website, so you can’t even watch what you say ahead of time. Verboten. "Interdite." Or, as George Orwell would have put it in 1984, they are now "unwords." Forget about Big Brother; it looks like Big Business is who we really need to watch out for.
Since writing the original article, I've received a more complete list of "banned" words. Again, you will notice that no actual vulgarities are included, but there's a lot of very innocent terms whose sexual connotations, while conceivably negative, are almost extraordinarily minimal. Okay, deep breath (you'll need it)... rape (and variations... raped, raping etc) scat / skat (and variations... scatology, scatalogical etc) be[a]stiality incest/incestuous abduct (and variations) kidnap (and variations - so there goes any attempt to dicuss Robert Louis Stevenson's second best-loved novel) Lolita (ditto Vladimir Nabokov's best-loved book) hypnotic, hypnosis, hypnotize, hypnotherapy... in fact, any word beginning with hypno-..., drugs celebrities (and variations/abbreviations thereof)
other terms... necrophilia, pedophilia (and associations - underage, pre-teen etc), zoophilia... fall into illegal territory, so their presence on the list could be considered understandable. At the same time as they brightly highlight another iniquity of this regime, the absolute absence of any human agency in actually checking the context of these words' usage. If you are going to police the Internet, then police it properly.
Right now, the companies employing this system are essentially practicing the linguistic equivalent of racial profiling... the assumption that all uses of a given word are illegal, just because a small handful of them might be.
I knelt on the soft carpet of our living room, my bare knees spread wide, my wet pussy lips dripping onto the shag. To my left stood Greg, his erect cock handsome and hungry. To my right... did I even catch the kid’s name? Maybe... maybe not. I had been so astonished when the now familiar cable truck pulled up in our driveway, and two men, not one, climbed out of the cab, that everything that had happened since then seemed hazy, almost a dream. Greg clutched the work order. This was... what, his fifth visit now; so many that I was sure the people at his head office must be wondering why I kept placing service calls, and so many that I was beginning to suspect that Mark, my husband, was in on the joke as well. First he needed the DVR looked at. Then there was a problem with an outside connection. Then something else, then something else, and each time he told me to call Greg direct, as though he was the only engineer at the entire cable company who understood the precise needs of our household. Which, I thought as I ran my tongue slowly up that beautiful shaft, he might have been. Normally, Greg came alone. And then we would cum together. Today, though, he was accompanied by a younger man, a trainee; he explained, new to the business, new to the world of installation and set-up. And new to the world of sex, I would guess. I don’t even remember how we crossed that border between an engineer doing what engineers do, and Greg and I preparing to do what we usually did, but the boy was with us every step of way, and the only difference between the two men now was, Greg was hard. His colleague was soft. Very soft. So soft that when I opened my mouth to suckle the tip of his dick as it curled down around his balls, I found I could take almost the whole thing inside. And what a treat that was for me, filling my mouth with that gentle warmth, feeling it stir uncertainly but never leaping to the rigid attention of a more experienced man. The boy was shy, he was nervous, he was scared. I would cure him of that. He looked vaguely familiar, said a quiet voice in the back of my mind, but I stilled it. I’ve lived in this city my entire life; maybe I’d passed him in a store, maybe we used the same gym, maybe he’d worked the registers at 7-11. He didn’t seem to recognize me, anyway, but I knew I could make him remember me now. I released him from my jaws and let my tongue tease his balls instead. “You like that?” I breathed as he let out a gentle moan. He nodded. “Yes ma’am,” and I giggled at his formality, then turned and sucked on Greg for a moment. “And did you like that?” I asked, and Greg hissed his approval as his cock twitched in my hand. It was a feeling I never tired of. Back and forth I went, softly sucking at one, gently devouring the other. Some girls love shoes, some girls love purses. I love cock. Always have. I can’t even remember how old I was, the first night I woke up from a dream so vivid that I could still taste the meat that I’d been sucking in my sleep, but from the first time a casual remark by a girlfriend at school filled me in on fellatio, no other sexual act had even registered in my mind. I was a born cock sucker, and I was good at it as well. Taking Greg deep into my throat, the boy’s cock still lay at comparative rest, swelling a little but still not at ease. I could feel his eyes on me, though; feel him watching as I sucked on his workmate, and my hand gently stroked him, approving as finally his softness began to uncurl and grow firmer. I turned my head and slowly closed my lips over his helmet, thrilling as I realized that, if he got much fatter and harder than this, I would barely be able to fit him into my mouth. His cock head was huge, growing larger every moment, and my jaw was already aching as the strength flowed into his shaft. I released him and shuffled back a bit. Remember the movie Reality Bites? Remember the bit where two boastful guys claim they had a swordfight with their cocks inside a girl’s mouth? I was still a virgin when I first saw that movie, but that image has clung to my fantasies ever since. I grasped each cock and tugged it, pulling its owner closer. Then angled them both to my wide-open mouth and invited them both to push in. Have you ever seen two cocks side by side, close-up? Two meaty firm helmets pressing together, pushing one another, thrilling to the touch of one another without their owners even realizing it? And have you ever then stretched out a questing tongue and coated them both in warm, hungry saliva, greasing paths already slick with precum, while they push at your lips and stretch your mouth wide... I knew I would never fit both of them in; knew that the boy alone would fill my head with his heat. But I was going to give it a good go regardless, and the feel of them fighting to slip themselves in... the moans and sighs the two men were making as their erections slid closer to orgasm... I cried out as I came with the sheer excitement and anticipation of it all, and as my mouth widened, the boy jammed himself in - and flooded me! Around my smothered gurgles, around my screaming jaw, his hot cum filled my mouth, and his hands were holding my head still as he fucked the last pumping spurts into me. Before abruptly pulling out as Greg plunged in too, and instead of fighting to swallow just one mouthful of cum, now I was choking on two. It was amazing how different they tasted; one sharply sweet, one tongue-teasingly bitter; one thick and heavy, the other light and juicy, then combining on my tongue and in my throat; a flavor, I knew, of which I’d never tire, but one that filled my mouth so much that I could never swallow it all. I could feel it seeping from my mouth, down Greg’s shaft; dripping onto my breasts, my knees, the carpet. I was drowning in cum and it was flooding my home, and even as the two men pulled their pants up and prepared to leave, I remained on the carpet, their cum drying on my face, gasping with shock and delight They left and the phone rang. I stood unsteadily and walked to the kitchen, where it was charging on the table. It was Mark. Calling to ask “has the cable guy come yet?” I summoned up whatever strength I had left, praying that my voice would not betray me. “Yes, he came. Everything’s good.” “That’s great,” Mark answered. “You can show me when I get home.” Then he hung up and my eyes fell automatically onto the wet patch of carpet where my pussy had dripped and two cocks had spilled their goodness. “Yes I can,” I thought. “But show you what?” Okay. You’re probably thinking, as I sometimes do, that Mark knows exactly what I do when he’s working. Knows and approves. His insistence on my always calling Greg to the house... his insistence on there always being one more reason to do so. The way he knows the precise moment to call, and knows the precise things to say as well. The first time it happened, I put it down to coincidence. The second time it happened, I went searching for a camera, or at least a hidden microphone. I’ve seen the commercials on TV, how you can set up your home security system to send live video feeds to your phone while you’re out, but I also knew that the only security we have is a burglar alarm which goes off when the wind blows, a dog who only barks at birds, and what may or may not be a working antique shotgun that Mark inherited from his grandfather. Besides, if there was a camera, I’d have found it when I’m cleaning; and, like I said, I’ve looked. Which left just one possibility. That Greg was in on it too, calling my husband as he left after each visit and telling him what we’d done. An idea which is simultaneously so damned hot, and so damned paranoid, that I put it out of my mind right away. It had to be coincidence. The same coincidence, I decided, that prompted Mark to walk straight to the stain on the carpet when he got home, kneel down and run his fingers over it, then ask if the dog had had an accident. No, but your slut wife did, I wanted to reply, because that way we’d get the whole thing out in the open, and I could stop wondering what was really happening. But of course I didn’t; I just got a damp cloth and did what I should have done when it happened. And hadn’t, for reasons I don’t want to think about. A week passed. I hadn’t seen Greg, because Mark seemed happy with the way his home theater set-up was operating, and he’d not brought over his friends since that night when Monday Night Football became a four on one romp, with me providing the fuck holes. To be honest, I think Mark was still feeling a little weird after one of the gang, Frank, gave his cock a little nibble after he’d finished fucking me. He didn’t say anything, but when I tried to bring up the subject again, and let him know how hot I thought it looked, he laughed and told me I had cock sucking on the brain... and then asked me to suck his cock. Today, though, he surprised me. “I want you to wear something kinky this evening.” I eyed him cautiously, my heart already beginning to pound. “Kinky as in... leather? Lace? A gas mask?” I once dreamed that I was sucking cock with a gas mask on and woke up to one of the most amazing orgasms I have ever had. I don’t even know if it would actually be possible to do it, and somehow I doubt that it would (at least while wearing any of the models I’ve looked at since). But a girl can hope.... “I’ll leave that to your imagination,” he smiled, but I already had my answer. Browsing the mall a few days before, dropping by the novelty gifts store that had been a fixture there since I was teenaged, I’d spotted rolls of yellow “crime scene” tape for sale. The same tape you see on television cop shows; the same tape, coincidentally enough, that bedecked the girl whom a guy at the gym had tattooed across his abdomen. It looked amazing on his flesh. It was going to look even better on mine. I bought the tape, drove home. A couple of hours with a needle and thread, a few tentative fittings as I made some adjustments; by the time I was finished, I not only had a new bikini with the words “crime scene’ emblazoned across my cunt, ass and tits, I’d also fashioned a matching harness that I could clip to any piece of furniture in the house. I didn’t know what Mark had planned for tonight, but he could never say I wasn’t prepared. He arrived home alone and I didn’t tell him how I’d spent my day. He didn’t ask, either, and we ate our dinner around the TV news as usual, loaded the dishwasher, cleaned up the kitchen, all those little domestic duties that married couples always seem to do together. Then he looked at his watch and smiled. “We’ll have company in about fifteen minutes. Do you want to get yourself ready?” I nodded and walked upstairs. He still hadn’t told me who we were expecting. But I kind of guessed that it wouldn’t be his boss. Or his mother. I changed and came back to the living room. He looked up at me and I saw approval etch itself over his face. Especially when he saw the harness. Even more when he saw the blindfold. “Tonight,” he told me, “I just want you to relax. I don’t want you to wait on our guests, I don’t want you up and down fetching drinks and snacks. I just want you sitting down, relaxed and enjoying yourself. And to make sure of that....” He rose and, figuring out my harness in a flash, lashed my body to the recliner I had just settled down upon. My arms were free, but my legs were spread wide, tied to the legs of the broad, heavy antique coffee table he’d inherited from his gran (I wondered what she’d think if she knew). And he’d arranged me so the first thing anyone would see when they walked through the door was - me, spread-eagled across the La-z-boy, bedecked in crime tape and... blind. Mark had found the blindfold. The doorbell rang just minutes later and I felt my heart leap into my throat. Mark opened the door and I strained to hear the low voices that murmured greetings to one another. There were two. One was Mark’s friend Brad... I smiled to myself. Twice in the past I’d had Brad in my mouth, once on my wedding night, once the other week. And I have to admit, he had the kind of cock that could make a girl go weak at the knees. Not too big, not too small, not too short, not too long... just right in every dimension. The other voice? I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t Frank, it wasn’t Tommy. My mind rifled through the other friends Mark spent most of his time with, but came up blank, and that excited me even more. Someone I had never met, who was now going to meet me in the most intimate manner imaginable. My mind flashed back to Greg and his buddy this morning. It was my day for sucking off strangers! Something I’d not done since before I was married, hanging out at nightclubs with a gang of my own friends, sizing up guys for one night stands, then taking them outside, or home, or wherever, and showing them tricks that they had only ever dreamed of. It always astonished me how, when I sucked them, they’d want to pull out of my mouth as they came. How they’d almost explode when I pulled them back in. How they’d look at me in absolute awe as I swallowed their cum and then wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, before licking that clean as well. “Nobody’s ever done that for me before,” they would say. “Nobody’s ever swallowed my cum.” And I’d look at them and smile, while my mind wrestled with the mystery. Why not? It’s the best bit! Well, apart from the rest of it.... A hand on my breast, fingertips trailing over my flesh then tracing the edges of the crime tape. Another on my face... that was Mark, I recognized his touch. Two on my thighs, one on each, caressing the soft skin at the tops of my legs. I writhed and moaned gently and a finger brushed my pussy through the tape. I held my breath then exhaled as a mouth moved to join it, licking on either side of the plastic, patient as I moistened and the crime scene grew slick. Exquisite teasing. I reached out blindly, brushed bodies that were still fully clothed; fumbled for a belt buckle, found one and tugged. Hands joined mine, loosening the buckle, undoing the buttons. My hand touched flesh, then was guided to cock. Brad. I smiled and squeezed and felt him shifting, raising a leg to straddle my chest, then lowering his prick between my breasts, beneath the crime tape, binding himself to my body. His hands crushed my tits together, squeezing his cock between them, and slowly he started to fuck them. I tilted my head, extended my tongue. My nostrils had caught the sweet odor of his cock and my mouth was already watering to taste it. I felt a sudden electric shock as my tongue tapped his cock head for the first time, a thousand flavors and sensations that I wanted to choke on, and then another jolt as hands elsewhere tore the tape away from my hips. Two cocks at my pussy, stroking my labia, taking slow turns to soak their tips in my hole. I raised my hips, my cunt sucking at whichever prick was closest, my body begging it to slam inside me, and I felt a maddening thrill as the other dipped to my asshole, smearing pussy juice and precum around the tight darkness. Mark read my mind. Or my movements. “I think we need to untie her,” he said, and suddenly my bonds were free. There was a jolt as someone jerked the handle on the La-z-boy, transforming it from a chair to a flat surface, then a body... Mark’s... lay down beside me, squirmed itself beneath me... and that moment of exquisite pain and pressure that suddenly transforms itself into unspeakable pleasure as his erection pushed itself into my slick ass. A second cock, the stranger’s, rammed into my pussy, tearing me apart with its unfamiliar girth - oh my god, I don’t know who this man is, but his meat is a monster. And a third, Brad, escaping my tits and plunging into my throat, deep enough that I almost choked, hard enough that my head tilted back and I lay, contorted, impaled by three pricks, motionless as their owners fucked me to paradise. “Relax,” Mark had told me. “Don’t move,” he had said. “Just lay back and enjoy yourself.” What choice did I have? Like voluptuous meat in a hot man sandwich, I could barely have moved if I’d wanted to. But my hips responded to the cocks in my asshole and pussy, my head moved to the rhythm of the one in my mouth. And my arms flailed, reaching out to caress each of my lovers. A hand grasped Brad’s balls, squeezing them, stroking them; his hands clutched my breasts, twisting the nipples hard and sharp. Teeth bit my shoulder, nails scraped my abdomen. I was high, I was flying, I was soaring, and when I felt my first orgasm approaching, it was as if I’d been raised so far above the ground that nothing on earth could make me return. My eyes were closed tight behind the sticky tight blindfold, my mind was whirling wildly. And I couldn’t even cry out as the first great wave hit me, because that was the moment when Brad’s cock erupted and I was drinking him down as the cocks down below hammered me harder and harder. Bam! Bam! A hot shot of Mark blasting into my gut, a wild wave of ... whoever he was... slamming into my pussy. Four people, four orgasms, in less than forty seconds. That must be some kind of record. It must be some kind of magic. Brad withdrew and at last I could howl, a moan of such utter contentment and joy. Mark moved away and my ass yawned in protest, wanting him back, wanting him hard. A plop as the other guy lipped out of my cunt, and I lay there in utter contentment and joy, feeling three men’s bodies as they bustled around me, and three men’s cum as it sloshed around my body. I didn’t even worry about the La-z-boy, which would certainly need good cleaning in the morning. I just lay there as Brad said he was going to grab some beers from the kitchen; lay there as Mark kissed me softly on the mouth and then gently slipped off the blindfold; lay there as my eyes adjusted to the sudden light and the faces around me swam back into focus. Brad, still grinning as he handed me a bottle. Mark, still smiling as he gazed down on his cum soaked wife. And the boy, the guy from the cable company, the one who had been here with Greg, but not so shy now, and not so unsure, watching me with laughing eyes as Mark made the introductions. No wonder I thought I knew him this morning. He’d been at our wedding reception, Tommy’s brother Lee. Fresh out of college and looking for work. “He’s just started at the cable company,” Mark said and I pushed away all the questions that flew to my lips as he spoke. Instead I just smiled. “You like that?” Lee’s eyes met mine, and I swear his cock twitched again. “Yes ma’am.” He paused and now he was holding his dick, massaging it slowly as his gaze shifted to my lips. “I’ve still got a lot to learn, but the guy they’ve teamed me up with has already shown me some really cool stuff.” I couldn’t believe it. He was already hard again. I stood, stepped towards him, then knelt at his feet. For the second time today, my lips stretched greedily to greet his fat, ripe cock. “I don’t doubt that for a moment,” I said in answer to his last remark. “but I bet you’re a very fast learner.” Then, as Mark placed his hands on either side of my head, holding it firmly as I angled Lee’s shaft, I engulfed him in my mouth. “She’s such a fucking cock-hungry slut,” Mark laughed. “But I guess that’s why I love her.”
How safe, or otherwise, is the average man's ejaculate?
I’m usually very fussy about what I put in my mouth. Shopping for groceries takes forever as I check the label of every single product, on the look out for the additives that I do not want to touch. Artificial sweeteners. MSG. “Natural flavors” (which, as I wrote once before are actually the last two under an assumed name). Chemical flavoring. High Fructose Corn Syrup. You can’t avoid them all because they’re probably in the drinking water, too, along with all those prescription medicines with the “benefits” the enter the system when you pee. However, the lower your intake of the ones that you can avoid, the lower your chances of becoming another guinea pig for the laboratory of life to experiment on. Which, if I can be paranoid for a moment, is essentially how the major food and pharmaceutical companies tends to regard the general public. As test subjects. So yes, I am fussy, fussy, fussy. However, it wasn’t until fairly recently that I ever looked, really looked, at the composition of cum. Which, considering how much of it the average heterosexual woman winds up ingesting, whether deliberately or otherwise, was something of an oversight. Maybe I just didn’t want to spoil a good thing by knowing too much. Several friends, and a comment left on one of my past articles here, have revealed that a little biological knowledge goes a long way, and if the FDC did insist that penises were labelled with their ingredients, it would look something like this: The average male ejaculation... let’s call it a recommended serving size... is between five and ten milliliters of fluid, which is between one and two teaspoons’ worth. Which, if we lean towards the latter, breaks down as follows: Calcium (2.76mg); Chloride (14.2mg); Citrate (52.8mg); Fructose (2.76mg); Glucose (10.2mg); Lactic Acid (6.2mg); Magnesium (1.1mg); Potassium (10.9mg); Protein (.594mg); Sodium (30mg); Urea (4.5mg); Zinc (1.65mg). Quantities which, when compared to the average woman’s daily recommended dietary requirements, are scarcely worth considering. Between the ages of nineteen and fifty, the Food and Nutrition Board recommends 1,000mg of calcium., or four hundred mouthfuls of cum. A day. Chloride - we are recommended to take 2.3 grams a day. Sodium - 1.5 grams. Potassium - 4.7 grams. Zinc - 8mg. As for protein, and the age-old insistence that cum is a wonderful source of the stuff... if you are a reasonably healthy, reasonably active adult female, multiply your weight in pounds by six. That is how many grams of protein you require a day. If you weigh 120lbs, you need 720g. My math goes a little hazy here, but I’m estimating that’s the equivalent of around 1,500 blowjobs a day, which is a lot. Such a lot, in fact, that I think we have established that a couple of mouthfuls from your man every week, or every a day, is not going to tip your intake of anything out of balance, and it isn’t really going to help you maintain the recommended levels. Which is good, right? A nice neutral snack that won’t ruin your appetite. Where things can get interesting is what else can make its way in there. The foods and chemicals that he ingest will be in the cum. If he eats garlic, you’ll know about it. To much alcohol... yes. Pineapple... yum. And so on. A healthy regimen of Vitamin C can transform the entire experience into a smorgasbord of delight, and whenever you read an article about how a guy can make his cum taste good, those are the things you will learn. However, how much other stuff... bad stuff... can also be lurking in his love juice? That is what we’re concerned with here. There are a few things to think about, though. This article is concerned only with the quality of the sperm, as opposed to the manifold chemicals that can diminish its fertility. However, you can bet that if the bisphenol-A (BPA), which coats cash register receipts and canned food packaging, has been proven to reduce sperm count, then it’s also going to be rattling around in the fluid itself. If aspartame and other artificial sweeteners can contribute to erectile dysfunction, they can influence the make-up of his cum, too. We avoid phthalates in the manufacturing of our sex toys, and hopefully in our hygiene products, too. However, they could also be in his shampoo, his soaps, and in vinyl shower curtains. This means that they wash down every time he bathes, entering his system, and entering you. This means that no matter how religiously you check the labels of your food, furniture and household items, you need to be checking his items as well. Of course, if the quantities of what ought to be in his sperm are so minute as to make very little difference to your dietary requirements, the amounts of what you want to avoid are going to be even tinier. If you’re allergic to peanuts, you will not go into anaphylactic shock because he ate a handful at the bar. Well, not unless you’re trying to draw your entire daily calcium intake out of him at the time. My allergy to aspartame will also not be triggered, no matter how much seltzer he keeps on drinking. It is true that trace amounts are only trace amounts until they’ve built up in your system. It's true, too, that even the world’s healthiest appetite for sperm, however it enters your body (because vaginal sex absorbs it efficiently, and anal is like a direct shot to the gut), has never been scientifically linked to either allergic reactions or any other dietary health risk. (Unless, of course, you’re allergic to the sperm itself, which does happen.) Even the heaviest tobacco user is not going to pass on secondhand smoke through his sperm, no matter how much it tastes like it. You cannot get drunk on a drinker’s cum, and you can’t get high from a junkie’s jizz. What you can do, though, is remember that all the harmful little additives and effects that you try to rule out of your own diet are ones that your partner should be avoiding as well. Not because you want him to taste better, but because you want him to live better. So yes, I remain very fussy about what I put in my mouth; and I’m pleased to report that, disease and poor hygiene notwithstanding, cum is one of the safest of them all. Let’s make sure it stays that way.
Although it has minimal presence in the US and the UK, FEMEN is one of the fastest growing feminist activist groups in the world. One whose activities, although even many feminists disagree with them, have raised the international movement’s profile to staggering new heights. My Body, My Rules You have probably seen the photos on the news. Small groups and large crowds of topless and genuinely beautiful women, marching in support of a range of causes, with their own flesh deployed as placards. A peaceful protest rendered visceral and violent not through actions, but through words. Phrases such as “My Body My Rules,” “Fuck Your Morals” and “Breasts Rule The World” may seem no more than coarse platitudes on paper. But painted on human flesh and thrust in the faces of those people - Presidents and police, religious leaders and bigots of all persuasion - who need to hear them the loudest, then they become more than mere manifesto. They become rallying calls that are heard across the planet. FEMEN started life in the Ukraine in 2008 (it celebrated its birthday a little over a week ago, on April 10), founded in response to the growing, and seemingly unstoppable international trade in Ukrainian women... the so-called Russian Brides, so beloved by male/mail order perverts everywhere. Since that time, sister organizations have sprung up in countries around the world and have earned a small forest’s worth of headlines too. Their support of the jailed members of the Pussy Riot group probably brought them the most attention in the west, after FEMEN activist Inna Schevchenko brought down the thirteen foot cross in Kiev’s Freedom Square with a chainsaw. In the outcry that followed, which included both intimidation and death threats, Schevchenko was forced to flee the country; she headed for Paris, where she established FEMEN’s French office. It is their propensity for direct action that establishes FEMEN as a very different and new face of feminist activism. Believing (and it sometimes feels hard to disagree) that the time for passive protest long ago ended, FEMEN are more akin to the Suffragette movements that brought votes and rights to women in this country, back during our great-grandmother’s day. In fact, I like to think my own great-grandmother, herself a staunch supporter during those heroic days, would approve of FEMEN’s methods - if not necessarily their choice of costuming. FEMEN stand loudly and vociferously against any institutionalized movement that acts against women’s rights. They have a lot of targets: Elements of Islam and Sharia law, and the patriarchal practices that still shape many western religions; The anti-abortion and anti-gay movements; The sex trade and certain aspects of the sex industry itself; The hideous torture of female circumcision. All beneath the banner of “unit[ing] young women on the principles of social awareness and activism, intellectual and cultural development," and the worldwide recognition of "the European values of freedom, equality and comprehensive development of a person irrespective of the gender." All of which is, in the eyes of many, controversial enough. But FEMEN had another trick up its sleeve - one which, with its membership largely comprising young women, was guaranteed to get the cameras flashing. Early FEMEN protests saw the activists clad in lingerie and make-up; a rally at the Turkish Embassy in Kiev in 2008 found them wearing nurses uniforms and pink high heels. They dubbed themselves “sextremists” and saw their caricature of elemental male fantasies as one means of drawing attention to themselves. It worked, too. But not as well as Oksana Shachko’s decision to go topless when FEMEN appeared at Kiev’s independence day celebrations in 2009. Since that time, toplessness has become firmly established as FEMEN’s weapon of choice, with slogans daubed and painted across the torso. Not everybody gets the point, of course. Visitors to FEMEN’s heavily illustrated Facebook page, for example, and viewers of other media coverage, will see any glimpse of nipple safely covered up - indeed, Facebook resisted allowing FEMEN to even establish a presence on the network for fear that its politics were simply a cover for some kind of strange new pornography. FEMEN activists operating within the virtual world of Second Life (the source of the photo at the head of this piece) are likewise warned to ensure that bare breasts are not visible in any area not registered as Adult’s Only. Failure to comply can result in being banned from that area, or even the suspension of your SL account. Thankfully, however, the censorship has not spread to FEMEN’s message - those slogans, frequently strongly worded and geared towards grabbing the most attention, often appear in English because that is the language, like it or not, that so much of the free world’s media understands. Indeed, much as we might be repulsed by the censorship, still there is a glorious irony in the fact that, though we are not permitted to see female nipples, neither are we prohibited from reading such sentiments as “Fuck Patriarchs” and “Fuck Your Morals” - again expressions that many women, even those who acknowledge that sexism remains a problem in modern society, may not necessarily agree with. But which speak loudly to those of us who do feel that direct action and sextremism has its place in our world. And to those who are repulsed by the methods by which foreign governments have cracked down upon women’s attempts to gain equal rights - or even to establish any rights whatsoever. In December 2011, following a FEMEN action outside the former KGB headquarters in Minsk, Belarus, where their hats and fake mustaches parodied the Belarusian president, three of the women were snatched by local security forces, driven to a forest, shaved, stripped and doused in flammable liquid. The attackers did not follow through on their threats to then ignite the girls’ bodies. Rather, they drove away, leaving the three young, naked, women alone in the midwinter snows of a midnight forest, miles from anywhere. FEMEN remain unbowed. Their methods have not changed, and their insistence that “this is the only way to be heard” is difficult to argue with. True, some women’s organizations have spoken out against FEMEN’s in-your-face approach, arguing that toplessness only contributes to the objectification of women; and it is true, if the organization was staffed only by overweight seniors with saggy breasts and toothless faces, a lot of the editors who currently plaster FEMEN’s photographs across the media would probably not look twice at them. But that, surely, is the point. Our bodies are our own; we all agree (I hope!) with that sentiment. And they are ours to employ as we wish, whether we choose to use them to make a point or make a living. A beautiful girl standing topless on the front page of the newspaper will naturally attract the attention of men. But so might the words that are written on her chest and if just a fraction of the viewing public is moved to find out more, then the gesture can only be considered a success. Those traditional symbols of protest, placards, chants and marches are all very well, and may once have served a purpose. But, as the Occupy movement (to name but one) has sadly discovered in recent years, more often than not they are not enough. In a society where law enforcement demands that the most vociferous protestors must first acquire licenses and permits before they can set foot on the street, the very act of protest has been diminished. FEMEN believe that it is only by abandoning such self-castrating niceties that any real point can be made. “If we staged simple protests with banners,” they say, “then our claims would not have been noticed." Or, to put it bluntly, people rarely stop to look at banners. They do stop to look at bare breasts, and although it is unspoken, surely another major element in FEMEN’s struggle is precisely that. When is society going to stop regarding a woman’s breasts as so inherently pornographic that we have to cover them up to avoid corrupting every poor soul who is forced to look at them? My own boobs aren’t big, but I think they’re kinda pretty. I’m sure you feel the same way about yours’. How many hapless strangers have your nipples condemned to the slippery slopes of hellish degradation? The approach is working, too. Yes, the sex trade is alive and well, despite sundry well-meaning attempts to rein it in. Yes, women’s rights are regarded as absolutely wrong in far more countries than actually support them. Yes, religion continues to keep women down, and so do politics, culture and bullies. But when Amina Tyler disappeared... a Tunisian activisit who appeared on FEMEN’s website with the words "I own my body; it's not the source of anyone's honor" written in Arabic across her bare chest... it was not her country’s media who informed the world of her disappearance. It was not Tunisian law enforcement who moved heaven and earth to discover her whereabouts; nor, following her escape from imprisonment by her own family just last week, was it the Tunisian government who hustled her into safe keeping, a refuge in which she could no longer be beaten, drugged and lectured about morality. It was FEMEN. As Inna Shevchenko said following Tyler’s escape from captivity, "Amina has became a symbol of liberation of women in the Arab world.” Again, that is a role that we in the west cannot help but admire, even if we do not fully understand all that it entails. The phrase "Topless Jihad" has now entered our language, and it will remain there until it is no longer required. FEMEN’s other most recent coup, of course, was the sequence of photographs taken on April 8 in Hanover, Germany, when five activists ambushed Russian President Putin and German Chancellor Angela Merkel, their bodies daubed (in English and Cyrillic) with sentiments that included the very pointed “Fuck Dictator.” No matter how much of the ensuing news coverage seemed more interested in the expression on Putin’s face... which, in the face of five pairs of nubile breasts, really did look as though all of his Christmases had come at once. The message was put across regardless. FEMEN is not to every woman’s tastes, and it is certainly not a movement that either governmental or law enforcement agencies are likely ever to tolerate. Regardless of whether or not we agree with the laws and practices against which FEMEN fights, particularly those that would have no place in our own society, the fact remains that much of FEMEN’s activism is illegal, and there are those among us who would argue that no law should ever be broken, no matter how repressive, irrelevant or just plain stupid it may be. All of which is true. But as our own Suffragettes proved a hundred years ago, and the abolitionists before them, laws and customs that need to be changed should be changed. Particularly if, by changing them, you will improve the lives of countless people. And if the only way to make certain they are changed is by breaking a handful of others, then they all should be shattered into a million pieces.
Many guys enjoy watching their partner playing with her favorite toys. One woman reports on watching her partner playing with his. I have to confess, when my boyfriend announced he’d just mail-ordered a Fleshlight, my initial thought was “why? When you have the real thing right here? But I kept it to myself, of course, because anything I said might well lead to a discussion of my own substantial toy collection... and how do you tell the man you love that sometimes, a girl just needs to be stretchhhhhhhhed? I didn’t mention my other concern either; memories of the boyfriend who confided that once, as a horny teen with no lover to go to, he bought a loaf of unsliced bread, cut a hole in it and... You don’t need the details, do you? I certainly didn’t, although I got them. What I’m saying is, if my man is going to stick his dick into a soft, dark hole, then it needs to be one that is intimately connected to me. Loaves of bread, blow-up dollies, tin cans... no. No, no, no. I went online and found a few other things to worry about. Would he just pick up a “regular” one? Or go the whole hog and put out for one sculpted from the pussy of a porn star? Would he give it a name, and why would he choose whichever one he decided upon? I’m not a jealous person, or so I’ve always believed. But suddenly, irrationally, I found myself positively hating the package-in-the-post, and I hadn’t even met her yet! Her! Oh my god, even I’m doing it! She arrived and he didn’t say a word. The advantage of not living with your boyfriend is, you don’t have to put up with his less savory habits. The disadvantage is, you don’t always know everything that’s going on in his life. I wasn’t going to ask, either. I didn’t want to know. (Yes I did, yes I did. Desperately. But I wasn’t going to admit it, even to myself.) There’s another reason why I don’t like these things. Because some sights are too good to hide, and I love to watch a man stroking himself. Maybe I’m helping with kisses and nibbles, maybe I’m not. Maybe he’s going to jerk off on my tits. Maybe he’s going to spray his cum elsewhere. Or maybe he’s just doing it, because I asked him to. Whatever; I like to watch. But I want to watch his hand around his cock. Not around a tube. I haven’t met her and I hope I never do. She was in his bedroom when I went round one night. Sitting on his bedside table, large as life and luscious as you please. She was slimmer than I expected... skinny bitch! Now I hate her even more. Her flesh was an even, soft, sexy pink. Her lips were slightly parted in voluptuous invitation.... She looked like a can of beer. Typical. Beer and booty, the boy’s best buddies. And she was still dressed! He’d opened the box and doubtless inspected its contents. But she was still in her packaging, and the packaging was unopened. “I was wondering whether you’d like to help me inaugurate it?” he asked with the shit-eating grin that he normally reserved for some of my baser suggestions. At the same time sounding like a small town Mayor, inviting his deputy along to open a new library. She was still in my hand and I was tugging at the packaging. “May I?” He nodded and I was the one who peeled off her plastic. I was the one who gripped her first. I was the one who squeezed in the drop of lubricant that the instructions recommended. And I was the one who slipped him into what the packaging very unappealingly calls “the penis sleeve” - digression, and I’m sorry. But a girlfriend once knitted a sweater, pink with darker flared cuffs. That, the friends who saw it declared, was a penis sleeve. This was more like a penis pocket. But he slipped in and I watched his face for any tell-tale sign of the “the best feeling on earth.” There was a faint petroleum-y smell in the air, which I guess was expelled from the pocket when he entered it, but neither of us mentioned it. Then he took the can in one hand and began.... After a while, I raised a hand to help, and his dropped away and I worked it alone. Not the most sexually arousing sensation I have ever had... for a moment, I wondered if this is how milkmaids used to feel, tugging the teats of an overfull udder. It dawned on me that if a guy’s in the mood, you can jerk him off with anything. (Hey babe, I just picked up a new pack of sandpaper.) And he’ll love it. (Ooooh, scratchhhhhyyyyyy!) The Fleshlight was working its magic though, and when my pace flagged, he took over. His eyes were on mine as his fist began to blur, and again you don’t need to know the details. But once it was over and he handed it back to me, I’ll admit I couldn’t resist slipping a finger into the pocket, feeling his moisture and heat as it clung to the sides, and the sticky warmth that was pooling there as well. I withdrew my finger, sniffed and tasted. The petroleum smell was still there, of course, but the smell of man overpowered it; and, while my own curiosity was now firmly assuaged, it struck me that there’s a whole bunch of possible cum games here that some people might have a great time playing. He named her Felicity... Felicity Fleshlight, of course. A good neutral, flippant name that it was difficult for me to object to. He washed her and put her lid back on, and debated letting her live in the fridge, in the hope of shocking those beer buddies, who drain his beer stash every time they come round for the football and basketball. I wondered whether that... the fridge, not the shocked beer buddies... might add to the sensations that Felicity could convey, an icy shiver from top to toe. Well, he likes it when I break out the ice cubes, and likes them even more when I have one in my mouth. We talked about trying that out some other time. We haven’t yet, though, and I’m beginning to wonder whether the old girl is even still in his life. I’ve not seen her around for a while, and he’s not mentioned her either. It’s almost like this whole episode never happened. Except for one thing. He’s become a lot more interested in my toy collection. How they work, what they do, how they feel... and you remember what I said at the beginning of this piece, how sometimes a girl just needs to be stretchhhhhhhhed? Sometimes, a guy likes to watch her stretchhhhhhhhing, and now it’s me browsing Fleshlights on EdenFantasys, looking for one that isn’t too wide, isn’t too hard; that tapers nicely, that might fit just there. It may not work, it might even hurt. But I’m curious to give it a go....
I'm a writer, not a photographer. So just be aware that the pics on this site were not taken by me, and aren't owned by me either - not even the ones that I'm in. If you are a photographer and find your pics on this site, please get in touch - I'd love to credit you (if you wish), and even use more of your work. If you're here it's because I love the photo!
MISS AMERICA - A BDSM VAMPIRE TALE
An ancient cult, a modern secret society and one of the most extreme erotic adventures you have ever read. Buy it now from Amazon.
The Nympho Librarian & Other Stories
Eleven scalding tales of lust and love in the halls of public learning - the town library!
The sex is hot, but the librarians are hotter, as authors Chrissie Bentley and Jenny Swallows reveal the lip-smacking truth about what goes on behind (and on top of, and around as well) the bookshelves.