Sweet danger....

Taboo is always a tricky subject to define. What I might consider a genuine no-go area might strike you as the most natural thing in the world, and any book that flags itself with the promise ;f "forbidden desire" is essentially going to be walking a tightrope with a blindfold on. And maybe a ballgag as well.

That said, I trust Violet Blue to talk that walk with a little more finesse than most, and so it transpires. Not every story in Sweet Danger is going to leave you wide-eyed and breathless at the feats framed within, and I must confess that the opening tale, Donna George Storey's "Picture Perfect" left me ice cold, not because I didn't enjoy it, but because I cannot see how shaving can even be considered a taboo any longer. To judge from most movies, picture spreads and stories, it's the girls who don't who are the real revolutionaries. Maybe we should start a club?

read the rest at Eden Fantasys

We All Like A Quickie

The title tells you what to expect. Frenzy. Fast and furious. Very little set up, no time to waste on in-depth description. Just get down and with it, and then walk away.

Which may or may not be the best approach to writing erotica and, having finished Frenzy in a couple of evenings, I'm leaning towards the former. Editor Alison Tyler explains at the outset, "I want you to lose yourself in the sizzle of a single sentence." And occasionally the authors within pull it off. But too often, a promising scenario is over so quickly that the book could as easily have been titled "Premature Ejaculation," and you're left sitting there wondering... wow, was that it? To paraphrase Julius Caesar, "I saw, I conquered, I came in seconds." 

Read the rest at Eden Fantasys

Once Upon A Steamy Time

Once upon a time, the sexual content of our favorite fairytales was the province only of learned academics, and a faint stirring of familiarity once we were old enough to have figured out what they may have been about. Nowadays, the bookshelf fairly groans with adult renderings of the classics but, of them all, Lustfully Ever After might well be the best. 

Read the rest at Eden Fantasys

Women In Lust

Lust.

There was a time, in living memory too, when people didn't believe that women experienced lust. Not in a sexual form, anyway. We might lust after chocolate, new shoes or a purse, money or power or a set of knives that can cut through metal tubing. But lusting after sex... after a man (or a woman)... nope. It was just those crazy hormones. Either that, or a means to an end. (ie: chocolate, new shoes... etc.)

We've come a long way since then. Most great erotica of the past twenty years has been written by women, and if the average housewife of the mid-1950s was suddenly transported sixty years and shown the state of play today, she'd probably assume that the female species was extinct, and had been replaced by a new breed altogether.

Or not. Lust has always been with us, both men and women, and if one gender was too polite at the time to actually get down and dirty in public, behind the scenes it was something else. 

Read the rest at Eden Fantasys

Best Fetish Erotica

First, take a medium-ripe cantaloupe.

The finest fetishes, I think you will agree, are the ones that haven't yet been fetishized; that is, the ones that still live and breathe and develop with their practitioners' needs, as opposed to those that have become so much a part of the language that even your parrot could recite the rules. Fetishes, in other words, that have become so fetishized that they could as easily be described as cliches. Ritual is one thing; the slavish (pun intended) adhesion to somebody else's idea of a good time, in the belief that that is the "correct" way of doing things, is something else.

Case in point - Shades Of Grey, and all who flail in her.

Best Fetish Erotica avoids those traps.


Read more at Eden Fantasys.

Daughters of Darkness

A wonderful collection that serves also a reminder of just how far mainstream erotica has drifted in the past two decades. First published in 1993, when you would have to search high and wide for the very word “lesbian” in the average bookstore, Daughters of Darkness is an anthology in the traditional sense of the word. The bulk of the ten tales within span over a decade of writing, ranging from magazine stories and novel excerpts dating back to 1981, while the heart of the book is J Sheridan LeFanu’s classic “Carmilla,” first published a century before that.

This is a literary collection, then, not a sexual one. It is your imagination, and your ability to read between the lines that stirs the emotions; qualities that many commentators argue are sadly lacking from the explicit squelch-by-squelch descriptions found in more modern storytelling. And it’s true, there is a beauty to leaving the lovers just as the candles are lit, then rejoining them as the events of the night are consigned to sometimes shameful memory; passion spent can, in good literature, be just as arousing as passion inflamed, after all. 


Read more at Eden Fantasys

Dream Lover

There is one story in this book that will haunt you.

One story that will remain in your mind long after you have forgotten all the others, one that will build and grow in there too, until it becomes a part of your cultural makeup, like a long-ago movie whose plot you've forgotten but whose mood is so close you can kiss it; or a favorite old novel you keep intending to retread, but can never put your hands on when you want it.

For me, it's Kristina Lloyd's "Living Off Lovers," a haunted house with a twist in the architecture, two strangers brought together by something they don't understand, two spirits still seeking a love that they lost eighty, ninety years ago. It's a short tale, and that's a good thing because the best short stories are always the ones that make you want to know more, much more. And the best of the rest of Dream Lover shares that same sensation. Appetizers for a meal that your own imagination will create. 


read more at Eden Fantasys

Ghosties and Ghoulies and Long Legged Beasties...

...and things that go "uh uh uh YES" in the night

Halloween isn't so far away that it's too early to start loading up the bookshelves, and of course it is never too late to have the pants scared off you. Especially if who (or what) ever is doing the scaring knows what to do once they're off. So welcome to Red Velvet and Absinthe, a collection of sexy supernatural stories that really is as good as its title suggests.

Strange thing about the supernatural. The number of people who claim not to believe in it has absolutely nothing to do with the number who want to (poll your friends if you don't believe me), which means you can enter this book with a head full of humbugs, and remain Ebeneezer Scrooge like through every manifestation you meet. But sooner or later, you'll come across one, which - well, it might not be as grisly as the ghost of Jacob Marley, but it will make a promise anyway, and you'll be hooked. And the earlier in the collection that happens, the longer you'll have to enjoy the sensations. 

Read more at Eden Fantasys

A Vampire Book That Doesn't Bite!

Anyone with a more or less respectable shelf full of erotic short stories will quickly begin to recognize the same names recurring again and again, those authors who mastery of the form allows them to walk into any anthology they choose to. And maybe, just maybe, your heart sinks as you see some of them because... well, even the best lover can get repetitive after a while.

Welcome, then, to “Girls Who Bite: Lesbian Vampire Erotica,” an anthology whose fifteen contributors certainly are not wide-eyed ingenues taking their first bold steps into print. But they’re not the familiar warhorses of a dozen other titles, either. Which works, because the stories they contribute are not familiar ones, either. 


read more at Eden Fantasys

Whippings and Apologies

Five or six years ago, the guy I was seeing at the time decided to re-invent himself as a sexual dominant. I’m not sure which website he took the idea from (the source of way too many male fantasies these days), and he never got around to telling me what was happening, either. A few slaps on the ass in public clued me into the fact that something was going on, and a mumbled “yeah, you like that, don’t you bitch” when he tweaked my nipple in the shower one day prompted me to ask him, “what the f---...?” And that was the end of that. Apparently a good submissive will never ask awkward questions. She will just accept her Master’s will as her own.

I’m sorry, but I disagree. I disagreed with it before, I disagreed with it at the time and, having read the twenty-two short stories that comprise “Please, Sir,” I disagree with it even more now.

Dominance (and, indeed, submission) is not simply a matter of him demanding “suck my dick” and her replying “how deep shall I take it?” 


read more at Eden Fantasys

Hot Head and How To Write It

It’s interesting just how many acres of print have been devoted to oral sex, and now that Pat Robertson has declared that it’s “fine (so long as you’re married),” no doubt there will be many more appearing in the near future. More than any other act, oral sex haunts the written word, just as it haunts the porn movie industry - a blowjob, after all, is probably the most visual act of them all, after all, and let’s be crude and admit, nothing says “uhhhhhh, I’m cumming” like a facial.

On paper, the relationship is more subtle. Here it’s words that paint the pictures, and the writer (and the reader)’s imagination that provide the details, which means that the action should be very well painted in order for everything to go as planned. And truthfully, it’s not as easy as it sounds.

read more at Eden Fantasys.

The Nympho Librarian in The Paris Review!!!!!!

An amazing feature on the history of Librarian Porn, with The Nympho Librarian center stage!

Porn books and librarians have always had a passionate, mutually defining relationship—it was, in fact, a prudish French librarian in the early nineteenth century who coined the word pornography. So it comes as no surprise that the sexy librarian, a fixture of the pornographic imagination, is most at home in books. Each year, new titles are added to the librarian-porn bookshelf. This past season’s crop included additions like Hot for Librarian by Anastasia Carrera; Lucy the Librarian—Dewey and His Decimal by John and Shauna Michaels; The Nympho Librarian and Other Stories by Chrissie Bentley and Jenny Swallows; A Librarian’s Desire by Ava Delaney, author of the Kinky Club series; and soft-core selections like Sweet Magik by Penny Watson. The conventions of the form—the dimly lit stacks, the librarian’s mask of thick glasses and hair tied into a bun, et cetera—are, of course, well known. Unlike video porn, where these conventions are typically used as a wholesale substitute for narrative, porn books still feel the compulsion to tell a story, to make the glasses and bun mean something. I was curious just what story these new books were telling. What does our most current version of the librarian fantasy say about us? To answer this question, I visited the library.

READ THE REST

The library sex fantasy has, in other words, entered an apocalyptic period. “Throw me on my back in the dark room with the microfiche,” says the narrator of “Checking Out,” the final story of 2011’s Nympho Librarian. “Fuck me amidst the relics of a world that progress threw away.” And in the eyes of the next generation, whose view isn’t sweetened by nostalgia, things look even bleaker. In another story from Nympho we overhear the devastating comment of a brash young paramour—a boy with no memory of a world before Google—as he pinions his elder librarian mistress to a shelf of Russian lit (“not a section of the library that received many visitors”).

“I like your hair down like that,” he says, “it makes you look abandoned.”



PS: "The Nympho Librarian" is the second best seller in Kindle's Librarians section (!!!) Please help her reach #1!!!!!

A 5 Star Review on Amazon!

Thank you J Gentry!!!!


A unique voice in erotic fiction, January 31, 2012
By J. Gentry (New Fairfield, CT USA) - See all my reviews
(REAL NAME)
Amazon Verified Purchase(What's this?)
This review is from: The First Time and 59 Other Magical Minutes (Kindle Edition)
Erotic writing is difficult. It takes a real talent to bring a unique voice to a genre full of wannabe's of modest talent. Jenny Swallows, through verse and rhyme, has achieved something new. Her tales are visually full, verbally explicit and paced the way only poetry can be. I didn't think someone could write 59 poems about sex and still have them interesting and mind bending. I was wrong. Jenny Swallows did it.

I am not a big reader of erotica because it gets boring quickly. Sorry. Most writers are missing something basic. Good writing skills. Jenny combines her own lust to fulfill her needs with a masterful sense of expression. She brings you into her mind. It is a journal of her experience and extensions of fantasy written in first person. It is as much confessional as it is descriptive. That is the compelling part of the read. Whether fact or fiction, you feel her emotions and wit and sense of raw passion. Yes, she does not hit a home run on every poem, but in most cases she tells you up front that the lyric is a stretch or the rhyme is pathetic.

I am sure that among the poems there will be one or two that come back to you over and over. That is the power of her imagery. You can almost hear her gasping for air. Read the poems, you'll know what I mean.

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.

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 me-me-me.com (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!
Armpits
Drew Barrymore.
Cock.
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.
Regularly
More than they realize!

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.

DO NOT DISTURB

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.

In Flight Entertainment

Around one-third of the way through The Mile High Club, editor Rachel Kramer Bussel’s anthology of “plane sex stories,:” one of the characters snarls the following into her journal.

"Sex on planes is stupid. These people think they’re so cool for joining ‘the Mile High Club’... they’re just dumb conformists who want to do it because they read about it in a magazine...."

read more at Eden Fantasys.

In Praise of Being Peeped

It’s not so much a matter of getting caught looking, is it? It’s more to do with positioning yourself so you’re not only looking, but you are seen to be as well. That is the true nature of voyeurism, and of exhibitionism too - or, at least, that is the nature as it is depicted in Caught Looking, an anthology of twenty tales pieced together by Alison Tyler and Rachel Kramer Bussel that ranks among my own favorite reads this fall.

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Aqua Erotica: 18 Stories for a Steamy Bath

The intrinsic novelty of a waterproof book notwithstanding, one does wonder what precise point is being made by a waterproof erotic book? Yes, you can read it in the bath or the hot tub, and it’s easy to wipe the occasional spillage from the pages. But really, isn’t a waterproof book about sex a bit like a fire-proof book about architecture? There is a link, but….

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