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sixty years and shown the state of play today, she'd probably assume that the female species was extinct, and had been replaced by a new breed altogether.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

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.

HOW FAR WOULD YOU GO FOR A STORY? (PART TWO)

click here for part one

How far would you go for a story?

To a spit and sawdust bar in the middle of nowhere.

To a booth in the corner with a dozen bikers watching me.

To my knees before an Angel who looked to be their leader.

To Heaven.

He stood and gripped my hair, a thick length in each hand which he twisted roughly around his fists, pulling my face forward. I could smell him through the fabric of his jeans, thick and sweet with just a hint of sour sweat and my hand obediently moved to his belt buckle, unclasping the rebel flag and tugging. A movement beneath the fabric as his cock celebrated the first hint of freedom, and I unbuttoned the denim, then tugged down the zip.

A laugh behind me. “Feed her, Al!”

Al laughed. “She’ll feed herself. Won’t you, Harley?”

It wasn’t my name but I fixed his eyes with mine and smiled. “Oh yeah.”

He sprang out, already hard, and for a moment I simply gazed on him, thick and handsome, the head curving elegantly down to the shaft, the tip already slick. Beside him, the girl with whom he’d been making out looked at me with undisguised hatred and my eye fell to her booted feet, prepared for the kick that I knew was on her mind. And then Al tugged again on my hair, hard, and my face was against his cock, my lips pressed and pressing as I opened my mouth and sucked at the shaft.

I angled him with one hand and, holding him loosely, started to lick, long sweeps around and across his shaft, tasting the scent that hung in my nostrils, raising him with my hand to suck on his balls, and feeling that familiar thrill as he let out a low moan of pleasure.

He wore a cock ring, beautiful and clear, patently designed for more than his own fun. The tip of my tongue traced its shape as my finger stole to the tiny button and pressed it. I could feel the vibrations the length of his cock and my pussy flooded at the thought of taking him inside me.

Then a sudden flash of pain as he twisted one fist and the hair that he held in it strained at the roots. My eyes met his... what do you want?... but I knew. Raising myself slightly on my haunches, I touched the tip of his cock to my lips, and started drawing him in.

His left hand was still twisting, pulling my hair, ripping at it and my head began to bob, faster and faster as he twisted harder and harder; then his other hand jerked and I stopped for a moment. He whispered, “you’re learning,” and the girl beside him laughed. “Yeah, ride that bitch,” and I understood. Left hand, accelerate; right hand, brake. My hair was handlebars, my mouth was the engine, and now I knew why he had started calling me Harley. Because he intended riding me like one.

My fingers grasped his cock just a little above the ring, that lovely little nubby, a buffer for my mouth as I fed him in. His cock was average, at least in my experience, six or maybe seven inches (I envy those girls who can measure in their mind), and not so thick that my jaw strained.

Where Al excelled was in its strength; deep in my mouth I could feel his cock straining against my upper teeth, fighting against the grip of my fist, delving deeper, and then pushing in hard as strange hands grabbed both of my wrists from behind and held them behind me, in a grip that wouldn’t quit. Oh fuck.

Other hands held the back of my head.

Double fuck.

The girl slipped down beside me and, for a moment, I thought she wanted to share the cock. But no, fingers were at my lips, stretching my mouth wider, pulling uncomfortably as her man drove in deeper - and paused. I froze too, and then the left fist jerked and I would have cried out if my mouth wasn’t crammed with cock and fingers.

I was rocking back and forth, my head blurring as I fucked his cock with my mouth and he started fucking me back, faster and faster as one fist twisted tighter in my hair, then slowing as the other came into play. Accelerate, brake; accelerate, brake.

He was good, pushing deep but no so deep that he choked me, pulling up short of my gag reflex, gliding over my lips and teeth, breathing hard as his hips ground his pleasure, controlling my every movement with his fists. The cock ring hummed against my front teeth, sending unfamiliar sensations through my body as he rode his bike ever harder and harder. Accelerate, brake; accelerate, brake.

The girl’s fingers were gone; I didn’t even notice until I felt her hands on my breasts, roughly squeezing through my t-shirt, twisting the already swollen nipples and then delving beneath the thin fabric, rolling it up to bare my tits to the room full of now leering bikers. I moved slightly to allow her more access, and my rhythm must have shifted slightly for the first in my hair twisted harder than ever... accelerate! Accelerate!

There was something on my breasts, something strange but so sensational. A massager. A kiss. A mechanical kiss. A pleasure kiss. I couldn’t see, but I could hear it, buzzing gently and then louder as a switch was flicked and the sensations intensified. I strained myself forward, my nipples crying out for touch, but the girl knew what she was doing, teasing me, torturing me, reducing my body to jello as her man fucked my head to pulp.

A thought crossed my mind. Apparently they chose their sex toys with the same care that they lavished on their motorbikes.

How long could I keep this up for? How long had it been going on for? I opened my eyes, unaware that I’d ever even closed them, and saw Vic, the guy who brought me here watching. Beside him, another girl was almost casually jerking him off and I guessed they weren’t the only couple getting off on the scene playing out before them.

There’s that moment when you know he’s going to cum, that split second where everything gets harder and hotter and I wouldn’t want to swear to it but the flavor changes too, the flavor of his cock becomes one you want to taste forever and, if you’re good, and he’s good too, then you can... well, not forever but long enough to enjoy it before everything goes off, and my eyes met his as his face broke into a grin and he knew we were there.

He gave it more gas, and I reared up, a wild wheelie. My hair felt like it was burning but I didn’t care. My hands broke the grip that held them and I grabbed Al’s legs, wrapped around his knees, pulling him forward as I topped back, and he knew exactly what I wanted, pinning me back in one sweet fluid moment, with his cock still plunging in and out my mouth as his fists released my hair and slammed down on either side of my head. His legs spread on either side of my torso and it was seamless, the way he slipped and I slid and we merged, the ultimate silver dream machine, every gear and piston slick and streamlined and when he came....

He raised himself up. I gasped with surprise at the sudden void in my mouth, then cried out with glee as his cum showered down, slapping hot against my bare tits, up to my chin, my cheek, my lips, thick ribbons of jizz that sprayed and flayed my skin with their heat. Then I reached up and grabbed him, jerking the last of his cum from his cock and sucking it out as well, pulling him into my mouth and gorging.

He softened slowly but I continued to suck, draining him and draining myself as well, knowing that the orgasm that had shaken me as I swallowed him was unlike any I had ever experienced. And I lay there on the wooden floor as he shifted his weight and lay beside me, my eyes fixed on the ceiling fan as it whirred above us, my ears noting as the sound of the room went back to normal, then there was a rustle to my left and someone handed him a newspaper. Open to a certain page. Open to my occasional column in the local rag.

Al read my name aloud from the page, then laughed.

“So, girlie. How far would you go for a story?”

I sat up, toying with the insignia pinned to his leather jacket. “Answer my questions, and maybe I’ll show you.”

He laughed. “Ask away.”

TO BE CONTINUED



This posting was sponsored byEdenFantasys

HOW FAR WOULD YOU GO FOR A STORY?

Tuesday
The elevator doors were still opening as I punched Mark’s number into my mobile.

“She said yes. Elaine said yes.”

On the other end of the line, I could sense his dismay. “So you’re going ahead with it?”

“You bet I’m going ahead with it.” And feeling like one of those characters in a story, who trots out the back story so the reader is up to speed from the start, I blurted on. “Those idiots have been terrorizing the town for six months. All I want to do is get in there, find out who they are, what they want, and if there’s anything we can do to get them out of here.” Then, knowing from the last month’s worth of arguing what Mark was going to come back with, “besides, it’s not as though we’re not talking about a chapter of Hell’s Angels. It’s just a bunch of middle-aged men with big motorbikes. How tough are they going to be, really?”

Mark simply sighed. “I guess you’re going to find out.” He hung up.

Friday
How far would you go for a story?

Back in college, studying journalism, I lost count of the number of times I was asked that question. And of how many times I answered it with the same six words. As far as I need to. I was only thinking in terms of the law, then, though, or maybe a hint of deception, and that was as far as I’d ever needed to go. As local newspapers go, I guess I landed a fairly sweet deal – not quite inner city, but not the suburbs, either. So I’d pursue politicians who looked like they might have something to hide, and I chased down a cop who was a little too free with his favors. And if the law of the land got a little dented in the process, then maybe it should pay a little more attention to truth and honesty than it does.

Tonight, though… tonight, I’d gone further than I’d ever imagined. First to that store in the mall where they sell the kind of clothes that I’d only looked at before, because the cut of the cloth and the slice of the slits really didn't fit in with the places I hung out. Maybe I did get a super-sluttish thrill as I looked at myself in the mirror, all teetering heels and too short skirt, a top that ended where my ribcage began, and my tits squeezing tight against their synthetic jail. Oh, and a pair of leggings to die for. But I suppressed it with a professional shrug. I was doing it for the story. The story has to come first.


Then to the newsstand, to at least get a working knowledge of what owning a motorbike was all about. Before he stopped picking up my calls, Mark told me there’s a lot more to it than being able to read the brand name on the side, and he was right. A couple of hours with some Harley mags filled my head with so many figures that I gained a whole new respect for the people who read them. Because it felt like a foreign language to me. Biker-ese, I smiled to myself, and I knew I’d never master it all. But at least I was conversant, and that’s all that mattered.

And then last night, down to Dino’s for Ribs’n’Things Thursday, to get the lay of the land and catch a few eyes, so when I returned tonight there would at least be a few friendly faces for me to hang out with. First in one of the booths where the whole gang had taken up residence; then up in the pool room, where the wagers ran from nickels to bike keys… and then…

How far would you go for a story?

As far as I need to go

Yeah, and if I keep on telling myself that, maybe I won’t gag on the fattest cock I’ve ever seen, being jammed down my throat by a guy whose presence I'd barely even acknowledged.

We’re in the rest room. The ladies’ rest room. I’d excused myself for a pee, an excuse to get down with some note taking, when there was a knock on the door, and a voice, “will you be long?”

“Just finishing.” I tucked my notepad back in my purse, flushed and washed my hands, then opened the door to find Lars standing there, blocking my exit, and undoing his belt.

“Thought you and me should have some quality time together,” he slurred. And then, as if he worried that I might not understand what he meant, “thought you and me should get to know each other.”

He’d finished fiddling down there; I glanced down quickly and his jeans were pulled wide open, and a semi-hard cock lay on a platform of grubby underwear.

“You did, did you?” I smiled brightly back at him. “And what do you think Pete…” – the guy I’d been sitting with – “… would think about that?”

“He’s already gone. Took off right after you did. So I figured that means you’re anyone’s now.”

Shit. I’d been relying on Pete, not only because he seemed to have the loosest tongue of them all, but also because he appeared to have the highest set of morals.

My eyes darted around Lars’ bulk, wondering if maybe I could squeeze past and run. He caught them and his already massive frame seemed to grow even bigger. “You’re not thinking of running out on me, are you?”

“You kidding?” Okay, I’d tried cowardice, now it was time for some bluster. “I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t a line for the ladies. This could take some time.” Then I fell to my knees, took his cock in one hand and, eyes closed, I popped him into my mouth.

I don’t know what I was expecting. I’m not one of those girls you read about who creams her jeans at the thought of sucking cock – if I’m going to do it, it’s rarely a premeditated decision; it happens in the heat of a particular moment, because I know my partner likes it, or because I need to do something special for him. Certainly the idea of cold-bloodedly kneeling on a bathroom floor and sucking a stranger’s cock for any reason had never crossed my mind, and even as I drew his thickness into my mouth, a part of me couldn’t believe that I was doing it.

But another part was wondering why I’d waited so long to try. Lars wasn’t going to last long, I could tell that from his movements, and from the way his cock was swelling in my mouth, growing hotter and harder as his balls tensed and… for a moment, I wondered if I should try and slow him down, but only for a moment because that’s all the time I had before he came with a cry that must have been heard throughout the building, and I braced myself for the flood of fluid – that never came.

There was cum, but … what? Maybe a tablespoon full? Not enough to think about, that’s for sure, so I held it in my mouth while I sucked on his softening cock and, as I released him, I let his emission go as well, then wiped my mouth as lasciviously as I could, and gave him a breathy “wow.” The door to the bathroom was still wide open, and I could see a few of his friends watching us. But I stood up and kissed Lars’ bearded cheek, then squeezed past his bulk and went back to my table. Fuck, I needed a drink and, when Lars made his own way back to the booth, so did he. He didn’t say a word to me, though; didn’t even try and catch my eye, just kept his head down all evening, and sinking his brews. Was he the weak link I’d been hoping to find? Because if he was, then I’d just found his weakest point.

Saturday
I don’t know if I’d describe it as a new respect, but when I turned up at Dino’s the following evening, there was definitely a sense that I’d earned something last night. I made my way to the same booth I’d occupied last night, and instead of the surly boots that reluctantly shifted to let me pass by their owners, they moved like lightning out of my path. And the guy whose jacket lay on my seat? He snatched it up before I even made to sit down.

I took out a cigarette, wondering how far this newfound chivalry might stretch… not that far, obviously. I lit it myself, then signaled to the waitress to bring me a drink. A few seats away, Lars was deep in conversation with a few other men, and didn’t even seem aware that I’d entered.

I wasn’t sure what to make of that. I’d already come to the conclusion that “steady” girlfriends were not a commodity this crowd were familiar with – that the biker babes who ran with them, and there were three or four, seemed to be passed around between whoever needed their company. Thanks, Pete, for that little nugget. At the same time, though, I was hoping there’d be at least a hint of acknowledgement of what happened last night.

Pete wasn’t here either, so I smiled at the guy who’d swept his jacket off my seat and asked which of the bikes outside was his. He told me; I nodded. “You like it?” I did.
“Come on, then.”


Now this I could handle. I said earlier that I didn’t know much about bikes. That’s true. But I grew up around them anyway, my three brothers had Harleys (at least until one of them crashed and almost wound up dead in a ditch), and I’d spent most of my childhood on one pillion or another. Maybe if they’d run with a gang, I’d have found other things to do as well, but that’s another fantasy.

Vic kicked her into life; held out his hand to haul me on board behind him, then grunted happily as I wrapped my arms round his waist – and we were away.

She was loud, she was fast, and Vic handled her well. I squealed the first time we took a sharp corner, convinced that my shoulders were just inches off the road, and I felt his frame shudder as he laughed at me. I clung on a little tighter, loving the feel of his bare arms against mine, the strength of his back as my breasts pressed against it. I wondered if he could feel how hard my nipples were – he was wearing an even skimpier top than I was, and as his shoulder-length hair flashed back into my face, I realized how wet my pussy was too.

If you've never ridden pillion, you should. Think of the best sex toy you've ever got off to, then add the hottest guy you've ever had inside. Then think of them again and again and again, because a bike just doesn't quit, not even when it stops. We halted and my insides were still in absolute turmoil, ecstatic turmoil, don't-ever-stop turmoil. But I blinked my eyes an cleared my head, then looked around, wondering how anybody ever thought this was a good place for a diner, out in the absolute middle of nowhere, with nothing but flat prairie for miles around. A broken-down pick-up sat outside, its natural color indistinguishable from the rust that coated it. But as we rounded the building, a real, old fifties style chrome creation, half a dozen gleaming motorbikes were gathered round the railings, and Vic slipped in alongside them with a throaty purr.

“Thought you’d like to meet some real riders,” he said. “They’ll probably be more your speed, as well.”

I wasn’t thinking about speed, though. I was thinking about what I’d done with Lars last night... and what it would be like to times that by... half a dozen bikes, half a dozen bikers, add Vic and maybe a passenger or three. I had a feeling I was going to be busy tonight.

How far would you go for a story?

All the way.

TO BE CONTINUED



This posting was sponsored by EdenFantasys

OHMYBOD-y is making me!!!!!!!

When I was at college, a favorite topic of conversation (usually when drunk) was, music you liked getting fucked to.

We’re more sophisticated today. Today we discuss music we like getting fucked by. And the funny thing is, it’s none of the songs I thought it would be.

read more at Eden Fantasys.

This posting was sponsored by EdenFantasys

The Clit-erion Collection - Rocki Whore Picture Show (2011)

Building the ultimate porn library, one great flick at a time
You would be right to surrender to a despairing groan when confronted with the prospect of a porno remake of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Partly because it’s been done at least once before, and what a mess that turned out to be; but also because the original was sexually charged enough that a little more flesh really shouldn’t make much difference. It would be like ripping off the bed clothes in that infamous scene in Mick Jagger’s Performance, to see if he and Anita Pallenberg are truly performing, like the scuttlebutt reckons. Sometimes, less is more.

read more at Eden Fantasys.



This posting sponsored by EdenFantasys

Three Special Guys

There’s a lot of dildos on the market right now; I know, because I seem to have a box full of the things, including a few I’ve never even used... gag gifts from friends made from chemical compounds that you wouldn’t feed to a landfill; ugly colors that looked better online; ugly shapes that you wouldn’t want to touch.

But for every few duds, there’s always a stud, and for every few winners there’s always a champion. And then there’s that select handful (and the best ones are at least that!) that ... well, they’re almost like old boyfriends, aren’t they, because you know every ridge and every bump too, but even more importantly, they know you too.

So here’s a few lines about three special guys... friends who step far beyond the customary parameters of a sex toy, and become a part of the furniture too.



I called my first dildo Chucky because
That was who he replaced
When Chucky was chucked
But I wanted to fuck
And he always found the right place

But he really was not much to look at, and
He tasted all rubber-y too
It was time to upgrade
From when Chuck was made
Cos I wanted one just like... you


I called my next dildo Randy because
That’s how he made me feel
That discrete suction cup
Kept him standing up
And all I had to do was kneel

He was a little too artificial though
He still did not feel quite true
It was time to upgrade
From when Randy was made
Cos I wanted one just like... you


I called my last dildo Lance because
That’s how deep inside he is going
And that taut VixSkin feel
Feels warm, nearly real
And when he spreads me, it’s just like he’s growing

Maybe he needs more attention than most
But it’s got to be worth it, you see
Cos he’s feeling just right
And he’s stretching me tight
And he’s not you... I’ve got one like me!


This posting sponsored by EdenFantasys

The Clit-erion Collection - Scooby-Doo: A XXX Parody (2011)

Building the ultimate porn library, one great flick at a time

It doesn’t matter how much you love TV Land. You do not need to see Shaggy get his cock sucked. By Velma. While Daphne watches. While Fred fucks her ass. While Scooby...

Yeah, where’s Scooby?

That is the mystery that powers director Eddie Powell’s Scooby-Doo: A XXX Parody, as Shaggy awakens after a lusty Halloween party to discover his best friend is missing. He tries to recall the last time he saw him... at the party. With drugs and drink. And boobs and vaginas. And a cute blonde fairy who rode him cowgirl two weeks to Christmas. Or words to that effect.

Zoinks!

Read more at Eden Fantasys.






This posting was sponsored by Eden Fantasys

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.

DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME... IN THE CAR IS MUCH MORE FUN

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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



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.

read more at Eden Fantasys.

Rocking with the Rainbow G

FIVE THINGS YOU CANNOT DO WITH THE RAINBOW-G

1. You can't make it cum

2. You can't make it talk to you afterwards (what's new there?)

3. You can't drive it absofuckinglutely nuts by giving it head with a mouthful of Pop Rocks

4. You can't just lie back and pretend to be sleeping

5. You can't withhold sex until it does the dishes

FIVE THINGS YOU CAN DO WITH THE RAINBOW-G

1. You can leave it out and tell people it's a really cool piece of novelty Venetian glass blowing... "omg you're right, it does look a bit like a cock."

2. You can prop it between two cushions and... (takes a little practise, but it's heavier than the average dildo, so it does work)

3. You can make sure that every ridge, contour and indent does exactly what it ought to

4. You can never wear it out

5. You can throw out all your old plastic, rubber and fake-glass sex toys

ONE THING YOU WILL WANT TO DO WITH THE RAINBOW-G

1. Switch off the computer, mute the phone and devote the rest of the day to your new 7.25-inch friend

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….

read the rest at Eden Fantasys

The Clit-erion Collection - Pirates (2005)

Building the ultimate porn library, one great flick at a time

continuing an occasional series looking back at the greatest XXX films ever made... the CLIT-erion collection of adult jewels, unsung gems and stone-cold-crazy cunt cult classics.

Pirates and porn. Were two subjects ever destined to be more delightfully intertwined than them? Especially at a time - the mid-2000s - when it really felt like the United States couldn’t get enough of either of them. The XXX market was still booming, and devouring ever greater slices of the erotic video/DVD and rental markets, and what the naked ladies and thrusting loins didn’t sew up, the first two Pirates of the Caribbean movies did. If ever there was an invitation to print money, it was a big budget coupling of America’s two latest, greatest sweethearts.

read more at Eden Fantasys

The Story of O

A great book, it is truthfully said, is more than a story. It is also an idea, and it is equally true that the better the story, the greater the idea. Some of the most influential novels in modern literary history can also be ranked among some of the most boring. But they all affected the way people live, and did so in a way that permeates our culture and language to this day.

read more on the book's background at Eden Fantasys.

A mid-1970s movie version (The Story of Joanna) starring Jamie Gillis and directed by Gerard Damiano only glanced at the novel itself, but will still be a familiar tale to anyone who discussed the unread book behind the gymnasium in High School.

My own novel Miss America was written with at least half my memory fixed on the distorted descriptions that I picked up in the years before and after I finally read it. And visitors to the Second Life virtual world will not only find communities, but entire life forces built around the characters, places, the acts and even the sex toys that appear in the book. Few of which, again, bear more than superficial resemblance to anything conceived by Anne Desclos/Pauline Réage herself.

Which, in turn, is the story’s greatest triumph.

French erotica of the late 1940s/early 1950s was all but consumed by bondage and BDSM (a symbol, say the sociologists, of the country’s liberation from Nazi rule at the end of the Second World War). Watch the short stag films that make up the DVD Vintage Erotica Anno 1950, and elements of The Story of O flicker in almost every reel.

For Réage, the greatest challenge was surely to transfer that imagery to the printed page, and it is true that little of what she writes is any more graphic than the action appearing in those flickering little films. It was the establishment’s response, and the attendant knee jerk publicity that attends any attempt to “ban” or “suppress” a piece of art which sent the Story of O soaring into legend. But having done so, the book proved that it deserved its notoriety.


Without ever setting out to write a text book, Réage penned the ultimate treatise; without ever imagining that she would be instructing the next half century on the mores and morals of dominance and submission, she wrote the last word in self-help books. And so deftly did she weave her tale that any attempt (and there have been many) to detail the book’s actual contents, as opposed to their imagined ones, simply fall into cliche and salacious vagaries. Because ultimately, the Story of O is not about its titular heroine getting fucked five ways to Christmas by a succession of her Master’s closest friends; nor about a seemingly independent fashion photographer’s descent into the realms of sexual slavery; nor even about the average male reader’s uncontrollable urge to go out and buy a Master coat or cloak of their own, and find a girl they can use in the same way as O.

It is about empowerment; it is about strength; and it is about freedom. All of which continue to blaze no matter how distorted the mirror they are seen through.