French Kissing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, now I know.

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

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

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

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

I knew he was coming long before he said anything. I could feel it building in the balls that tightened in my hand, in the sudden tensing of his cock as it strained against my jaw, and in the barely perceptible sensation that he’d grown an extra half-an-inch, as though preparing to leap down my throat.


My fingers clenched around his buttocks, holding him tighter, drawing him closer, taking him deeper. And, as he called, first my name, and then a sharp word of warning, my throat opened up to accept the coming flood. And then he was gone, jerking out of my mouth with such violence that I almost toppled over, while his seed spurted thick, wet and white across my face.

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

Yeah, but not close enough. I smeared a hand through the goo and licked it, then smiled and kissed his chest. A true gentleman – or as much of a gentleman as a guy could be, with his balls banging against somebody’s chin, and his prick rammed down her throat. And then my eye caught a shadow in the lee of a tree, a shadow that didn’t move fast enough when it ducked out of view.

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

“Typical dad. Always making a mess.”

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

Erotic Memoirs of Ambrose Horne

THE EROTIC MEMOIRS OF AMBROSE HORNE (NOVEL) by Chrissie Bentley

I-TUNES EDITION
KINDLE EDITION

Armed with only his relentless curiosity for the darkest recesses of human sexuality, Ambrose Horne is the enterprising eroticist for whom no puzzle is too perplexing, no secret is too scandalous, and no position is too impolite. Now, gathered together for your reading pleasure, The Erotic Memoirs Of Ambrose Horne reveals the Carnal Casebook of the Idiosyncratic Inquisitor, the Horny Holmes... the man who put the Dick into Private Investigator... the one-and-only Ambrose Horne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Where do they hold these assignations?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Hmmm. And, finally, is he here now?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These three fantastic books are all available at : Xcite Books

Amy Hanson, Wilmington Examiner

The Erotic Adventures of Ambrose Horne

THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF AMBROSE HORNE (NOVEL) by Chrissie Bentley

ITUNES EDITION
KINDLE EDITION

Armed with only his relentless curiosity for the darkest recesses of human sexuality, Ambrose Horne is the enterprising eroticist for whom no puzzle is too perplexing, no secret is too scandalous, and no position is too impolite. Now, gathered together for your reading pleasure, 'The Erotic Adventures Of Ambrose Horne' reveals the Carnal Casebook of the Idiosyncratic Inquisitor, the Horny Holmes ... the man who put the Dick into Private Investigator ... the one-and-only Ambrose Horne.

EXCERPT (from THE STRANGE CASE OF THE CONFUSING CORPORAL)
‘Head shrinkers. Whatever will they think of next?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

REVIEW
This might be controversial, but for me, the best erotic fiction isn’t all about the sex. With no pun intended, it really should be about the full package. And that’s what Chrissie Bentley delivers in this collection of short stories which sway from the poignant to the ludicrously funny. And that package includes – rest assured – lots of hot Victorian action!

Set in the era already SO dominated by that other fictional detective, Ambrose Horne does a very good job at establishing himself as the sleuth who takes a refreshingly different approach to uncovering the truth – more often than not a horizontal one.

When I started reading this book, I worried that after the first few stories, the plots would grow a bit samey or contrived (as they did in that TV programme Rosemary and Thyme – after all, just how many murders can a couple of landscape gardeners unearth?!) but thankfully this is not the case here. In fact, not only has the author managed to create a charismatic hero (who has a Bond-esque way with the ladies) and some entertaining and testing plotlines, but she’s impressively highlighted a social truth: that almost everything in this life comes down to sex, greed or both.

I can’t wait to read the next two instalments of Ambrose Horne.
RUDE WORDS

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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

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

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

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

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

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

These three fantastic books are all available at : Xcite Books

Amy Hanson, Wilmington Examiner

Three Nuns and a Motorcycle

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

KINDLE EDITION NOW AVAILABLE - buy here
PRINT EDITION STILL AVAILABLE - buy here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck you."

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

Don't Forget To Breathe

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

ONLY $2.99

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

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

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

An Evening’s Tale… a tale of bawdiness from the reign of Good Queen Bess. History refers to her as the Virgin Queen. But history only talks about one of her holes. She had another that was always full!

Three Nuns and a Motorcycle… two young lovers, three passing sisters, and an act of penance that the Archbishop would certainly not approve of.

Three Guys Walk Into a Bar… and one walks out with the girl of his dreams. A weekend in the mountains has never sounded so delicious.

Revenge… there’s a certain type of frat boy who will never take no for an answer. But does he always get what he expected? Butch gets a blowjob he’ll remember forever.

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

Screaming Orgasm

COCKTALES - SCREAMING ORGASM

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

includes BACK TO NATURE by Chrissie Bentley

EXCERPT

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

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

“Sorry Chrissie, I thought you were sleeping.”

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

“Sorry? What did you say?”

“Uh… I said ‘not yet.’”

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

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

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

“You tired?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

“Ah, so you’ve done it as well?”

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

“Nowhere awkward, I hope?”

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

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

and sometimes...

... you don't.

We've all been there!

Merryland by Roger Pheuquewell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or who would even feel the need to do so?

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

All Night Long

COCKTALES - ALL NIGHT LONG

includes BUMPY ROADS ARE BEST by Chrissie Bentley

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

EXCERPT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sex On The Beach

COCKTALES - SEX ON THE BEACH

includes CATCH OF THE DAY by Chrissie Bentley

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

EXCERPT

“Turn around.”

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

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

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

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

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

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