This is a light work week for me so I gave myself the week off from all my other responsibilities and hobbies. That means lots of television and internet surfing with the occasional classical reading. My goal was to recharge my batteries as I stop and smell the pussy. But blogging is a hard habit to break and I wanted to share a few random thoughts from a very relaxed erotic writer.
1. Few things sadden me more than seeing a sex blogger spend a majority of their blog talking about the television shows they are watching. This is the true argument that television is the opiate of the masses.
2. As a writer, I greatly admire Orson Welles' 'War of the Worlds' radio broadcast because he somehow managed to convince listeners that tripod riding Martians were invading New Jersey. That is what we call suspension of disbelief. I really admire his insincere apology where he expresses shock and horror that people believed events that were in a popular classic novel were somehow construed as fact. That is what we call writer's ego.
3. My comments have gone down as my blog hits go up. I suspect a large part of it has been my lack of responding to comments. There are days when I just don't get to see my blog till the next day and I think commentors need the receipt of a response in order to feel their comment was appreciated. It's a vicious cycle in that I love comments, but lately rarely have the time to personally thank each comment. Thankfully I love writing more than comments.
4. The History Channel should spin off and do the Nazi Channel. Sure it would be offensive but more importantly to me, it would scrub off all the documentaries dedicated to bigoted killers and leave the History Channel to cover 24 hours of Wild West stuff like I want it too. Yes, I'm aware of the irony of this along with point #1 above.
5. There is no problem, family or work related, personal or financial, that a good spanking can't help. It won't solve the problem, but after spanking someone's ass, I feel better about it.
6. Finally, I laughed for a good half hour reading this. Greg Land is a comics artist who uses photographs as a reference. The thing is, most of his photo references appear to be from porn. He has superheroes in bizarre poses that look oddly like people are getting rammed from behind. On this website, someone took the original art and re-wrote all the word ballons. It is hilarious as well as just mind blowing that a major comic company would have such blatant pornography.
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Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Monday, December 25, 2006
Santa Claudia
I was on the phone with Wordslut, talking about what sex bloggers always talk about when they are horny — what we had posted recently.
“I liked your Dear Santa post,” I told her. “I was just a little surprised you addressed it to Santa.”
“Oh?” she said. Wordslut was using her sexy voice because we were talking about her blog. “Is there someone else I should have sent it to?”
“You should have addressed it to the real spirit of the season. You know, Santa Claudia, or Saint Claudia since she was Italian”
“Oh, is this a story idea?” Wordslut asked.
I sighed. “No, Santa Claudia is real. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of her.”
To read more, click Whole Post
She laughed. “Tell me about her, then. Should I get a dildo?”
“It’s not that kind of a story,” I said, but yet it was. “Years and years ago, there was a young woman who lived in Rome. This was during the Byzantine Empire, mind you. She was something of a flirt, but it was OK because she was discreet.”
“That sounds like fun,” Wordslut said. “So she had secret affairs no one knew about? Kind of like bloggers?”
“Yes, actually,”” I said. “She preferred soldiers because she was a great believer in peace, and she thought the greatest crime ever committed was sending a young man off to die before he had a chance to grow old. She was a radical for her time. She believed in love, not war, and she argued passionately that the warmongers should fight their own damn wars themselves.”
“Oh, I like that. You’re weaving in current politics,” Wordslut said. She still thought this was a story.
“Anyway, she fucked soldiers,” I continued. “She would sneak into their barracks any way she could. Sometimes she went through the windows, sometimes she wore disguises and sometimes she came down the chimney. Because she was a single woman from a good family, it was imperative that no one ever discover the gift she was giving these boys. She gave them the life-giving gift of sex and then snuck back into the night.”
“Wouldn’t the soldiers have just fucked prostitutes and their girlfriends before leaving home?” Wordslut asked.
“Oh, sure,” I said. “But sex with Claudia was not just sex. It was lust wrapped in the gift paper of true compassion. This was not just blow jobs and fucking against walls; this was sex that came from her heart as much as her libido.”
“Ah, OK,” Wordslut said. “So she was sneaking around and fucking soldiers. I take it she got caught one day.”
“Of course.”
“What happened to her then?”
“They killed her, of course,” I said. “She was a slut. She was corrupting the pure soldiers. She was a harlot who didn’t even need the money. They discovered it wasn’t just soldiers she was fucking — there were lonely single women, abused wives and husbands with shrewish wives. Claudia fucked everyone who she thought needed it. She was too much woman for her town, and she didn’t like war. She had to die. Not much has changed since then.”
“Well, I can see why you said it’s not a masturbation story; this is depressing.”
“Ah, but here comes the magic,” I said. “A year later, a year to the very night, all the soldiers in town were visited. Not just the soldiers either. Wives, husbands and certain single people were visited by a ghostly apparition in the middle of the night. Claudia still loved them, and her love was a rather personal and messy affair. For one night, they had their brains fucked out and knew that despite whatever shit they had been through that year, they were loved.
“The next day, people started to whisper and talk to one another. You can't get fucked by Claudia and not be changed. Eventually, they figured out that she had visited them all. They say her sex was so powerful that it cured some of them of illnesses, while it gave others the courage to change their lives. The townspeople saw her as a saint, although obviously no church would ever call her one.”
Wordslut was excited. “Oh! So she’s a ghost who comes and fucks people on Christmas. How does that tie in with Santa Claus?”
“Every year, Claudia grew more and more powerful. She visited other towns and then other countries. People struggled to explain what happened, and they started telling stories. They said she lived at the North Pole because the idea of fucking a supernatural person who lived somewhere no one could ever check was more comforting than the thought of fucking a ghost. They hated the idea of her being alone, so they gave her elves, fairies and gnomes as company. The more ideas people came up with, the stronger Claudia became. People believed, and they believed that maybe she was right and this whole war thing was bullshit.
“Eventually, the church had to do something. The religious leaders made their own myth. First, they made him a man, and they got rid of that whole sex thing. Then they had to tie in a morality system of their own making, so they came up with that ‘naughty and nice’ crap. ‘Nice’ was what they said was nice; ‘naughty’ was more like Claudia. They borrowed the elves, the North Pole and the other bits, because hey, brand confusion is something the church had been doing for years.”
“So Santa Claus is a lie made to cover the fact that the real spirit of Christmas is a hot woman fucking for world peace?” Wordslut had that editor tone that I know so well. It was odd to hear her analyze the truth as if it were something that had too many loose ends. Then again, she still thought of it as a story.
“Pretty much,” I said.
“And how did you find out about it?” she asked.
“I grew up in Jacksonville, North Carolina. It’s a Marine town. Soldiers all over the world know about Santa Claudia.”
“Did she ever visit you?” Wordslut asked. “What does she look like? I’ll bet she’s a sexy redhead.”
“Claudia’s form shifts with the years. Expectations have changed her, but she doesn’t mind. She has the same good heart. Hell, by now she probably really does have a home at the North Pole, filled with perverse little elves who keep her wet all year round.”
“You didn’t say whether or not she had visited you,” Wordslut poked.
“She has,” I said. I didn’t say how or why. How could I put into words the sheer loneliness I felt the Christmas that my parents divorced and both of them said they had too much to worry about to take care of me? From my stepfather, I expected that, but for my mother to tell me that I was a burden at age 17 was hard to comprehend. None of my aunts or uncles could be bothered to take me in, and I spent Christmas on the couch at a friend’s house. Looking back, I can see that my family was ating no differently than ever, but that Christmas, all I knew was rejection.
Wordslut waited for me to describe it. “Am I going to have to wait for you to write it to find out about it?”
“Yes,” I lied. I could never write it accurately. You can’t put magic into words.
How do I describe that to me, Santa Claudia was a black woman, as dark as the cold December night? How can I describe how shocked I was to have her hands caressing my cock as I lay on that lumpy couch? As a dom, how can I explain how easily I surrendered to the moment and just let myself be loved and adored by a woman who wanted nothing more than for me to be happy? How can I say to Wordslut, one of my best friends, how much I would have given at that moment to be with Santa Claudia forever?
It frustrates me as a sex writer that I still can’t describe her as well as I would like. She was wearing the colors of Christmas, a red bra with white furry fringe that barely contained massive breasts that jiggled like a teenager’s. A crown of holly surrounded luscious black hair that shimmered like black ice. A red bow circled her neck as if she were a present given just to me. Green-and-white stockings clung to legs that seemed to stretch forever. I remember her red lips as they wrapped around my cock, but what I remember best is the dark-brown pools of her eyes that sparkled like stars in the dark living room.
And her pussy — her pussy was just magic.
“So is she still visiting people?” Wordslut asked. She was still working out the story.
“Yes,” I said. “Once you believe in her, once you really know that she is there and that she will always adore you, Santa Claudia will return. But only, only if you also believe in peace. She has no love for those with hate and bloodshed in their hearts.”
“Does she even visit married couples?”
I thought of the first Christmas after I got married. Santa Claudia mounted me and rode my cock while my wife moaned beside me. I thought it was just a vivid dream till I heard her shuddering cry of climax. The next day, she blushed every time we saw someone wearing a red Santa cap.
“Yes, she visits us all in her own way.”
“Hmmm,” Wordslut said. “Now that I know about her, will she visit me?”
“I’m sure she will. Leave out a glass of wine and some cheesecake to be on the safe side.”
Wordslut laughed. “Santa Claudia has better taste than Claus.”
“What can I say? She’s a woman.”
The end, but maybe Claudia did visit Wordslut after all.
“I liked your Dear Santa post,” I told her. “I was just a little surprised you addressed it to Santa.”
“Oh?” she said. Wordslut was using her sexy voice because we were talking about her blog. “Is there someone else I should have sent it to?”
“You should have addressed it to the real spirit of the season. You know, Santa Claudia, or Saint Claudia since she was Italian”
“Oh, is this a story idea?” Wordslut asked.
I sighed. “No, Santa Claudia is real. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of her.”
To read more, click Whole Post
She laughed. “Tell me about her, then. Should I get a dildo?”
“It’s not that kind of a story,” I said, but yet it was. “Years and years ago, there was a young woman who lived in Rome. This was during the Byzantine Empire, mind you. She was something of a flirt, but it was OK because she was discreet.”
“That sounds like fun,” Wordslut said. “So she had secret affairs no one knew about? Kind of like bloggers?”
“Yes, actually,”” I said. “She preferred soldiers because she was a great believer in peace, and she thought the greatest crime ever committed was sending a young man off to die before he had a chance to grow old. She was a radical for her time. She believed in love, not war, and she argued passionately that the warmongers should fight their own damn wars themselves.”
“Oh, I like that. You’re weaving in current politics,” Wordslut said. She still thought this was a story.
“Anyway, she fucked soldiers,” I continued. “She would sneak into their barracks any way she could. Sometimes she went through the windows, sometimes she wore disguises and sometimes she came down the chimney. Because she was a single woman from a good family, it was imperative that no one ever discover the gift she was giving these boys. She gave them the life-giving gift of sex and then snuck back into the night.”
“Wouldn’t the soldiers have just fucked prostitutes and their girlfriends before leaving home?” Wordslut asked.
“Oh, sure,” I said. “But sex with Claudia was not just sex. It was lust wrapped in the gift paper of true compassion. This was not just blow jobs and fucking against walls; this was sex that came from her heart as much as her libido.”
“Ah, OK,” Wordslut said. “So she was sneaking around and fucking soldiers. I take it she got caught one day.”
“Of course.”
“What happened to her then?”
“They killed her, of course,” I said. “She was a slut. She was corrupting the pure soldiers. She was a harlot who didn’t even need the money. They discovered it wasn’t just soldiers she was fucking — there were lonely single women, abused wives and husbands with shrewish wives. Claudia fucked everyone who she thought needed it. She was too much woman for her town, and she didn’t like war. She had to die. Not much has changed since then.”
“Well, I can see why you said it’s not a masturbation story; this is depressing.”
“Ah, but here comes the magic,” I said. “A year later, a year to the very night, all the soldiers in town were visited. Not just the soldiers either. Wives, husbands and certain single people were visited by a ghostly apparition in the middle of the night. Claudia still loved them, and her love was a rather personal and messy affair. For one night, they had their brains fucked out and knew that despite whatever shit they had been through that year, they were loved.
“The next day, people started to whisper and talk to one another. You can't get fucked by Claudia and not be changed. Eventually, they figured out that she had visited them all. They say her sex was so powerful that it cured some of them of illnesses, while it gave others the courage to change their lives. The townspeople saw her as a saint, although obviously no church would ever call her one.”
Wordslut was excited. “Oh! So she’s a ghost who comes and fucks people on Christmas. How does that tie in with Santa Claus?”
“Every year, Claudia grew more and more powerful. She visited other towns and then other countries. People struggled to explain what happened, and they started telling stories. They said she lived at the North Pole because the idea of fucking a supernatural person who lived somewhere no one could ever check was more comforting than the thought of fucking a ghost. They hated the idea of her being alone, so they gave her elves, fairies and gnomes as company. The more ideas people came up with, the stronger Claudia became. People believed, and they believed that maybe she was right and this whole war thing was bullshit.
“Eventually, the church had to do something. The religious leaders made their own myth. First, they made him a man, and they got rid of that whole sex thing. Then they had to tie in a morality system of their own making, so they came up with that ‘naughty and nice’ crap. ‘Nice’ was what they said was nice; ‘naughty’ was more like Claudia. They borrowed the elves, the North Pole and the other bits, because hey, brand confusion is something the church had been doing for years.”
“So Santa Claus is a lie made to cover the fact that the real spirit of Christmas is a hot woman fucking for world peace?” Wordslut had that editor tone that I know so well. It was odd to hear her analyze the truth as if it were something that had too many loose ends. Then again, she still thought of it as a story.
“Pretty much,” I said.
“And how did you find out about it?” she asked.
“I grew up in Jacksonville, North Carolina. It’s a Marine town. Soldiers all over the world know about Santa Claudia.”
“Did she ever visit you?” Wordslut asked. “What does she look like? I’ll bet she’s a sexy redhead.”
“Claudia’s form shifts with the years. Expectations have changed her, but she doesn’t mind. She has the same good heart. Hell, by now she probably really does have a home at the North Pole, filled with perverse little elves who keep her wet all year round.”
“You didn’t say whether or not she had visited you,” Wordslut poked.
“She has,” I said. I didn’t say how or why. How could I put into words the sheer loneliness I felt the Christmas that my parents divorced and both of them said they had too much to worry about to take care of me? From my stepfather, I expected that, but for my mother to tell me that I was a burden at age 17 was hard to comprehend. None of my aunts or uncles could be bothered to take me in, and I spent Christmas on the couch at a friend’s house. Looking back, I can see that my family was ating no differently than ever, but that Christmas, all I knew was rejection.
Wordslut waited for me to describe it. “Am I going to have to wait for you to write it to find out about it?”
“Yes,” I lied. I could never write it accurately. You can’t put magic into words.
How do I describe that to me, Santa Claudia was a black woman, as dark as the cold December night? How can I describe how shocked I was to have her hands caressing my cock as I lay on that lumpy couch? As a dom, how can I explain how easily I surrendered to the moment and just let myself be loved and adored by a woman who wanted nothing more than for me to be happy? How can I say to Wordslut, one of my best friends, how much I would have given at that moment to be with Santa Claudia forever?
It frustrates me as a sex writer that I still can’t describe her as well as I would like. She was wearing the colors of Christmas, a red bra with white furry fringe that barely contained massive breasts that jiggled like a teenager’s. A crown of holly surrounded luscious black hair that shimmered like black ice. A red bow circled her neck as if she were a present given just to me. Green-and-white stockings clung to legs that seemed to stretch forever. I remember her red lips as they wrapped around my cock, but what I remember best is the dark-brown pools of her eyes that sparkled like stars in the dark living room.
And her pussy — her pussy was just magic.
“So is she still visiting people?” Wordslut asked. She was still working out the story.
“Yes,” I said. “Once you believe in her, once you really know that she is there and that she will always adore you, Santa Claudia will return. But only, only if you also believe in peace. She has no love for those with hate and bloodshed in their hearts.”
“Does she even visit married couples?”
I thought of the first Christmas after I got married. Santa Claudia mounted me and rode my cock while my wife moaned beside me. I thought it was just a vivid dream till I heard her shuddering cry of climax. The next day, she blushed every time we saw someone wearing a red Santa cap.
“Yes, she visits us all in her own way.”
“Hmmm,” Wordslut said. “Now that I know about her, will she visit me?”
“I’m sure she will. Leave out a glass of wine and some cheesecake to be on the safe side.”
Wordslut laughed. “Santa Claudia has better taste than Claus.”
“What can I say? She’s a woman.”
The end, but maybe Claudia did visit Wordslut after all.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Global Orgasm Day
Today is a day I can really get behind. Global Orgasm Day is a simple concept- if everyone had an orgasm on the same day, enough positive energy will change the world. It's one of those ideas that if they are wrong; I wouldn't mind testing theory a dozen more times to make sure it is wrong. You know, for Science!
Expect a story from me on Christmas day and then posting will be terribly light for the rest of the week. I have some changes planned for the blog and I will need the week to sort them out. If all goes well, I might have two blogs and they won't be held hostage by Blogger's twice weekly outages.
Expect a story from me on Christmas day and then posting will be terribly light for the rest of the week. I have some changes planned for the blog and I will need the week to sort them out. If all goes well, I might have two blogs and they won't be held hostage by Blogger's twice weekly outages.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Fiction: December Bride
There were many reasons people thought Sally was insane. Her coworkers at the museum thought she was insane because she didn’t use any of her vacation days until the first heavy snowfall of the winter. Her secret admirer thought she was crazy because she never dated, especially since she was hitting 40.
The guys at the hardware store thought she was insane because she had bought so may chainsaws over the years. What really disturbed them, though, was that Sally would only smile when they asked why she needed them. The construction company she’d hired to build her garage thought she was crazy because she wanted it to open into the backyard, not the driveway.
Sally's neighbors thought she was insane because she had a 10-foot high privacy fence around her yard, when they knew for a fact that she let her grass grow or die with no help from her. “She doesn't even sunbathe, not even with clothes on!” the neighbor's son complained.
To read more, click Whole Post
The fact that Sally's neighbors could hear chainsaws being used in the middle of the night didn’t help her reputation. If she had owned a cat, she might have been labeled a witch, because people were desperate to explain her eccentricity. If she had brought anyone home — women, men, animals —people would have just thought she was kinky.
Sally's mother also thought Sally was insane. In fact, she had had her daughter committed to an institution at the age of 18. If people had known Sally's real secret, her mother wouldn't have felt guilty every Thanksgiving when her daughter snubbed her again.
It was the morning after the first heavy snowfall, and Sally was up three hours early. She was too excited to sleep, and experience had taught her that she wouldn't be able to sleep much more anyway. She prepared a cup of hot chocolate to clear her head and to warm her for today's big event. She took out the special clothes that she had set aside for this day and gave them a minute inspection. When she was satisfied with her clothes, she gave the same inspection to her body. It was a typical morning for a woman who would be renewing her marriage vows today.
Sally's body met her demanding standards, just barely. She couldn't help the wrinkles that were beginning to appear around her eyes, but her high cheekbones and bright blue eyes distracted a viewer significantly enough for Sally's tastes. Her blond hair was styled very short, because she found long hair on her wedding days was more of a nuisance than it was a beauty enhancer. Her stomach was tight thanks to a vigorous self-imposed workout. She was especially proud of her legs; they rippled with muscles whenever she moved. Her legs required exercise to maintain their form, while her arms and back were naturally fit from the long nights with her chainsaws.
When Sally was satisfied, her racing heart slowed. She donned sweatpants, two pairs of socks, a fuzzy red sweater, gloves and her warmest jacket. Her wedding veil was a red hood, pulled tightly around her face. She had worn the same outfit for nearly 20 years, replacing individual pieces as they became worn. A secret fear made her keep this outfit. Like a child trying to repeat a magical event that he did not understand, Sally wore the same clothes just in case they were some inexplicable part of the ceremony.
Why take chances on your wedding day?
Sally's garage opened into the backyard for a reason — it's much easier to wheel a 100-pound block of ice outside when you don't have to go through a door. Considering that she spent all year carving, forming and repairing this block of ice, the last thing she needed was a difficult path for her final creation. Only in the garage could she have privacy and constant cold air to work on her ice. A self-taught ice sculptor, Sally developed her craft during the long summers and lonely nights.
The sculpture she’d carved from block was another masterpiece; the kind of perfection that can be built only by one lover for another. Standing six feet tall, it was a defined outline of a man's shape. Its widespread legs were strong, so it straddled the ground like a frozen Colossus. The arms were held to the side, every cleft and bulge painstakingly carved and detailed. Hands that could never curl into fists were formed by careful sculpting with a chisel; fingernails had even been added. Shoulders, as proud and powerful as a knight's, were the most recent improvements, flawless from the fresh water Sally had added the previous night. A phallus hung between its legs, an undeniable statement on the gender of the sculpture.
The head was the only part that was featureless. There were no eyes, no nose and no attempt at a mouth. It was simply round on a defined neck. Sally lacked the courage to do the face. Maybe one day, when she was absolutely sure she could do it perfectly, Sally would do the face, but not this winter.
Once the ice sculpture was outside, the true work began. In the darkness of the dawn and in the privacy of her fortified yard, Sally made use of her talents. The winter's first snow was her medium now. Nimble fingers wrapped in leather gloves picked the best snow, forming and packing it with care. Only the snow she deemed pure and worthy was stuck to her ice sculpture. Using skills she had possessed since she was a child, she dressed her sculpture in snow. The snow she layered on obliterated her fine details, but she knew that true craftsmanship would always show through in the end.
Clothed in snow, Sally's sculpture was ready for the final additions. From the bedroom, she dragged a treasured chest. The chest was much larger and heavier than it needed to be, but Sally would have felt unfaithful had she used anything less. The double locks and secret catch took her a moment to open, as she used them only once a year. In time, though, the nervous Sally was able to open the chest, and she retrieved the singular treasures inside.
A worn button went where her sculpture's nose should have been. Two small pieces of coal, worn down over the years, became the eyes. A corncob pipe marked the mouth. A scarf that had been patched several times was wrapped around its neck. A handful of water that had once been last year's snow was poured over the sculpture's body.
Finally came the old hat that Sally and her friends had found so many years ago. The hat that Billy had tried to destroy when Sally wouldn't go out with him. The hat that Karen had begged Sally to give her. There must have been some magic in that old top hat they’d found, because when Sally placed it on the sculpture's head, her lover always returned.
Ice cracked, and the breeze carried the sharpness of ozone. Shifting, surging and boiling, the snow sought to meld into the ice underneath. The button disappeared, and the shape of a nose made of ice took its place. The twin pieces of coal grew larger and warmer as pupils formed. The corncob pipe moved in the mouth of one who was stretching a jaw long unused. The arms reached out and stretched, taking full measure of the power that had been given them.
The magic took only a minute, but Sally was already crying. Some part of her, the part that remembered the lies she’d had to believe in order to escape the asylum her mother had placed her in, always doubted her sanity. To see that she had been right — to see the long hours pay off in such beauty —was almost too much for the December bride.
"Why are you crying, Sally?" her lover asked in his friendly voice, which was full of love. "Didn't I tell you I would be back again someday?"
"Yes, Frosty, and you always keep your word," she cried as she hugged him.
His arms held her as tightly as they ever had. There was so much Sally wanted to tell him. As she basked in the love of his hug, she wanted to let him know of all the difficulties she had encountered that year, all of the funny stories that had occurred to her and all of the times when she’d wanted desperately to somehow summon him early. All of the things she’d wanted to share became less important as he held her in frozen arms that died for her every winter. Right now, she had a more selfish need that she wanted attended to.
Pulling away from the hug, Sally took her lover by the hands and brought him into the garage. She wasn't concerned about him melting as he had years before. The solid block of ice that was his core would take hours to melt in daylight. The two lovers had learned that as long as he covered himself with fresh snow every couple of hours, Frosty could maintain his shape indefinitely. Both of them were grateful to have discovered this; it reduced the chances of Sally catching frostbite every time they renewed their vows. There was a reason she had an air mattress fully inflated on her garage floor.
Frosty’s hands pulled free her hood while she unbuttoned her coat. His hands removed her sweatshirt as she struggled to take off her boots. They laughed as Sally nearly toppled over while they removed her pants. She shivered as he kneeled to pull down her underwear, but it was definitely the good kind of shiver.
Clad only in her bra and gloves, and still standing, Sally dug her fingers into the soft snow of Frosty's head as he kissed her thighs. She always was amazed that his lips were so cold and his breath so warm. He kissed the insides of her thighs while she stood before him. He left moisture with every touch of his lips, making a cold trail on Sally's skin that she didn't mind in the least.
Frosty's hands held her hips and pulled her firmly down to the floor. Sally sat, resting on the edge of the mattress. His hand came up and held her cheek, and she rested her face in her loved one's hand. To be touched by her lover after a year's absence was heaven to Sally. She snuggled into his hand, reaching out and taking his other hand and placing it on her hip. The cold wasn't shocking her as much anymore, which let her enjoy the warmth of his loving touch.
He came closer, and Sally felt the heat of his kiss on her neck. She tilted her head and reached up to pull her hair back. He immediately kissed further up her neck, nipping with his soft lips the skin she presented to him. His body was pressing against her as she sat, and she loved every touch. While he kissed her ears and shoulders, her hands moved back and forth over the slick snow that covered his body. It was already hardening to ice, and Sally knew from experience that this was due to her lover's desire, his desire for her.
Too eager to be passive any longer, she rolled Frosty over to his back. As he laughed deeply, she straddled his lap and ran her bare legs down his sides. The wet feeling that her bare legs felt while rubbing on Frosty was minimal compared to the flood she felt between her legs. Sally wanted him so badly and in so many ways. She held herself up by grabbing his shoulders, and she twisted her legs back and forth over his hardening legs, her pelvis twisting sinfully on his lap.
Frosty reached for her bra, and Sally quickly removed it. She had never questioned his fascination with her breasts. Although he was made of snow, he had too many masculine qualities for her to doubt that he had very human interests. She cried out when his cold lips sucked her nipples. Even his hot breath couldn't completely soothe the shock of having ice on her aroused nipples. The way his mouth sucked so strongly on her nipples turned her on so much. She felt as though he were trying to draw something of her into him, and as she straddled him and let him suck, she hoped that he gained everything he wanted.
Sally’s hips were moving lewdly by now. It was time. Reaching behind her, Sally gripped his phallus of ice. It pulsed in her hand. It was bizarre to feel ice pulse. Her legs already spread, she slid down Frosty's legs towards the joining of their sexes. He entered her perfectly, the ice and her own arousal lubricating the way. Frosty filled her completely, and Sally moaned freely at yet another perfect fit. It paid to design your lover's cock yourself.
Frosty's hands shifted to her buttocks, pressing Sally harder to him. She shifted her hands to his broad chest, giving her the support she needed to thrust him inside of her. Their eyes remained locked, her blue on his black. The freezing chill of him inside her was intense, yet the cold was a small sacrifice for making love to her husband. Her sex contracted, trying to avoid the unforgiving touch of the ice, yet she also craved the friction that would cause her to warm up. Sally had learned over the years that the only thing to do was to grind and grind hard. A year of hard exercise paid off, giving her the endurance and the power to thrust over and over onto the cold hard cock of her love.
The explosion came quickly for the bride. In mid-thrust she paused, and Frosty's hands forced her hips back down for one final impalement. Her eyes closed and her mouth hung open as the sensations of ice were replaced by a spreading warmth that radiated from her sex. She sat back slowly, her body struggling to come out of her ecstasy and back into consciousness.
When she could open her eyes again, she saw her love studying her intently.
"Sally, if it were possible, would you spend eternity with me?" her lover foolishly asked.
"Eternity and a day," Sally answered, with the silly energy of the recently sated .
"Good," Frosty said softly, and he withdrew from her. Sally rolled happily onto the mattress, waiting to see what her lover wanted to do now. On their first day together, they usually made love in dozens of positions. When she became exhausted, they would talk about her year. Now that she had been pleased, Sally was eager to please her love in whatever way he desired. She just wasn't expecting him to stand before her and motion for her to come to him.
Crawling over, Sally thought about the fact that she had never sucked her lover before. Frosty had always been too eager to bury himself in her sex, often stopping her from even kissing down there. Intrigued, she licked his cock, still kneeling before him. She was surprised to hear him moan and even more surprised when his hands went to her head and pulled her closer to his cock. That was OK with Sally. Frosty was the only man she had ever been with, and she had always been curious about this part of other people's sex lives.
His cock was still hot from their earlier lovemaking when Sally placed it in her mouth. As large as it was, she could only get so much into her mouth, but the part she could get was causing Frosty to shiver now. She was relieved to be doing it right, and it encouraged her to move her mouth more quickly. The icy nature of his cock helped. It was easy to run her lips along a naturally lubricated cock. Experimenting, Sally tried running his cock through her lips sideways, like a flute. She tried getting as much of him as she could straight into her mouth. She even tried holding his cock with her fist and flicking her tongue over its tip. What she discovered was that any permutation was enough to cause her lover to clench her hair and groan.
In time, Sally simply placed her lips around the width of her lover's cock and licked him. She felt his phallus throb rapidly as his groans reached deeper and deeper tones. Not for the first time, she wondered where the semen came from, as Frosty never had anything that looked like testicles. His semen splashed into her mouth. This was the first time she’d ever tasted it, and it tasted just like cold water without even a bit of ice. Her head froze when he erupted, but her hand came up and stroked his hard phallus. Sally masturbated Frosty's semen into her mouth, swallowing his offering as he gave it to her.
Both now satisfied, and Sally experiencing an unfamiliar soreness to her jaw, the happy couple decided to retire their lovemaking for now. Sally made herself some hot chocolate while Frosty opened the first of the cold beers that she’d bought for the winter. They stayed in the garage, and Sally told her love about her job, her mother and, of course, how lonely it had been this year.
Then, as she did every year, she asked Frosty what it was like where he came from. Once again, her lover surprised her by breaking tradition. This time, he answered her.
"Oh, it's a beautiful white land, Sally." he answered. "Jack Frost has his castle there, and all across the land, not a single snowflake falls without his knowledge. Frost fairies play constantly, while Ice dwarves build larger and larger icebergs to float on the Great Sea. At night, you can hear the Snow Beast roar as it searches for its mate, while the polar birds fly across the night sky, multicolored streaks following behind them."
“It sounds beautiful," Sally said. Then She shrieked as her mug burned her hand with a sudden heat. The cup dropped, and she jumped at the sound of the porcelain cracking.
"What the hell?' she asked, more embarrassed than hurt. "It got too hot to handle, like I was touching a burner."
Frosty rose and hugged her. For once, she didn't shiver, not even a little. He didn’t feel cold at all.
"We'll never have to renew our vows again," Frosty said into her ear. She knew then how he’d done it, and she knew why he had never let her taste his seed before. Sally hugged him more tightly as happiness caused her to cry for the second time that day.
Sally's employers had always known she was eccentric about the winter, so they didn't become concerned when she didn't return to work on time. But when her vacation had been over for a week, they contacted her mother, who contacted the police. The neighbors were no help at all, although they did wonder why the chainsaws had been quiet for nearly a month. They couldn't even explain why a grown woman would have made two figures out of snow in her backyard.
The police were the only witnesses when an especially strong wind blew the hat off the snowman and the red hood from the snowwoman. The wind carried the hats into the sky, and the police watched them as they were swallowed up by the swirling flakes.
The guys at the hardware store thought she was insane because she had bought so may chainsaws over the years. What really disturbed them, though, was that Sally would only smile when they asked why she needed them. The construction company she’d hired to build her garage thought she was crazy because she wanted it to open into the backyard, not the driveway.
Sally's neighbors thought she was insane because she had a 10-foot high privacy fence around her yard, when they knew for a fact that she let her grass grow or die with no help from her. “She doesn't even sunbathe, not even with clothes on!” the neighbor's son complained.
To read more, click Whole Post
The fact that Sally's neighbors could hear chainsaws being used in the middle of the night didn’t help her reputation. If she had owned a cat, she might have been labeled a witch, because people were desperate to explain her eccentricity. If she had brought anyone home — women, men, animals —people would have just thought she was kinky.
Sally's mother also thought Sally was insane. In fact, she had had her daughter committed to an institution at the age of 18. If people had known Sally's real secret, her mother wouldn't have felt guilty every Thanksgiving when her daughter snubbed her again.
It was the morning after the first heavy snowfall, and Sally was up three hours early. She was too excited to sleep, and experience had taught her that she wouldn't be able to sleep much more anyway. She prepared a cup of hot chocolate to clear her head and to warm her for today's big event. She took out the special clothes that she had set aside for this day and gave them a minute inspection. When she was satisfied with her clothes, she gave the same inspection to her body. It was a typical morning for a woman who would be renewing her marriage vows today.
Sally's body met her demanding standards, just barely. She couldn't help the wrinkles that were beginning to appear around her eyes, but her high cheekbones and bright blue eyes distracted a viewer significantly enough for Sally's tastes. Her blond hair was styled very short, because she found long hair on her wedding days was more of a nuisance than it was a beauty enhancer. Her stomach was tight thanks to a vigorous self-imposed workout. She was especially proud of her legs; they rippled with muscles whenever she moved. Her legs required exercise to maintain their form, while her arms and back were naturally fit from the long nights with her chainsaws.
When Sally was satisfied, her racing heart slowed. She donned sweatpants, two pairs of socks, a fuzzy red sweater, gloves and her warmest jacket. Her wedding veil was a red hood, pulled tightly around her face. She had worn the same outfit for nearly 20 years, replacing individual pieces as they became worn. A secret fear made her keep this outfit. Like a child trying to repeat a magical event that he did not understand, Sally wore the same clothes just in case they were some inexplicable part of the ceremony.
Why take chances on your wedding day?
Sally's garage opened into the backyard for a reason — it's much easier to wheel a 100-pound block of ice outside when you don't have to go through a door. Considering that she spent all year carving, forming and repairing this block of ice, the last thing she needed was a difficult path for her final creation. Only in the garage could she have privacy and constant cold air to work on her ice. A self-taught ice sculptor, Sally developed her craft during the long summers and lonely nights.
The sculpture she’d carved from block was another masterpiece; the kind of perfection that can be built only by one lover for another. Standing six feet tall, it was a defined outline of a man's shape. Its widespread legs were strong, so it straddled the ground like a frozen Colossus. The arms were held to the side, every cleft and bulge painstakingly carved and detailed. Hands that could never curl into fists were formed by careful sculpting with a chisel; fingernails had even been added. Shoulders, as proud and powerful as a knight's, were the most recent improvements, flawless from the fresh water Sally had added the previous night. A phallus hung between its legs, an undeniable statement on the gender of the sculpture.
The head was the only part that was featureless. There were no eyes, no nose and no attempt at a mouth. It was simply round on a defined neck. Sally lacked the courage to do the face. Maybe one day, when she was absolutely sure she could do it perfectly, Sally would do the face, but not this winter.
Once the ice sculpture was outside, the true work began. In the darkness of the dawn and in the privacy of her fortified yard, Sally made use of her talents. The winter's first snow was her medium now. Nimble fingers wrapped in leather gloves picked the best snow, forming and packing it with care. Only the snow she deemed pure and worthy was stuck to her ice sculpture. Using skills she had possessed since she was a child, she dressed her sculpture in snow. The snow she layered on obliterated her fine details, but she knew that true craftsmanship would always show through in the end.
Clothed in snow, Sally's sculpture was ready for the final additions. From the bedroom, she dragged a treasured chest. The chest was much larger and heavier than it needed to be, but Sally would have felt unfaithful had she used anything less. The double locks and secret catch took her a moment to open, as she used them only once a year. In time, though, the nervous Sally was able to open the chest, and she retrieved the singular treasures inside.
A worn button went where her sculpture's nose should have been. Two small pieces of coal, worn down over the years, became the eyes. A corncob pipe marked the mouth. A scarf that had been patched several times was wrapped around its neck. A handful of water that had once been last year's snow was poured over the sculpture's body.
Finally came the old hat that Sally and her friends had found so many years ago. The hat that Billy had tried to destroy when Sally wouldn't go out with him. The hat that Karen had begged Sally to give her. There must have been some magic in that old top hat they’d found, because when Sally placed it on the sculpture's head, her lover always returned.
Ice cracked, and the breeze carried the sharpness of ozone. Shifting, surging and boiling, the snow sought to meld into the ice underneath. The button disappeared, and the shape of a nose made of ice took its place. The twin pieces of coal grew larger and warmer as pupils formed. The corncob pipe moved in the mouth of one who was stretching a jaw long unused. The arms reached out and stretched, taking full measure of the power that had been given them.
The magic took only a minute, but Sally was already crying. Some part of her, the part that remembered the lies she’d had to believe in order to escape the asylum her mother had placed her in, always doubted her sanity. To see that she had been right — to see the long hours pay off in such beauty —was almost too much for the December bride.
"Why are you crying, Sally?" her lover asked in his friendly voice, which was full of love. "Didn't I tell you I would be back again someday?"
"Yes, Frosty, and you always keep your word," she cried as she hugged him.
His arms held her as tightly as they ever had. There was so much Sally wanted to tell him. As she basked in the love of his hug, she wanted to let him know of all the difficulties she had encountered that year, all of the funny stories that had occurred to her and all of the times when she’d wanted desperately to somehow summon him early. All of the things she’d wanted to share became less important as he held her in frozen arms that died for her every winter. Right now, she had a more selfish need that she wanted attended to.
Pulling away from the hug, Sally took her lover by the hands and brought him into the garage. She wasn't concerned about him melting as he had years before. The solid block of ice that was his core would take hours to melt in daylight. The two lovers had learned that as long as he covered himself with fresh snow every couple of hours, Frosty could maintain his shape indefinitely. Both of them were grateful to have discovered this; it reduced the chances of Sally catching frostbite every time they renewed their vows. There was a reason she had an air mattress fully inflated on her garage floor.
Frosty’s hands pulled free her hood while she unbuttoned her coat. His hands removed her sweatshirt as she struggled to take off her boots. They laughed as Sally nearly toppled over while they removed her pants. She shivered as he kneeled to pull down her underwear, but it was definitely the good kind of shiver.
Clad only in her bra and gloves, and still standing, Sally dug her fingers into the soft snow of Frosty's head as he kissed her thighs. She always was amazed that his lips were so cold and his breath so warm. He kissed the insides of her thighs while she stood before him. He left moisture with every touch of his lips, making a cold trail on Sally's skin that she didn't mind in the least.
Frosty's hands held her hips and pulled her firmly down to the floor. Sally sat, resting on the edge of the mattress. His hand came up and held her cheek, and she rested her face in her loved one's hand. To be touched by her lover after a year's absence was heaven to Sally. She snuggled into his hand, reaching out and taking his other hand and placing it on her hip. The cold wasn't shocking her as much anymore, which let her enjoy the warmth of his loving touch.
He came closer, and Sally felt the heat of his kiss on her neck. She tilted her head and reached up to pull her hair back. He immediately kissed further up her neck, nipping with his soft lips the skin she presented to him. His body was pressing against her as she sat, and she loved every touch. While he kissed her ears and shoulders, her hands moved back and forth over the slick snow that covered his body. It was already hardening to ice, and Sally knew from experience that this was due to her lover's desire, his desire for her.
Too eager to be passive any longer, she rolled Frosty over to his back. As he laughed deeply, she straddled his lap and ran her bare legs down his sides. The wet feeling that her bare legs felt while rubbing on Frosty was minimal compared to the flood she felt between her legs. Sally wanted him so badly and in so many ways. She held herself up by grabbing his shoulders, and she twisted her legs back and forth over his hardening legs, her pelvis twisting sinfully on his lap.
Frosty reached for her bra, and Sally quickly removed it. She had never questioned his fascination with her breasts. Although he was made of snow, he had too many masculine qualities for her to doubt that he had very human interests. She cried out when his cold lips sucked her nipples. Even his hot breath couldn't completely soothe the shock of having ice on her aroused nipples. The way his mouth sucked so strongly on her nipples turned her on so much. She felt as though he were trying to draw something of her into him, and as she straddled him and let him suck, she hoped that he gained everything he wanted.
Sally’s hips were moving lewdly by now. It was time. Reaching behind her, Sally gripped his phallus of ice. It pulsed in her hand. It was bizarre to feel ice pulse. Her legs already spread, she slid down Frosty's legs towards the joining of their sexes. He entered her perfectly, the ice and her own arousal lubricating the way. Frosty filled her completely, and Sally moaned freely at yet another perfect fit. It paid to design your lover's cock yourself.
Frosty's hands shifted to her buttocks, pressing Sally harder to him. She shifted her hands to his broad chest, giving her the support she needed to thrust him inside of her. Their eyes remained locked, her blue on his black. The freezing chill of him inside her was intense, yet the cold was a small sacrifice for making love to her husband. Her sex contracted, trying to avoid the unforgiving touch of the ice, yet she also craved the friction that would cause her to warm up. Sally had learned over the years that the only thing to do was to grind and grind hard. A year of hard exercise paid off, giving her the endurance and the power to thrust over and over onto the cold hard cock of her love.
The explosion came quickly for the bride. In mid-thrust she paused, and Frosty's hands forced her hips back down for one final impalement. Her eyes closed and her mouth hung open as the sensations of ice were replaced by a spreading warmth that radiated from her sex. She sat back slowly, her body struggling to come out of her ecstasy and back into consciousness.
When she could open her eyes again, she saw her love studying her intently.
"Sally, if it were possible, would you spend eternity with me?" her lover foolishly asked.
"Eternity and a day," Sally answered, with the silly energy of the recently sated .
"Good," Frosty said softly, and he withdrew from her. Sally rolled happily onto the mattress, waiting to see what her lover wanted to do now. On their first day together, they usually made love in dozens of positions. When she became exhausted, they would talk about her year. Now that she had been pleased, Sally was eager to please her love in whatever way he desired. She just wasn't expecting him to stand before her and motion for her to come to him.
Crawling over, Sally thought about the fact that she had never sucked her lover before. Frosty had always been too eager to bury himself in her sex, often stopping her from even kissing down there. Intrigued, she licked his cock, still kneeling before him. She was surprised to hear him moan and even more surprised when his hands went to her head and pulled her closer to his cock. That was OK with Sally. Frosty was the only man she had ever been with, and she had always been curious about this part of other people's sex lives.
His cock was still hot from their earlier lovemaking when Sally placed it in her mouth. As large as it was, she could only get so much into her mouth, but the part she could get was causing Frosty to shiver now. She was relieved to be doing it right, and it encouraged her to move her mouth more quickly. The icy nature of his cock helped. It was easy to run her lips along a naturally lubricated cock. Experimenting, Sally tried running his cock through her lips sideways, like a flute. She tried getting as much of him as she could straight into her mouth. She even tried holding his cock with her fist and flicking her tongue over its tip. What she discovered was that any permutation was enough to cause her lover to clench her hair and groan.
In time, Sally simply placed her lips around the width of her lover's cock and licked him. She felt his phallus throb rapidly as his groans reached deeper and deeper tones. Not for the first time, she wondered where the semen came from, as Frosty never had anything that looked like testicles. His semen splashed into her mouth. This was the first time she’d ever tasted it, and it tasted just like cold water without even a bit of ice. Her head froze when he erupted, but her hand came up and stroked his hard phallus. Sally masturbated Frosty's semen into her mouth, swallowing his offering as he gave it to her.
Both now satisfied, and Sally experiencing an unfamiliar soreness to her jaw, the happy couple decided to retire their lovemaking for now. Sally made herself some hot chocolate while Frosty opened the first of the cold beers that she’d bought for the winter. They stayed in the garage, and Sally told her love about her job, her mother and, of course, how lonely it had been this year.
Then, as she did every year, she asked Frosty what it was like where he came from. Once again, her lover surprised her by breaking tradition. This time, he answered her.
"Oh, it's a beautiful white land, Sally." he answered. "Jack Frost has his castle there, and all across the land, not a single snowflake falls without his knowledge. Frost fairies play constantly, while Ice dwarves build larger and larger icebergs to float on the Great Sea. At night, you can hear the Snow Beast roar as it searches for its mate, while the polar birds fly across the night sky, multicolored streaks following behind them."
“It sounds beautiful," Sally said. Then She shrieked as her mug burned her hand with a sudden heat. The cup dropped, and she jumped at the sound of the porcelain cracking.
"What the hell?' she asked, more embarrassed than hurt. "It got too hot to handle, like I was touching a burner."
Frosty rose and hugged her. For once, she didn't shiver, not even a little. He didn’t feel cold at all.
"We'll never have to renew our vows again," Frosty said into her ear. She knew then how he’d done it, and she knew why he had never let her taste his seed before. Sally hugged him more tightly as happiness caused her to cry for the second time that day.
Sally's employers had always known she was eccentric about the winter, so they didn't become concerned when she didn't return to work on time. But when her vacation had been over for a week, they contacted her mother, who contacted the police. The neighbors were no help at all, although they did wonder why the chainsaws had been quiet for nearly a month. They couldn't even explain why a grown woman would have made two figures out of snow in her backyard.
The police were the only witnesses when an especially strong wind blew the hat off the snowman and the red hood from the snowwoman. The wind carried the hats into the sky, and the police watched them as they were swallowed up by the swirling flakes.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Day Off
Twas the umm, week sorta before Christmas and being a Buddhist kind of guy, I don't really do much for christmas except eat Chinese food at empty restaurants. One tradition I do have is sometime around this time of year I read Terry Pratchett's awesome Hogfather. That would be today.
I highly recommend you read this book. Funny, serious and heart warming, it's everything the holiday should be. It is what opened my eyes to the understanding that a Winter holiday is less about babies in mangers and more about the fact that primitive man had to go through hell every winter. He had just stocked up on food that had to last him the entire winter. He had new children from all the fucking he did in the Spring. Wolves were scratching at his door and the sun seemed like a distant memory. It was December and man what a bleak time that must have been. So primitive man did what he always does in times of great stress; he had a giant distraction. He threw a party. He picked the darkest bleakest day of the year and said to his frightened kids "Hey, ignore the fact that we haven't seen green grass in months and that the trees look like barren skeletons. Here's a shiny present! And inside is a toy wagon! Yay!"
Christmas, it's about making a place of happiness in the middle of death dealing winter. Picture that on a Hallmark card.
I highly recommend you read this book. Funny, serious and heart warming, it's everything the holiday should be. It is what opened my eyes to the understanding that a Winter holiday is less about babies in mangers and more about the fact that primitive man had to go through hell every winter. He had just stocked up on food that had to last him the entire winter. He had new children from all the fucking he did in the Spring. Wolves were scratching at his door and the sun seemed like a distant memory. It was December and man what a bleak time that must have been. So primitive man did what he always does in times of great stress; he had a giant distraction. He threw a party. He picked the darkest bleakest day of the year and said to his frightened kids "Hey, ignore the fact that we haven't seen green grass in months and that the trees look like barren skeletons. Here's a shiny present! And inside is a toy wagon! Yay!"
Christmas, it's about making a place of happiness in the middle of death dealing winter. Picture that on a Hallmark card.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Right This Moment
Right now I want to bury my cock inside a wet willing cunt.
I want to feel stocking clad legs wrapped around me as I fuck, pump and grind into a slut who calls out my name. I want to hear her hands pulling at her restraints. I want to taste her bottom lip as I bite down. I want to smell the perfume she wore just for me. I want my hands on her ass, her tits and around her throat. I want to spank her ass until tears run down her cheeks. I want to write my name all over her body; claiming her with both actions and words. I need to feel the tightening of her pussy as I tell her to clench.
Right now I want to fuck.
I want to feel stocking clad legs wrapped around me as I fuck, pump and grind into a slut who calls out my name. I want to hear her hands pulling at her restraints. I want to taste her bottom lip as I bite down. I want to smell the perfume she wore just for me. I want my hands on her ass, her tits and around her throat. I want to spank her ass until tears run down her cheeks. I want to write my name all over her body; claiming her with both actions and words. I need to feel the tightening of her pussy as I tell her to clench.
Right now I want to fuck.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Sugasm #58
Sugasm #58
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Editors’ Choice
Sponsored Link
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
BDSM and Fetish
NSFW Pics (& videos)
Sex & Politics
Sexy Humor
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Wed 13th Dec, 06
The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasmer participants. Want in Sugasm #58? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the linklist within a week and you’re all set.This Week’s Picks
6 weird things about me (http://hard-and-fast.blogspot.com)
“I’ve masturbated to completion more than 13,000 times.”
“Lest you think the “sister-wives” could always take matters into their own or each other’s hands…”
What a woman wants (http://junohenry.wordpress.com)“Tell me about the couple who would have you fuck the wife, and the husband watch.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
My Bare Lady (http://sugarbank.com)
Editors’ Choice
Don’t you dare cum yet (http://bratmaster.co.uk)
Sponsored Link
G-Spot Orgasm Survey Take the G-spot survey and win one of two £100 LoveHoney sex toy shopping sprees
More Sugasm(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Sex News & Reviews
Call for Xmas Cocks and Cunts! ( http://shayssexcolumn.blogspot.com)
Discovering New Desires with Naughty Game Play (http://www.taratainton.com )
BDSM and Fetish
Fiction: Timothy and the Pony Girls of the Night ( http://erotiterrorist.blogspot.com )
Happy HNT - Sexy candy cane panties ( http://darkside-journey.blogspot.com )
My imminent chastisement ( http://battletofindmyself.blogspot.com )
The Truth - Confessions of a sissy cock sucker ( http://www.caramelvixen.com/vixen-blog)
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Blowjob Monday ( http://dirtylittlecockslut.blogspot.com)
Mile High Club ( http://wanklog.blogspot.com)
No Words ( http://bigboysa.blogspot.com)
Remembering summer, remembering lust (http://justsexdrugsandrocknroll.blogspot.com)
Sassy Claus (http://nocloudnine.blogspot.com)
Under the Table (http://drtycplinva.blogspot.com)
What a woman wants (http://junohenry.wordpress.com)
NSFW Pics (& videos)
Alison Angel - Baywatch ( http://hotboxbabe.thumblogger.com)
Crystal Klein Nude ( http://eroticandy.blogspot.com/)
Fully Nekkid In The Shower HNT (http://stilettodiaries.blogspot.com)
Katie’s sexy striptease ( http://myhotbox.blogspot.com)
Tiffaney 2 ( http://facialsluts.ilovejulienight.com)
Sex & Politics
Anti-Anti-Pornography, Part IV: “Da Vinci Code” is Not Pornography ( http://www.teen-porn-site.com/blog)
The Return of Segregation and Silicone (http://www.tarasnaughtyshop.com )
Sexy Humor
Ask Art: The Sexual Misadvice Column ( http://secretbrain.blogspot.com )
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Bad Santas! ( http://www.1trackmind.com)
Fellatio, Round 4 ( http://www.betweensheets.net)
Sex & Aging: Part 3 of 3 Parts (http://perverselypoly.blogspot.com)
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Half Nekked Thursday Purple Love
Say hello to my new best friend. In case you were wondering, yes, the purple thing on the left is a vibrator. I placed it next to the mouse to show you scale.
I have always been jealous of women and their vibrators. No, not jealous that a vibrator can replace me; I’ve been jealous that women can choose from dozens of gadgets of all shapes and colors to get them off. I love gadgets and here was a whole section of toys that I didn’t play with. Since I am not a Fill-My-Ass kind of guy, most vibrators are useless to me. The other method is to place a vibrator next to my naughty bits, but placing a penis shaped object against my own penis is physically awkward. It just doesn’t fit. Most of the time, the vibrations are too intense anyway. I need a gentle hum that can arouse and not numb me.
Up until this point, I have been using the wonderful Fukuoku 9000 for my vibration needs. That still works great but man, this little gem works in a whole different bliss. The three prongs vibrate and is just the right size to surround my scrotum. It’s snug in all the right ways. My wife used it recently while giving me a blowjob and the orgasm was so awesome it made me feel like I have been doing sex the wrong way all this time.
Can you believe I found this at Walgreens? It’s simply called a Mini and was in a bin of fifty other massagers. Calling it a Mini seems trite. They should call it the Awesome Guy Sex Vibrator 2300. It’s good for sore thighs too. Allegedly.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Fiction: The High Cost of Christmas
Andrea was a good friend. It’s why she had agreed to help Jenny shop for Christmas on Dec. 13. It’s why Andrea was eating a crappy Chinese lunch inside a mall food court instead of real Chinese food at a real restaurant. It was why Andrea had spent the last four hours helping Jenny find a Playstation 3 when every store in Atlanta had sold out of them back in October.
Andrea just had to decide how good a friend she really was.
To read more, click Whole Post
“I swear to God, Andrea, if I don’t get the boys this Playstation, I will be the worse stepmother ever,” Jenny said. “You watch, their bitch of a mother will have one. Or she would say that if she still had their father to leech off, she would have found it for them.”
“Yes, I’m sure she would use the term ‘leech’ to her kids,” Andrea said.
Jenny glared and drank the sugar water that passed for sweet tea in a food court. “Worse, she’ll just frown at me, like I had failed her kids worse than she did when she slept around on their dad. I hate that frown. I would do anything to wipe that smug frown off her face and replace it with shock and maybe some actual respect.”
“Well, there is a way,” Andrea said.
Jenny put her tea down. “I know you got one somehow, and I won’t let you give me yours. Thanks, though.”
That made Andrea laugh. “I earned my Playstation 3. I’m just letting you know there is a way for you to earn one, too.”
She sighed. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone this, but then, I don’t think Maria was supposed to tell me about it either.”
“Maria has one, too?” Jenny asked. “Am I the only bad mom this Christmas?”
“Maybe you’re the only good one,” Andrea said. “Anyway, it works like this. There is a pawn shop on Peachtree. It’s a dingy little place no bigger than a shack. It doesn’t even have a name, just a pawn-shop light. Inside, there is a guy, and if you ask if he has a Playstation 3, he’ll give you one.”
Jenny smirked. “Give you one, huh? Why don’t I believe that?”
Andrea squirmed in her seat. “He does. All he asks is that you pay for it with a favor.”
Jenny dropped her egg roll. “Oh my god. He makes you give him a blow job? Please tell me you didn’t fuck a guy for a Playstation 3!”
“No, I didn’t fuck him,” Andrea said. She didn’t mention that the thought had crossed her mind. He had been taller than she’d expected. Younger, too. There was something about him that made her thighs want to open. It was like finding out that rogues and half-breed princes from romance novels really do exist — and that they thought you were cute.
“No, he just asks to spank you,” Andrea said.
Jenny just looked at her. Her best friend was staring at her like she was some sort of deviant freak. It unsettled Andrea, but at the same time it felt good to finally tell someone what had happened last Tuesday.
“Spank you? Like with a belt? Over his knee, like a little girl?” Jenny asked. She was actually blushing.
“No,” Andrea said. It was her turn to blush. “No, I bent over his counter. I unzipped my pants, and I pulled them down to my knees. He didn’t use a belt. He used a large wooden paddle.”
Jenny shook her head. “You’re lying. You’re just making this up.”
“Remember when I came over to your house to help with cookies?” Andrea said. “On Wednesday?”
“Yes.”
“Remember how I kept walking around, and you kept offering me a chair?” Andrea said. “Remember how I kept saying stuff like how my knees were sore and I liked standing?”
“Oh, my God!” Jenny said. “You did get spanked! Does Neil know?”
“No,” Andrea said. But she allowed herself a smile. Her husband would know when he unwrapped his private present and found a paddle.
“And it was just a spanking?” Jenny asked.
“Yes,” Andrea said. She could see the gears turning in Jenny’s head.
“No sex? No touching?”
“Just a spanking,” Andrea said. She hoped that only she could hear the disappointment in her voice.
“Well, tell me what happened. Every bit.”
Andrea laughed and reached for her tea. “It’s not something I feel right talking about.”
“Bullshit,” Jenny said. “You told me about the place; you have to tell me everything. I need to be prepared.”
“So you’re going?”
Jenny blushed. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Andrea hesitated. Her secret was out, but details, that was going to be hard. She didn’t want her friend to think she was a freak. On the other hand, it felt so good to talk about it .
“I pulled down my pants and bared my ass,” she said.
“Panties on or off?” Jenny asked.
“I … didn’t have any on,” she said. “I just had my ass out.”
“OK, go on,” Jenny encouraged.
“Well, I was bent over the counter, my ass facing the door. He walked around me and locked the door. When he came back, he was carrying this long wooden paddle. He let me look at it before he used it.”
Jenny leaned in. “What did it look like?”
“It was made of black wood. It was solid. The middle looked worn. It looked like he had used it a lot.”
Andrea didn’t mention that the paddle reminded her of a cock: hard, rigid and just yearning to be in her. She would never mention that to anyone for as long as she lived.
“So after I had seen it, he placed one hand on my back. He pressed down and pinned me to the counter. It was gentle but pretty firm. I think he didn’t want me to move.”
She paused as a family walked by with trays of pseudo-Italian food. Andrea and Jenny looked at each other guiltily as the harried mother wrangled her three kids to a table. There was something decadent about talking about such things with families around.
“What did it feel like when he actually paddled you?” Jenny asked.
Andrea thought about it. “Like a price. He hit me slowly and almost softly at first. It was almost soothing. At first, I was shocked but after a while, it became a rhythm. Then it picked up. He struck my ass faster. He hit a lot harder. The paddle moved around, and he was hitting my ass from all angles. The sides, the bottom curve of my butt and even a few swats on my thighs. He worked my butt over, and he kept going and going. My ass was on fire, and he just kept going.”
“When did he stop?” Jenny asked.
“He just did, no reason at all, he just stopped.” Andrea kept a straight face as she lied through her teeth. She didn’t mention how she started to cry. She didn’t mention the tears that flowed down her cheeks. She couldn’t bring herself to say how she’d expected the spanking to stop when she started crying, but instead it got faster. Her tears meant nothing. He spanked her till he was done and only then did he stop.
It would take three dominant lovers before Andrea understood why that made her so wet.
“He just stopped,” she said.
“Then what happened?” Jenny said, her voice a little husky.
“He, uhhh, made me a receipt,” Andrea said.
Jenny laughed. “A receipt? But you said it was free!”
Andrea nodded. “He took a picture of my ass. He took two of them. One for me to keep and one for him. He took out this big ledger, it was shaped like a photo album, and he put my picture in. He said if I had any problems with it, just return the Playstation and the picture.”
Jenny leaned closer. “How many photos did her have?”
“Hundreds,” Andrea said.
A child screamed, which in a mall during Christmas shopping was a lot like the sound of a glass being dropped in a box of other glasses. All across the mall, other kids screamed as they competed for attention. Jenny and Andrea said nothing as the food court was washed in echoing screams of childhood desire.
“All right,” Jenny said. “Write down where that place was.”
“Really?” Andrea said. She was amazed by how relieved she was. She realized she wanted Jenny to experience it, too. Maybe just so she could have someone to talk to about it.
“Yes, really,” Jenny said. “I swear, kids have no idea what their parents do for them for Christmas.”
Andrea just had to decide how good a friend she really was.
To read more, click Whole Post
“I swear to God, Andrea, if I don’t get the boys this Playstation, I will be the worse stepmother ever,” Jenny said. “You watch, their bitch of a mother will have one. Or she would say that if she still had their father to leech off, she would have found it for them.”
“Yes, I’m sure she would use the term ‘leech’ to her kids,” Andrea said.
Jenny glared and drank the sugar water that passed for sweet tea in a food court. “Worse, she’ll just frown at me, like I had failed her kids worse than she did when she slept around on their dad. I hate that frown. I would do anything to wipe that smug frown off her face and replace it with shock and maybe some actual respect.”
“Well, there is a way,” Andrea said.
Jenny put her tea down. “I know you got one somehow, and I won’t let you give me yours. Thanks, though.”
That made Andrea laugh. “I earned my Playstation 3. I’m just letting you know there is a way for you to earn one, too.”
She sighed. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone this, but then, I don’t think Maria was supposed to tell me about it either.”
“Maria has one, too?” Jenny asked. “Am I the only bad mom this Christmas?”
“Maybe you’re the only good one,” Andrea said. “Anyway, it works like this. There is a pawn shop on Peachtree. It’s a dingy little place no bigger than a shack. It doesn’t even have a name, just a pawn-shop light. Inside, there is a guy, and if you ask if he has a Playstation 3, he’ll give you one.”
Jenny smirked. “Give you one, huh? Why don’t I believe that?”
Andrea squirmed in her seat. “He does. All he asks is that you pay for it with a favor.”
Jenny dropped her egg roll. “Oh my god. He makes you give him a blow job? Please tell me you didn’t fuck a guy for a Playstation 3!”
“No, I didn’t fuck him,” Andrea said. She didn’t mention that the thought had crossed her mind. He had been taller than she’d expected. Younger, too. There was something about him that made her thighs want to open. It was like finding out that rogues and half-breed princes from romance novels really do exist — and that they thought you were cute.
“No, he just asks to spank you,” Andrea said.
Jenny just looked at her. Her best friend was staring at her like she was some sort of deviant freak. It unsettled Andrea, but at the same time it felt good to finally tell someone what had happened last Tuesday.
“Spank you? Like with a belt? Over his knee, like a little girl?” Jenny asked. She was actually blushing.
“No,” Andrea said. It was her turn to blush. “No, I bent over his counter. I unzipped my pants, and I pulled them down to my knees. He didn’t use a belt. He used a large wooden paddle.”
Jenny shook her head. “You’re lying. You’re just making this up.”
“Remember when I came over to your house to help with cookies?” Andrea said. “On Wednesday?”
“Yes.”
“Remember how I kept walking around, and you kept offering me a chair?” Andrea said. “Remember how I kept saying stuff like how my knees were sore and I liked standing?”
“Oh, my God!” Jenny said. “You did get spanked! Does Neil know?”
“No,” Andrea said. But she allowed herself a smile. Her husband would know when he unwrapped his private present and found a paddle.
“And it was just a spanking?” Jenny asked.
“Yes,” Andrea said. She could see the gears turning in Jenny’s head.
“No sex? No touching?”
“Just a spanking,” Andrea said. She hoped that only she could hear the disappointment in her voice.
“Well, tell me what happened. Every bit.”
Andrea laughed and reached for her tea. “It’s not something I feel right talking about.”
“Bullshit,” Jenny said. “You told me about the place; you have to tell me everything. I need to be prepared.”
“So you’re going?”
Jenny blushed. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Andrea hesitated. Her secret was out, but details, that was going to be hard. She didn’t want her friend to think she was a freak. On the other hand, it felt so good to talk about it .
“I pulled down my pants and bared my ass,” she said.
“Panties on or off?” Jenny asked.
“I … didn’t have any on,” she said. “I just had my ass out.”
“OK, go on,” Jenny encouraged.
“Well, I was bent over the counter, my ass facing the door. He walked around me and locked the door. When he came back, he was carrying this long wooden paddle. He let me look at it before he used it.”
Jenny leaned in. “What did it look like?”
“It was made of black wood. It was solid. The middle looked worn. It looked like he had used it a lot.”
Andrea didn’t mention that the paddle reminded her of a cock: hard, rigid and just yearning to be in her. She would never mention that to anyone for as long as she lived.
“So after I had seen it, he placed one hand on my back. He pressed down and pinned me to the counter. It was gentle but pretty firm. I think he didn’t want me to move.”
She paused as a family walked by with trays of pseudo-Italian food. Andrea and Jenny looked at each other guiltily as the harried mother wrangled her three kids to a table. There was something decadent about talking about such things with families around.
“What did it feel like when he actually paddled you?” Jenny asked.
Andrea thought about it. “Like a price. He hit me slowly and almost softly at first. It was almost soothing. At first, I was shocked but after a while, it became a rhythm. Then it picked up. He struck my ass faster. He hit a lot harder. The paddle moved around, and he was hitting my ass from all angles. The sides, the bottom curve of my butt and even a few swats on my thighs. He worked my butt over, and he kept going and going. My ass was on fire, and he just kept going.”
“When did he stop?” Jenny asked.
“He just did, no reason at all, he just stopped.” Andrea kept a straight face as she lied through her teeth. She didn’t mention how she started to cry. She didn’t mention the tears that flowed down her cheeks. She couldn’t bring herself to say how she’d expected the spanking to stop when she started crying, but instead it got faster. Her tears meant nothing. He spanked her till he was done and only then did he stop.
It would take three dominant lovers before Andrea understood why that made her so wet.
“He just stopped,” she said.
“Then what happened?” Jenny said, her voice a little husky.
“He, uhhh, made me a receipt,” Andrea said.
Jenny laughed. “A receipt? But you said it was free!”
Andrea nodded. “He took a picture of my ass. He took two of them. One for me to keep and one for him. He took out this big ledger, it was shaped like a photo album, and he put my picture in. He said if I had any problems with it, just return the Playstation and the picture.”
Jenny leaned closer. “How many photos did her have?”
“Hundreds,” Andrea said.
A child screamed, which in a mall during Christmas shopping was a lot like the sound of a glass being dropped in a box of other glasses. All across the mall, other kids screamed as they competed for attention. Jenny and Andrea said nothing as the food court was washed in echoing screams of childhood desire.
“All right,” Jenny said. “Write down where that place was.”
“Really?” Andrea said. She was amazed by how relieved she was. She realized she wanted Jenny to experience it, too. Maybe just so she could have someone to talk to about it.
“Yes, really,” Jenny said. “I swear, kids have no idea what their parents do for them for Christmas.”
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Unwrapping
It's winter here in Atlanta. Slowly but surely every woman is switching over to their sweaters. Stylish clothes are giving way to neck to waist coverage of skin. Shapely and unshapely curves are averaged out by thick cloth that keeps hypothermia away. Some erotic oriented people might be depressed by such a devolpment.
I take a different view. When I see a woman who wears a sweater, I can't help but wonder what they are wearing underneath. They could be wearing anything under the protection of a sweater. They could be wearing a lacy bra. They could be wearing a t-shirt that proclaims their allegiance to their favorite sex act. Why, they could be wearing nothing at all except bite marks and handprints from the deviant sex they had this morning.
This idea of sexy surprises is only heightened by the tendency of the season to wear holiday themed sweaters. Decorated with Christmas trees, images if snow and elves, the sweaters look like wrapping paper now. To me, shopping mall crowds look like a hundred women begging me to unwrap them. They've gone to the trouble to wrap their chests, isn't it only polite to take off their sweaters and see what presents they have waiting for me? Maybe it's purple pirate lingerie?
How will I ever know if I don't at least peek?
I take a different view. When I see a woman who wears a sweater, I can't help but wonder what they are wearing underneath. They could be wearing anything under the protection of a sweater. They could be wearing a lacy bra. They could be wearing a t-shirt that proclaims their allegiance to their favorite sex act. Why, they could be wearing nothing at all except bite marks and handprints from the deviant sex they had this morning.
This idea of sexy surprises is only heightened by the tendency of the season to wear holiday themed sweaters. Decorated with Christmas trees, images if snow and elves, the sweaters look like wrapping paper now. To me, shopping mall crowds look like a hundred women begging me to unwrap them. They've gone to the trouble to wrap their chests, isn't it only polite to take off their sweaters and see what presents they have waiting for me? Maybe it's purple pirate lingerie?
How will I ever know if I don't at least peek?
Monday, December 11, 2006
The Christmas Libido Conspiracy
Christmas may just be the greatest enemy the libido has ever faced. I know that sounds crazy but I am noticing some interesting patterns this year. I know that spring is usually the traditional time for lust, but I am wondering if it just takes that long to get our sex drives back after Christmas.
I don’t think Christmas is a threat in a religious sense. As a Buddhist, Christmas is my favorite of the Christian holidays. It is a time when Christians are encouraged to stop killing people different from them and be nice for once. It is a time when Christians are asked to give instead of take, and to spare a moment of thought to those less fortunate than us. It’s a remarkably nice holiday by Christian standards; free of the murder and guilt that marks Easter.
No, I think Christmas is more insidious in a subtler manner. Christmas has demands. It promises so much in the way of free time, family gatherings, parties and sheer loot but it doesn’t come for free. There are payments that must be made and most of those are our time, energy and focus. Three things incidently enough, that you need to you’re your libido alive.
Christmas is the one guaranteed break we get 365 days a year work life. Everyone is closed on Christmas and if you are lucky, you might even get a week or two off. But here’s the catch. To get that time off, you got to work twice as hard now. You have to pay your dues and exhaust yourself now so that then December 25th rolls around, you can have that time off without worrying about the economy crashing.
Christmas is the time where we gather with family and friends. Blessed be the hermit who’s holidays social life is their cats because anything as complicated as people takes way too much work to be fun. Organizing, scheduling and then actually doing a party is an immense achievement and it blows my mind how much sex is being missed for a party where everyone discusses their kids and jobs. If your family is anything like mine, then you also have the extra hassle of dealing with the family that doesn’t like each other and forcing everyone to put on a happy face. I love the good will of Christmas but shit, it’s exhausting.
Then there are the presents. You want them. They want them. No matter how much you know Christmas is not about gifts; deep down we are hard wired to expect great things for Christmas. That means gifts must be bought, gifts must be chosen and gifts must be opened. A holiday dedicated to good will is one long treasure hunt and that wears out everyone. It’s a month or more of intense foreplay that results in one climax on Christmas day and I don’t care how good your sex is, one climax is not enough for that much work.
Is it no wonder that after all that stress, people just give up fucking till spring rolls around? Who has the energy? With all the build up for Christmas, people are tired emotionally, physically and financially. You couldn’t create a better celibacy conspiracy if you tried.
You can’t avoid Christmas. But now warned you can at least prepare for Christmas. Masturbate. Fuck. Buy yourself something dirty or pornographic and do it often. Invest in at least one piece of Christmas lingerie. While you shop, arrange parties and work weekends for the time sink that is Christmas; don’t forget to keep your sex drive humming. Just like a car left in the driveway for the winter, you need to crank your sex drive up and make it roar for a few minutes.
So this month, crank it. Crank it good. Crank it for Christmas.
I don’t think Christmas is a threat in a religious sense. As a Buddhist, Christmas is my favorite of the Christian holidays. It is a time when Christians are encouraged to stop killing people different from them and be nice for once. It is a time when Christians are asked to give instead of take, and to spare a moment of thought to those less fortunate than us. It’s a remarkably nice holiday by Christian standards; free of the murder and guilt that marks Easter.
No, I think Christmas is more insidious in a subtler manner. Christmas has demands. It promises so much in the way of free time, family gatherings, parties and sheer loot but it doesn’t come for free. There are payments that must be made and most of those are our time, energy and focus. Three things incidently enough, that you need to you’re your libido alive.
Christmas is the one guaranteed break we get 365 days a year work life. Everyone is closed on Christmas and if you are lucky, you might even get a week or two off. But here’s the catch. To get that time off, you got to work twice as hard now. You have to pay your dues and exhaust yourself now so that then December 25th rolls around, you can have that time off without worrying about the economy crashing.
Christmas is the time where we gather with family and friends. Blessed be the hermit who’s holidays social life is their cats because anything as complicated as people takes way too much work to be fun. Organizing, scheduling and then actually doing a party is an immense achievement and it blows my mind how much sex is being missed for a party where everyone discusses their kids and jobs. If your family is anything like mine, then you also have the extra hassle of dealing with the family that doesn’t like each other and forcing everyone to put on a happy face. I love the good will of Christmas but shit, it’s exhausting.
Then there are the presents. You want them. They want them. No matter how much you know Christmas is not about gifts; deep down we are hard wired to expect great things for Christmas. That means gifts must be bought, gifts must be chosen and gifts must be opened. A holiday dedicated to good will is one long treasure hunt and that wears out everyone. It’s a month or more of intense foreplay that results in one climax on Christmas day and I don’t care how good your sex is, one climax is not enough for that much work.
Is it no wonder that after all that stress, people just give up fucking till spring rolls around? Who has the energy? With all the build up for Christmas, people are tired emotionally, physically and financially. You couldn’t create a better celibacy conspiracy if you tried.
You can’t avoid Christmas. But now warned you can at least prepare for Christmas. Masturbate. Fuck. Buy yourself something dirty or pornographic and do it often. Invest in at least one piece of Christmas lingerie. While you shop, arrange parties and work weekends for the time sink that is Christmas; don’t forget to keep your sex drive humming. Just like a car left in the driveway for the winter, you need to crank your sex drive up and make it roar for a few minutes.
So this month, crank it. Crank it good. Crank it for Christmas.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Half Nekked Thursday Grip
Cock inside her mouth
Right hand on her hair
Left hand gripping the bed
Climax
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Fiction: Timothy and the Pony Girls of the Night
December 6, and I was sitting in the Fulton County graveyard. When I was a teen, this graveyard was the place to come to for losing your virginity. It was quiet, it was deserted, and best of all, it was a little creepy. It was just creepy enough that a nervous girl would curl up with you and fuck just to keep the unsettling specter of death away. It was a place where people fucked because they were not dead.
I understand that better now than I did when I was 16, but I don’t fuck here now. I stopped fucking here eight years ago, when beautiful Angela was hit by a drunk driver and they interred her shattered body here. Two weeks before Christmas, lovely Angela; who could take the worst spankings and ask for more, was put six feet under with just a marble stone to mark her spot in the world. “Beloved Daughter” is what the stone reads. It should read “Awesome Slut,” “Overachieving Masochist”and “Best Ass in Atlanta.” But of course, it says none of these things, which is why I come out here every December. It’s just my little way of telling Angela I remember.
To read more about this special night, click Whole Post
Don’t get the impression that I loved her. Let’s nip that shit right in the bud right here. Angela was a great piece of ass and swallowed every time, but I didn’t love her. Others loved her, and she had her boyfriends, but I wasn’t one of them. I just admired her for what she was — a slut who loved to be spanked and dominated. In a city that breeds girl with mental problems and daddy issues, Angela was a breath of hedonistic air. She was a pain slut, and for that alone, I come here every year to pay my respects.
I sat for a while and thought of the good times she’d had, of the cocks she had sucked and of the paddlings she had endured. After a while, I heard the roll of thunder. I thought it was rain at first, but I realized that the moon was too bright. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. It didn’t take long before I realized that the thunder wasn’t in the sky; it was coming from the ground.
I stood and watched as a crowd of women came running over the hill. There must have been hundreds of them. In the pale moonlight, I could see that they were all naked. Bare legs stomped through grass and dodged marble stones while breasts bounced on sweaty chests. They moved like a mad stampede, running as fast they could through the graveyard. As they came closer, I could hear their ragged moans. The sound was breathless, yet it conveyed so much damn pain.
That was when I saw their riders. I could see that the women were not completely naked, as each wore some sort of saddle on her shoulders. Each woman had a black creature riding there. You might call them demons, since they had pointy ears and sharp teeth that lined impossibly long smiles. They wielded long, nasty crops that they used to beat their human steeds. They had laced the women’s hair with rough ropes that the creatures then used as bridles. The demons’ feet had nasty spurs that they dug into the women’s chests and sides. The demons rode their women hard, and the women would never run fast enough.
The stampede of women and their infernal riders came right at me. I stood there, a bit shaken with fear. Not for my mortal soul, mind you. I was a Buddhist and had made my mother cry by giving up my Southern Baptist upbringing, so the thought of demon riders didn’t really make me fear for my soul. It was just the idea that I might get trampled by these beauties, who seemed to be running more in a panic than anything else.
I might have stood there and let them ride on past me except for one little detail. One of them ran by me, and I got a good look at her face. I saw those perfect blowjob lips, those wide, frightened blue eyes and of course, that long, gorgeous blond hair. It was Angela, and I saw a flash of recognition in her eyes before her damned rider dug its spurs into her round breasts and urged her on. I swear on her lips I could see her say my name.
Oh, hell, no. Demons or not, Christian or Buddhist, there was no fucking way someone was damning my Angela to an eternity of torment. Like I said, I didn’t love her, but shit, she was as big a slut as I was a dom, and I wasn’t going to let that stand.
I was fueled by anger more than anything else. I jumped on a tombstone and launched myself at the last woman running in the herd. The demon rider screamed as my bigger Southern male frame smashed into him. The demon flew off the saddle and skidded in the grass. As for me, I clung to the saddle horn, and the woman’s hair. He might be a demon, but I was a dom, and I knew how to grab a woman’s hair and hold onto it.
Don’t ask me how but I fit on the saddle. Don’t ask me how the 5-foot woman was able to carry my weight and keep running. For that matter, don’t ask me how a herd of naked women could carry demons on their backs at midnight in December. I’m guessing it was all magic. I didn’t give it much thought at the time, because quite frankly, I was pissed off. I was in the back of the herd, and Angela was near the front. I had to get a move on.
I bent down to my mount’s head. “Listen, slut,” I yelled. “I’m sorry if you’re a damned soul and all, but if you don’t move your ass faster, I am going to show you how a real man uses a crop.”
The woman, who was a cute brunette from what I saw of her, grunted and picked up the pace. She still wasn’t going fast enough. As soon as we came close to another woman, I reached over and smacked a very stunned looking demon rider. I snatched the crop right out of his hand and then beat him a few times with it. He fell off his mount and bounced off a tombstone. It sounded like a watermelon dropped on a sidewalk.
Armed with a crop, I now used it on the poor damned woman between my legs. I leaned back and smacked her backside as rapidly as I could. The crop felt great in my hand, with just the right grip and a wicked leather end. The only disturbing thing was that I noticed the woman had been branded on her ass. It was some sort of symbol that seemed to shift as I looked at it. Spooky.
I tightened my grip on the woman’s hair and kept striking her ass. “Faster,” I commanded.
She moaned. It was that same tortured moan I’d heard earlier. Damn if it didn’t make my cock hard.
I rode her hard and made progress through the herd. As we rode, I got a better look at the women. Some had their nipples pierced, and chains ran through the piercings to form more sadistic bridles. Others wore blindfolds made of leather, forced to run in darkness by their demented riders. Brands covered legs, arms and asses according to some hellish system I would never understand. And there was so much sweat. Sweat covered every body, glistening as though the women had been running for 100 years and would run 100 more.
The demon riders tried to stop me. Dumb bastards. You can’t stop an angry Southern boy, especially not when there is a girl involved. They struck at me with their crops. If I got too close, they would snap out and try to bite me. Their mounts helped, too, reaching out with jagged fingernails and pounding fists. They battered the shit out of me, but I held on to my bitch’s hair, and my legs stayed around her as tight as a slut holds onto her first cock. I tried to give back as good as I got, but there was so fucking many of them. It didn’t matter. Let them smack me around. I’m a dom who never uses a single toy without feeling it for himself. Crops, fists and teeth were just pain.
My bitch was gasping, but we finally got to the front of the herd. I didn’t recognize where we were. It smelled like Florida, and I realized that we must have been riding for hours. Hell, maybe days, it was hard to tell. All I cared about was we were finally close to Angela, and I was going to fucking save her.
The demon riding Angela was a big one. He was almost as tall as me. He had a smart-looking cowboy hat that was pure black. When he turned his head , his black eyes wrinkled up. I realized he was laughing at me.
“Well ridden, asshole,” he said. His voice carried across the wind and the moans. It sounded like brimstone falling down a mountainside.
“Thanks,” I said. Southern boys are always polite. “My name is Timothy Kyle Vance, and I aim to take that girl you’re riding. She was a friend of mine, and she deserves better than, you know, eternal damnation as a mount. You can give her up quietly, or I can beat the shit out of you. Don’t matter which to me.”
“All right, sure,” he said. “Did you hear that, Angela? This dickhead is here to save you.”
Angela turned her head. We were still running as fast as the wind, but my Angela turned her head and looked at me as we thundered across a railroad track. Tears were running down her face from the beatings she had been taking these eight years. She looked fucking exhausted, but there was something else in her face. It was fear. It wasn’t her rider she feared; it was the idea of being saved.
I looked back at the women behind me. On their faces, I saw something I should have seen earlier. Yeah, they were hurting, but it was a good hurt. They were exhausted, but it was the exhaustion that comes from being used to your limit and beyond. They were moaning, but these was the happy moans of sluts being used by their masters. These girls would be ridden forever, free from their parents’ judgments and free from ever again being told how wrong they were.
“I am a fucking idiot,” I yelled.
“Yes, you are!” the rider yelled. That’s when he cold-cocked me with a punch. I fell off my mount and landed face first in wet grass. The other riders stormed on by and yet none of them touched me. I looked up and watched those beautiful women run down the road and into the night.
I felt a sadness come over me, but not for them. No, I was sad for me. I got a glimpse of the heaven that waits for the sluts who never change their wicked ways. But what waits for the cruel men who love to wield the crop and the spur? Could it possibly be as awesome as those pony girls of the night?
Something smacked me in the face. It was the lead rider’s hat. Black and menacing, it was a hat made for a dom. I put it on. It fit, of course.
Oh, well. It wasn’t the secret to what happens to doms when they die, but it would do. It was a cool fucking hat.
Inspired by Riders in the Sky by Stan Jones
I understand that better now than I did when I was 16, but I don’t fuck here now. I stopped fucking here eight years ago, when beautiful Angela was hit by a drunk driver and they interred her shattered body here. Two weeks before Christmas, lovely Angela; who could take the worst spankings and ask for more, was put six feet under with just a marble stone to mark her spot in the world. “Beloved Daughter” is what the stone reads. It should read “Awesome Slut,” “Overachieving Masochist”and “Best Ass in Atlanta.” But of course, it says none of these things, which is why I come out here every December. It’s just my little way of telling Angela I remember.
To read more about this special night, click Whole Post
Don’t get the impression that I loved her. Let’s nip that shit right in the bud right here. Angela was a great piece of ass and swallowed every time, but I didn’t love her. Others loved her, and she had her boyfriends, but I wasn’t one of them. I just admired her for what she was — a slut who loved to be spanked and dominated. In a city that breeds girl with mental problems and daddy issues, Angela was a breath of hedonistic air. She was a pain slut, and for that alone, I come here every year to pay my respects.
I sat for a while and thought of the good times she’d had, of the cocks she had sucked and of the paddlings she had endured. After a while, I heard the roll of thunder. I thought it was rain at first, but I realized that the moon was too bright. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. It didn’t take long before I realized that the thunder wasn’t in the sky; it was coming from the ground.
I stood and watched as a crowd of women came running over the hill. There must have been hundreds of them. In the pale moonlight, I could see that they were all naked. Bare legs stomped through grass and dodged marble stones while breasts bounced on sweaty chests. They moved like a mad stampede, running as fast they could through the graveyard. As they came closer, I could hear their ragged moans. The sound was breathless, yet it conveyed so much damn pain.
That was when I saw their riders. I could see that the women were not completely naked, as each wore some sort of saddle on her shoulders. Each woman had a black creature riding there. You might call them demons, since they had pointy ears and sharp teeth that lined impossibly long smiles. They wielded long, nasty crops that they used to beat their human steeds. They had laced the women’s hair with rough ropes that the creatures then used as bridles. The demons’ feet had nasty spurs that they dug into the women’s chests and sides. The demons rode their women hard, and the women would never run fast enough.
The stampede of women and their infernal riders came right at me. I stood there, a bit shaken with fear. Not for my mortal soul, mind you. I was a Buddhist and had made my mother cry by giving up my Southern Baptist upbringing, so the thought of demon riders didn’t really make me fear for my soul. It was just the idea that I might get trampled by these beauties, who seemed to be running more in a panic than anything else.
I might have stood there and let them ride on past me except for one little detail. One of them ran by me, and I got a good look at her face. I saw those perfect blowjob lips, those wide, frightened blue eyes and of course, that long, gorgeous blond hair. It was Angela, and I saw a flash of recognition in her eyes before her damned rider dug its spurs into her round breasts and urged her on. I swear on her lips I could see her say my name.
Oh, hell, no. Demons or not, Christian or Buddhist, there was no fucking way someone was damning my Angela to an eternity of torment. Like I said, I didn’t love her, but shit, she was as big a slut as I was a dom, and I wasn’t going to let that stand.
I was fueled by anger more than anything else. I jumped on a tombstone and launched myself at the last woman running in the herd. The demon rider screamed as my bigger Southern male frame smashed into him. The demon flew off the saddle and skidded in the grass. As for me, I clung to the saddle horn, and the woman’s hair. He might be a demon, but I was a dom, and I knew how to grab a woman’s hair and hold onto it.
Don’t ask me how but I fit on the saddle. Don’t ask me how the 5-foot woman was able to carry my weight and keep running. For that matter, don’t ask me how a herd of naked women could carry demons on their backs at midnight in December. I’m guessing it was all magic. I didn’t give it much thought at the time, because quite frankly, I was pissed off. I was in the back of the herd, and Angela was near the front. I had to get a move on.
I bent down to my mount’s head. “Listen, slut,” I yelled. “I’m sorry if you’re a damned soul and all, but if you don’t move your ass faster, I am going to show you how a real man uses a crop.”
The woman, who was a cute brunette from what I saw of her, grunted and picked up the pace. She still wasn’t going fast enough. As soon as we came close to another woman, I reached over and smacked a very stunned looking demon rider. I snatched the crop right out of his hand and then beat him a few times with it. He fell off his mount and bounced off a tombstone. It sounded like a watermelon dropped on a sidewalk.
Armed with a crop, I now used it on the poor damned woman between my legs. I leaned back and smacked her backside as rapidly as I could. The crop felt great in my hand, with just the right grip and a wicked leather end. The only disturbing thing was that I noticed the woman had been branded on her ass. It was some sort of symbol that seemed to shift as I looked at it. Spooky.
I tightened my grip on the woman’s hair and kept striking her ass. “Faster,” I commanded.
She moaned. It was that same tortured moan I’d heard earlier. Damn if it didn’t make my cock hard.
I rode her hard and made progress through the herd. As we rode, I got a better look at the women. Some had their nipples pierced, and chains ran through the piercings to form more sadistic bridles. Others wore blindfolds made of leather, forced to run in darkness by their demented riders. Brands covered legs, arms and asses according to some hellish system I would never understand. And there was so much sweat. Sweat covered every body, glistening as though the women had been running for 100 years and would run 100 more.
The demon riders tried to stop me. Dumb bastards. You can’t stop an angry Southern boy, especially not when there is a girl involved. They struck at me with their crops. If I got too close, they would snap out and try to bite me. Their mounts helped, too, reaching out with jagged fingernails and pounding fists. They battered the shit out of me, but I held on to my bitch’s hair, and my legs stayed around her as tight as a slut holds onto her first cock. I tried to give back as good as I got, but there was so fucking many of them. It didn’t matter. Let them smack me around. I’m a dom who never uses a single toy without feeling it for himself. Crops, fists and teeth were just pain.
My bitch was gasping, but we finally got to the front of the herd. I didn’t recognize where we were. It smelled like Florida, and I realized that we must have been riding for hours. Hell, maybe days, it was hard to tell. All I cared about was we were finally close to Angela, and I was going to fucking save her.
The demon riding Angela was a big one. He was almost as tall as me. He had a smart-looking cowboy hat that was pure black. When he turned his head , his black eyes wrinkled up. I realized he was laughing at me.
“Well ridden, asshole,” he said. His voice carried across the wind and the moans. It sounded like brimstone falling down a mountainside.
“Thanks,” I said. Southern boys are always polite. “My name is Timothy Kyle Vance, and I aim to take that girl you’re riding. She was a friend of mine, and she deserves better than, you know, eternal damnation as a mount. You can give her up quietly, or I can beat the shit out of you. Don’t matter which to me.”
“All right, sure,” he said. “Did you hear that, Angela? This dickhead is here to save you.”
Angela turned her head. We were still running as fast as the wind, but my Angela turned her head and looked at me as we thundered across a railroad track. Tears were running down her face from the beatings she had been taking these eight years. She looked fucking exhausted, but there was something else in her face. It was fear. It wasn’t her rider she feared; it was the idea of being saved.
I looked back at the women behind me. On their faces, I saw something I should have seen earlier. Yeah, they were hurting, but it was a good hurt. They were exhausted, but it was the exhaustion that comes from being used to your limit and beyond. They were moaning, but these was the happy moans of sluts being used by their masters. These girls would be ridden forever, free from their parents’ judgments and free from ever again being told how wrong they were.
“I am a fucking idiot,” I yelled.
“Yes, you are!” the rider yelled. That’s when he cold-cocked me with a punch. I fell off my mount and landed face first in wet grass. The other riders stormed on by and yet none of them touched me. I looked up and watched those beautiful women run down the road and into the night.
I felt a sadness come over me, but not for them. No, I was sad for me. I got a glimpse of the heaven that waits for the sluts who never change their wicked ways. But what waits for the cruel men who love to wield the crop and the spur? Could it possibly be as awesome as those pony girls of the night?
Something smacked me in the face. It was the lead rider’s hat. Black and menacing, it was a hat made for a dom. I put it on. It fit, of course.
Oh, well. It wasn’t the secret to what happens to doms when they die, but it would do. It was a cool fucking hat.
Inspired by Riders in the Sky by Stan Jones
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Inspiration
Disappointment is my muse. That doesn’t sound sexy, does it? When writers talk of muses, readers want to hear about the super mind sex that is going on between a writer and his muse. They want to believe that a writer performs a ritual and then sits down with a incarnation of sexiness that just inspires them into a diurnal emission. Muses should be magical creatures full of wonder and lust.
Instead, my inspiration comes from disappointment. When I walk into a bookstore and a sexy title catches my eye, I pick it up and read the back. BEFORE I have read the back, I have this idea of what the book is about. I have this reason why I picked it up in the first place. Maybe I read the title and it made me think of scientists having sex with their creations. Maybe I thought the book was going to be about a contest between sluts to determine who was the most depraved. Or maybe I thought it was some weird idea that blew my mind as soon as I saw the cover, yet it was an idea that has always lurked in the back of my mind. That BEFORE moment is the best part of the book because when I do read the back and I get a summary of what the book is really about, then I find out it’s a book about vampires.
These days it’s always about vampires. Or werewolves. Or goddess forbid, werewolves and vampires.
Books disappoint me. The longer I browse, the angrier I get. A book that looked like it was about housewives conspiring to form a secret slave society is really about vampires. A cover that shows a lovely Asian woman and her teenage male slaves is really about vampires. Even when the back lives up to the cover, and you realize that this really is going to be a book about a torrid romance between a cruel policeman and a sultry scientist, you discover in the last paragraph that their arch enemy is going to be a vampire.
It’s the same with movies. It’s the same with blogs. It’s the same with sex stories. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy anything. I enjoy a lot of things and when I am awash in good stories, my output decreases. It’s the crap that I need in order to write. I need that spark of promise that turns into frustration and loss. It’s in that moment that I realize that if I want to read a story about romance that takes place entirely on a phone, then I’m going to have to fucking write it myself.
Hopefully when I finish my story, someone else will see it and go, “Now this, this is what I have been looking for”.
Instead, my inspiration comes from disappointment. When I walk into a bookstore and a sexy title catches my eye, I pick it up and read the back. BEFORE I have read the back, I have this idea of what the book is about. I have this reason why I picked it up in the first place. Maybe I read the title and it made me think of scientists having sex with their creations. Maybe I thought the book was going to be about a contest between sluts to determine who was the most depraved. Or maybe I thought it was some weird idea that blew my mind as soon as I saw the cover, yet it was an idea that has always lurked in the back of my mind. That BEFORE moment is the best part of the book because when I do read the back and I get a summary of what the book is really about, then I find out it’s a book about vampires.
These days it’s always about vampires. Or werewolves. Or goddess forbid, werewolves and vampires.
Books disappoint me. The longer I browse, the angrier I get. A book that looked like it was about housewives conspiring to form a secret slave society is really about vampires. A cover that shows a lovely Asian woman and her teenage male slaves is really about vampires. Even when the back lives up to the cover, and you realize that this really is going to be a book about a torrid romance between a cruel policeman and a sultry scientist, you discover in the last paragraph that their arch enemy is going to be a vampire.
It’s the same with movies. It’s the same with blogs. It’s the same with sex stories. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy anything. I enjoy a lot of things and when I am awash in good stories, my output decreases. It’s the crap that I need in order to write. I need that spark of promise that turns into frustration and loss. It’s in that moment that I realize that if I want to read a story about romance that takes place entirely on a phone, then I’m going to have to fucking write it myself.
Hopefully when I finish my story, someone else will see it and go, “Now this, this is what I have been looking for”.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Make Your Own Cell
There are days when I look at the wealth of erotica around us and I realize what a great time it is to be alive. Erotic blogs, porn movies by the mega-gig and instant messaging has put us in a sea of erotica that the previous generation could only have dreamed of. I have met lovers over the internet, shared my stories with people across the world and have enjoyed artists and writers from so many backgrounds. We are in a golden age of porn, at least internet wise.
Having said that, I can’t help but feel that this is only temporary. Porn will always be an easy target for politicians and religious moralists as opposed to real problems of poverty and racism. Even though a large number of people enjoy erotica, so very few of them are willing to stand up and defend it when those in power do stupid moves. More troublesome is when companies like Google start to de-porn their links for no good public reason. It is one of those silly sex-paranoid things that makes no sense yet seems to be all too common in human history.
What worries me more than governments and large companies is the sexual dysfunction suffered by individuals. The internet is a wonderful way of connecting to people who fuck like you, but it can be a distant and impersonal connection. Sure, a sexy blog gives you hope, but so few readers will ever talk to the blog writer and really connect. Blogs are places to leave comments, not have conversations. It takes e-mail to do that and the shyness of readers, and some bloggers are legendary. The internet is good for information and knowing you are not a unique freak, but it lacks the intimacy of friendship.
In the end I think it’s that lack of intimacy that does sexual people in. A reader might have a higher sex drive than their spouse, and they think the spouse is the normal one, while they are the freak. Without someone to talk to and compare with, what’s to make the high sex drive person feel normal? Our society discourages talk of sex, and when we do talk, it’s with giggles or soap opera drama. This forces us to look at sex as unusual and abnormal. It’s no wonder that with this constant discouragement that so many people eventually give up on sex. When you live in a world that treats sex like something you shouldn’t be doing anyway, much less talk about it, it’s just easier to skip sex altogether.
Fuck that. If the world is going to conspire against you and your sex life, it’s time you started conspiring back. To do that, I suggest a terribly simple and yet very effective method to combat a world that hates you masturbating. It’s time you formed your own erotic resistance cell.
An erotic resistance cell simply consists of two or more people who know each other. They are an erotic emotional support group. Ideally they are not lovers, since lust can come and go, but instead are people who share a common sexual interest and keep each other encouraged about their interests. Think of it as a porn hobby club where you share links, books, movies or anything else that you might be interested in.
More importantly, it creates a community no matter how small it is. While the rest of the world tries to tell you that hentai is weird, that spanking is silly, or group sex is something only deviants do, your little cell is resisting their efforts by simply celebrating that things you love. It’s also a place where you can vent about your unhappiness with living in a world gone limp.
Do whatever your cell wants. Give it a cooler sounding name. Go porn shopping together. Have a weekly meeting at the bookstore. Just do it together. Talk about sex the way human beings need to talk about sex. Do it not for some great cause, but for your own sexual sanity.
Having said that, I can’t help but feel that this is only temporary. Porn will always be an easy target for politicians and religious moralists as opposed to real problems of poverty and racism. Even though a large number of people enjoy erotica, so very few of them are willing to stand up and defend it when those in power do stupid moves. More troublesome is when companies like Google start to de-porn their links for no good public reason. It is one of those silly sex-paranoid things that makes no sense yet seems to be all too common in human history.
What worries me more than governments and large companies is the sexual dysfunction suffered by individuals. The internet is a wonderful way of connecting to people who fuck like you, but it can be a distant and impersonal connection. Sure, a sexy blog gives you hope, but so few readers will ever talk to the blog writer and really connect. Blogs are places to leave comments, not have conversations. It takes e-mail to do that and the shyness of readers, and some bloggers are legendary. The internet is good for information and knowing you are not a unique freak, but it lacks the intimacy of friendship.
In the end I think it’s that lack of intimacy that does sexual people in. A reader might have a higher sex drive than their spouse, and they think the spouse is the normal one, while they are the freak. Without someone to talk to and compare with, what’s to make the high sex drive person feel normal? Our society discourages talk of sex, and when we do talk, it’s with giggles or soap opera drama. This forces us to look at sex as unusual and abnormal. It’s no wonder that with this constant discouragement that so many people eventually give up on sex. When you live in a world that treats sex like something you shouldn’t be doing anyway, much less talk about it, it’s just easier to skip sex altogether.
Fuck that. If the world is going to conspire against you and your sex life, it’s time you started conspiring back. To do that, I suggest a terribly simple and yet very effective method to combat a world that hates you masturbating. It’s time you formed your own erotic resistance cell.
An erotic resistance cell simply consists of two or more people who know each other. They are an erotic emotional support group. Ideally they are not lovers, since lust can come and go, but instead are people who share a common sexual interest and keep each other encouraged about their interests. Think of it as a porn hobby club where you share links, books, movies or anything else that you might be interested in.
More importantly, it creates a community no matter how small it is. While the rest of the world tries to tell you that hentai is weird, that spanking is silly, or group sex is something only deviants do, your little cell is resisting their efforts by simply celebrating that things you love. It’s also a place where you can vent about your unhappiness with living in a world gone limp.
Do whatever your cell wants. Give it a cooler sounding name. Go porn shopping together. Have a weekly meeting at the bookstore. Just do it together. Talk about sex the way human beings need to talk about sex. Do it not for some great cause, but for your own sexual sanity.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Dr. Otto Von Madd's Secret Lair Newsletter for Dec 1st, 2006
Greetings, henchmen. As you well know, we are on track towards perfecting the Sexdroid 8000 in time for a massive Christmas orgy in which I will be the only human involved. My secret laboratory has made great advances in robotics and artificial pussy technology.
The recent blowjob-simulation tests have been very encouraging, and I would like to take a moment of silence for henchman #72. His sacrifice told us a lot about just exactly how much suction is too much suction. For the record, it’s not that much.
Despite our success, there are a few things I need to point out. And if you do not want to end up as test subjects for my Enema Laser, I suggest you pay attention.
First, please remember that the sentient breasts in Laboratory Delta are not there for your amusement. They are being created in the breast vats for a planned 2009 release to cripple world governments. Yes, they are cute; yes, they make awesome pillows; and yes, they are adorable when they rub up against your face, but seriously, these are experiments. Stop sneaking them to your barracks. I don’t want to know what you are doing with them, just return them. Wash them first, though.
Second, I have not been pleased with the kidnap victims our procurement teams have been bringing back. The kidnapped samples are to be studied and measured, so we can use the qualities of the most beautiful women in the world to perfect our Sexdroids. I understand that it’s hard to kidnap sexy women in a way that does no harm to them under the Beijing Mad Scientists Conventions on test subjects, but come on! Use the stun lasers you are issued, and stop using Craigslist.
Some of the women you bring back seem to be a little too willing to be kidnapped by masked men in leather. Quite frankly, some of them won’t leave. When you kidnap subjects, please maintain an aura of menace and quit showing them the unicorns from the mutant animal projects. We just need the women for their physical qualities; we don’t need their damn phone numbers!
Third, please remember that the Cat-Women of Laboratory Gamma are still being trained to be my vicious yet sexy bodyguards. The next henchmen who convinces a Cat-Woman that he is dirty and needs to be cleaned with her tongues will become the Cat-Women’s next scratching post. I have to admit, though, that whoever came up with the bright idea of having them tie each other up using their own tails needs to report to me. You just got your ass promoted to lab assistant.
Last, I want to remind everyone that my ex-wife, Vanessa Von Madd, has recently returned to life despite the very expensive assassins I hired to kill her. If you see a gorgeous raven-haired woman with tits the size of natural satellites, please remember that I created her out of spare parts from a cheerleader bus crash. Sure, she looks hot, but that bitch is literally cold-hearted. Shoot her on sight before she winds up wearing your balls as earrings. If you find that she is killing you, do your fellow henchmen a favor and hit the panic button on your wrist communicator. The resulting explosion might just take her out, and who knows, I might reward your sacrifice by incorporating your remains into my next cyborg killing machine.
sincerely,
Dr. Otto Von Madd
The recent blowjob-simulation tests have been very encouraging, and I would like to take a moment of silence for henchman #72. His sacrifice told us a lot about just exactly how much suction is too much suction. For the record, it’s not that much.
Despite our success, there are a few things I need to point out. And if you do not want to end up as test subjects for my Enema Laser, I suggest you pay attention.
First, please remember that the sentient breasts in Laboratory Delta are not there for your amusement. They are being created in the breast vats for a planned 2009 release to cripple world governments. Yes, they are cute; yes, they make awesome pillows; and yes, they are adorable when they rub up against your face, but seriously, these are experiments. Stop sneaking them to your barracks. I don’t want to know what you are doing with them, just return them. Wash them first, though.
Second, I have not been pleased with the kidnap victims our procurement teams have been bringing back. The kidnapped samples are to be studied and measured, so we can use the qualities of the most beautiful women in the world to perfect our Sexdroids. I understand that it’s hard to kidnap sexy women in a way that does no harm to them under the Beijing Mad Scientists Conventions on test subjects, but come on! Use the stun lasers you are issued, and stop using Craigslist.
Some of the women you bring back seem to be a little too willing to be kidnapped by masked men in leather. Quite frankly, some of them won’t leave. When you kidnap subjects, please maintain an aura of menace and quit showing them the unicorns from the mutant animal projects. We just need the women for their physical qualities; we don’t need their damn phone numbers!
Third, please remember that the Cat-Women of Laboratory Gamma are still being trained to be my vicious yet sexy bodyguards. The next henchmen who convinces a Cat-Woman that he is dirty and needs to be cleaned with her tongues will become the Cat-Women’s next scratching post. I have to admit, though, that whoever came up with the bright idea of having them tie each other up using their own tails needs to report to me. You just got your ass promoted to lab assistant.
Last, I want to remind everyone that my ex-wife, Vanessa Von Madd, has recently returned to life despite the very expensive assassins I hired to kill her. If you see a gorgeous raven-haired woman with tits the size of natural satellites, please remember that I created her out of spare parts from a cheerleader bus crash. Sure, she looks hot, but that bitch is literally cold-hearted. Shoot her on sight before she winds up wearing your balls as earrings. If you find that she is killing you, do your fellow henchmen a favor and hit the panic button on your wrist communicator. The resulting explosion might just take her out, and who knows, I might reward your sacrifice by incorporating your remains into my next cyborg killing machine.
sincerely,
Dr. Otto Von Madd
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