Sex is Damn Confusing

Domination has always been a part of my sexual fantasy life. As a young child I often delighted in my Princess Leia action figure getting captured by Vader, Boba Fett, random storm troopers or even jawas. Capturing the princess was my favorite past time although my figures and I were often unsure what to do once we caught her.

On the opposite end, when I discovered masturbation, my most common fantasy was of an older woman dominating me and making me have sex with her. As a serial shoplifter as a kid, it was easy to imagine that if I got caught stealing a book, then I was going to have to fuck a store employee. It just makes sense.

As I got even older, I found myself attracted to really strong minded women. When you are young, it is really hard to tell the difference between a strong willed woman and a bossy pain in the ass. My interest in dominant women completely died out as I struggled to deal with the arrogant and uncompromising women I was dating and eventually married.

My wife wanted a poly marriage which technically means that you develop relationships with other people. I soon realized that I was the charming one in the family when I kept meeting people who wanted to be with me while my wife kept meeting people who wanted little to do with her. Every time I did find something I adored, my wife would do everything to sabotage it to keep me with her. Like an idiot, I deferred to her. I'm not proud of that.

It seems completely logical to me now that being in an unhappy marriage really brought out my desire for submissive women. I liked flirting with them, I liked fucking them and I really loved writing about them. I like arguing with them and winning. I like making unreasonable demands and having them met. I liked having control because I had so little in my marriage.

My fiction didn't see many dominatrixes during this time. My wife fancied herself a dom when most of the time she was really just selfish and sadistic. Heck, that is a good definition of a dominatrix but being married to one who dominates you without your consent is a shitty situation. I wrote porn to get away from the troubles of my wife so the last thing I wanted to do was write something that reminded me of her.

There was also a weird social stigma to writing submissive male fiction when I started writing. Most of my stories were for newsgroups and when I did write the occasional male submissive story, my fan mail from submissive females would evaporate. It wasn't that they didn't like the story as much as they felt that if I was writing something like that, then I wasn't the macho dom writer they fantasized about.

It is sad. I roll my eyes at the idea now but during my bad marriage, that kind of response was important to me. I stopped writing about dominant women and submissive males. It wasn't like I had much interest in them anyway, but I had some and it is a shame that I let something as unimportant as what other people think influence me.

At a happy point in my life, I met my current wife. She helped me understand what a fucked up life I was leading. I left my wife and spent a year or two growing up. The sad fact is that I was a submissive to my ex-wife in that I let her win every argument and she made me feel that every small bit of happiness I had was because she graciously allowed me to be selfish.

There is a thing that my friends in the BDSM community often joke about. We will see friends who are doms or subs and they will end up marrying someone completely vanilla. We laugh and shake our heads because we think it can never work out. We also think it is a lot like regressing. We watch people struggle with their dominant or submissive personalities and then right when they are comfortable, they marry someone who isn't part of that life at all. It just seems like a crying shame.

I bring it up because I have become one of those people. My wife is a strong willed woman because hey, I am attracted to women like that. The difference is that she has no interest in steam rolling me and quite frankly, gets pissed when she does. My natural instinct was to roll over and avoid confrontation but being freed of one bad marriage has unleashed my anger. It might be years of repressed rage but it is something I can use. I fight. I argue. I get damn mad. You know, all the things that happen in an real relationship.

Which translates into a rather vanilla romance with my wife. There is no power inequality, so I don't need to supplement my self esteem with bdsm. She has an ass made for spanking but there is no need for a pretext to spank her. I love that woman and she is my partner and my wingman. Neither of us are in charge. It is pretty nice.

The fantasies don't go away. Heck, as a porn writer, I am not sure I could make them go away. I don't see attractive women on the street, I see potential characters in stories that need to be written. I am pretty sure that I could be fucking a dozen away a day for the rest of my life and I would still want to write a story about a guy and a girl doing something naughty. Being a writer is a not a hobby or a job, it is a classification of a compulsion.

What fascinates me is that now that I am happy, my fantasies don't give a shit what people think. My fantasies about dominant women have returned because I no longer feel dominated. My sillier fantasies about over the top action heroes and heroines in peril have returned because I no longer care about presenting a serious face to my audience. I write about male and female submissives because they interest me and I no longer worry about what that says about my own sexuality. My own sexuality is a tangled mess and if a reader thinks they know me, they are terribly mistaken. More importantly, a reader's assessment of my sexuality is really none of my business any more. That is the most important thing I have learned over the last few years. I used to be told not to care what people think but now I realize that although I sometimes care, it is not any of my concern. I have my own misconceptions about my sexuality, what do I care if other people are just as confused?

Sketch card is by the talented Lohmeier

Fiction: Midnight Rendezvous

“This is not a bookstore,” Claire Currie said.

“You are correct,” her employer, Mr. Dillon said. “Graveyards are not known for selling books. You powers of observation once again amaze and delight me.”

Claire bit back her own sarcastic remark. As a librarian, Claire understood that it was not polite to respond rudely. As Mr. Dillon’s lover and receiver of his sadistic impulses, Claire knew that when her boss was in a biting mood. As an employee for the worlds most unique collection of erotic books, Claire knew that something special was about to happen. Why else would they be at a cemetery at eleven at night?

“You know, I did wonder why we had come to Utah,” Claire said. “I didn’t think there would be many erotic books here.”

Mr. Dillon breathed in the cold air. “Nonsense, there is plenty of porn here. What else are they going to do?”

Mr. Dillon started walking through the graveyard. Claire followed, struggling to stay upright on her four inch heels on the grassy ground. Her uniform was a strict affair and Mr. Dillon felt that just because they would be walking on grass at night was no reason to change her clothes. Black stockings provided her legs protection from the night air which was good because her black skirt barely came down to her knees. When a breeze of wind did travel up her skirt, her flimsy red thong offered not protection to her bushy sex. The white button shirt she wore might have kept her warm if Mr. Dillon hadn’t insisted on her leaving enough buttons open to reveal a generous amount of her dark cleavage.

Claire followed Mr. Dillon through the graveyard. She became aware that they were not the only ones here. There were whispers in the darkness. There was also the occasional giggle and the sound of beer bottles clinking together. A smell of alcohol, cigarettes and hot dogs wafted through the air.

“Sir, what are we doing here?” Claire asked.

Mr. Dillon stopped. He looked down and noticed that he was illuminated by moonlight. He took a step to the side and made sure he was cloaked in darkness. With a wave of his hand, he motioned Claire to join him in secrecy of night.

“About thirty yards from here,” Mr. Dillon said, “is the grave of Phyllis Nubmeg. She wrote about fifty books in the eighties about exhibitionist women who masturbated in public. She was a fantastic cook, knitted together wonderful quilts and was a proud lesbian in small town that didn’t know what to do with her.”

“She sounds like a lovely woman,” Claire said.

“She was,” Mr. Dillon said. “But more importantly, she was a hell of a writer. Two years after she died, a woman was spotted visiting her grave on the day of Phyllis’ birthday. The woman stripped off her pants and sat on Phyllis’s gravestone. The woman masturbated and then left. No one knows who the woman was.”

Claire giggled. “Sounds like a dedicated fan.”

“Every year after that, a woman comes to Phillis’ gravestone to masturbate,” Mr. Dillon said. “It has become a local scandal and tourist attraction. The local authorities turn a blind eye and the night becomes an unofficial holiday. The woman who comes to masturbate changes from year to year and sometimes the same woman appears for several years in a row.”

“How fascinating,” Claire said. “Are we here to witness this mystery woman?”

Mr. Dillon snorted. “Ms. Currie, we are the cause of the mystery woman. When Phyllis passed away, she left the Colette-Ashbee collection the entirety of her books, her works in progress and writing notes. She also left a recipe for broccoli and bacon casserole that is divine. The condition of the will states that she wanted this tradition to take place on her birthday. Even in death she wanted to see a pretty woman masturbate.”

“Wait, you want me to go do it?” Claire said. “You brought me here to masturbate in front of strangers?”

“No, Ms Currie,” Mr. Dillon said with steel in his voice. “I want you to fulfill the obligations of the Colette-Ashbee collection to a great writer. I would gladly do it myself but Phyllis was not a fan of the cock. In the past, we have hired prostitutes and paced ads in lesbian journals. Now that you are under our employment, we can bring the tribute in house.”

Claire took a deep breath. “Was that broccoli and bacon casserole as delicious as you say it was?”

“I planned to make some tonight,” Mr. Dillon said. “It was why I insisted we have a motel room with a kitchen.”

“Any special instructions I should be aware of?” Claire said.

Mr. Dillon placed a scarf in her hand. “Phyllis was always a fan of mystery. Conceal your identity just a little.”

Claire wrapped the scarf around her head so that it covered her mouth.

“Oh, and masturbate to a climax,” Mr. Dillon said. “Don’t cheat a great writer.”

Claire nodded. “I will be right back.”

“I’ll be watching,” Mr. Dillon said.

A delicious shiver went down her spine. At least she won’t be performing solely for strangers. Claire walked through the graveyard and looked for Phyllis’ grave. As she walked, she heard the whispers around her suddenly grow quiet. Her unknown audience was realizing that their mystery woman had arrived.

Claire found the grave easily. Phyllis’ name was in large letters but what gave it away was the top of the gravestone. It was shaped with a slight depression like a seat. It was made to be sat on.

Thinking of her audience, and thinking of Mr. Dillon, Claire stripped slowly. She lifted one stocking clad leg and took off her shoe before repeating the process with her second foot. Her skirt went off next so people could see the stockings and bright red thong on her dark body. Claire wanted to keep the stockings on for warmth but this wasn’t about her. This was for Phyllis so Claire bent over and slowly unrolled one stocking and then the other from her legs. Last to go was her thong. Claire put the thong on the ground before the gravestone like an offering.

She sat in the seat of marble gravestone and quickly discovered just how cold it really was tonight. She suppressed her scream of discomfort and tried to appear as casual as possible. The librarian parted her legs and ra her fingernails up and down her thighs. The moonlight shone down on her like a sensual spotlight.

Claire reached between her legs. She felt the thick hair of her bush part for her fingers as she sought her sex. A tremble went through her as she touched her sex. She was already wet.

She thought of what life must have been like for Phyllis. Claire came from London and all she knew was of large cities and dense populations. Utah with it’s wide open spaces and small towns that look like outposts of humanity were alien to her. Phyllis was a strange woman in a town where she could not hide it. She dreamed and wrote of naked woman touching themselves. She wrote of women exposing who they were. Claire could understand that.

Claire stroked. At first she tried to block out the people who might be watching but her opinion changed. Phyllis didn’t want to block them out. The proud woman wanted them to see. Claire spread her legs a little wider. Claire plunged her fingers a little deeper. Claire moaned and arched her back. The librarian wasn’t going to hide what she was doing; she was going to put it in their faces.

Claire stroked faster. She thought of the people in the graveyard watching. Were they just here to catch a sexy thrill? Were they fellow sufferers of perverse thoughts that would never be accepted by their friends and family? Were they secret writers in a small town? Claire dedicated her stroking to them as well.

She used both hands to masturbate. Her moans drifted through the silent graveyard. She squirmed on the gravestone, clenching her legs and arching her back. Sometimes she pulled a hand out of her sex and grabbed her breast through her shirt. Her sticky fingers left wet handprints on her shirt.

Claire felt her climax coming. To her surprise, she actually delayed for a few minutes. She was enjoying this. She enjoyed performing a service for a writer she had never met or even read. Mr. Dillon was a fan and that was good enough for Claire. Perhaps Claire enjoyed the chance to do something on Mr. Dillon’s behalf.

She stroked faster. Her hand became a blur as she gave in to her desires. She wanted to climax but she wanted to please as well. Claire wanted to please Phyllis, the crowd and her boss. Her body was her instrument of their pleasure.

Finally she climaxed. The scarf around her mouth couldn’t block her cry of joy. She kept stroking as she rode her climax out. Distantly she thought she heard applause but it was quickly silenced.

Claire stopped. She cleaned her fingers with her mouth. Taking her time, she cleaned each finger individually.

She stepped off the gravestone and picked up her skirt. Claire wrapped it around her body and slipped her shoes back on. She picked up her stockings and her thong. A wet spot was visible on the seat of the gravestone and Claire wondered how many other women had left their contributions. Claire felt a strange kinship to those women.

Claire placed her red thong on the gravestone and walked away.

Mr. Dillon was waiting for her in the darkness.

“Leaving the thong was a nice touch,” he said.

“It felt right,” she said.

“I think we shall add that to the tradition,” he said.

“I will remember it when we come back next year.”

Pirates and Spanking

This lovely sketch card by Joe Gravel is 100% accurate. As soon as you institute sexy spanking as a punishment, ship discipline goes out the window.

When I started writing my pirate anthology set in the 1500's, I went looking to find other erotica books written in the same time period. I turned up jack shit. I found plenty of romance novels set in that time period but they were about all male crews with one woman. It was hardly the co-ed orgy setting I had in mind. I was amazed that I couldn't find anything.

After writing a dozen stories, I am no longer so amazed. Writing in that time period is hard. Even applying porn logic and allowing for a ship of fucking men and women, you still need a pirate ship that functions. Discipline was a big deal on ships back then and the motivation for turning pirate was to avoid getting whipped to an inch of your life for forgetting to salute. Some pirate ships were famous for their tight discipline but again, crew full of sex maniacs doesn't exactly lend itself to a orderly ship.

This creates some interesting problems for my writer's toolbox. Spanking is a lovely subject to devote a story to and one of its most popular settings is to use it for discipline. This actually works in a setting where you can humiliate a person, like say an office workspace, but it is less effective in a setting where everyone is walking around half naked.

In fact, this pirate ship is looking more and more like a sex club with every story. Real discipline is maintained with rather uncomfortable scary threats. Death, marooning and musket ball to the head keep the discipline on this ship. As any good spanker knows, a bad spanking can be very uncomfortable and bad, but it is also hardly sexy. Writing a sex novel, I am required to lean towards the sexy. Therefore, bad painful unsexy spanking is out.

Well shit.

I have avoided this problem by writing mostly pirate stories about lust. I decided early on not to do stories about non consensual sex so the spanking of prisoners and captives is out. I danced and avoided the subject forever before the solution finally dawned on me. Like most problems, when the solution is apparent, the problem looks stupidly easy.

My solution was to make spanking consensual, recreational and part of someone's sex. Not a discipline thing. Not a pirate specific rule or punishment. Taking my inspiration from the sex club atmosphere, I just made spanking a part of sex. Easy. Stupidly easy.

This is what I enjoy about writing odd books like this one. It is part world building as you try to create a logical setting, and part discovery as you puzzle out to make something happen and make it appear natural. I think the reason there is so few pirate sex novels is because the setting is fucking hard. It also means that anything I successfully come up with will be all the more rare. That is worth any headache.

Fiction: Love and Airlocks

The airlock closed behind Baroness Joslyn. The noble woman maintained her dignity despite the threat of the cold vacuum of space outside these walls. She was nude and her long red hair was a tangled mess from the lovemaking she had engaged in just a short hour ago. The Baroness did not panic when the guards pulled her from her bed and marched her to the airlock, she would not give them the pleasure now of panicking at the simple threat of death.

A window slid open. On the other side of the vacuum proof blast glass, stood Queen Erishella. The lovely queen was dressed in a black mesh gown that covered her from neck to toe, yet the openings of the mesh were large enough to reveal every inch of her lovely body. A mesh veil covered her face except for her twinkling eyes.

Baroness Josyln pressed the button for communicator. “My Queen,” Baroness Josyln said. “Why am I here, instead of delighting your body with my mouth like I did earlier?”

“Did you know that a standard Euphorian Warship airlock has seven safety locks that must be triggered before a person is shot into space?” the Queen said.

Baroness Josyln shook her head. “I am but a lowly Baroness of the Gem Moons,” she said. “I know nothing of war and their instruments.”

“You love me,” Queen Erisella said. You love me, not.”

CLANG! Powerful locks disengaged and brought Baroness Josyln one step closer to the oblivion of space.

“My Queen!” Baroness Joslyn said. “Please tell me how I have offended you!”

“Masturbate,” Queen Erishella said. The veil prevented the Baroness from seeing if the Queen was smiling.

Baroness Joslyn did as the Queen commanded. She reached down with her hand and stroked her sex. There was no time to be coy or demure. The Baroness slipped three fingers into her sex and fucked herself as passionately as she could. She winced from the sudden intrusion but she knew the Queen would accept no less.

She also knew that the Queen would relish her pain.

After a few discomforting minutes of masturbating, Queen Erishella spoke again.

“You love me,” Queen Erisella said. You love me, not.”

CLANG! More locks moved behind the cold metal of the airlock.

“My Queen!” Baroness Joslyn said. “I can no longer pretend to be innocent! It is true that I was sent to your Warship in order to seduce you! I was sent to procure mercy for my people!”

“You love me,” Queen Erisella said. You love me, not.”

CLANG! Baroness Joslyn knew it was impossible, but she swore that she could feel the cold bite of space.

“I confess!” Baroness Josylin said. She also kept masturbating. “I was sent also to try to kill you! My comb contains a deadly poison and my dildo is packed with explosives!

One of Queen Erishella's eyebrows arched.

“You love me,” Queen Erisella said. You love me, not.”

CLANG! Baroness Josylin had lost count. Was that four locks or three? How many more before her body was given to the great beyond of space?

“But I could not go through with it!” Baroness Joslyin said. “Once I met you, I saw the inherent superiority in your presence! You were meant to rule! You were meant to rule us! You were meant to rule me!”

“You love me,” Queen Erisella said. You love me, not.”

CLANG!

Baroness Josylin masturbated faster. “Please, my Queen! I give myself completely to your service! Use me as you wish! Chain me to your bed! Abuse me, use me and make me pleasure you as you desire!”

Queen Erishella said nothing.

“Or have me serve whomever you wish,” Baroness Joslyin said. “Give me to your soldiers! Give me to your secretaries! Give me to your lowliest servants! I will take any humiliation at your command!”

“Interesting,” Queen Erishella said. “I believe that you do love me.”

Baroness Josylin sighed with relief. “I renounce all my former allegiances and titles to serve you, my Queen.”

“But I do not love you,” Queen Erishella said.

CLANG!

CLANG!

WOOSH!

Farmer's Daughter's Almanac: Handjobs for January 17-23

From the Farmer's Daughter's Almanac

The thrill of Christmas is gone and the alcohol of New Year's Eve has been sweated out. Now is a prime time to energize a loved one or a perfect stranger with a properly timed handjob. The ideal times are listed below.

Jan 17 - Before they get out of bed.

Jan 18 - Shortly before lunch.

Jan 19 - 4:45 pm.

Jan 20 - After they watch you take a long and gratitous shower.

Jan 21 - Halfway through dinner.

Jan 22 - Once they are soundly asleep.

Jan 23 - During the preacher's sermon about sin.

Farmer's Daughter's Tip- A handjob doesn't need to be dry! Throw some spit on that hand to keep it slick!

Boom Pepper

The planet of Euphoria has many unique animals and vegetation but by far the most profitable export is a tiny pink pepper the size of a man’s little finger. Called the Boom Pepper, it has a salty taste that connoisseurs say is reminiscent of sweaty cock.

It also has the ability to induce an orgasm in a humanoid species within fifty seconds of being consumed.

Many foods in the galaxy claim to be an aphrodisiac but only the Boom Pepper has been proven to create a climax. It is enjoyed by the elderly as a way of reliving former sexual glories while the young have been known to eat the pepper has a way of experiencing the glow of sex without the messy consequences of sexual experimentation. It is a traditional ingredient added to meals at wedding parties, graduation ceremonies and the funerals of unpopular relatives.

During the reign of King Fong, the Boom Pepper was declared a controlled substance that could only be sold to members of nobility. The peasantry created an underground market of inferior Boom Peppers such as the dangerous subtype known as the Bang Popper. The Bang Popper induced four to six orgasms in those who ate it, but also carried to risk of inducing a stroke. A weaker pepper known as the Blast Chili would induce in an orgasm but only after a teasing five minutes of sensation. It also induced uncontrolled bowel movements.

When Queen Erishella came into power, she declared the Boom Pepper available to everyone. The inferior kinds of Boom Peppers became less popular and are now only used by chefs who specialize in creating poverty cuisine for the rich and famous.

A popular pastime in Euphoria society is to slip a Boom Pepper into the meal of guests, family or unrequited sexual crushes. The sight of people suddenly orgasming at the dinner table has been credited with the creation of a new generation of foodysexuals.

If visiting Euphoria during the harvesting season, be sure to visit the Grand Boom Pepper Cooking Festival held in the royal courtyards. Chefs from around the planet bring their latest recipes to show off their climaxing dishes. Boom Pepper King and Queen titles are rewarded to the man and woman that can eat the most Boom Peppers without stopping. It is a sensual delight for the entire family.

--Euphorian Gazetteer

Fiction: Muddy Sinful Doom

Cardinal Moleste threw a purse into the mudpit. The mud quickly sucked the red purse into oblivion. A few seconds later, there was no sign of the leather item.

“That cost me a lot of money,” Holly Valentine said. The redhead reporter had an uncanny ability to sound threatening even with her hands tied behind her back.

“Ms. Valentine,” Cardinal Moleste said. “You have one last chance to tell us where your copies of the files are. Hand them over and you can live. Keep their location a secret and you can chase your purse.”

“Never!” Holly said. She struggled but the Catholic thugs holding her didn’t let her escape. “The world needs to know about your plan to turn convents into BDSM brothels!”

Cardinal Moleste sighed. “Why should the Mormons be the only ones to institutionalize sexual slavery? Profits for the Church have been down and our current Pope has the charisma of a concentration camp guard. Besides, no one would ever know. We would only cater to the rich and decadent in Europe, South America and southern states in America. Your nasty expose of Church business would just complicate things. Surely, your life isn’t worth some nun whore?”

Holly growled. “My first lesbian lover was a nun. So go fuck yourself. You’re never getting those files!”

“Shall we throw her in now?” one of the guards said.

“Not yet,” Cardinal Moleste said. “Take her pants down first.”

The thugs didn’t question his orders. One of them held Holly cruelly by her hair while the other undid her pants. He ripped her pants down and for good measure, her purple thong as well.

Cardinal Moleste walked around to Holly’s rear. “Sainted Mother of God,” he whispered. That truly was a magnificent ass. It was a shame that it was on a woman.

“The Pope wanted me to send his regards,” he said.

Holly felt something pressed against her ass. She gasped as something thick and hard pushed into her anus. Inch after inch slid in until Holly thought she was about to burst.

“Mother fuck!” she yelled.

“Yes,” Cardinal Moleste said. “Now that you have the Phallus of Excommunication in you, you are ready to die and have your soul condemned to Hell. Toss her.”

Each thug took hold of an elbow and an ankle and lifted Holly off the ground.

“The truth will be known!” Holly yelled.

Cardinal Moleste shrugged. “We’ve been pretty good at hiding it for two thousand years. Goodbye Ms. Valentine.”

The thugs threw her high into the air. Her bare legs kicked as she flew towards the mud pit. The Cardinal smiled as Holly’s body sunk into the mud. Once the last of her pretty red hair was under the surface, he knew it was over. Another dirty Church secret was lost in the mud.

“I don’t know about you boys, but I am in the mood for an altar boy,” Cardinal Moleste said. “Let’s head back to the church.”

Meanwhile, Holly was holding her breath under the mud. Her parents had owned a Jacuzzi and Holly had spent many a summer impressing boys with how long she could keep her head under water with only a penis to snorkel with. She counted slowly in her head till she hit sixty. Once she reached her target amount of time, she began the hard work of returning to the surface.

Holly had once interviewed a busty archeologist who explained how to escape mud. The thing about mud is that it is quite easy to escape as long as you stay calm. Holly’s hands were tied but the bastards had left her legs free. She slowly moved her legs in slow swimming kicks. Back and forth she swung her legs, trying to gently propel herself upwards to the surface.

That was the theory at least. The reality was that swimming was much harder with a god damn dildo in your ass. It was also something Holly had heard how to do but never had a chance to try herself. If that tomb raiding bitch who gave her the tips was wrong, Holly was making it her afterlife’s goal to haunt the lying British woman.

Holly swam against the mud. Her lungs burned as she reached the limits of even her breath holding skills. Her ass ached with the violation pressed inside her with every kick of her legs.

She broke the surface. Holly took in a long gasping breathing of air. On her second breath, she scanned the area for any signs of Moleste and his bastards. Luckily they were gone.

She let out a sigh of relief. The dildo reminded her of its presence with each twist of her head. Damn, that was a large toy. Holly tried to remember the last time she had something that big in her ass. She sadly realized that it had been way too long.

It was time to get out of here. She wanted to get her hands free of the rope holding them but that kind of struggling might make her sink again. Holly tried to relax and shift her weight to her back. She did her best to float near the surface of the mud while her legs propelled her backward. Again, that was the theory but the anal intrusion was complicating matters. Each slow kick of her legs just seemed to squeeze the dildo tighter in her ass.

It didn’t help that Holly was getting really turned on. The mud was warm and sticking to every part of her body. When she moved her thighs, the texture of the mud was doing funny things to her sex. Her shirt was plastered to her breasts and the grains of mud were rubbing wonderfully against her nipples. It was like being touched all other by really filthy hands.

“I really need to date more,” Holly said to herself. This attempt on her life was turning out to be really sexy.

The reporter kicked with her legs. The dildo strained against her tight ass. The mud clung to her sensitive skin. Her bound hands hung uselessly as she moved. The mud slowly parted for her dirty body.

She reached the shore and had to contain her excitement. With infinite care, Holly rolled her muddy body onto solid ground. The dildo ached inside her ass as she rolled onto her butt and then when she rolled onto her stomach.

“As soon as I file this story, I am going to find a lucky editor to fuck my ass,” Holly swore.

Safely on the surface, Holly worked her way out of the rope holding her hands. She had been tied up so many times that escaping was becoming second nature. The mud helped by giving her just enough lubrication to twist her ankles free.

As soon as her hands were free, she reached for her pussy. Still on her stomach and her dildo-penetrated-ass in the air, Holly stroked herself. Some might say that she was reaffirming her sexuality after surviving a life threatening situation but Holly knew the truth. The woman was fucking horny.

She climaxed quietly and happily. Her cheek pressed against the dirt, she sighed blissfully with the relief of climax. Holly enjoyed her afterglow as much as she could.

When the glow had faded, Holly reached for the dildo. Pulling it out was easy as it had some sort of tab for her to pull on. When it finally left her ass, Holly shuddered with relief at its absence.

She took a look at the dildo. It was molded in the shape of a Christ. The tab Holly had pulled was the Savior’s feet.

“Jesus Christ,” Holly muttered.

She tossed the dildo away. Still on her stomach, Holly reached back into her ass. Lucky for her, her anus was still trying to recover its normal shape. She found what she needed and pulled it out.

“Thanks, Cardinal,” Holly said. The flash drive was intact and free of any mud. The Cardinal’s phallus had sealed her ass and inadvertently prevented the flash drive from getting lost.

“God works in mysterious ways,” Holly said.

Daisy Danger

Daisy Danger has an ebook out where the collects the stories in her blog and presents them to you. The reason you should care is that Daisy is one of the best writers sex blogging today and $5.99 is a criminally low price for her craftmanship. Sure, you could get the stories for free off her blog but for the book, Daisy puts her stories in chronological order. It turns the book into a fascinating archeology dig of sexual history.

There are dozens of blogs out there just like hers but there is one super important aspect of Daisy's work that makes them worth your notice. The woman can write. Oh my Buddha, can she write. She doesn't fall into the traps of new writers where she over explains every detail. At the same time she doesn't write about mysterious pseudonyms that become faceless forgettable characters. It is such a tricky thing to do but she does it so well. You know the essentials. She tells you just enough to feel the pain or the elation.

I primarily write fiction because I feel my own sex life is at times too sad or too sappy to relate. Daisy has no such inhibitions. Her stories are grim, funny, sad, cute and always fascinating. They are like life, encompassing the awful and the awesome.

Buy her book if you adore wonderful writing about sex.

Fiction: Tittyleaks

“Thank you General for inviting me to your office here at the Pentagon,” Holly Valentine said. “INX thanks you for your time as so do I.”

“We are always happy to help the press,” General Hyde said. He was staring directly at Holly’s freckle decorated cleavage. “When the public found out that we made a program to monitor every e-mail, it was the press that helped us lie about only reading the emails of foreigners.”

“Well, the press is always happy to help make shit up for those in power,” Holly said. She took out a small notebook and made herself comfortable in her chair. The tops of her breasts looked like they were ready to make a daring escape from her tightly buttoned vest.

“The reason I am here General,” Holly began, “is that there is an unconfirmed rumor that the military discovered that the last president was sending filthy emails to Saddam Hussein in which he graphically described how much he wanted to fuck his hairy ass. Can you confirm or deny these rumors?”

The General stopped looking at her chest long enough to look her in the face. “How did the fuck did you find out about that? I mean, no comment.”

“Okay, no comment,” Holly said. “Now where did I put my pen?”

The redhead checked her purse and then snapped her fingers. “That’s right, I put it here for safe keeping.”

The General watched as Holly reached deep into her cleavage. The pale freckled breasts absorbed her questing fingers until she pulled out a long slender black pen. The General wanted to be a pen so damn badly.

“No comment,” Holly said as she wrote. “What about the rumors that the last President used to send pictures of his cock to the Russian Prime Minister?”

“No comment,” the General said. “What news service did you say you were with? Diana Finn would never ask these kinds of questions.”

“INX, Independent News Network,” Holly said. “The X is just to make it sound cool. Do you mind if I open up a button? My poor breasts are being crushed by this outfit. I swear they haven’t been squeezed this hard since I dated teenage boys.”

“Uh, sure,” General Hyde said.

Holly reached up to undo the top button. As soon as her fingers touched the button, it popped off like a bullet and hit the General in the face.

“Sorry, I forget how busty I am,” Holly said.

The General hadn’t even blinked. If he did, he might have missed the sight of Holly’s breasts expanding to fill the small void created by the missing button. He could also see a hint of the red lace bra that was holding her tits like a cupcake pan holding blooming muffins.

“Now, what about the unconfirmed rumor that the military intercepted emails from the last vice-president sharing his homoerotic Dirty Dozen fan fiction with the dictator of Korea?”

“Ms Valentine, you must know that I can not under any circumstances confirm this kind of information,” General Hyde said. He licked his lips as he imagined smothering himself in her pale bosom.

Holly frowned. She tapped her fingers against her breasts as she appeared to be thinking. “Are you sure?” she said.

“Yes?” General Hyde said, a little unsure himself.

“”Well shit,” Holly said. She let out a big sigh.

Another button popped off her vest. This time the vest opened enough to see more of the red lace bra that was doing such an inadequate job of holding in her breasts. The general could also see the outline of her nipples poking through her bra. They silently begged him to reach out bite them.

“Ms. Valentine!” General Hyde said. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Is this your wife?” Holly said. She picked up the picture of Mrs. Hyde and placed it against her cleavage. The sight of Mrs. Hyde’s flat chest and stern face covered all of the wonderful breasts that Holly had been showing.

“Yes, she is,” General Hyde said miserably.

“Look, General, I’ll be straight with you,” Holly said. “As straight as your cock slipping between my tits if this goes right. I want those emails. I want copies of them and no one ever needs to know that you were the leak. The public has a right to know what filthy things their leaders do and quite frankly, I am curious to see this Dirty Dozen fan fiction because Lee Marvin is a hottie. You can provide them to me and I can do a little something for you.”

“You are asking me to betray my country,” General Hyde said. He did a poor job of sounding outraged.

“I am asking you help the public,” Holly said. “I am also asking you to shoot your come down my breasts and I will walk out of the pentagon with your sticky seed dripping between my tits. Are you ready to answer the call of duty?”

“Hurrah!” General Hyde said. He jumped up and ripped open his pants. His cock, which he had begun to fear was ready for decommissioning was standing tall and proud like Lee Marvin himself.

Holly Valentine was already on the floor before him. She held up open her vest and revealed her lace covered beauties. Her tits were ready for inspection and by God, he was ready to fire.

General Hyde stroked his cock. The redhead reporter was breathing hard, transforming her breasts into a rising and falling target. Oh, he would win a marksmanship award for this one, he knew it.

He started to groan as his climax approached. This was going to be epic. He was horrified when Holly quickly closed her vest.

“Oops, don’t forget to give me those emails,” Holly said. She pulled out a flash drive out of her seemingly endless cleavage.

General Hyde snarled. He yanked the drive out of her hands and snapped it into his computer. A minute later, all of the executive offices dirty emails were uploading into her drive.

“Oh God, I want your patriotic come,” Holly said. She grabbed hold of the General’s cock and squeezed him like a senate subcommittee investigation.

One stroke, two strokes and then on the third, he came. Holly’s aim was perfect as he fired a nice heavy load between her tits. The General almost saluted he was so proud of himself. He watched as his white seed splattered against freckles and lace.

“Excellent work, General,” Holly said. “A free press is essential to a free nation.” She stood up and buttoned her vest. He groaned as he imagined her tits pressing tighter against his come.

General Hyde smiled as he handed the flash drive over to her. “I am always happy to help a member of the breast, I mean press.”

New Year's Corrections

I am not a fan of New Year's Resolutions. They always seemed to be set ups for failure and always a perverse tradition of adding stress and deadlines after what is supposed to be a relaxing period. I am certainly reconsidering that attitude.

I have a different attitude now due to some recent medical scares. My yearly physical revealed an irregularity with my heartbeat and I was sent to take a stress echo test of my heart. I was also diagnosed with my pituitary gland not producing the hormone to tell my testicles to create testosterone. I was scheduled to have an MRI of my head to see if there are any tumors. Medical science being what it is, I had to make appointments, wait, fill out forms, wait, have the tests done and then wait for the results to be analyzed. As a writer, waiting is pretty much asking my brain to conjure up all sorts of negative scenarios. I've been a little stressed.

This stress has made me reconsider the way I do things. I tend to create pressure for myself without the help of others. I religiously come up with a new story to post every week because I feel that if I didn't post a story, there would be next to no reason to visit my blog every week. I also want to make more books and long stories but that 52 stories a year deadline is a killer. I put out four books last year, 52 stories and wrote the majority of a 5th book. That is pretty nice and I am proud of it but it is also exhausting. I know I should slow down but it is very hard to do so without feeling like I am lazy.

My heart echo came back and my heart is great. Today I find out about the MRI and whether I will need surgery. Even if I do, there is not much risk to my overall health. All in all I am in good hands but man, weeks of waiting for tests and results have worn me down. It killed my writing and not writing stressed me out more. I felt like I was a failure at my own hobby.

With that in mind, I am going to aim for a bit more relaxation. I can't do much to reduce my work stress except perhaps give less of a fuck, but I am going to work really hard on not being my own worse enemy. I may recycle more pre-blog stories into the blog on Wednesdays to give myself more weeks off. I may give up posting weekly altogether if I find myself on a good streak of writing chapters for one of my books.

I am still debating what to do but my overall goal is to fucking relax. I love writing and I will never stop but sometimes I just don't have anything written for you right now. Does that make sense?

Picture is of London Andrews because holy shit, every year needs something beautiful to start with.