Erotica Threat Level: December Sunburn Pink

I wanted to make sure that during a zombie apocalypse that people listen to my girlfriend. She is very smart and always advocates shooting people once they get bitten. She also looks really good in a tight t-shirt.

I saw The Spirit yesterday and I highly recommend it. Insane is the best way to describe it. At first i was worried that Frank Miller was just making Sin city 2 but as I recognized more and more scenes, I began to understand that Miller has been inspired by Eisner for a very long time. I almost look at Sin City as a Spirit tribute now.

Besides, Eva Mendes and Scarlett Johansson are screen melting hot in this movie. Dayum. There was a lot of 40's noir visual porn on that screen.

I leave for Puerto Rico this morning. I will be there till the end of the year. It will be awesome and I am dying to take a ton of pictures. I am also thrilled to get away from a keyboard for a solid week. Wehoo!

When I return, I plan to start posting the bdsm werewolf story and start working on a new long story. I'm flipping between a Sword and Magic fantasy porn epic or the sequel to the bdsm story. I could go either way but a long vacation has an amazing power to focus what you really want to do when you come back from paradise.

Fiction: Fucking Elves

I don’t have a beef with Santa Claus. The old man is okay. I got that Star Wars Snowspeeder I wanted more than anything when I was a kid and let me tell you, I still have that beaten up piece of plastic. Santa is all right in my book.

It’s those sexy elves of his that are driving me crazy.

There are two of them. One of them is called Cheer while the other one is called Joy. I can’t tell them apart. They both have huge tits and they both have red and white striped stocking caps over their long brown hair. They also only come for me at night, on Christmas Eve. It’s hard to get a good look at an Elf when she’s stuffing her tits in your face and grabbing your cock, you know?

The first time they came for me, I just thought it was another wet dream. Shit, I was 16 and I was having wet dreams like every night. Usually I dreamed about Monica Staylor in Geometry class or sometimes on a real lucky night I dreamed of Lita Ford. Two hot chicks at the same time was a whole other level of horny.

Sure, they were dressed a little odd for my usual wet dream. They had on these white fur bikinis that smelled like peppermint candy. Their legs were wrapped in thigh high stockings that slid over my skin like silk. They had no underwear at all; just tiny mistletoes tattooed above their bare pussies.

What tipped me off of course was how real it was. You just can’t imagine a blowjob till it happens. I never dreamed that a tit would be so damn soft on my face. In my wildest dreams, I never guessed how it would feel to have a woman ride my cock while her friend sat on my face.

Their pussies tasted like hot chocolate.

I must have fallen asleep while they fucked me. Hell, getting your brains fucked out can wear you out. I awoke on Christmas day thinking it was the greatest dream ever but I was wrong of course. I was so damn wrong.

They came back every year. Every damn year. Fucking elves.

One year I was twenty and I was staying at my grandparent’s house for my Christmas break. I was sleeping on the couch because the entire family was camped at their house. I had three cousins snoring on the floor beside me while I was trying to sleep.

The elves appeared and I begged them to go away. I didn’t want Aunt Alice’s eight year old son to wake up and see me getting a blowjob. The elves ignored me. They smiled at me with their licorice red lips and yanked my underwear down. Right there on my grandmother’s couch, one Elf sucked my cock while the other elf sucked my balls.

I tried to climax as fast as possible. I hoped if I came they would be satisfied and go away. When I shot my load into Joy’s (or maybe it was Cheer’s) mouth, that seemed to only encourage them. They sucked my cock till I got hard again and then they mounted me. They rode my cock till I made both of them come.

At one point, cousin Freddy got up and I thought I was going to have a heart attack right there. One of the elves was on my cock and she just kept humping. Freddy didn’t seem to notice her. He got up and stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom.

While he was there, I begged her to get off my cock. I begged them to hide somewhere. My begging only made them laugh. The elf that wasn’t riding my cock bit my nipples till my begging was replaced by moans.

Freddy came back to the living room and got back into his sleeping bag. How could he not see the elves? Shit, the Christmas lights were illuminating Cheer’s (or maybe Joy’s ) nude body as she humped me. Her bouncing breasts would flash green then red then green again.

Fucking elves.

Another time, they appeared the Christmas that I moved in with Deena. I had been worried about them all night so I slipped out of my bed as soon as I was sure Deena was asleep. I didn’t want them to attack me with my girlfriend right there, you know?

They found me in the living room. They jumped me from behind and tied my hands with silver garland. When I tried to argue they would stuff their breasts into my face. One of them bent over while the other pushed me into her. I fucked them both doggy style that year. The sound of my hips smashing into their firm asses echoed all through the house and I was terrified Deena would wake up.

They finished with me shortly before dawn. I crawled back into bed and tried to get as much sleep as I could before Deena woke me up. The living room smelled like sex and cookies but she didn’t seem to notice.

No one ever notices. One year the elves bit my neck and my mom said it was a bug bite. Another time I got a bruise on my chest where one of the elves wrapped her thighs around me and Deena said I got it from sleeping wrong. Every year Cheer and Joy fuck me, bite me, kiss me, smother me, ride me and use me and no one ever knows.

Fucking elves.

Last year Deena came close. We had just moved into our house and we were both pretty excited. Deena was really drunk on eggnog and high on life. I tucked her into bed and she feel asleep in seconds.

As soon as she started to snore, the elves appeared. I was a little drunk myself so I didn’t even fight them. I didn’t say a word as they pulled off my pants and sucked my cock like a candy cane.

I had my eyes closed so I didn’t know Deena was awake until a third mouth kissed my cock. I sat up and saw Deena’s short blonde hair in between the red stocking capped elves. Her mouth was licking and nibbling just as fiercely as the elves were.

I didn’t know what to do, so I did what I always did. I did nothing. The elves were more than happy to share. One would lick on the tip of my cock, while another would suck on a ball while the third would wrap their lips around the width of my cock. Back and forth and trading places they covered my cock in tongues, lips and spit. I think one of them might have even made out with Deena while the other deep throated me. I didn’t say a word.

Eventually I came on all of their faces. That was when I knew Deena was really drunk. I mean, she had to be drunk to be laughing as I soaked her face. The elves giggled and it sounded like bells jingling.

Deena rolled away after and fell back asleep. The elves had their way with me like they always do. They must have cleaned her face at some point because she woke up the next morning there were no traces of what had happened. I asked Deena if she had any weird dreams and she blushed and said no.

This year, it is going to be different. I told Deena about the elves. She didn’t say anything but tonight, she’s staying up with me. We have a pot of coffee ready and we’ve been munching chocolate cookies. I’m not sure if she believes me but at least she’s going to be awake when they come. She’ll see them with her own eyes and then I know I haven’t been making them up all these years.

I just don’t know why she had to bring down her vibrator collection to the Christmas tree.

Fucking elves.

Dr Otto Von Madd Says

"Gentlemen, give your special lady the gift that will last a lifetime this Christmas. Buy her the new Von Madd Everlasting-ClitRocket Vibrator today. The plutonium battery and state of the art vibration engine will ensures that this gift will last long enough to pass down to your grandchildren."

Two Silver Trees by Calexico

It's the holiday season so I give you the gift of a beautiful song.

Apocafuck Hessle Index

Apocafuck (uh-pok-uh-fuk)- A universal disaster brought about by or resulting in an orgy of sensual fornication.

Apocafuck experts in the summer of 1967 were terrified by the events of the time. Over a hundred thousand people converged in San Francisco to try a new way of life. Rejecting the commercial patriarchal trappings inherent in American society, these drug taking, rock and roll listening peace freaks knew there had to be a better way to do things. As spontaneous gatherings occurred in other major cities around the world, Apocafuck Scholars collectively shitted bricks.

Professor William Hessle was one of these shitters. He had a background in European History and also happened to be in a rather sexless marriage. He was personally threatened by the wave of hippes as the sight of long haired men did strange things to his almost extinct libido. He realized that the Apocafuck might be happening right now and if that was the case, he didn't want to miss on some man on man loving before the world ended.

To determine whether the Apocafuck was really happening or not, Professor Hessle decided to come up with a formula. He lacked an understanding in mathematics but he was fortunate to find another closeted homosexual professor who shared his interests. Combining Hessle's historical knowledge of the Apocafuck with a statistical index, the two created a fairly useful formula much in use to this day. The Hessle Index is the recognized standard among Apocafuck Scholars although it is sometimes mistakenly called the Hussy Index.

The name of this professor is lost to history but we know from Professor Hessle's notes that he was a devout Baptist, was fond of pipe smoking and had shoulders like a Greek God.

One of the impressive things about the Hessle Index is how encompassing it is for a formula written in 1967. For example, the Hessle Index shifts into a higher scale for when abortion is legal in the United Stats. Another example is the 80 point bump for when quote "Teenage singers are flashing their naughty bits on a weekly basis". Apocafuck Scholars had a second round of the shits when item 782 (A big black tit decorated with cool jewelry is show on national television) came to past.

Of course not all the events in the Hessle Index have come to pass yet. As of yet, 'Group marriage shall be legal if all participants are hot chicks' has not happened. Neither has item 322, 'A man can legally jack his cock on the bus if he has nothing better to do'. Some Apocafuck Scholars feel it is just a matter of time.

As for how the index works, it is quite convoluted. The math involved deals mostly in imaginary numbers and quantum functions. In fact, the number of people known to actually be able to accurately calculate the Hessle Index is currently seven. Fortunately the writers of this blog are in constant contact with one of these seven mathmeticians and will update the Hessle Index for the good of the public.

Right now, the Hessle Index is at 5623, which is enough to make some Apocafuck Scholars stock up on Pepto Bismol. If the Hessle Index ever reached 6969, then the Apocafuck will be happening right now. A difference of 1346 might seem like a safe distance, but in the convoluted math of the Hessle Index, we are one incident of 'a totally awesome orgy on the White House lawn' away from utter destruction and sex.

Stay tuned to this blog for the latest updates of the Apocafuck Hessle Index.

Fiction: The Island Princess and the Parrot Prince

Once upon a time, there lived a magnificent Island Princess. She was the most gorgeous Princess in the entire world. Her hair was as black as a winter night while her eyes were as bright as a spring day. The fullness of her breasts were greater than a summer sun while her waist moved with the grace of a falling Autumn leaf. She was the greatest natural wonder of the Island, if not the world.

Now the Island Princess was always looking for new treasures. Her father, the Island King would buy her almost anything because he loved his daughter so much. Merchants knew this and would sail in on their boats loaded with jewelry, art, clothes and chocolate cookies. The Island Princess would inspect these wonders and buy only those prizes that were as beautiful and unique as she was.

One day, she saw a wonderful parrot locked in a cage of gold. The parrot was very large for his size and his feathers were as brilliant as the rainbow. The Island Princess most admired his blue eyes. They kept staring at the dark globes of her breasts no matter where she moved. If there is one thing the Island Princess loved more than anything else was another admirer.

She bought the parrot for the sum of a hundred white pearls. Her servants carried his great cage back to her room. As soon as she closed the door, the parrot shook his golden cage.

“Island Princess, I have waited years for this moment!” the parrot said.

The Island Princess was flattered. “You are quite clever for a bird!”

“I am not just a parrot,” he said. “I am in fact a Prince from a faraway island! Once, years ago, an evil witch cursed me into being a parrot. She said that I would never be a man again until I was kissed by the most beautiful Princess in the entire Ocean! I flew around for years before a man captured me and locked me in this cage. Please kiss me, Island Princess, and I will transform back into a handsome prince!”

The Island Princess considered this. He was a very striking parrot. People of Royalty often have trouble with jealous witches so his story was very plausible. On the other hand, a person of her stature can’t be going around kissing just anybody, even if they were a Parrot Prince.

“You said you were handsome?” she asked.

“Very handsome!” the Parrot Prince said. “When I was a Prince, I would bed a different woman every night and sometimes a different woman in the morning.”

“That’s very impressive!” the Island Princess said. “But a Prince could have any woman he wanted. Did your women enjoy the experience?”

The Parrot Prince puffed his chest. “Every woman I took to bed screamed with pleasure and fainted with delight!”

“Oh my!” the Island Princess said. She took off her cloth girdle. “Tell me, if you were a man again, what would you do with my breasts?”

The Parrot Prince bobbed his head as he tried to look at both breasts at once. “I would squeeze them with my powerful hands before I took a tender bite with my teeth. I would lick each nipple before covering your breasts in kisses.”

“That sounds very nice,” the Island Princess said. She slipped off her grass skirt and turned her bare bottom to the Parrot Prince. “And would you show my ass the same respect?”

The Parrot Prince rattled the cage. “I would grab your perfect ass with my hands as I held you to me! Light taps I would give you, never in anger but with love. I would warm your bottom every morning until you begged me to stop.”

“That sounds even nicer!” the Island Princess said. She turned around and her hand moved between her thighs. Standing naked before the Parrot Prince, she touched her royal garden.

“And what would you do to me here?” she asked.

The Parrot Prince tried to stick his head through the cage bars. “First I would slake my thirst, for it has been years since I tasted a woman there. I would lick, drink and have my fill of your most sacred place. I would find the special part of a woman that few men know and I would lick that part till you scream.”

The Island Princess’s fingers stroked the part he spoke of. She was very impressed. She thought only the wise servants who washed her knew about that part. Her breathing became faster as she imagined what he would do there.

“And then?” she asked.

The parrot Prince stared at her fingers. “When you are as wet as the ocean, I would take my royal manhood and enter you. I would open you and fill you with all of my might. I would make up for years of being a parrot by making love to you for seven days and seven nights!”

“Would you make love to me on my bed?” the Island Princess asked.

“Yes!” the Parrot Prince cawed.

“Would you make love to me on the floor like an animal?” the Island Princess asked.

“Yes!” the Parrot Prince cawed.

“Against the wall?” the Island Princess asked.

“Yes! Yes!” the Parrot Prince said. “On the beach, on a table, on a boat and all over the damn Island! My royal manhood would take you over and over until your throat was hoarse from screaming!”

The Island Princess screamed right there. Listening to him and imagining his need pushed her over the edge. The Island Princess massaged her climax out of her damp garden. Knowing the Parrot Prince was watching her just made her orgasm all the more powerful.

The Parrot Prince had no release of his own. Excited, he kept talking.

“And once I am a man again, I will make you my favorite slave! You will wait on me hand and foot as I take charge of your boring kingdom and make an Empire of the Ocean! My army will sail forth and bring the treasures of the world to us and you will be dressed in the finest gold chains! So kiss me, Island Princess! Kiss me now and begin your lifetime of servitude to a real man!”

“Excuse me?” the Island Princess said.

The Parrot Prince did not notice the change in the Island Princess’s tone. “Do not fear! You shall be my favorite concubine when I conquer the Ocean! I will have a hundred lovers but you will be the one I love first every night.

“Hmm,” the Island Princess said.

“Now kiss me!” the Parrot Prince said.

“Maybe later,” the Island Princess said. “Maybe much, much later. For now though, tell me again how much you want to taste me.”

And so the Island Princess teased and kept the Parrot Prince talking. His passionate words were the only affection she would accept from him. She never kissed him and he kept telling her about the wonderful things he would do if he was ever a man. For you see, the Island Princess was as wise as she was beautiful and she knew one simple truth: a sweat-talking bird in a cage is worth more than an asshole Prince in the bush.

Betty Page RIP

Bettie Page passed away last Thursday at the age of 85. A lot of eloquent things have been said about her but what interests me is how much information I have read about her has been wrong. I have read articles that have implied Betty was personally discovered by Hugh Hefner himself while other accounts focus on her turn to religion as if it was some sort of huge contradiction to the person she was.

I guess it is to be expected. She existed to millions of people as an image. Like any great piece of art, people brought their own interpretations to Bettie's beauty. In the BDSM community she is often embraced as a symbol of the playfulness of BDSM. To others she is a queen of glamor. Artists have copied her likeness to their own works and perpetuate her legend independent of what Bettie made. In far too many cases other people made far more money from Bettie than Bettie did. I guess that is what happens when you tap into something so many people recognize. You become public property like any good myth.

Bettie Page in my mind is a modern goddess. I have full faith that ages from now, archeologists will be trying to figure out who this sexy dark banged girl was. Their theories will be outlandish, fantastic, mythic and ultimately correct. Her sexuality is universal.

Instead of talking about Bettie's life, I thought I would mention a few things I know about Bettie Page that seem to be omitted from the obituaries I have read. There are so many fascinating parts to her life that the truth is far more interesting than what I have been reading.

1. She made a lot of her own costumes. What we often equate as Betty Page-like fashions were things Bettie made herself. Weird bikinis and odd colors were hand sewn by her. It's one thing to be beautiful but I have always admired the creative sort more.

2. She wasn't crazy about the movie of her life, 'The Notorious Bettie Page'. She felt it was outright wrong in quite a few places and openly heckled parts of it at a screening.

3. Bettie Page had a revival in the 80's as many artists appropriated her likeness, but it was Dave Stevens who made a point of searching for her to see if she was alive and could receive royalties. He helped her cash in on her own fame, which helped live a comfortable life in retirement. That is a lesson for all of us. It is one thing to be a fan, but it is another thing to take care of the thing you love.

4. Bettie went through a lot of shit from her family and her boyfriends all her life, yet somehow managed to be a sweetheart to everyone who met her. That takes an amazing heart.

5. My favorite Bettie quote was about her status as a role-model. "I wasn't trying to be anything," she insists. "I was just trying to be myself." That's why I think we love her so much.

Writing and Scripting

My friends have a nasty accusation about me that is totally true. They say that I always take the hard road. If we are playing a game and the choice of characters is between a handsome powerful archeologist or a man in a wheelchair who has asthma, I will always pick the gasping paralyzed man. When I play Team Fortress I pick the slow ass Soldier because no one else will. As soon as I realize there is a logical safe choice, I opt for the harder to play choice. It's like success in itself bores me.

On DeviantArt, one of the artists there is about to start a web comic about sexy pirates. He's having a contest where people send in scripts. Part of me suspects that he is at a loss himself on what to write with his characters. I mean, can you imagine me soliciting short stories about my BDSM werewolf before you guys have even read one of the stories about him?

Plus, writing a comic strip is a big learning curve. You're not just writing dialogue, you're scripting static visuals. You're counting on an artist to convey what you can more easily do with a paragraph. It also has to be flirtatious with implied sexiness without nudity. Shit. It would be so much easier just to write a story about my own damn characters and do as much sex as I like. The whole contest is one gigantic pain in the ass.

Which is maybe why I am doing it. It is a form of writing I haven't tried before. I can poke at it and curse and sweat and get frustrated and then produce something. It might stumble along like a one legged turtle who's near sighted but that extra difficulty just makes it interesting.

Messing Things Up

I'm updating my template this weekend and in hindsight, maybe working on it at midnight was a bad idea. For example, I seem to have lost all of my link on the side but I did get labels working for once. Hopefully this will all be presentable by Monday.

Scarlett Drake's Gift Guide

Listen up landlubbers! This is Scarlett Drake with some crucial holiday gift advice!

NO FUCKING GIFT CARDS! If it is for a coworker, sure, but if it is for someone you plan to ever have sex with, do not buy them a damn gift card! Buy them something personal, jackass. You know what never happens? A woman never says "Oh, one year Bob got me a gift card for Borders and that was the greatest Christmas ever!"

If you buy your loved one a gift card, do not be surprised when you wake up being ass-raped in the middle of the night. That's all I am saying.

Also, when buying for the special cabin girl or boy in your life, buy them something as if you were still dating and haven't been at sea for 18 years already. That means no vacuum cleaners, no blenders and for the love of Neptune, no DVD's of movies you want to watch. Cocksucker, buy some romantic shit!

You know what else you need to do or you will be walking the plank? Wrap the god damn thing! If you have to pay other people to do it, fine, but get that fucking thing gift wrapped. If you give them something still in the store bag, you deserve to have your ear cut off.

Finally, rum, jewelry and threesomes are always the perfect gifts. You can't go wrong there. Yo ho ho and have a merry Christmas.

Scarlett Drake drawn by the ever cool Shyft9

Fiction: Personal Cheerleader

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Erocana

Wand of pleasure rests
between cups of flesh delight
spilling forth white coins
into the sword of her tongue

Update

My brother woke up last week. His eyes can't focus so he can't see and he has slurred speech. What is really interesting is when he realizes a family member is in the room, he launches into imaginative obscenity laced rants against the present family member. They have him restrained because he is having episodes where he tries to hit people. He reminds me of one of the infected in '28 Days Later'. The doctors say the rage is a side effect of the drug he over dosed on and he should calm down sometime next week. I wonder. I mean, if I tried to commit suicide and survived I would be pissed as shit.

Sometimes he denies he overdosed and sometimes he describes his preparations in detail. The doctors say he is out of his mind and the medication has to cycle out of his system. They don't know if the blindness will be permanent. It has become a family waiting game where they take turns listening to his abuse and hoping for some sign of improvement. I swear it reminds me of some twisted Telenovela except for the lack of busty nurses.

My own rage broke on Friday. I realized that what I resented most of all was the attention he was getting. The fucker was the favorite child when I was a child, and even as an adult his half ass suicide attempt summons the family from the four corners of the country. I know it's petty but I hate him for that, and once I realized how jealous I was, it all went away. I've been lucky that way I guess. Once I know the source of an emotion it rarely holds power over me. It seems silly to be angry, jealous or really anything about him. I have my own life and I want to get back to it.

Of course, who knows how I would feel if he had died, but since he didn't and now social Services will be taking over his case, I feel like it's safe for me to move on. Hell, I feel like it is important for me to move on. The past week has been one long flashback to my childhood and I am done. I want to write and tell stories. I want to be silly. I want to value my own life.

Hiatus

So here's the thing. My brother tried to call me yesterday. I didn't anwser because 1) He's my brother and the last time I talked to him he was upset about his girlfriend of 6 months breaking up with him and he was comparing it to my ten year marriage. Get that? and 2) I was doing really well at Team Fortress 2 and I wanted to savor the moment. I mean shit, I was dominating 2Forts with a Soldier. You know how hard that is?

So my brother, upset that no one answered when he called me, my mom and my sister, decided to commit suicide. He overdosed on his seizure medicine, got cold feet and told his ex-girlfriend the dosage. He passed out and was taken to the hospital where they pumped his stomach.

Here's where it gets iffy. My sister told me what his condition was but when I called the hospital they told me he was doing a lot better than my sister thought he was. He's either brain dead or sleeping it off depending on the person I talk to. It's very frustrating but I guess I should take the nurse's view that he will pull through.

What surprises me is how angry I am about the whole thing. My family life growing up was Hell, and part of the reason it was Hell was that my brother was the favorite son of the evil stepfather so he was a child accomplice to my step-father's abuse. Like, I know he was only a child and can't be held responsible for the shit things he did at 8 but damn it, me and my sister had the awful childhood and you don't see us killing ourselves.

I feel like the worse brother in the world because I am just pissed. I've seen what suicides do to families. It's like an act of violence on a families' sanity. My mom is already crying a river because she didn't pick up the phone and I'm thinking,"that's the point!" We're supposed to feel bad because we didn't anwser one damn call.

Anyway, I'm venting because I'm taking the week off from blogging. I just can't think straight right now so I will limit the things I think about. I am mostly just screaming obscenities right now anyway so you're not missing anything. I suspect the asshole will pull through and be under social services' care where hopefully he'll get the help he needs. If not, I'll be going to North Carolina to bury my brother and try to keep my sister and mom together.

Nostadamus and the Apocafuck

Apocafuck (uh-pok-uh-fuk)- A universal disaster brought about by or resulting in an orgy of sensual fornication.

The Apocafuck was hinted at in certain Chinese scrolls and on some Egyptian pots, but one of the most famous predictors of the Apocafuck was of course Nostradamus. Nostradamus wrote about the Apocafuck in his book, Les Propheties, but due to the orgiastic nature of his prediction, the quatrain referring to the Apocafuck was censored from published editions. It wasn't released until after his death in 1567. At this point publishers were eager to profit from any scrap of his writings. His prediction about the Apocafuck was finally printed in the omnibus edition of Les Propheties in 1568 but later copies frequently have this part censored.

The original Quatrain was written in French with Greek verbs and Latin punctuation. The most commonly agreed upon translation reads as follows:

"When men and women lay with each other and with themselves
The world trembles with the moans of pleasure
Every sin of the flesh will be committed and celebrated
The last climax of the Apocafuck will be the end of us all."

Some Nostradamus scholars have argued that this quatrain was not meant to be a prophecy but was in fact his own version of a dirty limerick. They point to the lack of esoteric symbolism and clarity of his message as proof that this was not a serious prophecy. Some scholars have made the convincing argument that because you can understand what is happening easily, it can't possibly be a true prophecy.

What is ambiguous is that it is difficult to tell if Nostradamus is predicting that a great orgy will be the cause of a disaster, or only a symptom of a great disaster. Few of his other quatrains about the end of the world refer to sex although there is one that is either about byzantine political plots of the 1600's or predicting hentai.

"Coils of snakes wrap around mothers of purity
The West falls and rises on tentacles of lies
hundreds of snakes lie in the church
assaulting our youth as they cry for more"

This has not stopped moralists from trying to use Nostradamus' Apocafuck quatrain for their own purposes. In 1721, Puritan philosopher William Couge warned that Nostradamus was describing the end of the world if divorce was legalized. In 1853, John Puskin argued that the Apocafuck would happen if women were allowed to have orgasms. In 1964, Edgar Hoover wrote in a memo to the President that the Apocafuck would happen if African Americans had sex with white people. As recently as 2007, Reverend Billy Jobson declared that the television show, 'Desperate Housewives' proved that the Apocafuck would happen within as few as five years.

It is the opinion of the writer of this blog that Nostradamus saw the future and was not in fact warning us of it, as much as he was letting us know it was destined to happen. Be telling us about it, he was hyping up our anticipation of such a world changing event. In our opinion, Nostradamus was engaging in some Apocafuck foreplay.

Erotica Threat Level: Lazy Gravy Brown

I meant to have a story posted today but man, holiday weeks are always weird. Compounding the usual work rush, my girlfriend's mother is coming to visit. The last time we visited her mom, the two of them had an hour long fight about how to park a car. The mom seems to be locked into a mindset that her daughter is 16 and the daughter takes every little comment as personal condemnation of her entire life. The idea of spending two days in that kind of mental environment depresses me greatly.

I can't blame the visit on my lack of writing. I've been plugging away on my werewolf story for so long I am starting to daydream about the magical time before I started the story. That is pretty normal for a long story and since I have one freaking chapter left, I almost expected that feeling. I did take a short break and wrote the story I did earlier this week and that was a lot of fun. Long stories can be very rewarding but sometimes it feels great to execute an idea from start to finish within twenty-four hours. I just have to make sure I don't end up writing a dozen short stories before finishing the wolf story.

I doubt I will post anything between now and next week. If don't post anything, let me say now that I am thankful for all of my readers and all of my commentators. I hope you enjoy your family and your time off.

Fiction: Quest for Manhood

It was the day of the Quest. In the modest village of Fangcrack, the youth of the village gathered before the Great Seer. Nash was eighteen years old and eager to prove himself. He hoped to earn himself a second name half as good as his father, Kor TigerSlayer. With a good name, he could ask for the hand of the innkeeper’s daughter, Fara. With a poor name, he may have to marry his aunt, Maggie Nutcracker, who although she owned a large farm, had also out lived five of her husbands.

Nash thought about Aunt Maggie’s mighty thighs and shuddered.

To read more, click Whole Post


The Great Seer was so old that her second name was long forgotten. The old crone stumbled to the circle that had been drawn in the dirt. She shook the Quest Cup, rattling the sacred dice that allowed the Gods to speak such small mortals. The old woman took a long time to shake that the Quest Cup. She said it was to allow the Gods time to decide but Nash suspected the Great Seer wanted to enjoy every moment of a day where she holds everyone’s attention.

First was Warl, a slow lad of thick frame and a thicker mind. The Great Seer shook the Quest Cup and spilled the dice onto the ground. She studied the numbers and then looked Warl in the eye.

“You must bring back ten wolf pelts!” the Great Seer announced. The village cheered. It was a good quest. If he succeeded, he would be known as Warl WolfKiller. If he failed, well, he would be known as Warl Wolfmeat. That’s if he lived of course.

Next was Hana, a tall girl who some say was a little too smart for her own good. The Great Seer shook the Quest Cup and spilled the dice onto the ground. The ancient woman studied the numbers and consulted a chart that was inscribed on her walking stick.

“You must learn the names of all the gears for the mill house,” the Great Seer announced. The village applauded. That was a good quest. If she succeeded, she would be known as Hana GearMistress, and be able to make a living fixing things. If she failed, she would be known as Hana NotSoSmart and maybe become a waitress at the inn.

It was Nash’s turn. His heart pounded with fear. He took a deep breath and calmed his mind. Did he not practice his warhammer every day? Didn’t he run every day down to the river and back so that he could be swift? Did he not eat wisely, avoid liquor and do a thousand push ups every morning? He wanted to be a great hero and so he pushed his body at every moment for just this day. The Gods had to have a purpose for him.

The Great Seer shook the Quest Cup a good long time. She looked at Nash while she shook the dice. Her piercing eyes took in his long black hair, his mighty shoulders and the many many many muscles that covered his body. She spilled the dice onto the ground and it seemed to Nash that she barely looked at the numbers there.

“You must undergo a secret quest!” the Great Seer announced. Murmurs went through the village. A secret quest! Only the greatest of names could be earned with a secret quest! More importantly, only Heroes went on secret quests!

Nash was afraid. Would he have to slay a dragon? Would he have to capture lightning? What great deed did the Gods need him to do?

He bent down and let the Great Seer whisper in his ear. As he heard his quest, he frowned, he grimaced and then he grinned.

Later that night, Nash went to the castle of Lord BlackTower. He left behind his weapons and armor. He dressed only in black and even smeared the black mud of the river on his face and hands.

His mighty arms and legs easily scaled the walls of the castle. Powerful fingers that held onto swinging warhammers clung tightly to cracks in the wall. Incredible thighs propelled him upwards while the moat lurked below. Arms that could crush skulls held on to the wall no matter how hard the wind blew.

Inside the castle, his sleek body crept like a panther. Without a single sound he made his way deep into the fortress. When a guard did come across him, his fists crashed into them like a mighty boulder against their jaws.

Finally, he reached his goal. He made his way to the bedchamber of Lady Talleya, the young newlywed bride of Lord BlackTower. Eighteen bars secured her door but it only took Nash three kicks to break his way in.

Lady Talleya did not cry out when this dark stranger entered her bedchambers. So far her marriage had been something of a mystery. Lord BlackTower had lain with her only once before spending the rest of the night with his knights. After that one disappointing night, Lady Talleya waited every night for her husband to come to bed but he seemed to enjoy the company of his knights and their lances more.

“Who are you?” Lady Talleya asked.

Nash was not the wisest of his friends but he was wise enough. “Do you care?” he asked.

Lady Talleya thought about it. She cast the bed sheets from her body and revealed her young body. There were no night clothes on her curvy form. There was no cap for her long golden hair. There was no belt of chastity protecting the secret bush of her sex. When the neglected bride looked at Nash’s body, there was no doubt as to what she wanted.

Nash came to her bed. It was his first woman. It was his first quest. He did what he thought heroes would do. He took his mighty weapon in hand and put it to use. Over and over he swung the weapon that the Gods had given him.

Over and over, Lady Talleya asked him to swing again.

When he could swing no more and when Lady Talleya was so exhausted that she would not walk straight for a week, Nash finally pulled out. The Lord would have a son and the future of the Kingdom was secured for another generation. There was also a healthy dose of hybrid vigor added to the royalty gene pool but only Darrel HorseFucker would understand would that meant.

“A thousand blessing upon you,” Lady Talleya said. You may have all the gold you wish my handsome hero!”

“No milady,” Nash said. He placed one hand on her kiss covered breast. “I was told by the great Seer that you would give me my name. That is all I ask.

Lady Talleya reached between his legs. She felt his mighty weapon return. She giggled as she thought about how much longer her Lord would be with his knights.

“You are now Nash NightHammer,” she said. “Now return to your quest, brave hero!”

Nash NightHammer did as the Lady told him. As he re-entered her royal garden, he realized that with a great name, came many greater ladies to quest for.

The end.

Commission: Claire Currie by Alex Dai

I'm not sure why Claire isn't wearing a skirt, but she swears having her ass available like that helps her read better. I think Mr. Dillon approves.

Art done by the fantastic Alex Dai.

Fiction: Employee of the Month

Dr. Paula Penberg was in a hurry to get to her laboratory this morning. Last night she had made a breakthrough self-mending fishnet stockings. The first trials had shown promise and she had forwarded the results up the Von Madd Laboratories chain of research. If the tests today proved conclusive, Paula might revolutionize fetish clothing for the next century.

As she entered the Innovative Fashions Department, she took a moment to admire the sign hanging above the entrance. The Von Madd Laboratories Employees of the Month board was a constant source of amusement to her. There were no names on the board. All that was ever displayed were erect cocks and very moist looking vaginas. The cocks and the vaginas changed every month, although Paula’s expert eye recognized that some genitals made return appearances.

Paula thought it was a brilliant mockery of the competitive nature of other laboratories. At her past jobs, scientists were terribly competitive and constantly back stabbing each other for more recognition. Paula felt that the science was the important part, not the glory. She always took the Employees of the Month sign as proof of Von Mad Laboratories dedication to the art of Erotic Science.

She walked into her laboratory and discovered her boss, Dr. Otto Von Madd himself waiting for her. He was holding a gold plaque in one hand and a strange phallic device in the other.

“Sir?” she asked in surprise.

“Congratulations Dr. Penberg!” he said. “You’ve earned your place as an Employee of the Month!”

To read more, click Whole Post


“The self-mending fishnets work?” she asked. Her first priority was always her work.

“They work extremely well!” Dr. Von Madd said. “In fact, in one test they self mended to the point of encasing the wearer in a web. Applied Bondage Restraints is going to do a side study.”

“That is great news!” Paula said. She paused as he handed her the plaque.

“For Exemplary Work in the Fields of Fetish Clothing Innovation, Dr. Paula Penberg is awarded the Employee of the Month for November 2008!”

“There really is an Employee of the Month?” she asked.

Dr. Von Madd held up the purple phallus. “Oh yes, now please remove your pants and underwear. We’ll need to take your picture.”

She smiled. “That is a very amusing joke, Doctor.”

Dr. Von Madd wasn’t smiling. “There is no joke, Dr. Penberg. This is for science. Now please strip.”

Paula did as he asked. After all, didn’t Dr. Von Madd possess over 6000 patents? He was a world renowned genius. Science was what he did.

Slipping out of her pants was easy enough but Paula hesitated when it came time to take off her sheer blue panties. It was an odd thing to strip for your boss, even if it is an erotic scientist. She knew sexual harassment was a condition of her work contract but distantly she always suspected that was a joke too.

Paula was starting to realize that there were fewer jokes here than she first thought.

When she was bottomless, Dr. Von Madd pushed her gently to her chair. He knelt down between her legs and parted her thighs. His strange purple goggles hid his eyes, so she wasn’t sure if he studying her shaved sex or admiring it.

He placed the purple dildo at her sex. It was surprisingly warm. Up and down he slid the dildo; gently opening up her vagina. A slight vibration emanated from the dildo. It was so faint Paula almost missed it. Once it began to slide into her, the vibrations increased till they were impossible to ignore.

“Oh,” Paula groaned. “Is this part of the prize.”

Dr. Von Madd didn’t look up from her sex. “Prize? Of course not. This is to increase arousal so that we get an accurate measure of your Depth Sensitivity.”

The dildo pushed further in. Paula groaned as it expanded and lengthen. She gripped the table behind her as the dildo filled her better than any cock had ever done.

“Oh, I see!” she said.

Dr. Von Madd let go of the dildo and placed his hands on her thighs. His fingernails scratched her as he leaned in for a better look. Paula resisted the urge to grab his hair. The increasing vibrations were making it very hard for her to control herself.

Dr. Von Madd began to speak. “Did you know that all the major breakthroughs in time displaced orgasms have been made by men who possessed cocks that leaned to the left?”

“What?” Paula said. The dildo was stretching against her g-spot.

“And did you know that women who have a clitoris smaller than average tend to make the most breakthroughs in humiliation techniques?”

“Ahh, no, I didn’t know that,” Paula said. She didn’t understand how, but the dildo was now twisting inside her. The feeling was better than divine.

“It is quite fascinating,” Dr. Von Madd said. “Genital isometrics shouldn’t have any impact on cerebral achievements but my data says otherwise. It could all be garbage but you never know. I’ll keep collecting data from my best and brightest till I prove it one way or another.”

The dildo was pulsing now. It moved back and forth, shifting its weight like an experienced lover. Paula could feel her toes curling but she possessed enough awareness to think about Dr. Von Madd’s methods.

“Do you measure all of your Employees of the Month?” she asked.

This time he did look at her. “I must admit that I have a talented male and female staff that usually does this. I mean, I can’t be measuring cunts all day long.”

“Then,” Paula said before a spasm of pleasure made her gasp. “Then why are you here now?”

He looked back down on her sex. “Because your work was brilliant.”

Paula climaxed instantly. As soon as she came, the dildo flew out of her body and into Dr. Von Madd’s waiting hands. His goggles were clicking, no doubt taking pictures for his data. Paula realized it was also for the board outside her department.

Dr. Von Madd stood up. “Congratulations on your achievements,” he said.

Paula was still panting. She was starting to see the benefits of employee recognition after all.

State of the Erotiterrorism

One of the worries I have for my blog is that maybe it will become outdated. Back when evil control freaks ruled the land, the idea that erotica could be equated with moral terrorism seemed almost inevitable. I could easily see Internet sex bloggers being jailed for corrupting the high standards of sexless white people. Now that Obama rode in on a Unicorn and saved the free world before he even took office, I worried that maybe my blog title will become a relic.

Luckily Newsweek came to my rescue. They have a nice long essay on why some people think Obama is the Anti-Christ. I'm not making that up. A major news magazine gave a platform to crazy white people so they can explain why the end times are coming. Apparently the United States condoning torture, wiretapping U.S. citizens and killing millions of Arabs to get some oil wasn't the sign of the Beast I thought it was. Apparently to have a real Anti-Christ you need to be brown and promise a middle class tax cut.

My favorite bit-

Strandberg says Obama probably isn't the Antichrist, but he's watching the president-elect carefully. On his Web site, he has something called the Rapture Index, a calculation based on signs and prophecy of the proximity of the end. According to Strandberg, any number over 160 means "fasten your seat belts." Obama's win pushed the index to 161.

Did you get that? According to some guy's made up chart system, Obama is pushing the Rapture Index to 161. It's like a Jenga mountain made of lies, false assumptions and fake math. It is the Eight Wonder of the Stupid World.

With that in mind, I think it's safe to say that fear, paranoia and most of all, hatred of anything different is going to be at an all time high. Wohoo. Erotiterrorism is going to be topical for at least another 8 years.

Prey Drive

I like it when she runs.

It starts with teasing. She finds a button and she pushes, pushes and pushes. Her head weaves as the full bloom of her ego comes to the forefront. She challenges me, she provokes me and then she goes one step too far.

And I growl. If I was a dog my ears would flatten. I stand up and she knows that I am pissed. Not angry mad pissed, just not-going-to-take-it-anymore-from-her pissed.

She laughs and then she runs.

I chase. I have to. When she runs, she is never more attractive.

I'm taller so I'm faster than her.

I'm stronger so she can't keep the doors closed.

I'm enraged, so she can't wrestle me off of her.

I take my revenge. Her nipples are mine to bite. Her mouth is mine to use. Her ass is mine any way I want it.

I make her cunt pay for her crimes.

Hideous Thing Inside

Pity the lonely porn writer. To create a story about Werewolf Rude Sex porn story told in first person, the porn writer has to segregate his mind and fucking write. He can't be cracking jokes, thinking about Von Mad Laboratories and making witty observations about sex and life. The fucker needs to write and more importantly, he has to rip off his clothes and howl at the moon so he can understand just what his poor rutting dom character is going through.

Or maybe he just likes ripping off his clothes for fun. Don't judge.

I'm about 2/3's done with the story. Well, chapter wise I'm 2/3's done but rewriting as we all know is a bitch. I keep adding things which makes me go back and rewrite chapters until the forward progress is painfully slow. Cripes, I was on chapter five before I realized I wanted to incorporate trophies. Nothing says Alpha Male Bastard like keeping trophies of your fucks. It's adolescent but it just rings true.

Being a dom is never easy, but putting down on paper what a certain dom thinks is an exercise in constant non-censorship. I like making a submissive cringe. I like being selfish. I like hurting someone and then laughing when they complain. It's just not an easy thing to type, read and build on.

It is fucking fun to write, and I hope it will be fucking fun to read.

Two Fingered Journey

Her fingers walk down my chest
Stepping on my nipple
climbing and then descending my belly
pushing through the curls of my hair
gentle fingersteps on my cock
destination reached, they begin to dance

Commission: Yes, Claire Can

Claire Currie may be a British citizen but she appreciates greatness when she see it.

Commission done by the ever brilliant Alex Dai.

Fiction: The Quiet Ones

Claire Currie awoke to the sound of snoring. It was a rising crescendo that then dropped like a heavy book off of a table. It was a slightly unsteady rhythm of sound and fury. If it was a steady rhythm, Claire might have been able to get back to sleep but no; the not quite repetition was enough to keep her awake.

Mr. Dillon wasn’t a loud snorer, but the arrangement of this hotel suite placed his bed three feet away from the couch Claire slept on. She always slept on the couch. Even though they always ordered a room with a King size bed, Mr. Dillon insisted that Claire did not sleep with him. It was unprofessional he said.

So Claire spent every night for the past year in her employment to the Collette-Ashbee collection sleeping on things that were not beds. She had slept on couches when she was lucky, and on floors when she was not. One time the only room available had two single beds and Mr. Dillon used that second bed to hold his luggage.

Fortunately for Claire, being a librarian for the world’s rarest collection of erotica kept her so busy that she usually collapsed at night. Mr. Dillon believed that a librarian should be physically fit as well as mentally fit. Her every day routine involved carrying heavy loads of books or standing in very compromising positions while Mr. Dillon berated or molested her. By the time Mr. Dillon retired to bed, Claire was always ready to pass out.

To read more, click Whole Post

She tried to go back to sleep but it wasn’t the snoring that kept her awake. Recently Mr. Dillon had found a book written in 1983 that was becoming an obsession of Claire’s. It was called “The Quiet Ones’ and it might have been the best book Claire had ever read. It told the story of woman who joins a sort of sex cult. The cult lives in a sprawling mansion that resembles a haunted house. No one in the cult spoke, but they fucked endlessly. The woman, who is never named in the book, spends her entire time trying to figure out the mystery of the house while enduring silent sex act after silent sex act.

Sometimes Claire was sure that the main character might have been dead and this was her heaven. Other times Claire was sure the book was a metaphor for society and the plight of the individual. Most of the time though, Claire just thought the silent fuck scenes were hot.

Claire rolled over onto her back. She wore nothing. Mr. Dillon had forbidden her any sort of night clothes. The only thing she was allowed to cover herself with was the spare comforter that Mr. Dillon always requested from room service.
One of the reasons for this rule was because he liked the ritual of her stripping down to nothing before the lights turned out. He would silently admire her heavy brown breasts, round ass and the black bush of her sex. Claire would lotion up her skin before going to sleep and Mr. Dillon always enjoyed watching.

“It’s like watching a book being slipped into its cover,” is how he described it. For Mr. Dillon, that was his version of flattery.

Tonight her lack of clothes was a good thing. Claire was too aroused to sleep. She stroked herself. With one hand she squeezed a hard nipple while the other hand played with her clitoris. Her fingers danced over her sex. She pulled, poked and twisted with the same merciless manner that Mr. Dillon employed. Pinching just made her wet these days and Claire’s pussy could take a lot of pinching.

The sound of Claire’s wet fingering joined the chorus of Mr. Dillon’s snores. Claire’s toes dig into the arm of the couch. She bit down on her lip to keep from crying out. Mr. Dillon allowed her to masturbate, but waking him up was a serious offence.

She had three fingers in her. A scene from the book came to her mind. It was a scene that took place under a staircase. Three men took turns with the woman, each of them fucking her ass. The narrator kept describing the crimson flowers that made up the wallpaper under the staircase in between descriptions of how much the woman’s ass was being pounded. Even as Claire masturbated, she wondered what the significance of those flowers could be.

Claire fucked herself faster. Mr. Dillon said that the author, R.P. Aktins was an unknown pseudonym. The author was never discovered and no other work is attributed to them. The real meaning of his book would always be a mystery. Since it was porn, no serious effort to preserve it or research it would ever happen except for what the Collection would do.

She remembered the look on Mr. Dillon’s face. He was usually so stern and confident but when he said that, his face was so different.

“Ms. Currie, when the world is too dismissive to appreciate genius, we are the last line of appreciation.”

Claire never thought Mr. Dillon was sexier than when he loved porn. She stroked herself faster, imagining Mr. Dillon fucking her ass in a silent staircase. A stuttering gasp escaped her lips as she climaxed.

When her body stopped shaking, Claire opened her eyes. She put her fingers in her mouth. That was the way Mr. Dillon preferred she clean herself. One by one she licked her fingers clean. She was very thorough and made sure to get every drop of her desire.

Claire felt sleep creeping in on her. The afterglow sapped the last of the tension from her body. She pulled the blanket tight around her and surrendered to her exhaustion.

She realized she didn’t hear any snoring.

The blanket was torn from her body. In the darkness Claire could barely see a hulking form loom over her. A hand grabbed her ankle and pulled her leg apart. Weight came down on the couch and Claire felt a naked body between her thighs.

A hot hard cock slipped into her still wet cunt.

This was the other reason Claire slept naked. She wasn’t the only one kept awake at night by the erotica they collected. The difference is Mr. Dillon never needed to masturbate. That was what Claire was for.

Claire groaned as Mr. Dillon fucked her. He was silent except for the occasional grunt. In the middle of the night, Mr. Dillon saw no reason to speak to Claire. His hard cock was all that mattered. Burying it deep inside Claire was the only the intercourse they needed. If he used his mouth, it was only to bite down on one of Claire’s nipples. In the middle of the pitch black night, Mr. Dillon could always find her nipples.

Claire shuddered as his teeth captured her nipple. Her thighs clenched as he rammed into her. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as he took her. She was there for his pleasure. It was her duty.

Mr. Dillon climaxed in silence. His body shook and then it relaxed. For a brief moment, he melted into her. Their bodies were as close as pages.

He got up and returned to bed. Claire heard the condom being thrown into the waste bin. Claire reached around on the floor and recovered her blanket. As she drifted to sleep, it was easy to imagine that the weight of the comforter was Mr. Dillon’s body.

In the quiet hotel room, the librarians slept.

Behold the Power of Tit

Four years after Janet Jackson flashed her breast, we have a black President.

I joke because the outrage over Janet Jackson's wardrobe blessing was considered such a horrible thing. Trying to ban gay marriage was okay, turning a blind eye to Enron was okay and apparently getting a Purple Heart in Vietnam was something only coward glory hound liberals did, but it was simply terrible that a black woman flashed a breast at the Super Bowl. America at times appeared to be filled with crazy people.

And now those crazy people elected a black man with the Star Trek-like name of Barack Obama. Damn. We live in interesting times.

Scarlet Drake Says

"This is Scarlett Drake. I'm a super-villainess who uses a pirate theme to commit my crimes. Did you know that pirates in the Caribbean used democracy all the time? The Captain was the highest authority in combat, but the entire crew voted on matters such as where to sail, how to divide treasure and which bar wench to fuck first.

If you are an American and you've voted, great job. Have some rum on me. If you are not voting, my question is why the fuck not? Are you telling me that illiterate scurvy ridden sea dogs with syphilis had a greater sense of civic duty than you do? I should stab your useless carcass with my laser cutlass.

As a pirate, I am voting for Barack Obama. Seriously, if we have four more years of Republican economics, there might not be an economy for me to steal from anymore. There is no 700 billion dollar buyout for pirates. And that Alaska chick? There is only room for one hot super-villainess and that is going to be me."

Commission Art by Infinite Silence

Lifespan of the Sexy Smart Bitch

Today's media moves at a blistering pace. News blooms, gets analyzed and in most cases, are thoroughly dissected within 24 hours. We exist in a culture that as it tries harder to move faster, it resorts to cliches, stereotypes and summarizing of facts as a form of shorthand. I feel sometimes that everyone, from movies to news channels are reducing the complex issues of the day to short stories.

I noticed this most with Sarah Palin. When the national media first noticed her, they described her as a sexual archetype. She was sassy. She had glasses so she must be smart. She was a hot mom. She was tough and she was a fighter. In short, she was the Strict Librarian. Did I mention that they found her hot?

As man who writes erotica, I was fascinated to see a sexual archetype running for office. Tina Fey was already a niche sex object but now Tina Fey 2.0 was hitting the nation's libido. She was winking right at us, talking like she was scolding us for not returning a book to the Mayberry Library. Republicans stressed her sex appeal. Comedians stressed her sex appeal. Political blogs talked about how she was going revive McCain and make a new man out of him. She wasn't a politician, she was a sexual myth.

If Sarah Palin didn't exist, sex blogs would have invented her.

As a liberal, there is so much to be offended by Sarah Palin but as a sex writer, I am a bit worried for the long term erotic impact she may have. Stiffler's Mom from 'American Pie' didn't invent the MILF but she set the mold for the next 20 years. Sarah Palin is doing the same thing and man, what a mess it is going to be.

I first became worried when I saw Palin bomb her first interview. Now the smart chick was the dumb chick with glasses. Then her creationist views came out, followed by her succession affiliations followed by her inverse-elitism when it comes to Americans who don't come from small towns. With each passing news cycle, Sarah Palin creates her own sexual archetype. She moved away from the Sexy Librarian and now she's crazy church lady redneck femme fatale.

Which is fine. I gladly welcome any new archetypes. I am just a wee bit concerned that she is fucking up the Sexy Librarian. Tina Fey's wink within a wink portrayal of Sarah helps separate the two but our media has a short attention span. Every day I see new images of Palin being Palin. As her image increases, it absorbs the old with the new. I hope it turns into a new archetype and not rewrite the expectations of the Sexy Librarian.

Or maybe not. I am really curious. If Palin loses, odds are she's vanish for another four years until she tries to run on her own. Republicans hate a loser and I have a hard time believing she can do a comeback. If Palin wins, holy fuck will we be plastered with her archetype.

What I am counting on is that the exhaustive speed of the media cycle will burn her appeal out. Joe the Plumber went from media darling to "hey did you know he doesn't pay taxes when he should?' in record time. I saw that some Halloween parties banned Sarah Palin as a costume because it was considered too easy and lame. I think burnout is already settling in and if there is one thing the media can not stand is a has been. Maybe even if she wins the media will try to find a new archetype to pigeonhole her into.

I think the Sexy Librarian archetype will survive Palin. I just hope we don't get a Crazy Hot Redneck Lady archetype to stick around.

My Favorite Witch

Just a little last minute Halloween treat by the always beautiful Curvz.

Frightful Four

Instead of doing a Halloween theme story this year, I'm going to share with you four horror related books, movies and blogs that I enjoy. I don't know about you, but I always get in the mood for Halloween around the middle of November but by then, everyone has moved on to sappy Christmas stuff. I also think that thematically, horror is the closest genre to erotica. It's all about the buildup to the actual act more so than the act itself. Hopefully these four items will get you in a horror mood.

First up is 'Severance Package' by Duane Swierczynski. This fun horrific story is about a shell company set up by a shadowy secret agency. Not everyone in the company knows who their ultimate bosses are, which is unfortunate because when the agency decides to eliminate the company, they do so with extreme prejudice. Ever want to kill your boss? Well the fucker is trying to kill you. Bloody wackiness ensues.

There is so much to recommend this book. For one thing, it is fast. I mean, it is finish-it-in-one-day fast. My girlfriend and I blazed through this book because it is just that economical. What fascinates me and makes me jealous as a writer is that Duane crams in so much character development with his office violence. A book like this should be shallow but it's not.

'Severance Package' might be the best action movie you'll read this year.

The polar opposite is 'The Terror' by Dan Simmons. It's a fictional account of a real life Northwest Passage explorer team. Wait, don't run away from this period piece just yet. Did I mention that instead of frostbite and starvation, what seems to be killing the crew is an unholy snow monster from Hell?

Clocking in at 784 pages you would expect this novel to be a slow crawl of icy doom but you're wrong. Much like Severance Package, this book moves fast. The first chapter opens with the poor ships already trapped in the ice and being stalked by the monster. It's 784 pages because there are a shit load of people to kill. In this day and age, I am grateful for a horror novel that starts the thrills in the first chapter.

Half National Goegraphic, half 'The Thing' and half Edgar Allen Poe, this monster of a book is perfect for reading during the cold winter.

Let's say you want a good movie to scare the shit out of you. 'Midnight Meat Train' is a movie adaptation of a Clive Barker short story. Due to studio politics, this one went straight to video and I actually saw it on Demand. It's a gruesome story about a photographer who notices that some people don't get off of late night subways.

This kind of story could be a stupid gorefest but it was surprisingly intelligent. The photographer is obsessed and almost fascinated as opposed to just acting foolish. We don't get inside the mind of the killer but there is almost a tinge of pathos with him. The absolute lack of humor in the movie is a welcome change from most modern horror. This is a dark story that uses speculation to break up the tension instead of jokes.

It is really a shame this never made it to the theaters. It's miles away from films like Saw and Hostel in that the set pieces are revolve around fear, not torture.


For my last entry, I want to highlight a blog. And Now the Screaming Starts is one of my daily reads ever since it introduced me to 'The Terror'. It's an intelligent Horror blog that avoids the traps that so many other horror blogs fall into.

The first trap is the attitude that the past was superior. It gives credit to the great movies of yesterday but it is always on the look out for today's great classics. Imagine a sex blog that only reviewed porn movies from the 70's. Or imagine a sex blog that only posts pictures of Betty Page. You have pretty much imagined 90% of the horror blogs I run into. It's okay to have a blog dedicated to the past but unless you do it as perfectly as Groovy Age of Horror,

The second trap ANTSS avoids is this irrational hatred of Torture Porn movies that dominates so many horror blogs. I myself have no interest in seeing Hostel or Saw, but I don't declare them the end of civilization like some blogs do. ANTSS is a fan of Saw and writes such intriguing analysis that I am half tempted to see it. He's not a crazed cultish, he's a smart man who knows how to deconstruct something. I wish we had more people like him in the sex blogger community.

So there we go. I hope you found something to scare you this season. I hope you sleep with the lights on and jump when you hear an unexpected sound. When you want to read something that gives you a different kind of shiver, come back and maybe I'll have something for you.

Fiction: The Reluctant Actress Part Three

It was a silent cab ride back to their room. Mr. Dillon read the new book the collection had bought. Claire just tried not to groan too much as every bump in the road was transmitted right to her sore bottom.

They said nothing as they walked into the lobby. The manager breathed a sigh of relief that Claire was fully clothed. She didn’t care. Walking was reminding her of how much her ass hurt, and she just wanted to make it back to their room.

Once they were inside, Claire could hold back no longer.

“You lied to me,” she said.

“ ‘You lied to me, Mr. Dillon,’ ” he corrected.

To read more, click Whole Post


Claire scowled. “Mr. Dillon, you told me that by playing the role of a domineering woman, I could seduce Mr. Sweitz. He wasn’t seduced at all! I just pissed him off!”

“You aroused his passions,” Mr. Dillon said. “I call that seduction.”

“If you wanted him to spank me, why not have me adopt a character who likes that sort of thing? Why did I have to go and make him angry?”

“Whining does not become you,” Mr. Dillon said. “And we tried that, remember? Your version of Sandy was pathetic, so I thought a different approach would be better.”

“You could have told me,” Claire said. She took off her skirt and looked at her ass in the hotel mirror. The welts were turning purple.

Mr. Dillon laughed. He stepped up to her and put his arm around her. His hand brushed against the damp moss of her pubic hair. “And are you telling me you didn’t like it, Ms. Currie?”

“No, Mr. Dillon.”

Mr. Dillon removed his hands. “Here, take the book and bend over the bed.”

Claire groaned. “Are you going to spank me, too?”

Mr. Dillon unzipped his pants. “Bend over, Ms. Currie, and flip to chapter 7.”

Claire bent over the bed. Her glasses slipped forward as she looked down. She opened the paperback book and flipped till she came to the chapter he requested. That is when she felt Mr. Dillon’s hand on her hips and his cock at the entrance to her sex.

With one long, slow thrust, he was inside her.

“Start reading,” he said.

Claire groaned as her sore ass came in contact with Mr. Dillon’s body. “Yes, sir,” she said.

“Martha trembled in fear,” Claire began. “She knew she was in trouble. She was late coming to rehearsal, and because of her adventure in the parlor, she never had gotten a chance to study her role as she had been asked. Ted had asked her to come to his office to discuss her dereliction in her studies and performances. She was sure he was going to kick her out.”

Claire paused as Mr. Dillon slowly fucked her. After 10 really nice strokes, she continued.

“When Ted walked in, the first thing he did was push Martha down into the hard wooden chair.

“ ‘You have been very naughty, Martha,’ he said.

“ ‘I can explain, sir,’ Martha said.

“Ted slapped her. Martha cried out, and he slapped her again. Her cheeks burned from the touch of his hand, but Martha realized that she felt another burning between her thighs.”

Claire stopped again. Her own ass was still on fire from the brutal spanking, but like Martha, Claire felt an even greater fire from Mr. Dillon’s cock. His pace was slow but relentless. He plunged within her like he owned her. He fucked her at his pace and for his pleasure.

“Keep reading,” Mr. Dillon said.

“Ted grabbed her by the hair while with his other hand he opened his pants. His enormous cock was hard and pointed at Martha’s face. She remembered how big it had been when he fucked her yesterday. She remembered how it had threatened to tear her apart. When he pulled her head to his cock, Martha screamed in protest. He gagged her protests with his cock.

“Martha choked on his cock, but he forced himself into her. She was humiliated at this new perversion. Who lets a man put a cock into her mouth? What kind of woman would let her tongue touch the veined member? Worse, what kind of woman would shiver as Martha was doing? Could she be enjoying such debasement?”

“I think so,” Mr. Dillon said. He began to fuck Claire a little faster.

Claire moaned her agreement and kept reading. “Martha sucked on his sweaty cock. She licked the salt with her delicate tongue. She tried to push him away, but Ted’s iron hands kept forcing her down. His balls were pressed against her chin, and Martha’s nose was buried in pubic hair. Martha struggled as his giant cock reached the back of her throat, but he would not let her go.

“He fucked her mouth. He fucked her lips as roughly as he had fucked her cunt yesterday. Martha realized that eventually he would spend himself, and she was horrified at the thought of swallowing his seed. As horrible as that was, Martha felt that familiar tingling in her cunt that told her that it might also be fun.”

Mr. Dillon groaned. His hand dug into Claire’s hips. His slow, casual fucking had transformed into fast, hard thrusts. Her spanked ass bounced off his body, and each bounce sent a delicious shiver of pain up her spine.

Claire lost her place, and she would be punished for it later, but she kept reading.

“Martha kept fingering herself, just as Ted had told her to. She remembered what the stage manager had done with his fingers the other day, and she touched her cunt just like that. Martha buried her fingers, getting them deep inside her. She imagined Ted’s cock there, fucking her cunt just like he was fucking her mouth.

“Ted’s hands wrapped themselves in Martha’s long brown hair. He was pulling so hard that tears were rolling down Martha’s cheeks. It didn’t slow him down at all. He used her cruelly, interested only in his own pleasure.

“Martha’s pleasure was increasing. She was going to come. She was going to come on her own fingers like some sort of harlot. She was going to come with a man’s cock inside her mouth. Oh, how horrified her aunt would be to see her now!”

Claire paused as her own desire overwhelmed her. Reading about Ted’s cock in Martha’s mouth made Claire desire a cock in hers. Her ass was stinging from the contact with Mr. Dillon’s body, feeling like she was being spanked all over again. His cock felt perfect inside her, and she wanted nothing more than to have inside her always and forever.

“Keep reading, Ms. Currie,” Mr. Dillon said. His voice was deep and demanding. He was close. It was time for them to both reap their reward.

“Ted’s cock shot into Martha’s mouth. Martha was surprised by how much she liked the taste. It filled her mouth, and slid down her eager throat. Her tongue milked his cock for every drop.

“At the same time, her cunt had its own climax. She clenched hard around her fingers, squeezing herself with pleasure. She kept thrusting inside herself, riding one orgasm after another.”

Claire’s reading was harshly interrupted. Mr. Dillon had grabbed her black hair and yanked her head back. He was thrusting harder while he pulled her hair. Claire knew he was going to climax. Like a good librarian, she squeezed her cunt tightly to help him on his way.

Mr. Dillon shouted, and Claire felt him climax. Her own climax happened instantly. His pleasure was her pleasure.

When he let go of her hair, Claire slumped forward. Exhaustion overtook her. The spanking, the fucking and the reading had done her in. The afterglow had taken the last of her strength. She couldn’t possibly move another muscle.

“Not bad, Ms. Currie,” Mr. Dillon said. “I have compiled a list of characters you need to study next. I have a rigorous schedule of erotic archetypes you need to master, and I will test you on each and every single one. When I say ‘test,’ I am of course referring to comprehensive fucking and spanking while you maintain your character.”

Claire found she had plenty of energy to move.

the end.

Fiction: The Reluctant Actress Part Two

“Are you ready, Ms. Currie?”

Claire nodded. She was standing very straight. They were outside the door to Theodore Sweitz’s bookstore. Claire was not only ready, she was eager to show how much she had learned.

“I have studied the book you gave me,” Claire said. “There were quite a few cruel, overbearing characters, but I chose the character Olivia Flay as my inspiration. I studied every scene she was in. I have practiced her speech and her mannerisms. I will be heartless, humiliating and full of venom.”

Mr. Dillon looked pleased. “Good. Mr. Sweitz has always had a weakness for dominatrix types. He is an avid collector of female domination erotica. Just put him down at every opportunity, and that will keep him so aroused that I will easily negotiate a better price. One quick question: Why did you choose Olivia and not the main character?”

“Simple,” Claire said. “Olivia sounds a lot like you.”

To read more, click Whole Post


Mr. Dillon smiled. “That is an excellent reason. Come, he is expecting us.”

Theodore Sweitz answered the door. He was much younger than Claire had expected. Instead of the usual doddering old man, Mr. Sweitz was barely in his 40s. He was exceptionally tall and loomed over them.

“Oliver, it is good to see you again,” Mr. Sweitz said. “And who is your lovely accomplice?”

Mr. Sweitz held out his hand to Claire. She almost ruined her character by taking his hand. She caught herself and just looked down on his hand like it was covered in filth. She snorted with affected annoyance.

“This is Claire Currie,” Mr. Dillon said. “You’ll have to forgive her rudeness; she’s British.”

Claire was offended, but the look of irritation on Mr. Sweitz’s face kept her silent. He looked offended, too, but he quickly mastered himself. That small chink in his demeanor encouraged Claire to push her advantage.

“This is Mr. Swiss?” she said to Mr. Dillon. “I thought you told me he was handsome and posh?”

Mr. Dillon did something Claire didn’t think was possible. He blushed. “I am very sorry, Theo; I haven’t taught her how to behave around clients yet.”

Mr. Sweitz sighed. “No need to apologize, Oliver. I’m sure you will break her in. Please, come in.”

They stepped inside. Claire was taken back by how upscale everything was. It wasn’t a bookstore; it was a gallery that happened to have books. She recognized several expensive volumes right away. This was a man who was used to selling at high prices. She was going to have to step it up.

“What a quaint little place, Mr. Swiss,” she loudly declared. “It reminds me of the cabin I stayed at for my summer breaks.”

Mr. Sweitz snapped his head towards her. He started to say something, stopped and started again. “It’s Sweitz actually.”

Claire looked at him as though he were a small child. “Are you sure?” she asked.

Mr. Sweitz’s mouth opened and closed a few times.

“Theo, maybe it would be best if we go right to business,” Mr. Dillon said. “I just have to see this pristine copy of ‘The Reluctant Actress’ with my own eyes.”

Mr. Sweitz’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “I felt the same way when I heard about it. It’s right over here in this case.”

They walked over to a glass case. Claire recognized the moisture-proof seal and the special light-protection glass. Mr. Sweitz opened the case and handed it to Mr. Dillon. Claire couldn’t help peeking over Mr. Dillon’s shoulder.

“Amazing,” Mr. Dillon said, and Claire knew he meant it. “I recognize it, of course, from the copy the collection has, but the condition is unbelievable. Where on earth did you find it?”

“I have my sources,” Mr. Sweitz said. He was very proud of himself. Claire had seen that collector’s pride before. As librarians, she and Mr. Dillon had wooed widows, climbed through boxes of books and done all sorts of tedious work. It was all worth it when you found that one special book.

“Oh,” Claire said. “You hire people to search for you. Expensive, but it’s better to hire professionals than blunder through yourself.”

“Ms. Currie,” Mr. Sweitz said with an icy tone, “I discovered this book by myself. I tracked down various publishing invoices and traced the ownerships of adult bookstores that operated around the time it was published. This book is the product of a year’s search, thank you very much.”

Claire was taken aback. Luckily, there had been a very similar scene in the novel she’d studied.

“Ah,” she drawled, “It took you a year, Mr. Swiss? Is this a new hobby for you?”

Mr. Sweitz began to say something, but Mr. Dillon quickly interjected.

“Theo, have you noticed that there is an epilogue?” he asked. “Our version ended with chapter 30.”

“Well,” Mr. Sweitz said, gathering his thoughts, “I believe that the epilogue was dropped during the second printing. It has no sex in it, but it wraps up the story.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Dillon said. “This certainly elevates the importance of this copy.”

“My, my, what a lucky boy you are, Mr. Swiss.” Claire said in what she knew was an infuriatingly condescending manner.

Mr. Sweitz snapped his head towards her. “It’s Sweitz! It’s German. It’s not Swiss like the cheese!”

“Oh,” Claire said. “My mistake, Mr. Swish.”

Mr. Sweitz’s lips twisted into a growl. For a moment, Claire was afraid that Mr. Dillon had been wrong. Mr. Sweitz didn’t seem aroused. He just looked pissed. She kept expecting Mr. Dillon to stop her, but he just kept smiling and looking at the book. Apparently, he thought she was doing well.

“Mr. Swish, I feel as though we have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Claire said. “I apologize if I have somehow offended your very sensitive nature with my comments. I am used to dealing with grand men who have steel resolves and virile passions. I see now that you are a minor player in the book-collecting world and I apologize for not treating you with the gentle touch that you require.”

Mr. Sweitz was speechless.

“Theo,” Mr. Dillon said, “I think your price is very reasonable and well within our budget.”

It was Claire’s turn to be speechless. Did Mr. Dillon think she had failed?

“Really?” Mr. Sweitz said. Claire relaxed when she heard how flustered he sounded. “I mean, great. I knew I was asking a lot, but I also knew the collection would think it was worth it.”

“Most certainly,” Mr. Dillon said. “But, if you knock 25 percent off your asking price, I will let you spank Ms. Currie for her rudeness.”

Mr. Sweitz smiled. “Deal. May I use a paddle?”

Mr. Dillon nodded. “I was going to recommend it. Ms. Currie’s bottom is very well-padded.”

“Sir?” Claire asked. This was happening too fast for her to understand.

“ ‘Sir’ now, is it?” Mr. Sweitz said. “I bet you’ll get my name right now, won’t you?”

Claire looked at Mr. Dillon. His face was impossible to read. She decided to go with the last command her boss had given.

“Mr. Swimp,” Claire said, emphasizing the “wimp,” ” I doubt I will even notice what you are doing.”

Mr. Sweitz gritted his teeth. He grabbed Claire by the arm and forcefully walked her over to a leather couch. He shoved her down over the arm of the couch. Her glasses flew from her face, landing on the other side of the couch. Claire squealed as she fell, her three-inch heels kicking behind her. She felt his hand lift her skirt to reveal her panties. Because it was a Friday, her panties were strawberry pink.

“Can I take off her panties?” Mr. Sweitz asked.

Claire was curious herself.

“Knock off another 5 percent and you can,” Mr. Dillon answered.

“Done,” said Mr. Sweitz.

Claire’s panties were roughly pulled down, leaving her brown buttocks completely defenseless. He kicked her legs apart, making her spread wide on his leather couch. She tried to lift her head, but Mr. Sweitz’s hand grabbed the back of her head and forced her back down. He pinned her there, smashing her face into the cushion.

“You were looking for this?” Mr. Dillon said. “I saw it hanging and thought I would grab it for you.”

Claire felt cold wood touch her ass. It must be the paddle Mr. Dillon had brought as a gift. It occurred to her that if Mr. Sweitz were a meek submissive man, a paddle would have been a poor gift.

“Thank you, Oliver,” Mr. Sweitz said. “I do find this paddle is the best tool for dealing with a rude mouth. Where did you say you found this?”

“There’s a carver in North Carolina who makes them,” Mr. Dillon said. “He lives in a cabin making endless paddles. He doesn’t make any effort to sell them, so I have to drive up every once in a while and buy them in person. Nice man, though a bit crazy.”

“He makes an excellent paddle,” Mr. Sweitz said. He brought it down hard on Claire’s ass. “Wouldn’t you agree, Ms. Currie?”

“Ouch!” Claire said. “Maybe if it were wielded by a real man and not a weak little bookwhore like yourself!”

“We’ll see about that,” Mr. Sweitz said.

Claire heard the paddle swooshing through the air a split second before it smashed into her round bottom. It was a hard blow with no mercy whatsoever. The next blow was harder. The next was even worse.

Mr. Sweitz’s hand kept her face pressed into the couch. Over and over the paddle landed on her cheeks with no rhythm except the speed of his anger. He was favoring her right buttock, most likely because of where he was standing. She tried to lean away from the paddle, but Mr. Sweitz’s swinging kept up with her. There was no escape as he relentlessly spanked her ass. She had pissed him off, and her ass was paying the price.

Claire couldn’t see the paddle, but she knew it was wide, hard and very painful. She knew it was big enough to cover an entire buttock with one hit. She didn’t know what color the paddle was, but she was sure her brown ass was turning a dark red from all the spanking. The paddle was an enigma, almost as mysterious as the trap Mr. Dillon had set for her.

Claire could not stop thinking about how angry he was. Every paddle swing was as harder than the last. There was no seduction or art. It was pure passionate hate. Such fierce passion was flattering to Claire. She had gotten under his skin, and her poor bottom was feeling just how well she had succeeded. Claire couldn’t help wonder if Mr. Sweitz was this passionate when he fucked. Her wet pussy felt certain of it.

The paddling stopped. Mr. Sweitz pulled Claire’s hair, lifting her head.

“Say my name,” he said.

“What?” Claire said between gasps.

“Say my name correctly!” The paddle landed on the center of her ass for emphasis.

“Mr. Sweitz,” she moaned.

“Louder!” he snapped.

“Mr. Sweitz!” she yelled.

He smashed her face back into the leather. The paddle returned to her ass, taking the pain to infernal new heights. Her ass took every blow while her legs kicked uselessly. The more the paddle struck her brown ass, the more moisture she could feel dripping from her sex.

Claire tried to imagine Olivia in this position. She tried to picture how the snobbish woman would handle being punished. Claire pictured the tantrum Olivia would throw, worried that perhaps she had failed in her impersonation. The paddle landed once more on her abused ass and she stopped worrying about her performance. She doubted she could survive antagonizing Mr. Sweitz much more than she already had.

His hand pulled her head by the hair again. He said something, but Claire didn’t catch it. The incredible tenderness of her ass made every movement painful.

“Say you’re a paddle-hungry slut,” Mr. Sweitz repeated.

Claire saw Mr. Dillon sitting across from them. His head nodded towards her barely half an inch.

“I am a paddle-hungry slut,” Claire said. The wet spot she made on the arm of the couch proved it.

“Louder!” Mr. Sweitz snapped.

“I am a paddle-hungry slut!” she yelled.

He released her hair and stepped back. “Yes, I know you are. Be sure to clean up that mess you made. There is leather cleaner in the cabinet.”

Claire blushed till her cheeks were as red as her ass.

To be continued,