Wednesday, December 17, 2008
All she wanted was a hickey, a sucked-up brown spot on her throat and neck to show everyone she had a lover, a boyfriend, someone who lusted after her; that, or show up a boyfriend she had another on the side.
It was nothing but a cheap attempt at making someone jealous --He don’t pay me no attention, she had said-- yet she insisted I keep my hands off her --I’m not that kind of girl!-- though she agreed to do it leaning against the river railing so I could at least press and rub against her, which was more then good enough for me; hell, it’s not every day I got my body on a fleshy teenager, and this one willing for a dry hump and throat sucking at that.
And she was definitely a fleshy kid, large and overweight, her face and breasts and belly bloated in a pubescent baby-fat tease that in a few years, if it didn’t settle into a boned tone of mature smoothness and softness, would only keep her in a haunting allure of slutty promises and horny come-ons, of love expressed in handjobs, blowjobs, quickie fuckings, too many, too-often hurried abortions and pregnancies.
This was nothing more than the start (or continuation, if she hadn’t already started) of prostitution: getting from a stranger what a friend or lover could’ve or should’ve satisfied as well; showing up one male, a boyfriend, that he was expendable and replaceable with another, willing to barter her young girlhood for the stupidity of acting and appearing an adult, with an adult too overly-ready and eager to use her cheap girlishness for his own woman-hating vindictive pleasure and lust and abuse…
I pressed myself to her, raising my knee and thigh into her loose-jeaned crotch, my hardon pressing her belly, my hands stroking her back, my mouth sucking and slathering her neck.
But the problem with hickeys, though they may take weeks to lighten and dissolve and meld back into the natural fleshy tint around them, take only an instant or two to develop and stand out. And I barely had a moment of seizing and tasting her perfume, her sweat, her hairspray, her aroma, her neck and throat before she pushed me off, flicked open a compact mirror, and said, Wow! My eyes said it too…
Yet what kind of branding is a hickey meant to represent if not a skewed teenage marking of possession and ownership? And what does a show-off flaunting of that hickey prove if not a boasting of being possessed and owned by another? Why such eager willingness and desire to flaunt that?
We gaped at the hickey --actually three of them, two small scratch marks where my tooth bit into her flesh and one elongated sucking where my tongue and lips gorged on her meaty throat-- and she seemed very pleased with my mouth’s work. I was too (Did this mean I now possessed her? I wish...). I wanted more; dipping my open mouth back to her throat but she pulled away, shoving me off, and darted from the railing, my pants- trapped hardon a frustrating lurch stiffening wildly after her.
But she was gone, her loose-jeaned ass weaving quickly up the promenade, not even looking back to see me contorted and doubled over at the railing, my hardon shrinking into a disappointing letdown of blue-ball limpness and uselessness…
Two days later I saw her again, this time with a boy her age, a boy tough- and angry- looking, his hands in his pockets, one step ahead of her as she trailed behind, her arms at her sides, her head lowered, her book bag/knapsack hanging forlornly down her back.
She raised her head and our eyes met; I sighed, and though a black turtleneck -- impressively flaunting her knapsack-pulled-back baby-fat tits-- covered her neck and hid my hickeys, a large purplish splotch covered her left eye and cheek, her fat fleshy face now more bloated and fatter, the black eye a more powerful marking of jealous possession and ownership than any meager hickey of mine could have competed or vied against.
We looked at each other, then lowered our heads. When I next looked up she trailed contritely after her boyfriend, as if led by an invisible leash of possession, love, and belonging.
I masturbated behind a tree, the fantasy of a hard fist striking a fat girl face an even greater erotic stimulus than the actual memory of my body against hers…
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Him (1974) was a pornographic feature film produced for gay audiences. The film focused on a young gay man who developed an erotic fixation with the life of Jesus Christ. The film was virtually unknown until 1979, when it was cited in the book The Golden Turkey Awards, where it was listed as the "Most Unerotic Concept in Pornography."
At this writing, no print of the film has been located. It was cited among the most sought-after lost films by the online magazine Film Threat. The website Cinema Treasures quotes from the Variety review of the film on April 17, 1974.
A few Internet sites have attempted to debunk Him as being a hoax, owing to the inclusion of a hoax title in The Golden Turkey Awards. However, the hoax in that book was another title. The April 29, 1974 Screw magazine review of this film from its brief New York City release has been uncovered, along with a newspaper advertisement for its New York theatrical release. At least one person has gone online to confirm seeing the film during its Boston run.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The American astrologer Jackie Stallone claims on her website that Rumpology is known to have been practiced in ancient times by the Babylonians and the Indians (although she provides no source or evidence for this claim). Stallone has revived rumpology in modern culture and according to her left and right butt cheeks reveal a person's past and future, respectively.Blind German clairvoyant Ulf Buck has also studied the details of human buttocks and he claims he can read people's futures by feeling their naked buttocks. According to Beck "[a]n apple-shaped, muscular bottom indicates someone who is charismatic, dynamic, very confident and often creative. A person who enjoys life. A pear-shaped bottom suggests someone very steadfast, patient and down-to-earth."
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Remember, if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Helen E. H. Madden
hips, legs crossed, hands clasped, unmoving except for breath. From the roots at your groin, a mighty trunk grows inside me. We do not grapple or struggle, suffer or enjoy. Only sit. I've been sitting here forever, waiting to understand.
"Just breathe," you murmur. "Just be here now."
Day passes into night, night into dawn. When the sun comes up, the third eye opens. The river Ganges erupts inside me. Seized by the moment, at last I see the morning star rise.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
These six quick-read stories offer something about anything for anyone -- gay, straight, lesbian, BDSM ... you name it - including stories that have never been previously released or published!
"MOVING" - Straight BDSM erotica
In Sylvia’s dungeon, when you’re told not to move you’d better not ...
"TWO MEN IN A BOAT/ON THE SCREEN" - Includes gay erotica
Two steamy tales, of two quite different types of passion!
"HOLLYWOOD BOULEVARD" - Gay erotica
Sometimes meeting your big screen hero doesn’t end quite the way you wish ...
"HACK WORK" - Speculative, futuristic, straight erotica
In the future, we may use others remotely for our own pleasures, but what of the one ‘taking the ride?’
"SUNLIGHT" & "HER MASTER'S VOICE" - Includes gay and BDSM erotica
Another two scintillating tales of sensuality, both quite different.
"A LIGHT MINUTE" - Lesbian erotica
Online, Sasha has breath-
M.Christian is an acknowledged master of erotica with more than 300 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and Web sites. He is the editor of 20 anthologies including the Best S/M Erotica series, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, and others. He is the author of the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, and Filthy; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Brushes, and Painted Doll.
M. Christian is the chameleon of modern erotica. One day punk, another romantic; one day straight, another totally perverse and polyamorous. But always sexy and and gripping.
- Maxim Jakubowksi, editor of the Mammoth Book of Erotica series
M. Christian is to erotica what Swarovski crystals are to Liberace: essential.
- Clint Catalyst, author of Cottonmouth Kisses
M. Christian's stories are the fairy tales whispered to one another by dark angels whose hearts and mouths are brimming with lust. He goes beyond the pale, ordinary definitions of sexuality and writes about need and desire in their purest forms. Readers daring enough to stray from the safety of the path will find in his images and words a garden of delights to tempt even the most demanding pleasure-seeker.
-- Michael Thomas Ford, Lambda Literary Award winner and editor
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Who are these guys? Well, the site host is M. CHRISTIAN, a great writer. It's loaded with fun & weird sex stuff; you know we all love to take part, from time to time. If you find yourself enjoying what you are reading here click on the above banner, there so much to enjoy, take it from me baby, you know I am hard to please when it come to my reads, they have won me over.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
They finally had sex a week after the wedding.
She came to look at their new home and after clicking her heels from room to room, her nylons scraping and whooshing, her high tits bulbing and weaving, she spun at him in the bedroom and playfully chided, “I want you to be good to my baby girl!”
Billy blinked at his mother-in-law’s cleaved tits against his chest and stuttered, “I will, Mrs. Gillette; oh God, I will!”
“Please, call me Mom,” she fluttered her long eyelashes, licked her shiny red lips, and raised a mini-skirted thigh into his hardening crotch.
“Mmm,” he barely mumbled as her tongue smothered his voice and she pulled him between her legs and they fell back on the newly-weds bed, part of the bedroom furniture wedding present from her.
Afterwards, she told him what a lucky girl her daughter was to have married a man like him, and what a lucky mother she was to have him for a son-in-law.
But it bothered him; though technically it couldn’t be considered real incest to have sex with your mother-in-law, someone not of his own genetic bloodline, morally it probably was: incest at its worst and filthiest: screwing a family member, and the mother of the bride at that. It may not have fucked up any genetic coding, but it certainly fucked up his head. Besides, his mother-in-law was a much better lay than her daughter, and after that first fucking he was learning to get better at it too.
“I wish I had caught him first,” his mother-in-law winked at her daughter one night over dinner, her foot tapping his underneath the table. “I can just imagine what he’s like in bed,” she sighed, flitting her tongue out the corner of her lips.
Billy gulped, the spaghetti on his fork unraveling, but he shoved it in his mouth and bent his face to the steaming plate, slurping up the pasta but unable to hide his deep crimson flush.
“Mom that’s disgusting!” her daughter sneered.
“What’s so disgusting about having a man like him?” her mother fluttered her lashes and smirked. “I can see you’ve been getting yours…”
“And it certainly shows that he’s getting his too…”
Billy gagged, coughed, and darted from the room.
“My mother’s an idiot,” his wife said later. “All she thinks about is sex.”
He shrugged. “She’s an attractive woman,” he added.
She snorted. “You don’t think that’s real?” Billy was quiet. “It’s all fake! Liposuction, tummy-tucks, cellulite treatments, silicone implants, facials, she even had them pull up her ass!”
Billy smiled dreamily; his mother-in-law’s ass was as perfect and round and bubbly as some high-school cheerleader’s. “There’s nothing wrong with making yourself look good,” he said.
“Christ! Looking good? She’s old enough to be…well…Cher’s mother!”
He laughed and grabbed her and sang Sonny and Cher’s I Got You, Babe, and they fell into bed as he told her to wrap and cross her legs over his ass so he could plunge deeper into her, --just as his mother-in-law taught him to do.
Three months later they learned of her mother’s pregnancy.
“Mother!” her daughter screamed. “That’s disgusting! At your age! Don’t you take precautions?!”
“Of course I take precautions. I wanted a baby, so I had my tubes untied.”
“You’re 56 years old!”
“I am not!”
“Ha! Don’t you think I don’t know how old my own mother is? You’ll kill yourself! And anyway, who was the asshole who agreed to have a baby with you?”
Her mother smirked, winked at Billy, and said, “He doesn’t have to know, does he? But he is one hell of a man…and I’m going to name it after him.”
Billy gulped; her daughter snorted.
“That baby is sure going to have a lot of names; after every Tom, Dick and Harry asshole at the Red Rose Tavern, right?”
Her mother opened her mouth, contemptuously wove her lower jaw back and forth, and glared at her daughter.
“And don’t forget some of their son’s names too,” she said, and again winked at Billy.
Her daughter looked from her mother to her husband and her brows tightened; his face was red, nervous, yet he always seemed flushed and edgy whenever her mother dropped by; she scowled.
“Name it whatever you want,” she said, and left the room.
That night they had it out.
“Your father hangs out at the Red Rose; did he ever screw my mother?”
“How the hell do I know who my father screws?! Certainly not my mother!”
“That’s disgusting! In-laws having sex each other…”
“How do you know they did?”
She looked at him, than said, “You used to hang out at the Red Rose,” she said.
“So? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Did you ever screw my mother?”
“Listen, I know my mother’s reputation of being an easy lay; did you ever screw her?”
“She’s always here whenever I come from work.”
“You’re the one who’s always inviting her for dinner.”
“Just tell me yes or no. Did you ever have sex with her?”
They looked at each other.
“No!” he lied.
“Thank you!” she said.
A month later her mother miscarried and though her daughter was relieved at the ridiculousness of a 56 year old woman bearing a child, she was even more relieved when her mother finally dropped by and sadly said she said she would have named the unborn baby Robert.
“Robert?!” Billy flared. “Who the hell is Robert?”
His mother-in-law smirked. “Let’s see,” she said. “I can think of at least three Roberts at the Red Rose…”
Billy stalked out of the room, mumbling ‘Whore!’ to himself.
That night he tried to get his wife to go down on him, as her mother had so expertly once did, but as usual, his wife resisted and squealed, “That’s disgusting!”
Billy called her a worthless whore, “Just like your mother!” and spun around and fucked her from the rear. When he came, the faces of the three Roberts gelled in his brain, all grinning and smirking at him.
“Whore!” he grunted, and kept grunting.