Wednesday, January 28, 2009

"Bob" Is A Sex God!

Wiki:

J. R. "Bob" Dobbs is the figurehead of the Church of the SubGenius. His image is derived from a piece of 1950s pop-art. According to SubGenius dogma, "Bob" was a drilling equipment salesman who, in 1953, saw a vision of God (JHVH-1 according to Church scriptures) on a television set he had built himself. The vision inspired him to write the "PreScriptures" (as described in the Book of the SubGenius) and found the Church. The "theology" holds that "Bob" is the greatest salesman who ever lived, and has cheated death a number of times. He is also revered for his great follies and believed to be a savior of "slack". He was assassinated in San Francisco in 1984, though the Church states that he has come back from the dead several times since then.

The quotation marks in "Bob"'s name are always included when spelling his name, according to the Church.

According to Revelation X; The "Bob" Apocryphon, "Bob" was born in Dallas, Texas to Xinucha-Chi-Xan M. Dobbs (a pharmacist) and Jane McBride Dobbs. At an early age he possesed a talent for making large amounts of money by playing the stock market over the telephone. He married his wife Connie in Las Vegas in 1955 and worked as a photographer's model while inventing and patenting novelty gag items. In 1957 he worked weekends doing Evangelical Christian preaching "strictly for the money".

"Bob"'s wife, Connie Dobbs, has become as legendary in SubGenius circles as "Bob" himself. Although "Bob" has been married to other women, spirits, deities, and inanimate objects (he was married to Eris, the Discordian mother Goddess for a while, though she grew tired of him and kicked him out), Connie is described in the SubGenius documentary Arise! as "his first, and still his primary wife." Connie is the patron of SubGenius women, and she is seen as a vision of true liberation for women. She refuses to submit to anyone (especially "Bob"), and she is just as free-wheeling and promiscuous as her husband... although she has a more level head on her shoulders when it comes to domestic issues.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

It's Not the Volume, It's The Loudness

Another fun find from Sage Vivant -

Via Jezebel:
A reader has tipped us off to this bizarre stereo, which artist Bob Turek says is part of a project that "is focused on transforming the way we view the objects we make music with."

The reader who sent in the tip labeled the stereo "horribly misogynistic," and noted that it disturbed her profoundly. I'm not sure what to make of it, honestly. There are many ways I suppose a person could view it, which, I guess, is what good art provides. On one hand, it's an interesting statement about power, in that the source of the power is the woman's vagina. On the other hand, it's a headless, armless woman whose breasts and vagina are being used to provide power and sound for trivial things, and Turek uses the female body as "an object." I'm quite confused about this, and my instinct is to dislike it based on the fact that there's a creepy sense of being used and exploited involved, but I must admit that I don't really have a steady opinion on this one right now. What say you, commenters?

Friday, January 23, 2009

I Love Science -

Scientific American:
Ouch! Can You Really Break Your Penis?

The penile condition recently featured on the TV medical drama Grey's Anatomy is real and, sorry guys (and girls), not uncommon Ever since heartthrob television doctor Mark Sloan had a sexual mishap on last night's episode of TV hit show Grey's Anatomy, bloggers around the globe have been buzzing about a bizarre and horrifying condition called "broken penis syndrome". For those who didn't catch last night's hot and steamy love scene between Sloan (played by actor Eric Dane) and "intern" Lexie Grey (Chyler Leigh), be advised: it ended painfully—very painfully. At least for Sloan, who suffered a severe injury to his manhood, which prompted a slew of rumors among hospital staff about which woman "broke Sloan's penis," according to ABC's online recap of the episode.

Given that there are no bones in the penis, can it really break? It turns out there is an unfortunate injury termed "penile fracture" that can indeed occur during sexual intercourse. We asked Hunter Wessells, chair of the urology department at the University of Washington School of Medicine in Seattle (also home to the show's Grace Hospital), to describe the condition and how it can happen.

[An edited transcript of the interview follows.]

What exactly is broken penis syndrome?
It's what we call penile fracture. It is a severe form of bending injury to the erect penis that occurs when a membrane called the tunica albuginea tears. The tunica albuginea surrounds the corpora cavernosa, specialized spongy tissue in the core of the penis that fills up with blood during an erection. When the tunica albuginea tears, the blood that is normally confined to this space leaks out into other tissues. You get bruising and swelling.

What are the signs of penile fracture?
Usually there will be a popping sound. If someone has severe pain (in the penis), especially associated with bruising, swelling and loss of erection, he should seek emergency care.

How exactly does penile fracture happen?
Any situation during intercourse when there is thrusting and when the penis, instead of penetrating its normal location, is hitting some solid structure (such as the perineum). Usually this occurs during regular vaginal sex with the woman on top, but it can happen in the missionary position or during sexual acrobatics. We had this patient who suffered penile fracture after running across the room and trying to penetrate his wife with a flying leap.

What can doctors do to fix the tear?
We put the person on general anesthesia and open up the skin through one or more incisions in the penis. Then we find the edge of the tear and close it up with sutures. Sometimes these tears are extensive and span half the circumference of the penis (usually the tears are crosswise), requiring about 10 stitches. Then we close everything up. The operation takes about an hour, and most people go home right after. Most can resume sex in about a month (after the wound has healed).

What happens if you don't get this operation?
There are probably some cases in which you can get away with not operating on it but, in general, you will be more likely to have future complications. Partial or complete tearing of the tunica albuginea can lead to long-term scarring, and the buildup of scar tissue can lead to erectile dysfunction or penile deviations, such as chronic curvature of the penis (causing an erection that bends sideways—sometimes at a 45-degree angle).

How common is penile fracture, and who is most likely to suffer from it?
We don't have any incidence data like that, but we know there are many case reports in the literature. I've seen dozens of cases (in 20 years of working as a physician). At the University of Seattle, we see one or two cases per month.

Young men in their 20s and 30s, who tend to be engaged in more vigorous sexual activity face the highest risk, but we do see it in men in their 40s and 50s. (The latter's lower risk) might be because older men have decreased frequency and vigor of sexual activity and the tissue in their penises tends not to get quite as rigid.

If the penis bends but the tunica albuginea doesn't tear, could this lead to injury as well?
There are probably many men who have had the experience of missing the penetration spot and bending the penis. Most of these cases are nothing to worry about. But there are some people who have bending injuries (but not full-blown tears) who may go on to develop Peyronie's disease, a condition in which the penis is bent due to the buildup of scar tissue, but it's not yet clear whether this is the cause of the disease.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Donna George Storey Loves Brushes

Donna George Storey, a wonderful person and an absolutely fantastic writer, has just posted this touching review of Brushes - including a mini interview - on her Sex, Food and Writing blog. Thanks so much, Donna!

I’ve been an admiring fan of M. Christian’s work since well before I began writing erotica myself. He’s edited twenty anthologies and written over three hundred stories, four novels, and four short story collections, with numerous appearances in Best American Erotica and other Best of’s as well as being an annually returning alumnus of The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. His narrators and protagonists come in a rainbow of sexual preferences, yet the stories are always incandescently erotic and convincing. On top of this, his work spans a range of genres, from literary to horror, science fiction and a soupcon of erotic romance.

I’ve always wondered what the “M” in M. Christian stands for, but I’m pretty sure it stands for “Maestro”!

I recently had the pleasure of reading one of his most recent novels, Brushes. A multi-layered treat for the mind and the senses, Brushes reminded me how a well-written novel can really draw you into a totally different world and keep you there, enchanted. M. Christian transports us to glittering Paris where we follow the adventures of eight denizens of the art world, from an acclaimed artist and his muses to desperate wannabes. As their lives brush up against each other, serendipitously, inevitably, all experience a compelling sexual encounter that changes their lives forever. The variety of sex scenes is like a tempting buffet, the prose as silky smooth as a pot de crème. The novel definitely raises fascinating questions about the artist’s life and the silliness of the business surrounding it. This tale of mystery will definitely provoke and entertain anyone who’s intrigued by the power of the creative--and the erotic—spirit.

That’s me, baby—how about you?

And now, I have the even greater pleasure of inviting the Maestro to my blog to chat about writing, erotica and sensual indulgence of the culinary persuasion.

DGS: I’ve always been amazed at your versatility as a writer, your virtuoso ability to cross genres and genders. How do you do it? Or are you actually a shapeshifter from another galaxy?

MC: Nah, I’m just a classic hack, though being a shapeshifter from another galaxy would make it a lot easier to find a date on Saturday night.

How did you get started writing erotica?

Well, I’ve always wanted to be a writer – in fact I first remember deciding it would be the life I wanted to live when I was in the fourth grade or so – but I had zero luck with it for, oh, about fifteen years. Tired of rejection slips, I signed up for an erotica writing class from Lisa Palac, who used to edit a magazine called Future Sex. My thought at the time was something like: why the hell not?

Turns out I was pretty good at pornography – who knew? – and Lisa bought my first story, which was subsequently published by Susie Bright in her Best American Erotica 1994. The rest, as the cliché goes, is history.

You’ve been publishing erotica for a long time now. In your view, how has the genre and the publishing environment changed over the years.

Lordy, that’s a big subject! Right off the top of my head I’d guess the biggest change has got to be the death – or imminent death, to be polite – of the traditional publishing model of business. Printed books are simply way too expensive to produce, especially these days, and far too difficult to sell. Sure, there will always be big houses operating like we’re still in the ‘50s but going forward we’re going to see far more small-to-medium-sized publishers connecting with very specific audiences. That’s good news for readers, as a publisher’s profit doesn’t have to be hundreds of thousands of dollars. Only having to make a few thousand means they can take risks and produce books for very narrow-focused interests. The bad news, though, is that the days of huge – or even large – advances for authors are gone … bummer. Don’t despair, though. Because the smaller publishers don’t have huge overhead, they can pay better royalties, and because of Amazon – the sort-of-great literary equalizer -- a small-time author has about the same ‘shelf’ space as a big-time one … the trick, of course, is to get yourself noticed.

You’re now blogging at Imagination is Intelligence with an Erection, Frequently Felt, Meine Kleine Fabrik and The New Café (Racer) Society. What do you like about blogging? How does it fit into your fiction writing schedule?

Actually The New Café (Racer) Society is a two-wheeled, one-man enterprise run by my brother, S.A. – who works with me on Meine Kleine Fabrik. I like blogs because they’re a way to get yourself out there. With Meine Kleine Fabrik, which is German for “My Little Factory,” the name of a jewelry company S.A. used to have, it’s a kind of commonplace book; a way of sharing the fun and wild and weird and silly and cool things we’ve come across. Frequently Felt is kind of the same thing but with a sexy twist – and is also a place where authors can share their work as well: my way of opening the door for new erotica writers. Imagination is Intelligence with an Erection, is my writing site: the place where I post reviews, announcements about new projects, new books and suchlike.

I kind of cheat, to be honest, with these blogs: I usually just post or repost stuff I find. Sure it makes them a bit less ‘rich’ but I simply don’t understand writers who spend hours posting and no time on their craft. Working on stories and books is what I love to do, so they will always be my top priority.

One of the pleasures for me while I was reading Brushes was the chance to come to my own conclusions about the shadowy central figure, the artist Escobar, based on the clues provided by the perspectives of the different narrators. It’s also fun to see how the different characters “brush up” against each other in different ways on the streets of Paris. But what might be pleasure for the reader could present a real logistical challenge for the author. Did you have a particular strategy to plan and keep track of all the “brushes” in the novel?

Thank you so much – it means a lot to me that you liked it!

While it was a tad challenging, it was also a lot of fun to do. My motivation was to try to put together something showing our various ‘faces:’ like the Donna I know isn’t the Donna other people know, etc. In the case of Escobar these multiple ‘faces’ are amplified because of his fame: the people around him have their own perspectives on him, twisted by jealousy, fear, unreasonable admiration, and all those other lovely emotions. Occasionally I’d find myself ‘painted into a corner’ especially since I was trying to tell the story from different perspectives but also taking place at the same time. Although there are some things I wish I’d done better, I thought it came out pretty well. I guarantee I’ll do better with the next book, and the one after that, and the one after that, and the one after that ….

Your novel has countless wonderful examples of how an erotic scene reveals character—this is really the heart of the book. I’ve chosen this excerpt from chapter 4, told from the point of view of Marcel, a snobbish, fastidious gallery owner, who has called in a paid companion to “celebrate” after a long day in the art business. Here’s a tasty sampling of the scene:

"I love my breasts," she said. "I love they way they look, but I really like the way they feel." Purple painted nails slid over the slopes, stroked under, and deliberately hesitated over the rises of her nipples. One hand went behind, reaching for another clasp, preparing for another revelation.

More than at any time in recent memory, he was aroused. With Josephine it had been there, but more abstract, more a quality of the whole experience than a pulse-matched deep down, stirring where he wasn't Marcel the gentleman, the rich man, the owner of L'Art, but rather just a man and a very demanding desire. He might still be struck by silence, but he could move.

There was a good reason Zazu would love her breasts. They were phenomenal. Large yet exceptionally firm, they swept gently from the satin of her chest, ending in two saucer-sized, swollen areolas, topped by aggressively firm nipples the color of fresh strawberries and the size of gumdrops. As her bra joined her clothes at her feet, her breasts swung and jiggled, a mesmerizing display.

"Aren't they beautiful? I'm so lucky. But what's even better is that I like how they feel, not just how they look." With thumb and forefinger she tightly plucked at her right nipple, much harder than he'd ever seen a woman do before. She hissed, deep and languid, in response. Then the same, this time to the left, but now the hiss became a moan and her knees seemed to lose a bit of their strength. "Oh, wow," she said through a sharp laugh.

Stroking himself, he realized he didn't care that he was or that she knew he was. It was too good. This woman was beautiful and sexy, and more importantly, he was enjoying himself more than he ever had before. How his zipper had come down, how he'd extracted himself from his underwear, he didn't know, but there it was and he wasn't about to stop. Again, the question -- but this time only the barest of whispers in his mind and nowhere near a loud thought: what am I? The answer came immediately: I am me... and I like this.

The other nipple again; this time she had to catch herself before dropping all the way to the carpet. It took her some time to pull herself up and stand straight. "I like this. It's one of my... things, I guess you could call it." Peering through her purple bangs, she caught his gaze with hers. "Having fun?"

Even before he'd realized he'd broken the silence, he found his voice. "I-I am."

Do you have a particular favorite among the characters or scenes in Brushes? Any that were harder or easier to write?

Once again, I really appreciate your kindness and support, Donna! Writing can be a damned hard life so compliments and kindness – especially from a writer I like and admire – are a real treat!

Each of the characters in Brushes had their challenges, as well as their easier bits. I’m so glad you liked Marcel: he was a particularly fun one as I was trying to use his sexuality as a pretty broad reflection of his personality: removed and controlling in life, removed and controlling in bed. Escobar was probably the hardest because as I was ‘doing’ him, I kept thinking that here he is, the guy everyone’s talking about. A bit of pressure there ….

What’s next for you?

Let’s see … working on a gay horror novel called Monster that should be done in a few months. Have a new collection of straight erotica coming out soon, called Licks & Promises. Both The Bachelor Machine, my science fiction erotica collection, and Dirty Words, which is a gay erotica collection, are being reprinted and should be out soon. I’m also chatting with some publishers about doing some new anthologies – more on those very soon. I’ve also done my first screenplay, the movie for which should be shooting soon, and I’m working on other fun stuff as well. Just keep an eye on my blog for more info and updates and such.

Finally, describe a perfect meal that would be guaranteed to seduce you—into a deep conversation about the writing life, if not something even juicier!

A perfect meal? Hummm … I love a lot of food, and have a long list of great restaurants, but to make any meal perfect I’d have to have the company of my wonderful lady, and soon-to-be-wife, Sage Vivant. As I already mentioned, writing can all-to-often be a brutal and hard life. I am very fortunate to have found the woman of my dreams, and would never do anything without her.

Well, congratulations--that's definitely a match made in erotica heaven!! I wish you both all the happiness in the world (as well as many delicious meals together).

Thanks so much for stopping by to talk shop with me. And for those of you interested in some more hot-and-hot-off-the-presses M. Christian fiction, check out his novel Painted Doll and Hack Work, a series of short story downloads, as well.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

The Virgin Mary's got BOOBS!

Yahoo News:

SANTIAGO (Reuters) – A prominent fashion designer has sparked outrage in Chile by dressing up models like the Virgin Mary -- in some cases with ample, near-naked breasts.

The Roman Catholic Church condemned Ricardo Oyarzun's plans for a show featuring the models, and a conservative group tried unsuccessfully to block it in court.

Oyarzun said he had received telephone threats and had excrement smeared on his doorstep.

"There is no pornography here, there's no sex, there are no virgins menstruating or feeling each other up," Oyarzun said ahead of the catwalk show set to be held at a Santiago nightclub later on Thursday. "This is artistic expression."

He said his designs -- which include halos, look as though they come from a nativity scene and include religious icons -- were inspired by the Virgin Mary but not intended to represent her.

"We look on with special pain and deplore those acts which seek to tarnish manifestations of sincere love toward the Virgin Mary, which end up striking at the dignity of womankind by presenting her as an object of consumption," Chile's Episcopal Conference, which includes Catholic bishops, said in a statement.

The show is more evidence that Chile, heavily influenced by the church for decades, is shaking off its reputation as one of the most socially conservative countries in Latin America.

Monday, January 19, 2009

I Have One Thing To Say to South Carolina:

FUCK YOU!

Slashdot:
It looks like in an act that defies common sense, a bill has been introduced in the South Carolina State Senate that seeks to outlaw the use of profanity. According to the bill it would become a felony (punishable by a fine up to $5000 or up to 5 years in prison) to 'publish orally or in writing, exhibit, or otherwise make available material containing words, language, or actions of a profane, vulgar, lewd, lascivious, or indecent nature.' I'm not sure if 'in writing' could be applied to the internet, but in any event this is scary stuff.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

For Number 9 Might I Suggest Books By A (ahem) Certain Author?

The following (from College Sex Advice) comes compliments of Tab - thanks muchly!

Top 10 New Year's Sex Resolutions

  1. Save money by buying condoms and lube in bulk. Those vending machines are such a waste of money. Don't get caught unprepared. If you know you're going to be using a lot of condoms, stock up. If you're not sure, think positive; maybe having a stash of them will inspire you to get busy. And you can never have too much lube. Even if you don't have a partner, lube is always great for masturbating, or quieting that squeaky door.

  2. Organize your sex toy collection. Quit tossing that vibrator under the bed with the dust bunnies. Keep your dildos, vibrators, and other sex toys clean, organized, and carefully stored in a drawer or box. They'll last longer and you'll always know where to find them when you need them.

  3. Be more considerate - let your partner come first. Your girlfriend puts up with a lot, so try putting her first once in a while and give her a screaming orgasm (or two or three) before you even get close to blowing your load. If she falls asleep before you get off...well, turnabout is fair play.

  4. Be generous - give oral sex without being asked. If you know that there's something your partner really, really likes or wants you to do, don't hold back and be stingy. Do unto others, and surprise him or her by doing it spontaneously. Whatever floats their boat - if it's a blowjob, or cunnilingus, or a finger up the butt, or sucking their toes - give them a treat once in a while without making them beg first.

  5. Take time for yourself and masturbate daily. With all your efforts toward self-improvement, don't forget to reward yourself with some good old-fashioned masturbation. It's one of the best ways to relax, ease your tension, and get in touch with your body. Take a time-out from your hectic schedule and spend some quality time with yourself. And of course, Masturbate for Peace.

  6. Have sex with the less fortunate. This year, think of the folks who aren't as well off as you...the ones who just aren't getting any, and find it in your heart to do a good deed. This doesn't mean you have to sleep with any bum or crack whore off the street. That short, shy exchange student or the girl with the freakishly large ass would be fine recipients of your charity work. Share the love.

  7. Try new things, especially new sex positions, new sex toys, or new sex acts Variety is the spice of life and adventure broadens your horizons. Don't be timid in the New Year, keep an open mind and try something new in bed, whether it's anal sex or a threesome.

  8. Aim high and try to bang someone out of your league. You should set high goals for your own sexual achievements. Be bold, be confident, and try to lay someone you think you'd never have a chance with in a million years. You've got nothing to lose and you might get lucky.

  9. Read more dirty books. Better yourself intellectually by reading the great works of literature, especially ones with lots of sex scenes, graphic nudity, and big dicks.

  10. Lose weight by following the Freshman Sex Diet. Everyone wants to lose weight after the holidays. With this diet you can lose some pounds and get in shape by having more sex. While everyone else is counting carbs, you'll be counting orgasms. It's easy and fun.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

A Lively Discussion -

If you're interested in erotic writing - and, frankly, you have to be if you're reading this blog - then head over to the always-wonderful Remittance Girl's site to check out the discussion she's been having about the pros and cons (and other issues) of erotica featuring non-consensual sex with all kinds of smut-writers (including myself). It's thought-provoking and stimulating ... in the very best way.

Monday, January 12, 2009

"Fuck the police in the ass"


Wiki:

HWDP or ChWDP (read ha-voo-de-pe) is a frequently used acronym of a Polish vulgar phrase chuj w dupę policji, meaning literally fuck the police in the ass. The HWDP form is sometimes incorrectly rendered as hak w dupę policji, which literally means hook into the ass of police, in order to hide, what is commonly known to be a spelling mistake - the letter H instead of Ch, however, it was proven by the Polish PWN dictionary, that both the forms chuj and huj are grammatically correct, thus, the form HWDP is grammatically correct as well, and stands for huj w dupę policji. It's the most famous Polish vulgar phrase, and it's very famous outside Poland as well. It can be best compared to the English-language phrase ACAB (All Cops Are Bastards).

This vulgar slogan, often written on walls, is used by a part of the youth as a form of provocation against the police, but also one of its "trademarks". Writing of the HWDP characters, visible from far, is a de facto form of aggressive vandalism, which reasonably lowers the value of the flats near the marked objects. The habit of using the HWDP slogan is particularly popular amongst aggressive football fans, called kibole (some kind of Polish hooligans, that are a part of the dres sub-culture) of the beginning of the 21st century. The acronym appeared for good in texts of the Hip-Hop music as well. It is a specific expression of protest against the authorities and the entire surrounding system, although it isn't an ideological rebellion, but instead, a characteristic sign of the additude to the surrounding reality.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

"Tell Me What You Are" By Billierosie

I'm very pleased - and very touched - to be able to post this special story: a first-time erotic tale from a dear friend of mine, Billierosie. I'm sure you'll all agree with me that she shows true talent. Bravo, Billierosie ... bravo!




Tell Me What You Are
By
Billierosie


“Tell me what you are.” Jake licked my ear, like a big lascivious dog.

“Come on. I want to know now. See, from what I’ve been hearing, you’ve been a very bad girl.”

Someone had been blabbing. Someone couldn’t take a joke. Okay, a bad joke, with me dealing out the laughs. But, some guys have no sense of humour.

Jake wrapped a coil of my long hair around his big rough fist and pulled, just enough to hurt. He turned me, pinning me in the cushions of the sofa.

“Tell me.” he growled into my ear.

His deep voice swamped my senses like an exotic perfume. He pulled my hair again, forcing my head back onto his shoulder. A surge of liquid warmth swept my lower belly at the slight pain; the sensation of him holding me trapped was deliciously erotic. I felt like his puppet, as his strong arms moved my limbs around according to his will. I breathed through the tension and inhaled deeply the smell of my own arousal mingled with Jake’s spicy aftershave. My panties were soaked, I needed to be fucked. The atmosphere was at boiling point, at least it was where I was coming from. Jake was cool as always. Earlier, he’d had me light candles around the room. He hadn’t asked me. He’d told me. Damn nerve, considering we were in my flat. We’d drunk a bottle of red wine. I was light headed. A candle flared and spluttered, briefly making the room brighter. I’d hoped for an evening of seduction and sex. Once again Jake had other ideas.

“I’m…I’m a cock teaser?” I really hadn’t the faintest idea what he wanted me to say.

He laughed and pulled my hair again, very hard. This time it really hurt and I squealed. He didn’t apologise.

“Wrong,” he chuckled: bringing me back to the point; whatever that was. “Well …right answer, but to a different question.”

Now I really didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

He ran his hand up the soft skin of my inner thigh. I shuddered. Jake was like a musician and my body was his instrument, to play as he chose. The room was suddenly stifling; too hot. I breathed fast and shallow.

“Wet panties,” he whispered in my ear. “And that tells you nothing?”

He slipped his hand inside, sliding two fingers into my cunt. Then he was still. I let out a loud moan and squirmed and wriggled, desperate for him to finger fuck me. I needed to come, but he pulled his fingers away, leaving me sadly empty. He brushed lightly over my clit with his thumb, strumming me like a violin. I moaned again, my hips jerking. A police car blasted by in the street outside; sirens blaring.

The tension in the street electrified the room.

He held his two fingers up, clinically examining my juices. They stretched in strings from finger to finger.

“Now, what does this tell you?” he asked.

“That I need to be fucked,” I gasped. “That I’m a slut?”

He brought his fingers to my lips. He was frowning now, as if irritated.

“Clean me,” he ordered.

I obeyed, slurping my tongue noisily around his long fingers. Tasting and smelling my own arousal. I felt humiliated; that I’d been reduced to begging.

He unzipped his jeans, took out his cock and pumped it slowly. I gazed at it; it was long and thick. Jake watched me, knowing my cunt was dripping, and knowing I was imagining it inside me.

“You could suck my cock,” he said, holding my gaze.

“I don’t do that,” I retorted sulkily.

He gave me a “that’s what you think,” kind of look and carried on masturbating. I was very cross and pouted like a spoilt child. It wasn’t as if I even liked fucking, I’d do it, but it was all for me. I just loved to come and I had a finely perfected technique. I’d make sure I came quickly and I’d slide away from the guy just before he’d climax. I’d laugh to see his bewildered face as he realised his stuff wasn’t going to happen, his cock slowly starting to droop as I pulled on my panties. Or I’d slip from him, my orgasm still pumping through my pelvis; his tongue lapping at my clit as I rolled away.

“Please Jake. Fuck me.” I begged and pleaded again. I wanted his come in my cunt. He laughed at my stricken face and continued pumping his cock.

Three months I’d been going with Jake, beautiful Jake, and he’d hardly touched me. If he had, it was only to check the state of my cunt. It was invariably wet. I wanted him so much. I wanted his hard, firm body, honed, not at the gym, but from hard, physical work on the building site. I wanted his long, thick cock inside me. I wanted him badly and it wasn’t as if I hadn’t given him encouragement. With men, I was the one always in control, but all I’d got from Jake was frustration. He’d seduce me and once more I would beg as he moving his big rough hands firmly over my belly and down, just brushing his fingers into my labia, just touching my clit and my cunt. He’d stroke my sensitive, inner thigh with his fingertips then he’d grin and shake his head. He’d order me to finger my clit and watch me till I was gasping, about to come. Then he’d order me to stop , and laugh at my disappointed face.

He’d order me to strip, then he’d look at me, up and down. Have me turn around, bend over and make me hold the position while he examined my cunt. He’d turn me to face him, part the folds of my labia and blow gently onto my clit. He called me names; whore, slut, because I was so wet.

“Beg for it,” he’d order. And I would. He told me I was just a hole waiting to be filled.

He’d have me walk towards him in impossibly high heeled shoes, then walk away from him. He liked my large firm breasts and would make me squeeze my nipples, all the while watching me knowing that he was driving me crazy. I felt degraded, reduced to a thing; a puppet waiting on his time to be fucked.

He was pleased that my breasts were natural. I’d had no work done on them and they were heavy, firm and full, without silicone. That was the only time I’d ever seen Jake angry was when I asked him if he thought I should have implants, go up a couple of cup-sizes. That night he put me over his knee and spanked me hard; I was glad. At least it was contact, I’d made him do something to me. On each hard slap I pushed my ass up to meet his big hand. I whimpered as I felt a tingle beginning in my lower belly; my cunt starting to spasm, opening and closing. But he stopped, right when I was on the edge, just dipping his fingers into my cunt, then holding them to my face as he showed me the sticky moisture and what a wet slut I was. He always make me lick his fingers clean and I gulped greedily at the taste of my juices mixed with the saltiness of my frustrated tears.

He’d pick up my discarded, sopping panties, hold the crotch to his face and breathe in the smell; closing his eyes and savouring it like a fine wine. If he liked it so much, I’d cheekily told him, why wouldn’t he lick out my cunt?

“Careful,“ he’d growl, his deep voice that both thrilled me and scared me. He’d slapped my ass hard and ordered me into the bedroom or onto the oriental rug. Jake was mostly clothed; I was always naked. He’d cover me with his hard body, his swollen cock pressing through his jeans against my clit, while I squirmed beneath him, rubbing myself against him like a bitch in heat, trying to grab a sneaky come. But he always knew the second before I was there and roll away from me.

Why did I keep going back for more? We were seeing each other most nights now. I was addicted to him; determined to get him to fuck me. We’d never fucked; never spent the whole night together; for that I was grateful, at least I could fuck myself almost to the point of unconsciousness with the vibrator after he’d left. I got through a ton of batteries and finally invested in a state of the art rechargeable gadget. It pulsed, throbbed and thrusted, all at the same time; I could give my clit full attention as well as my g-spot. I’d buzz my way to an orgasm whenever I wanted.

“Who needs men?” I thought. But I did. At least I needed Jake.

He’d ask me again and again; “tell me what you are.” But I couldn’t. I didn’t know the answer he wanted. And Jake never left frustrated. He’d finally unzip himself, show me his hard cock. He’d make me look at it, so hard, big and thick. He’d pump it and make me say all the names for it I knew. Slang names, medical names; and he taught me some names I didn’t know. Old fashioned names; Mort’s jack, clakker, clagger. Sometimes we’d giggle, but all the time my fingers were wrapped around his cock, covered by Jake’s hand, masturbating him till he came. He’d lose himself in the orgasm, lucky bastard. Then he’d make me clean him with my tongue. He’d almost doze off to sleep afterwards, but he’d grip my wrists in his big hand, so I couldn’t fondle myself.

We’d only been together a few weeks when Jake went though my wardrobe. I stood meekly by, while he pulled dresses from their hangers, tossed my best designer jeans into a pile on the bed, they were destined for the charity shop. They were forbidden., as were flat shoes and my brand new DMs. I had a couple of mini- skirts and some elegant black calf length skirts. The only blouses he let me keep were white silk and tight fitting emphasising the swell of my breasts. A couple of bras he allowed me. Very tight fitting and boned. He liked the way my breasts were squeezed into the cups, spilling over the top. The only shoes he permitted me had killer heels. These I was to wear with black, silk seemed stockings, with lacy tops. No panties, ever. He let me keep one cock-tail dress; a frou-frou concoction of black lace, so low cut it barely covered my tits.

We went shopping. Jake seated languidly outside the changing rooms, as he had me parade before him in tartan mini-skirts in Vivienne Westwood. Tight corsets, which made me gasp for breath, in Jean-Paul Gaultier. Then back to Westwood for a crazy, sumptuous ball gown. All the while I was rocked by the erotic sense of my own sexuality. No panties made it worse. My labia lips slapping together as I walked; my clit pulsing. The musky odour of my sex following me around.

Then it was back to my flat. I cooked dinner for Jake and he ordered me to stand at his side like a waitress, while he ate. I poured him wine. Only after he’d finished was I allowed to eat in the kitchen. When I complained, he told me that one more word from me and my food would be scraped into a dog’s dish, and I could eat from that on the floor.

Lessons, or training, as Jake put it, continued, and I soon learnt not to complain.

I’d never sucked a guy till Jake ordered me to. I told him again I didn’t do that. It was true, I’d never done it. I’d wanted to, but I wouldn’t demean myself like that.

He’d said, “now you do,” forcing my head down and smearing his pre-come over my lips, like his cock was a lipstick. I gasped as he pinched my nose and he took advantage of my open mouth pushing his cock between my lips. He said I had the ideal mouth for sucking cock, wide and full; that sucking was what I had been born for. He was patient with me and trained me to deep throat him. He taught me to tilt my head back so my mouth, as far as possible, was in a straight line with my throat. That way I was less likely to gag as his cock slid down my throat. Most times he’d come straight into my belly. Sometimes he’d pull out and come in my face. Other times he’d pull back and come into my mouth, ordering me to swallow every drop of his come. I relished the taste of him; delicious and savoury. And all the time I never came, except when I was alone.

Then Jake forbad that. “You’ll come,” he dictated, “when I tell you you can.” He’d guessed I was fucking myself into a frenzy. And a curious thing happened. I’d always been able to come easily. But now it wasn’t happening. No matter how many fingers I jammed inside myself, or how long I tormented my swollen clit with the vibrator, I couldn’t come. I cursed Jake as I sobbed. Sex was in my mind every minute of every day. I dreamed about sex. I dreamed about coming, but I never did. I’d come in my dreams before; a pleasurable little rush, from which I’d wake feeling warm and content. But that was now just a memory.

One night at my flat, he asked me a different question.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes, of course,” I answered immediately. And I did. He’d never done anything to harm me. Our relationship was more about witholding from me, not hurting me.

He ordered me to stand and strip. When I stood naked before him he picked up a silk scarf that had been draped over a chair. He stood behind me and I quivered as he blindfolded me.

“What…what are you doing?” I asked shakily. I could see nothing. I was completely blind.

Jake was silent. I stood trembling and heard him moving around my flat. He took my hands and put them behind my back. I felt another silk scarf bound around my wrist, then he tied it tightly to the other one. It was tight enough to hurt.

“Relax,” he said softly in my ear. “Be still.” Then I heard him move away from me; a creak as he made himself comfortable on the sofa.

I only lasted a few minutes and I started to panic, but there was nothing I could do. I struggled with the bonds around my wrists, I called to him, but he didn’t answer. Was I alone? Had he left me? I was terrified. Tears were soaking into the scarf around my eyes. Snot poured from my nose. Then he was at my side; untying me and taking off the blindfold. He held me and rocked me in his strong arms.

“Sshh,” he breathed. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I never left you.”

I hiccupped tears and snot and drooled spit onto his shoulder.

“Was that your first time?” he asked. “The first time you’d been tied up?”

I nodded, clinging to him. He held me and stroked my hair as I trembled.

“It takes some people like that,” he told me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be so afraid. We’ll take things slowly.”

A few days later he took me to his house. I’d been there before, but hadn’t seen the dungeon he built in the basement. It was dark and hardly lit. A huge diagonal cross was fixed to one wall. Jake told me it was called a St Andrew’s cross. There was a curious contraption; a sort of padded bench, with what looked like leather restraints at a bar that ran along the base. I naively asked Jake what it was for. He smiled and bent me into position.

“The slave is bent over this bar,” he told me. “Then, she’s strapped down and whipped, or paddled. Sometimes both. Try it.”

I shuddered and glanced at the collection of whips displayed on the wall. Could I do that? Let him beat me? I stood bent over the bar and let him fasten the straps. I struggled, but there was no escape. I was at Jake’s mercy. He lifted my mini-skirt and ran his palms smoothly over my ass cheeks. He could do whatever he wanted to me. I felt faint as I realised that I wanted to feel the stinging lash of a whip. “Do it,” I panted. “Beat me with the paddle. Please. Now. As hard as you like.”

“No,” Jake said. “You’re not ready,” and he released me.

A set of branding irons and a small brazier caught my eye. I felt overwhelmed with the potential of exotic sensation. Would Jake do that to me? Had he used it on other girls? I closed my eyes and tried to imagine being strapped down and branded. The intense pain; the smell of burning flesh. Sinking my teeth into my lip. The bitter taste of my own blood; metallic in my mouth. Loosing control; perhaps even pissing myself. When I opened my eyes again I felt giddy. Jake had seen what I was looking at and was watching my face carefully.

“It’s not just pain,” he said. “It’s pleasure too. Pleasure at totally giving of yourself. Pleasure at relinquishing control. How can you experience pleasure if you don’t know how to feel?”

Jake was teaching me and seducing me. I was being slowly remoulded into a different girl; something Jake wanted me to be. I was like a sleep walker. I wanted and needed Jake. I couldn’t get enough of him. Once, I rushed out of the supermarket where I worked, to where Jake was working on a building site across the other side of town, to ask him if he loved me. I staggered over the rubble in my six inch heels to where he was stacking bricks.

“No. I don’t” he told me brutally. He took me to one side. “Not yet.” He slipped his arms around my waist, stooping and pulling up my calf length, black skirt exposing my ass. His work-mates laughed and whistled as he showed me to them. I was scarlet with humiliation, but I trembled in his arms. He turned me to make sure the men could see, then he ran his finger along my crack, poking it into my little virgin ass-hole. I yelped like a dog as he rammed it hard inside. His body shook with laughter. I felt degraded as his friends jeered. He slapped me across the ass and told me to go back to work.

“I’ll see you later,” he said. “We’ve got some serious talking to do.”

I left him, choking on my tears. Was he going to finish it? Was it all over? I couldn’t imagine living without him now. I would do anything to keep him. Had I embarrassed him going to him at work?

“Please, please, please,” I muttered over and over again in an incantation; a mantra. If I kept saying it, it wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t tell me to go.

I didn’t return to work; I called in sick and went home. I showered, washing the sweat from my body and I shaved my cunt. That had been one of Jake’s orders a few days ago and I still hadn’t done it. I thought about trying to make myself come. It would be such a relief. But I decided not to. If I stood any chance with Jake I had to obey his orders.

He was late coming home. I stood at the door to my flat, straining my ears for the sound of his motor cycle. I was trembling. I’d dressed in the leather and lace, black Gaultier corset, which pushed up my breasts with clever boned corsetry; The corset had a front fastening made of big silver hooks. I wanted to rip them apart. I could scarcely breathe. Little suspenders fastened my silk stockings and my bare, shaved cunt was delicately framed in a festoon of black lace.

He’d arrived. I heard the click of his key in the door. He stood back, and smiled a crooked smile as his eyes swept over me, raising an eyebrow as he caught sight of my shaved cunt. I stood waiting submissively as he’d taught me, but so far had refused to do. My back straight, my head bowed. My hands clasped behind my back.

He took me in his arms and kissed me hard, his tongue sweeping my mouth. He tasted of beer; he’d been in the pub. Then he stepped away and held me at arms’ length.

“Well?” he queried. “Are you ready to tell me what you are?”

He stepped into me again and cupped my face in his hands. His thumbs pushing up my chin so I was forced to meet his eyes. I felt as if I were suffocating; choking. I gasped and tried to breathe. He released the pressure just slightly and I was able to speak, but my voice was shaky, barely a whisper.

“When you first asked me about ..…I didn’t know what you meant. I just did what I wanted to do. It was all about…” He ran his finger tips over my arms. I couldn’t think straight with his rough, calloused hands on me.

“You,” he finished the sentence for me. “It was all about you. You didn’t give a damn about those poor guys you left hanging.” Jake stopped speaking for a moment. Then he went on. “At first, I thought you were a fledgling dominant. Out of control. Testing out your powers. Then I saw you were the opposite, a submissive with no master. No direction. You didn’t even know you needed a master.”

I was silent. There didn’t seem anything to say. I’d been a selfish bitch. A bad girl. A slut. That’s all there was to it. And I needed to be punished and controlled.

“So now?” he asked, his voice low. “Tell me what you are.”

I drew a breath. “I’m your slave,” I said. “ I’ll do anything you tell me to,” I could feel myself trembling. I felt tearful; emotional. I was making a solemn promise; a vow. Jake stroked my hair. “I’ll serve you always. I want to be with you. Please don’t send me away.”

Jake continued to watch me. He ran his hand over my belly and then down.

“So,” he said. “You admit it, you really are a submissive? You’ll take whatever I deal out. Whippings? You’ll be whipped, often, and tied down so you can’t move. It’ll hurt. If I loan you to one of my friends, if I’d brought back a friend from the pub this evening. If I tell you he‘s going to …fist you…fist you in the ass…you will? You’ll be degraded at orgies…”You’ll do as you’re ordered?”

I shivered remembering the tiny branding irons and brazier in his dungeon. I made a bitter attempt at humour. “Yes Master,” I said softly. As long as you’ll watch…” Jake’s mouth hardened and I stopped, realising it was no longer my place to make jokes. I cast my eyes submissively down again. I was thankful that I had such an experienced master.

His finger tips split open my labia. His thumb rested on my clit.

“Will you? You’ll be humiliated. But you’ll be content, at peace with yourself.”

“Yes,” I whimpered.

His thumb increased the pressure on my clit, he moved it fast in a circular motion. He leaned into me, breathing in my ear.

“Come,” he whispered.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Running Of The Nudes

I'm not a fan of PETA but their Running Of The Nudes certainly fits Frequently Felt ....



Wiki:

The Running of the Nudes, like the well-known Running of the Bulls, takes place in Pamplona, Spain. The Running of the Nudes occurs two days before the Running of the Bulls, just before the start of the nine-day festival of San Fermín. In the Running of the Nudes, naked humans, many wearing only plastic horns and red scarves, follow the same route taken by the Running of the Bulls, from the Santo Domingo corrals through the town’s streets, ending at the Plaza de Toros. The length of the run is some 800 meters (about half a mile) and the event takes about one hour.

Unlike the traditional event featuring live animals, the Running of the Nudes features only humans. The event was created in 2002 and is supported by animal welfare groups, including PETA, who object to the Running of the Bulls, claiming that the event is cruel and glorifies bullfighting, which these groups oppose.

Sunday, January 4, 2009

Come All Ye Faithful -

Here's a fun bit of sex news from Jezebel ... compliments of my beloved Sage Vivant.

Some Christians Embrace Pleasurable Sex (Toys) [With Liberty And Orgasms For All]:
It's hard out there for a conservative Christian who likes sex. Between Ed Young, Tucker Carlson and Dennis Prager advocating that women just submit, it's hard to get taken seriously as a pro-sex Christian.

But there are conservative Christians in the world who think that sex should be a mutually satisfying sexual experience every time for both partners. Joy Wilson, of Book22.com [NSFW] is one of those people. She runs a Christian marital aid shop that caters to conservative Christians looking to maximize the sexual pleasure in their marriage without porn or products that advocate "immoral" acts. And, a couple of decades ago, Tim and Beverly LeHaye encouraged Christian couples to see mutual orgasm as mutually beneficial (unlike Dennis Prager, who thinks that women's insistence on having one every time is responsible for the decline of the American family).

Here's the thing. Is it easy to mock from a secular perspective? Sure, as my choice of photo demonstrates. But the pro-sex (even if it is only pro-sex-in-marriage) Christians are doing the, um, Lord's work. They are, in effect, reframing feminist arguments about sex and women's sexuality and women's sexual pleasure in a language and a belief system in which a good part of this country fervently believes. They are encouraging people — within the context of marriage, which, okay, they're not going to talk about it pre-maritally — to view mutual sexual pleasure as not only an okay thing, or a good thing but as an important think and a required thing and even a gift from God.

And, not only are these Sex Crusaders encouraging men to think about sex in those terms, but they are encouraging women to open up about their sexuality to their husbands and with themselves and to be fully engaged, happy and comfortable with their sexuality. Is it so terrible for Christians to run around telling men that female orgasms are a gift from God that they should be helping their wives find? Hell, no. In fact, we need hundreds more of these men and women running around and shouting down Dennis Prager and Tucker Carlson and Ed Young every time they open their yaps and talk about submission and frigidity and male desire and the lack of female desire. If everyone was having more regular orgasms, don't you think the world would be a better place?

Saturday, January 3, 2009

"Moving" - A Taste of Bite-Sized M.Christian

Here's a tantalizing taste of "Moving," one of the stories offered as part of Logical-Lust's special edition series of my stories. To get the rest of the story (and the other tales) just click here.


“Don’t move,” she said.

“That’s it?” I said.

“That’s it. That’s it, exactly. Don’t move.”

“Right now?” Smiling.

She returned my smile. “Right now. But get comfortable first.”

“Isn’t that sort of counterproductive?”

She tapped the tip of my nose. “Comedian. Don’t worry, you’ll get an experience.”

“But not a moving one, eh?”

The smile stayed, but her words were serious: “Great experiences are always moving – but not vice versa. Not at all.”

At least Sylvia’s basement was warm … no, not basement. Dungeon: that was it, though I still couldn’t think of it that way. “Dungeon” – that was bricks, rats, iron bars, and the Man in the Iron Mask. Who was in that, anyway Lon Chaney? Errol Flynn? Jose Ferrer? I’ll have to look it up later.

“Dungeon” certainly wasn’t a basement rec room in the Avenues, the perpetually foggy ocean side of San Francisco. No bricks, no iron bars, no rats, at least not as far as I could see. But that’s what Sybil called it, so that’s what I should probably call it, too.

Golden-yellow, close-cropped, shag carpeting. A heavy table covered in black leather. A pine chest with a latch and padlock – closed and locked. It certainly wasn’t anything Lon Chaney, Errol Flynn or Jose Ferrer would have been scared of.

But I wasn’t Lon or Errol or Jose, or even Brendan Fraser, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least nervous. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Sybil, but this was more than a bit new to me. For me, sex had always been about a cock (mine), tits and pussies. Not whips, chains and “Yes, Mistress.” But that’s what it was for Sybil. At least she understood my trepidation, thus the padlock on her war chest.

What am I doing here? It wasn’t the first time I thought that, walking in the door to her place. The response was the same as it had always been: because this was part of her life, and I wanted to be part of her life, too.

[MORE]

Friday, January 2, 2009

I Wonder If There Were Fireworks in Naples?

From the BBC:
New Year's Eve could prove to be something of a damp squib for some men in the Italian city of Naples.

Hundreds of Neapolitan women have pledged to go without sex unless their men promise to refrain from setting off dangerous illegal fireworks.

Local authorities are backing the women and have sent out text messages urging the men to "make love, not explosions".

The women say it is the only way to persuade their partners that they are serious about their concerns.

"Setting off illegal fireworks isn't celebrating, it's dangerous," Carolina Staiano, a founder of the campaign, told La Stampa newspaper.

She told women that if their man did not understand the dangers they should "take action and make him sleep on the sofa".

''If a sex strike is what it takes in order to get the attention of our men, husbands, partners and sons, then we're ready for it," Mrs Staiano, 44, told Italy's Ansa news agency.

Mrs Staiano, who has the support of local churches, speaks from personal experience when warning of the dangers of fireworks.

She has spent her life caring for her father, who was left partially paralysed and with epilepsy after a firework exploded next to him at a New Year's Eve party before she was born.

But the campaign, which started as a small-scale pledge in her home town of Lettere, about 40km (25 miles) from Naples, now has hundreds of supporters and has generated massive media interest.

''I'm receiving phone calls all the time from people who want to join. To be honest, I really wasn't expecting this level of interest,' said Mrs Staiano.

The move was inspired by the ancient Greek play Lysistrata, in which the women of Athens refuse to have sex unless their men folk forge a truce with their rivals from Sparta.

Doctor and local councillor Vincenzo Sorrentino, who has long campaigned against the illegal fireworks, said a sex ban was "an issue that men are particularly sensitive to''.

''The idea of no sex is not exactly popular and polls among local men have suggested they plan to make much greater efforts this year to prevent illegal fireworks being let off," he said.

Previous attempts to prevent the New Year's Eve mayhem had proved unsuccessful, said Mr Sorrentino, but he hoped the women's threat would do the job.

"They are more convincing and they always achieve their goals," he said.

The BBC's Duncan Kennedy in Rome says if the men of Naples fail to get the women's message, an awful lot of them could be waking up on sofas on New Year's Day.