Sunday, August 30, 2009

I Like Fetish By billierosie

Here's a GREAT post by another Frequent Frequently Felt contributor, and a fantastic friend, billierosie, via her new blog.

I like fetish. But I don’t really get it. Perhaps that’s why it intrigues me. I find it alluring. The wild spectrum of idiosyncrasies that turn people on. I guess it’s subjective, personal to each individual. I’d like to know more, although with no one that I know, admitting to a fetish, it’s something that’s difficult to find out about. But I am curious.
So I search the Web, and find that there’s stuff going on that I’d never dreamed of. There’s some that I don’t want to think about, let alone talk about. Practices that are cruel, if not downright dangerous. But the ones that I feel okay with, well, it’s interesting to see how some fetishes have been taken up by writers of Erotica.

I’d never heard of Doll fetish, until I read about it on Sexual Fetish Freebase.

“Doll fetishism is a sexual fetish in which an individual is attracted to dolls and doll like objects such as figurines. The attraction may include the desire for actual sexual contact with a doll, a fantasy of a sexual encounter with an animate or inanimate doll, encounters between dolls themselves, or sexual pleasure gained from thoughts of being transformed or transforming another into a doll.”

I remembered P.S.Haven’s excellent short story; Charles Sykes Spirit of Ecstasy, and it fits very well into this category. It’s the story of a woman who has an overwhelming desire for the Rolls Royce emblem, the spirit of ecstasy. It has an almost spiritual significance for her. She gives herself up to it, literally, in an encounter that is stunningly sexy.
Jude Mason and Jenna Burns give us a Transformation fetish in, Feral Heat. Kai is a highly sexed human. But he’s a changeling and is also a highly sexed cougar.

“Transformation fetish is a context of sexual fetishism in which a person becomes sexually aroused by descriptions or depictions of transformations, usually the transformations of people into other beings or objects. The Transformation, or "TF" community does not seem to have a specific name for its members; often the generic "TF fan" is used, however this term is also applied to people who have a non-sexual interest in Transformation fiction. …”
Then there’s ‘golden showers,’ the liking for being pissed on.
“Urolagnia (also urophilia, undinism) is a sexual activity in which participants derive sexual pleasure from urine or urination. The term has origins in the Greek Language (from ouron, urine, and lagneia, lust). Those who enjoy urolagnia may enjoy urinating on another person or persons, or being urinated upon. Some participants may drink the urine; this practice is known as urophagia…”
An acquaintance did once admit to me to a liking for being pissed on. He couldn’t say why, other than it “is really nice.” Janine Ashbless gives me a better idea in ‘Renaissance,’ in her collection; Cruel Enchantment.
“…the bright pungent stream of his urine splashed on her tits, on her aching nipples, on her belly and splayed thighs…it felt unbelievably good. The male stink made her head swim…”
And I mustn’t forget the voyeurs and exhibitionists. Another Fetish taken up by writers of Erotica. In All Eyes On Her, M. Christian takes us through the journey of one woman exposing herself to the world. Cindy masturbates on the roof of a building.
“Cindy watched the city watching her. Looking at one silvery window in particular she lifted her right hand to her left breast and stroked the soft skin and pinched the hard nipple.”
Here, Christian cleverly blends two Fetishes into one story. We see the point of view of both voyeur and exhibitionist.
“In clinical psychology, voyeurism is the sexual interest in or practice of spying on people engaged in intimate behaviors, such as undressing, sexual activity, or other activity usually considered to be of a private nature. In popular imagination the term is used in a more general sense to refer to someone who habitually observes others without their knowledge, and there is no necessary implication of any sexual interest.”
“Exhibitionism, known variously as flashing, and Lady Godiva syndrome, is the psychological need and pattern of behavior involving the exposure of parts of the body to another person with a tendency toward an extravagant, usually at least partially sexually inspired behavior to attract the attention of another in an open display of bare private parts…”
And, of course there’s Foot Fetish. We’ve all heard of it, but strangely, I couldn’t find a definition for it. It does though seem closely linked to Boot Fetish and Shoe Fetish.
I couldn’t find a story so here’s a bit of one of my own.
“Feet. For Adam, it had always been feet, for as long as he could remember. One of his earliest memories was of sitting underneath the big, oak table in his mother’s dining room, surrounded by ladies’ feet. He was just a toddler and his mother had no-one to leave him with at her monthly book club meetings. So he was allowed to crawl around under the table as long as he didn’t make a noise. Adam never made a noise. He sat and listened to the women’s soft voices and laughter, as he sucked his thumb, lost in his own private heaven, gazing at, and inhaling the smell of women’s feet. Once he’d dared to touch a lady’s foot. He stroked the fine creamy skin curiously, marveling at the delicate bones beneath. The lady had peeped down at the little boy beneath the table, and smiled.”
There’s so many, many more. Far more than I can talk about here. Fetishes for Spandex, Latex, Leather, PVC, and Fur. There’s Pony girls and boys. Scatology and of course, good old Bondage. Enough to keep Erotica writers going for years to come.
Check out Sexual Fetish Freebase to find out more.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

A book whose time has ... Come

This great post - about Cecil Goran and his fantastic project - comes from Jeremy Edwards. Thanks, Jeremy!


Imagine somebody with sufficient inspiration, initiative, passion, focus, research skills, and dedication to assemble a definitive compendium of literature’s wide world of metaphors for semen.

Yes, imagine my non-imaginary friend Cecil Goran, the Bearded Confidant. His research arc has recently climaxed, and the Dictionary of Semenyms [note: some NSFW pages on book description's host site] has been catapulted into the world.

I think it’s safe to say that a dictionary of jism, fifteen years in the making, gives new resonance to the concept of “stick-to-itiveness.”

So, yes, the news on Confidant’s remarkable semen dictionary is out ... and I’m here to help spread it around. Er ... to help disseminate it. Er ...


The imagery cited in Dictionary of Semenyms spans centuries, as well as representing a rich, warm, viscous range of categories—which Confidant has methodically organized with the lust of the true scholar. Here are some of the contemporary entries (complete with Cecil's annotations):

all - the greatest amount a man can ejaculate.
“He shot it all, thrusting once, twice.”
Alison Kent, The Beach Alibi
[cited in the "Quantities" chapter of Dictionary of Semenyms]

burning liquor - an intoxicating beverage, like firewater.
“His cock shuddered wildly, emptying its burning liquor into the trembling crash of her orgasm.”
Kristina Lloyd, Darker than Love
[cited in the "Temperature" chapter]

expansive juice - a fullscale, wide-ranging ejaculation.
“She was too tired to move and swallowed his expansive juice.”
Maxim Jakubowski, Kiss Me Sadly

[cited in the "Quantities" chapter]

his own fluid - used to describe semen as a man’s personal creation.
“Holding my ass cheeks in both hands, he shot his own fluid into me.”
Jean Roberta, “Communion”

[cited in the "Personal Terms" chapter]

warmth of it - a cozy blanket of sperm.
“The warmth of it slithered down my throat and I tried my best to swallow.”
Gwen Masters, One Breath at a Time
[cited in the "Temperature" chapter]

wet kisses - passionate pecks from a pecker.
“We come with synchronized precision, my pampered prick blowing wet kisses onto her industrious fingers.”
—Jeremy Edwards, “Napkin on My Lap”
[cited in the "Loving Terms" chapter]

But wait! Don’t answer yet. Dictionary of Semenyms also includes an epic erotic fantasy (m/m/m/m/m ...), a guide to “scarlet letters,” and a mini-encylopedia of safe words (featuring safe-word snippets from authors such as Alison Tyler, Kristina Lloyd, Teresa Noelle Roberts, and Charlie Anders)!

If a volume of this nature would traditionally be termed a literary companion, then "Semenyms" is a literary companion with benefits. I asked Confidant a couple of questions about this seminal reference work, this “Spunk & White,” if you will.

Can you tell us a little bit about the research process for locating semenyms?

I discover them only through deliberate accident. I can't directly search for an unknown word—I must scan erotic literature for orgasmic language and then hope to find a coined term tossed into the mix. It's like digging for X-rated treasure without a map to mark the spot. That's why the dictionary of semenyms has been fifteen years in the making.

Fifteen years is quite a journey! Did the nature of the project evolve in that time?

Yes. For a long time the dictionary didn't feature any definitions but only examples of usage from erotic literature. It hadn't occurred to me to write definitions, since every term obviously means "semen." But when I pitched the book to a publisher about ten years ago, the rejection letter mentioned that they didn't publish books of quotations. My first thought was one of surprise: "I didn't realize my dictionary was a book of quotations!" My second thought was more practical: "So I need to find a definition for each sperm term that transcends the obvious!" Writing the definitions proved to be quite a challenge but also extraordinarily rewarding, as I had an opportunity to add some of my own wit to the whimsical quotations from erotic literature. Plus, as any lexicographer will tell you, once you write the first one-thousand definitions, you get a rhythm going.

And now, here’s where you come ... in. Actually, you can come in two places:

First, Confidant cheerfully notes that "Semenyms" will be updated for future editions! (Semen: The gift that keeps on giving.) So here’s the come-on: If you have an entry of your own that you’d like him to consider, please either post it in the comments here, or e-mail it to him (confidant AT keepstill DOT com). Though previously published citations are preferred, Confidant acknowledges that “some semenyms are simply ahead of their time”—so quotations from your unpublished or not-yet-published writings are eligible as well.

Second, we’re giving away a copy of Dictionary of Semenyms! Here’s the challenge that Confidant has come up with: Match the sperm term to the person who said it. Below, you’ll find two columns, one containing entries from Semenyms and one containing the authors’ names. If you want to play, try to match up semenym to author, and post your guesses in the comments. We’re on the honor system here—no research, please. (But if you happen to recognize one or more of the entries and know the correct answers just because you’re a mad-skillz erotica maven, then that’s legit—it’s okay to win by dint of your previously amassed expertise, just not by dint of ad hoc answer-foraging.) The person with the greatest number of correct matches will win the book (and no penalty for incorrect matches, so guess away). In the event of a tie, the earlier comment wins. I’ll post the answers in a week (Wednesday, August 12), along with the name of the winner. Thanks for—er—sticking around and playing!

Monday, August 24, 2009

$150 for the Half By Giselle Renarde

Here's a wonderful little tale by the very charming - and very talented - Giselle Renarde.





$150 for the Half
By
Giselle Renarde



They come to your house, $150 for the half, $250 for the hour. Brittany and Paige. Real original, but nobody cares about the names. It’s the uniforms they’re after. It’s the pleated grey schoolgirl skirts and white cotton panties, pristine as fresh laundry in the sun.

Brittany wears a genuine Catholic School shirt, complete with authentic academic badge. None of the buttons are done up, and the tails are tied tight beneath obviously braless tits. You can already see puffy pink nipples hardening into stiff buds.

Paige is dressed in one of those Japanese sailor-girl tops, flaps grey like her skirt. You know she’s got to be the naughtier of the two because she’s wearing white thigh-highs with garters amply visible beneath the hem of her skirt. The stockings are rimmed with lace.

They come to your house and play just for you—play with you if you want, but it’s almost better just to watch. They kiss. You can see their tongues mingling, so you know it’s real. They fondle each other’s tits, Brittany lifting Paige’s top over her head and letting it fall to the floor.

Paige whacks Brittany’s thighs with an old-school wooden ruler, pulls down her panties and slaps her ass. What’s pinker, her tender cheeks or those drooling pussy lips that soon get their turn under the tongue? Paige has a tongue stud. See? Definitely the naughtier of the two.

$150 later, you’re floating on a cloud of bliss and they’re packing up to go. Paige asks to use the bathroom and you’re so relieved you cleaned it this morning. Dirty girls though they may be, you make sure to treat them like queens.
Eroticist, environmentalist and pastry enthusiast Giselle Renarde is a proud Canadian, dedicated pornographer, and supporter of the arts. Her numerous e-books include Cunning Little Vixens and The Birthday Gift (eXcessica), and she is short story contributor to more than fifteen anthologies, including Bite Me (BBA/Torquere Press), Tasting Her (Cleis Press), and Ultimate Lesbian Erotica 2009 (alyson books). For Giselle, a perfect day involves watching a snowstorm rage outside with a cup of tea in one hand and a chocolate truffle in the other. Ms Renarde lives across from a park with two bilingual cats who sleep on her head. For more information on Giselle and her work, visit her website at www.freewebs.com/gisellerenarde or her blog, Donuts & Desires,

Sunday, August 23, 2009

The (In)Famous Disneyland Memorial Orgy Poster

Wiki:
The Realist, edited and published by Paul Krassner, was a pioneering magazine of "social-political-religious criticism and satire" in the American countercultural press of the mid-20th century. Although The Realist is often regarded as a major milestone in the underground press, it was a nationally-distributed newsstand publication as early as 1959. Publication was discontinued in 2001. The Realist was the first satirical magazine to publish conspiracy theories ....

... His Disneyland Memorial Orgy poster, illustrated by Wally Wood, was a highlight of the magazine, so successful that Krassner printed it as a poster that was widely pirated. The poster was recently upgraded by Krassner into a new, digitally-colored version. Other cartoonists featured in The Realist included Dick Guindon and Mort Gerberg.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Why I Consider Myself A Feminist Pornographer By I.G. Frederick

Here's a great essay by the also-extremely-great I.G. Frederick. Bravo, I.G.!





Why I Consider Myself A Feminist Pornographer
By
I.G. Frederick


Recently, a friend and fan of my writing offered to feature my books on her blog, she asked me if I considered myself a "feminist pornographer." Talk about a loaded question -- certainly not one I can answer casually.

The two terms -- feminist and pornographer -- are themselves volatile. For many, "feminist" is a fighting word, equated with man-hating and confused with female supremacy. Fundamentalists take this vitriol to the extreme. For example, Mike Adams, a criminology professor at the University of North Carolina, insists "Feminism is a minority social movement, whose members murder innocent children in order to obtain sexual gratification." He rationalizes this outrageous statement with: "feminists today are voluntarily involved in a movement whose principal issue/goal is abortion on demand." As a result of comments such as these, the word has attained negative connotations resulting in denial of the label even by those who, when questioned, agree with every tenet of feminism.

Then you have the major schism within feminism between the anti-pornographers and the sex-positive movement. The former argues that pornography degrades women. However, many women don't consider the money they can earn as sex workers at all degrading, especially when compared to the minimum wage/no benefit job alternatives available (or not) to them.

No one has offered scientifically documented evidence of the specious argument that pornography contributes to violence against women, misogyny, or even the perpetuation of the patriarchal attitudes it reflects. Some have attempted to prove statistically that access to porn reduces rape. Tim Worst's claims, in an article on examiner.com, that "since the mainstreaming of porn into American lives in the early 70s ... the incidence of rape per capita has declined by an astonishing 85 percent ... It isn't exactly news that the rise of the internet and the web has made pornography vastly more available. ... If exposure to porn did indeed cause rape, if on balance they were complements not substitutes, we would have expected an explosion in the incidence of rapes."

Steven E. Landsburg writes in How the Web Prevents Rape on Slate.com: "More Net access, less rape." He quotes Clemson professor Todd Kendall, who claims that "a 10 percent increase in Net access yields about a 7.3 percent decrease in reported rapes."

While these conclusions are questionable, one valid point made in this article is that: "psychologists have found that male subjects, immediately after watching pornography, are more likely to express misogynistic attitudes. But as professor Kendall points out, we need to be clear on what those experiments are testing ... the effects of watching pornography in a controlled laboratory setting under the eyes of a researcher," Landsburg writes.

"The experience of viewing porn on the Internet, in the privacy of one's own room, typically culminates in a slightly messier but far more satisfying experience -- an experience that could plausibly tamp down some of the same aggressions that the pornus interruptus of the laboratory tends to stir up."

Sexually repressed fundamentalists would like to eliminate pornography along with every other form of sexual pleasure that doesn't result in conception. "Donít women, and all people, have the right to control their bodies, access their sexual desires, and to enjoy safe and consensual sexual pleasure?" asks KaeLyn in Feminist Porn: Sex, Consent, and Getting Off "And while the porn and sex/adult industry is currently geared towards men and definitely objectifies women, forgets womenís pleasure, and supports an oppressive rape culture, I see a bigger solution than attempting to censor or criminalize sex."

KaeLyn believes that "like abortion, homosexuality, and other social issues that have been labeled 'deviant' and make people uncomfortable, sex work and the sex trade will always go on, even if pushed underground. And legalization and support of sex work can open the door to helping the sex/adult industry become safer and healthier for sex workers and a more welcoming and affirming place for feminists and all people." She also believes "in a society that truly values gender justice, where women can make free and safe choices about sex and sexuality, be free from abuse and assault, and have available to them the same frank and authentic access to their sexual selves that Western culture affords men from the day they pop out of the womb."

Personally, I've always considered and proclaimed myself a feminist. I advocate equal rights for women including equal pay for equal work, protection from domestic abuse and rape, access to contraception, legal benefits equal to men's, etc. But I'm also a FemDom (although not a female supremacist) who owns a collared submissive -- not what many would consider "equal." In addition I have many female friends and acquaintances who submit to their male masters, some who chose to live as slaves.

As for pornography, I myself have gotten caught up in the porn versus erotica debate with other authors on numerous occasions. I've quoted an author from whom I once took a class on the subject, Eric M. Witchey, who defines erotica as a story in which a character experiences a life-changing event as a result of a sexual encounter. I myself have differentiated the two by explaining erotica as fiction in which the sex scenes move the story forward or reveal/develop character compared to porn in which the story line is just used to tie the sex scenes together.

However,J.T. Benjamin says it best in All Worked Up About Porn for Erotica Readers Association, Inc.: "pornography is erotica that you don't like, or that you don't want to admit you do like."

I believe my friend the feminist pornographer has the best approach. Rather than accept the mainstream feminist attitude that pornography degrades women or that women need to adjust their attitudes about their own bodies, she promotes "tackling the sticky issue of how men's porn and male sexuality interact with gender dynamics and body image issues."

She admits "I want to be objectifiedóthoroughly, explicitly, perversely -- by men --because it turns me on. I enjoy using sex as power. I adore being the center of menís sexual attention. I identify as sexually submissive."

What makes her, in my opinion, a feminist, is that she has made these choices for herself rather than allowing society to choose her role because of her gender -- just as I have chosen the dominant role in my relationship, just as my boy has chosen to submit to me, just as my friends have chosen to proudly wear their masters' collars.

Which all brings me back to the original question: do I consider myself a "feminist pornographer"? The fiction I write could be described as erotica by the definitions above: the sex scenes move the story forward, reveal/develop character, and result in life changing experiences for the characters. Readers like it and admit they like it.

In reality, though, my novels don't exactly meet the dictionary definition of erotica -- they're not intended to sexually arouse. Broken and Shattered are cautionary tales about the fine line between abuse and BDSM. One of the highest compliments I've received was from a woman I respect greatly who told me that they made her think.

Many would call the novels, and my published short stories, "smut" and "porn." While I have always proclaimed my feminism with pride, in the past I have shied away from association with pornography. I've only admitted to writing erotica because I believe my work does have literary/artistic value beyond stimulating sexual desire.

But I think we need to take back that word, as others have taken back derogatory terms and embraced them. So yes, my friend, I consider myself a feminist pornographer. Thanks for helping me take pride in that.
I.G. Frederick has written professionally for more years than she cares to admit and has specialized in erotic fiction and poetry for the last eight. She has sold numerous short stories and poems to various print and electronic magazines and anthologies. Preditors & Editors Readers Poll named her novel, Shattered, one of the top ten erotica novels published in 2008. Broken was number twelve in the mainstream category. Both have received high praise from readers, critics, and other writers.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Surviving Your Times By Ralph Greco, Jr.

Here's another wonderful essay from my pal - and a great writer - Ralph Greco, Jr. Definitely check out his "My Favorite Things" radio show!




Surviving Your Times
By
Ralph Greco, Jr.

I often wonder…

We had only three TV channels, CBS, NBC and ABC, with a few local ones thrown in for Three Stooges repeats and those educational programs and Mr. Rogers on PBS. If you happened to miss one of those Rankin and Bass Christmas specials one year you were sunk 'til next year, there were no DVD's or even VCRs until I was in my late teens. I remember going to grammar school one morning having missed "Trilogy Of Terror"-the one where that little doll-come-to-life and chases Karen Black around her apartment-and feeling like the world had gone on without me…and I still haven't seen it to this day.

Maybe I should buy the DVD.

How about the perils of outside play? Side-of-the-house maneuvers and hasty strategies of 'Army', using sticks as guns, the mantra of my dad: "You can poke you're eye out" swirling round my head as we chased, laughed, rolled and mock-shot each other while cutting-through backyards. How about riding our bikes without a helmet? My best friend Tom used to set-up ramps mid-street emulating Evel Knievel jumps on his bike almost every Saturday afternoon. He had this trick/ability/power where he could pop-a-wheelie and stop on a skid right before he hit me as I stood as his always willing, always unharmed, guinea pig.

I often ask myself, how did we survive, we the children of the late sixties, early seventies? How did we ever master the intricacies of knowing to come home when streetlights winked to life? How did we ever completely digest those unnamed blobs of dough, sugar and what-ever-else bubbled to life in our sister's Betty Crocker ‘Easy Bake Ovens’ dim-lit alchemy? How many of us could have been, but weren’t rushed to the hospital when an ice-ball, disguised as a snowball smacked into our ear? How did we survive eating paste?

The point is; we made it. It was the best if times, it was the worst of times…as everybody’s times were. My folks relate tales of childhood torture unimaginable, how they had no T.V., no dishwashers, in a few cases, not even a car! Next to their ‘walking to school both ways’ travails (I guess back then a lot of schools sat in the seat of a valley?) recalling my furtive attempts to talk to friends over a ‘party-line’ seem poignant.

Wait, I just remembered! How ‘bout those orange marshmallow ‘Circus Peanut’ things, or what was in that sweeter-then-sweet liquid in those wax candy bottles, or how about…

Jeez, how did we survive it all?

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Peeping Johnny By Jude Mason (Part 4)

I'm very, very, very pleased to be able to share this great - and very hot - four part tale from the fantastic Jude Mason. In case you missed it, here's part 1, here's part 2, and here's part 3.




Peeping Johnny
By
Jude Mason

Johnny took another long chug of beer. He squirmed, feeling the towel bunch up beneath him and enter the crack of his ass. Deftly, he reached down and tugged it straight again, and felt his cock slap against his belly. Even that was enough to make him catch his breath.

In front of him, the game escalated. Greta had the riding crop. She walked around the bound girl, still smiling. She flicked the crop. The girl yelped. It had barely touched her on the left hip, but a red welt appeared. Another flick of her wrist and another yelp reached him.

Greta said something. He couldn't make out what, but the girl smiled and looked longingly at the larger woman.

Greta stood back, holding the crop high. When the girl nodded, the crop descended. Johnny saw the clamp on her right nipple twitch. Without a moment's hesitation, she raised the crop and brought it down again, landing a blow on the other clamped nipple.

The girl opened her mouth wide, threw her head back, and screamed.

Even though he watched it happen, he jumped.

Greta stopped. She looked angrily at the girl and left the room again. She was back in less than a minute with a red rubber ball gag. Holding the gag out, she cocked her head towards the girl and waited. A nod was all it took. Greta went behind her. The ball stretched her mouth wide. When the strap was fastened at the back of her head, there was no way she could push it out.

Greta stroked her cheek, and kissed her at the nape of the neck.

Then it was back to business. She positioned herself in front of the girl again and raised the crop. A tiny nod from the gagged woman and the crop came down. Greta had a rhythm in a matter of moments; she swung at a pace that left him breathless. She accurately touched each of the clamps that decorated the tortured tits thrust towards her. Each delicate snap made the tit jump. In no time, the girl was weeping wildly around the gag. She jiggled and tried to swing around, but the spreader bar made it hard for her to move. When she did it seemed to add to her torment.

Johnny was beside himself with pleasure. His cock was so hard he could have driven nails, but his balls ached horribly. Still, he hung on, squeezing just behind the head, but as soon as the imminent threat passed, he stroked again. His butt tightened and relaxed, as if he was trying to fuck the air between himself and the tortured woman. Pre-come coated his prick, making his stroking even more pleasurable.

He blinked, amazed when one of the clamps flew into the air. The muffled shriek that followed, and the wild gyrations of his lady, had him dangling on the brink one more time.

"Holy fuck!" he muttered mindlessly. Sweat streamed down his face and body. He'd been masturbating, close to coming for the past hour. He'd never been so turned on before and wanted it all to last forever. His toes curled. He knew it couldn't be much longer.

Greta took a step closer to her bound companion. She checked the woman's nipple and the needles that adorned the tits. Blood still oozed from some of them. Her tits looked as if they didn't belong to her body because of the deep purple color, but she obviously decided to go on. Stepping back, she proceeded with the cropping. Three more clamps remained. She brought the crop down expertly. The clamp on her nipple jerked wildly.

The tormented woman jerked with the new pain. Her face was a bright red. A steady flow of tears streamed down her cheeks.

Finally, another clamp flew free and the cropping stopped again. Greta stood in front of the woman. With her crop in one hand, she reached between the woman's' thighs and stroked her. At first, it looked as if she was barely touching her, but that soon changed. Her shoulder hunched as she slid fingers into her and fucked her deep and hard

Johnny couldn't take it any more and felt his come rise. His cock thickened and his balls tingled in that lovely familiar way again. He didn't try to stop it that time. He just went along for the ride. He arched his back and for an instant was blind to anything but the roaring in his ears as his body convulsed, and come launched from his cock. Another stroke and he shot again, harder than the first and the stream of hot come landed on his belly. Muscles clenched, another spasm hit, and another smaller stream of come erupted. He shuddered. He groaned and shuddered again.

When he opened his eyes again, the women were back in position. Greta, with her crop, swung and landed a blow on one of the clamps fixed to the areola. A muffled yelp and the clamp flew free. Greta smiled, took aim again, and let fly.

The girl sobbed as the last clamp shot into the air. No doubt, the pain was worse now than it had been. But, by the way she squirmed, it wasn't her tits she was worried about.

Johnny, breathing raggedly from his own orgasm, gently stroked his cock, urging the last morsel of pleasure from his rapidly shrinking member. He watched the woman straining against her bonds, trying to rub her thighs together. The inside if her thighs were shiny with her juices. As he reached for another towel to clean himself up, Greta stepped forward. Once she turned the riding crop around in her hand, the handle made an acceptable dildo. With no preliminaries or warning, she pushed it into the girl's pussy. She let go of the leather crop and reached behind the girl’s head. A moment later, the gag fell to the floor and she took a deep breath.

Johnny appreciated that as much now as he had when the entire event had begun. Her nipples looked painfully red, but there were no new blood trails leading from the needle holes. The skin shone. Her tits looked as if they'd been waxed or polished.

"Make her come now, bitch," Johnny mumbled as he carefully cleaned his still partially erect prick.

As if Greta read his mind, or had heard him, she reached for the end of the crop. The handle was buried in the woman's pussy, held there by the strength of her muscles alone.

He would love to have had his prick in there testing those muscles, but that was unlikely. Besides, he had his girlfriend, he mused, as he rubbed the shaft of his cock and felt it swell.

The bound woman thrust herself onto the handle as much as she could. Her tits swung and swayed. She didn't seem to mind at all. She might have even been wringing a little more painful pleasure from them bouncing. In only a few moments of steady fucking, her muscles tensed, she pushed her hips forward and arched her back.

Greta fucked her harder, thrusting the handle in deep. She reached down and did something to her clit. The girl exploded. She cried out her pleasure and lunged onto the crop, cream dripped out of her and down Greta's hand.

Johnny took another pull on his beer. He shuddered, and then he smiled. She sure was some neighbor. He finished his beer while he watched the two of them. Once the woman came, it seemed like a signal to let her down. Greta helped her unbind her breasts and pull the needles out one by one. Each one bled a little, but neither woman seemed upset by it. Greta went for a cloth, and when she pressed it against one of the woman's tits, it was obvious it had some kind of cleanser in it. She carefully cleaned her breasts. The color slowly returned to them and by the scowl on her face, the ache did too.

Afterwards, they climbed onto the bed and just held each other. Johnny thought that was sweet. He wished he could join them, but knew it would never fly. Finishing his beer, he pulled on his shorts. Reaching forward, he took one last look at his lady next door and pulled the drapes closed.

Multi-published Canadian author, Jude Mason, writes in a variety of genres and adores stretching the boundaries. The bulk of her work has been D/s and femdom, but she enjoyed straying into fetish, pulp fiction, m/m. f/f, paranormal and sci-fi, among others.. A picture, a smell, an unexpected glimpse of flesh, or a load of soil in the back of a pick-up, are all fodder for her writing. Her male characters run the gamut from the alpha male ruling his women with an iron fist, to a simpering purple-clad boy-toy, whose only desire is to please. As diverse and as richly depicted, her women find themselves in a myriad of exotic and erotic situations, and are as lusty as their male counterparts, of not more so. Jude has work in print, ebook form and audio

Interested, Google her name, you'll find her. ‘Readers needed: Come, explore with me…if you dare!

Monday, August 17, 2009

Boo!

Wiki:
Botan Dōrō (牡丹燈籠) is a Japanese ghost story that is both romantic and horrific; it involves sex with the dead and the consequences of loving a ghost.

It is sometimes known as Kaidan Botan Dōrō, based on the kabuki version of the story. Most commonly translated as Tales of the Peony Lantern, it is one of the most famous kaidan in Japan.

Botan Dōrō entered the Japanese psyche in the 1600s, through a translation of a book of Chinese ghost stories called Jian Deng Xin Hua (New Tales Under the Lamplight). The collection was didactic in nature, containing Buddhist moral lessons on karma.

In 1666, author Asai Ryoi responded to the Edo period craze for kaidan, spawned largely by the popular game Hyakumonogatari Kaidankai, by adapting the more spectacular tales from Jian Deng Xin Hua into his own book Otogi Boko (Hand Puppets). At the time, Japan was a closed society, and very little was known outside of its own borders, including its closest neighbor. China was viewed as a mysterious and exotic nation. Asai removed the Buddhist moral lessons and gave the stories a Japanese setting, placing Botan Dōrō in the Nezu district of Tokyo.

Otogi Boko was immensely popular, spawning multiple imitative works such as Zoku Otogi Boko (Hand Puppets Continued) and Shin Otogi Boko (New Hand Puppets), and is considered the forerunner of the literary kaidan movement that resulted in the classic Ugetsu Monogatari.

In 1884, Botan Dōrō was adapted by famous storyteller Encho Sanyutei into a rakugo, which increased the popularity of the tale. In order to achieve a greater length, the story was fleshed out considerably, adding background information on several characters as well as additional subplots. It was then adapted to the kabuki stage in July 1892, and staged at the Kabukiza under the title Kaidan Botan Dōrō.

In 1899, Lafcadio Hearn, with the help of a friend, translated Botan Dōrō into English for his book In Ghostly Japan. He titled his adaptation A Passional Karma, and based it on the kabuki version of the story.

A more modern version of the play was written in 1974 by the playwright Onishi Nobuyuki for the Bungakuza troupe, starring Sugimura Haruko, Kitamura Kazuo and Ninomiya Sayoko. It was so successful that it was staged again a few years later in April 1976 at the Shimbashi Embujo. A new adaptation by Kawatake Shinshichi III was staged for the first time with a full Kabuki casting in June 1989, again at the Shimbashi Embujo. The Kawatake version is still occasionally revived but is less popular than the Onishi one.

Much like Yotsuya Kaidan, there remains a superstition that actors who play the ghost roles in Kaidan Botan Doro will come to harm. This comes from a 1919 performance at the Imperial Theater, when the two actresses playing Otsuyu and her maid became sick and died within a week of each other.

Otogi Boko version

On the first night of Obon, a beautiful woman and a young girl holding a peony lantern stroll by the house of the widowed samurai Ogiwara Shinnojo. Ogiwara is instantly smitten with the woman, named Otsuyu, and vows an eternal relationship. From that night onward, the woman and the girl visit at dusk, always leaving before dawn. An elderly neighbor, suspicious of the girl, peeks into his home and finds Ogiwara in bed with a skeleton. Consulting a Buddhist priest, Ogiwara finds that he is in danger unless he can resist the woman, and he places a protection charm on his house. The woman is then unable to enter his house, but calls him from outside. Finally, unable to resist, Ogiwara goes out to greet her, and is led back to her house, a grave in a temple. In the morning, Ogiwara's dead body is found entwined with the woman's skeleton.

Rakugo\Kabuki version

A young student named Saburo falls in love with a beautiful woman named Otsuyu, the daughter of his father's best friend. They meet secretly, and promise to be married. But Saburo falls ill, and is unable to see Otsuyu for a long time.

Later, when Saburo recovers and goes to see his love, he is told that Otsuyu has died. He prays for her spirit during the Obon festival, and is surprised to hear the approaching footsteps of two women. When he sees them, they look remarkably like Otsuyu and her maid. It is revealed that her aunt, who opposed the marriage, spread the rumor that Otsuyu had died and told Otsuyu in turn that Saburo had died.

The two lovers, reunited, begin their relationship again in secret. Each night Otsuyu, accompanied by her maid who carries a peony lantern, spends the night with Saburo.

This continues blissfully until one night a servant peeks through a hole in the wall in Saburo's bedroom, and sees him having sex with a decaying skeleton, while another skeleton sits in the doorway holding a peony lantern. He reports this to the local Buddhist priest, who locates the graves of Otsuyu and her maid. Taking Saburo there, he convinces him of the truth, and agrees to help Saburo guard his house against the spirits. The priest places ofuda around the house, and prays the nenbutsu every night.

The plan works, and Otsuyu and her maid are unable to enter, although they come every night and call out their love to Saburo. Pining for his sweetheart, Saburo's health begins to deteriorate. Saburo's servants, afraid that he will die from heartbreak leaving them without work, remove the ofuda from the house. Otsuyu enters, and again has sex with Saburo.

In the morning, the servants find Saburo dead, his body entwined with Otsuyu's skeleton. His face is radiant and blissful.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Blog, Blog & Blogs!

Check it out: some friends of Frequently Felt - all of them fantastic writers - have just launched new blogs:
Jason Rubis - who I can't say enough good things about as a writer as well a friend - has started Pulp Transcendence: "a one-stop source for all things Rubis." His recent publications include stories in Drollerie Press’s Needles & Bones and Circlet Press’s Like Clockwork

My brother, s.a., has launched Omnibus, which is about "Lost Art, Design, Culture, Food"

And lastly, but certainly not least-ly, my wonderful friend Billierosie has begun her billierosie blog. Here's what she says about it: "The blog is for fun. My wandering thoughts. I like satire and positive thinking. My interests are in the Arts; theatre, literature, painting, sculpture. Erotica and fetish."

Pantene Markets New Shampoo As Best For Masturbating Boyfriend In Shower


Pantene Markets New Shampoo As Best For Masturbating Boyfriend In Shower


(from The Onion, via the always-wonderful Sage Vivant)
CINCINNATI—In an attempt to capture a wider share of the marketplace, the Procter & Gamble corporation launched a campaign Monday to rebrand its popular Pro-V line of shampoos as the leading hair-care product for women with dry, brittle hair who also wish to manually bring their boyfriends to climax while showering.

"In addition to providing women with a luxuriant head of shiny, healthy hair, our new Pantene Pro-V2 line is ideal for vigorously working that special someone's member without the soreness and discomfort caused by other shampoos," spokeswoman Karen Radcliffe said. "With 20 percent more of the moisture-rich ingredients found in the original Pro-V formula, your hair will always look great, and his penis will never get dried out or chafed."
[More]

Peeping Johnny By Jude Mason (Part 3)

I'm very, very, very pleased to be able to share this great - and very hot - four part tale from the fantastic Jude Mason. In case you missed it, here's part 1, and here's part 2.




Peeping Johnny
By
Jude Mason


She satisfied herself, and took another out of the box. Again, she took care to line the needle up with the other side. She spread her knees, as if to balance herself, and pushed the needle through. She took her lip between her teeth and bit into it as she quickly reached for another needle. The flesh around the wounds looked red, sore, but she just kept on going. Her passion was ignited. She wasn't going to stop, or so it seemed to Johnny.

The second needle was a little easier to line up. The third went in even faster. She panted and squirmed after she'd pushed each needle in, but she didn't slow down. She patterned the needles, each one lay about an inch from its neighbor. Each one pierced about half an inch's worth of meat. When she slid the fourteenth one in, she did stop.

"Oh mamma," Johnny sighed when he saw her fingers diving right into her pussy again. She must have been wet because her fingers looked shiny when she pulled them out and licked at them. She not only licked them, but stuffed them into her mouth, sucking. Her eyes closed. Her other hand took its place between her legs, pinching and pulling at herself, while he watched and fought for his own control.

Johnny closed his eyes again. He was close to losing it and he knew it. He reached for his cock, but not to stroke it this time. He pinched just under the head, hard. He shuddered, not daring to move. His cock swelled; the orgasm so near he felt the jizz rise up the shaft and then suddenly, it stopped. His mouth went dry. He couldn't breathe. The urge to come left.

When he opened his eyes, it was to the sight of her reaching for a needle. She'd finished the rows at the top of each tit and was working on the outside of her tit, next to the needles already inserted.

Tiny rivulets of blood oozed along her flesh. She still ignored the blood. About two inches up from her nipple, she took a fold of flesh between finger and thumb. Placing the needle where she wanted it, she took a deep breath and pushed it through. She whimpered. The pain had to be getting to her, but so was the pleasure.

He'd seen it before, her crying and writhing, just seemed to add to the pleasure she got. It happened again now. Tears erupted and streamed down her cheeks, but she moved to her other tit. Unhesitant, eager for the next needle’s pain, she pinched a fold of flesh and reached for a needle. This time the tiny plastic grip was black. The skin on her tit was slick with blood. She had trouble gripping it, but finally managed. She screwed up her face. Checking the position, she pushed it through.

She'd skewered herself twenty-eight times—fourteen shiny stainless needles in each lusciously ballooned tit— it seemed like she'd had enough. Her tits were a deep mottle purple with smudges of crimson from the blood that dripped from the punctures. Her face was a mask of pain. Pale, her brow deeply furrowed, her eyes gleamed with a manic brilliance as tears streamed from them.

Johnny watched her carefully replace the lid on the needle box, then the one holding the clamps. Rising from the bed, her tits swayed. He watched, spellbound, a droplet of blood wend its way around the outside of her tit, like a tiny red snake slithering across her discolored flesh. She returned both containers to their place in the drawer.

She was shivering, trembling; he guessed from all the excitement. So was he. He'd tried to slow himself down, but everything she did just made him hotter. He reached down and pulled at his sac, trying to pull his balls back to where they were supposed to be, but they kept creeping in close to him. The skin was all crinkled. His dick ached, but he didn't dare touch it.

What she did next confused the hell out of him, but not for long. She went back to the bed and got the last piece of rope. Making a slipknot, she tied her hands together. Her arms pushed her tits together, and she scowled.

Then she just stood there waiting. He finished off his beer and sat watching her. She held her elbows out, so her arms didn't push her tits together he supposed. She also seemed to be squirming. He wondered why she wasn't playing with her pussy.

The answers came a few moments later, after he'd gone for another beer.

A tall, dark-haired woman entered her room. She was at least six inches taller then his neighbor and he instantly recognized her as Greta. Greta, the uppity bitch who drove a rig—Greta, the one all his buddies wanted to fuck. He smiled at that. He guessed that wasn't likely. She had on one of those leather outfits, the kind you see in some of those kinky magazines. Real tight top—showed off her tits real nice—and a pair of skin-tight leather pants that looked like they'd been spray-painted on. The boots, they must have added another eight inches to her height. All black.

She walked around his bound neighbor, touching her. She pulled at the clamps on her nipples and laughed when she cringed and cried out. She even flicked a couple of the needles, which made his girl’s eyes open wide. Her mouth gaped open too.

His hand had wandered back to his crotch. He stroked his cock very slowly, just kinda moving the skin a little up and down. He had to make sure he kept his legs apart; he was way too tempted to shoot.

The dark-haired Greta raised his girl’s hands, hooking them to something dangling from the ceiling. His cock lurched. He never even noticed the chain before she did it. His neighbor stood real tall, her tits thrust out and she was smiling. Yeah, smiling and pushing her pussy against Greta every chance she got. Greta slapped her ass, real hard, then disappeared from his sight for a few minutes.

He stopped stroking himself again, too close to coming again. He'd never seen her get it on with anyone before, let alone another woman. It was a huge turn on.

Greta came back in, and she had a long piece of wood or something, with dangling things at each end. When she knelt behind the hanging girl and he watched her buckle a cuff around one leg, he realized what was going on. It was a spreader bar; her legs were going to be wide apart.

Johnny took a long pull on his beer. This show was getting better by the second. He made sure his towel was under him then stroked his cock a little harder. His balls churned. His heart pounded. He could hear his blood roaring. When he felt his cock thicken, he pulled his hand away. He groaned, but placed his fist on the arm of the chair and watched Greta buckle the other cuff on the girl.

When she was done, she slid her hands up the girl’s inner thighs. She was smiling as her fingers disappeared into his lady's wet pussy. She didn't linger long, just enough time to stir the juices. When she pulled her fingers out, they were dripping. She wiped them down the girls' thigh leaving a slick, shiny trail.
Multi-published Canadian author, Jude Mason, writes in a variety of genres and adores stretching the boundaries. The bulk of her work has been D/s and femdom, but she enjoyed straying into fetish, pulp fiction, m/m. f/f, paranormal and sci-fi, among others.. A picture, a smell, an unexpected glimpse of flesh, or a load of soil in the back of a pick-up, are all fodder for her writing. Her male characters run the gamut from the alpha male ruling his women with an iron fist, to a simpering purple-clad boy-toy, whose only desire is to please. As diverse and as richly depicted, her women find themselves in a myriad of exotic and erotic situations, and are as lusty as their male counterparts, of not more so. Jude has work in print, ebook form and audio

Interested, Google her name, you'll find her. ‘Readers needed: Come, explore with me…if you dare!

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Peeping Johnny By Jude Mason (Part 2)

I'm very, very, very pleased to be able to share this great - and very hot - four part tale from the fantastic Jude Mason. In case you missed it, here's part 1.





Peeping Johnny
By
Jude Mason


Two windows away, the action heated up. She pinched a little tit flesh under each of her nips and attached clamps to the discolored flesh. When she got those two done, she suddenly reached down and thrust her hand between her thighs. She shoved her fingers in—no easing them in gently—no stroking or teasing herself—just wham, they were in deep.

Johnny just about lost it. His heart slammed into his throat, his cock lurched. Without even touching himself, pre-come oozed. There was a little drop of it sitting on top of his cock head. The urge to rub it was almost more than he could stand, but he did. Somehow, he found the strength. Another slurp of beer helped. His fingers tightened on the chair’s arm. Man he'd love to be friggin' that while she added more clamps.

He watched her plunging her fingers in and out. Her tits bounced, keeping time with her hand.

Johnny's raspy breathing kept time with her tits. He panted and groaned as he felt his heart racing faster. "Cool it boyo, or you'll miss all the action." He closed his eyes, hoping to calm down, but his imagination kicked in. He remembered seeing her the last time.

She'd come home early and taken a bath. Then she'd stayed naked. That time, she hadn't tied her tits up. Instead, she'd used the entire container full of clamps. It had taken her an hour to arrange them just so. She'd started at the nipple on her left breast, he remembered—one on that tit, then one on the other. She made a ring next, just on the edge of her areolas—both of 'em. Another circle of clamps, there must have been at least eight or ten on the third run, and he watched her sweat. She used her vibrator before going any further. He'd had trouble keeping his hands off himself. She didn't just ram it in—she teased herself with it—just sliding it between her legs real soft like then went on with the clamps. That had been one hot session.

She jerked around a lot after that. She'd add a clamp or two then she'd swing or jump around. Her tits went nuts, slamming into each other, bouncing all over the place. She howled too. He'd heard her right through the half-opened window, squealing and squawking, but she kept it up. After she had on a couple of more rows of clamps, her tits looked sorta like sunflowers or dahlias.

Johnny was sweating too by then. He remembered having to squeeze the head of his cock to keep from coming before she was done. It had all been worth it though.

After she'd attached the last clamp, with tears running down her cheeks, her vibrator stuffed inside her pussy, she'd lain on her bed and fucked herself, like there wasn't going to be a tomorrow. Her mouth was stretched real wide, a big O, and she thrashed around the bed, and made all kinds of grunting and growling noises until she got real stiff.

He thought that was it, but then she started slapping at the clamps. Man that was a memory and a half.

Not just little whacks, but really winding up and slapping at them, making the clamps fly off. She yelped even louder then. He figured the pain from them coming off must have been twice what it was putting them on.

She did come then, howling and screaming—like to wake the entire neighborhood up. Johnny had pumped his cock real hard then, to keep up with her. His come splattered all over the window and down his legs, even got some on his chest. He was a wild-man that time.

But now, watching her, tits tied real tight, those clamps on her nipples and the others just pinching a little flesh here and there, he knew she had something special planned.

She moved really carefully when she bent down and opened the smallest container. She kept her elbows out, so they didn't press against her tits. The box was no bigger than his dick, and he smiled. She sat on the edge of the bed facing him and opened the pale blue container. She set the lid on the bed beside her before taking another one of those amazing deep breaths.

He saw her shudder. Her breasts jiggled beautifully. Each tit had two clamps, one on each nipple and another about an inch below, at the edge of her areolas. The next thing she did had him on the edge of his seat.

With the smallest box beside her, she pinched a tiny bit of flesh just above her right nipple. Picking out one needle, with its miniscule plastic grip, she pushed it through the flesh held tightly between her fingers.

Even from where he sat, two windows distance, Johnny saw her tremble. Her mouth gaped wide. A keening wail grew. She moved her fingers upwards in a perpendicular line and pinched the next piece of skin. The needle she chose had a white plastic grip. Her hand trembled as she lined it up with the last and quickly pushed it through.

Johnny remembered to breathe. Air rushed in and then he exploded, "God damn woman!" He took another gulp of beer, hoping the cold liquid would distract him a bit. His thighs kept tensing. His cock pulsed. He blinked several times then peered back at the vision before him.

She had another stainless steel needle aimed, ready to be thrust into the soft meat. The woman stared at it, and her tit, then inhaled and pushed it though. That time she stomped her feet, rapidly, one then the other a few times. Her tits jiggled really fast when she did that. She had three needles in the one tit, and moved to the other.

That's when he noticed the tiny spots of blood. Each entry and exit wound, showed a pearl of crimson blood. One suddenly let go, winding its way around the outside of her tit.

She ignored the blood and pinched a piece of flesh above her areola on her unmarked tit. Glancing at the other, she seemed to be making sure the pattern would be even.

Johnny didn't much care. It all looked fantastic to him.
Multi-published Canadian author, Jude Mason, writes in a variety of genres and adores stretching the boundaries. The bulk of her work has been D/s and femdom, but she enjoyed straying into fetish, pulp fiction, m/m. f/f, paranormal and sci-fi, among others.. A picture, a smell, an unexpected glimpse of flesh, or a load of soil in the back of a pick-up, are all fodder for her writing. Her male characters run the gamut from the alpha male ruling his women with an iron fist, to a simpering purple-clad boy-toy, whose only desire is to please. As diverse and as richly depicted, her women find themselves in a myriad of exotic and erotic situations, and are as lusty as their male counterparts, of not more so. Jude has work in print, ebook form and audio

Interested, Google her name, you'll find her. ‘Readers needed: Come, explore with me…if you dare!

Saturday, August 8, 2009

I Am Curious Plastic


Peeping Johnny By Jude Mason (Part 1)

I'm very, very, very pleased to be able to share this great - and very hot - four part tale from the fantastic Jude Mason. Thanks, Jude!





Peeping Johnny
By
Jude Mason


Johnny peered through the half-opened window, just like he did as many times during the week as he could. Weekends, his girlfriend visited and there was never time or opportunity.

It was late, maybe ten when his new neighbor wandered into her room, and into his field of vision. She wore her usual jeans and sweatshirt, but he knew from experience they'd come off soon. As did his pants as soon as he spotted her. His pulse raced. Just looking at her made him instantly hard. He loved that breathless feeling that came with what she did for him. Anticipate, Lord, he had that all right, for most of every day.

Johnny tossed his slacks over the back of the chair by the bed. He settled into the overstuffed easy chair for a long session in his darkened room. Knowing he’d be watching, he had on just a t-shirt and a pair of socks. The towel he'd spread over the chair had bunched up under his ass. He straightened it. He didn't want to have to explain come stains on it if Gloria noticed—like she would.

There she was pulling the sweater over her head. That's the way it began almost every night with her. God, she had big tits. He loved the way the sides kinda bulged around her bra—almost like she bought them too small just for him. He rubbed his cock, just enough to make his toes curl.

"Oh yeah," he sighed when she tossed her bra somewhere out of his sight. He figured there had to be a chair there, or a hamper, or something. He honestly didn't care. It was the way the movement made her tits wiggle that grabbed him. They wobbled, and he groaned, seemed a fair trade to him.

She fussed with her short black hair, mussing it and puffing it, like she was expecting someone. She was kinda short too, but man had curves: huge boobs, a little roundness to her belly and an ass that would fill his hands, if he could just get his hands on her. Unfashionable as all get out—so was the bush she never trimmed. He often fantasized rubbing his face into the long, silky mass.

Down went the jeans. She liked them tight, so it took a little wiggling and squirming for her to get out of them, much to his pleasure. The little cotton panties matched her bra, white, almost chaste looking.

Johnny spread his legs, giving his big balls room to breathe, while he watched his dream girl get out her toys. She had a drawer full and she kept adding to it. When she'd first moved in, she only had a few little things: clamps, clothespins, ropes, that kind of stuff. But now, she must have hundreds of dollars invested in her toys.

"That's it baby," he muttered, gripping his cock tight at the base. He smiled as it pulsed in response. "Yeah, you got an audience, you sweet thing, if you only knew it." He wagged his prick in her direction.

She preformed for him, laying out a spool of rope, a container that he knew was full of tiny biting clamps. Another, much smaller box, held dozens of needles and finally, a riding crop.

He lurched forward, his cock forgotten. He leaned towards the window, eyes wide with surprise. Yes, it was riding crop. He'd never seen it before. How did she plan on using it?

"Oh you nasty slut," he murmured as he settled back in his chair, his cock again in his hand. His erection had flagged a little, but with no more than a squeeze, he was back at full-mast. He squeezed a dollop of lube onto his palm from the tube he kept on the table beside his chair. Slick and warm, it almost felt like pussy. He slowly worked the skin up and down his shaft, ignoring the show for just a second or two. When he looked back, she'd dropped her bra and was wriggling out of her panties.

"Damn!" He liked to watch her twist her arms behind herself when she unsnapped. Next time, he promised himself.

She eased the tiny bit of material down over thighs, then off. Her tits jiggled and swayed. His eyes were fixed on them. The large tan areolas looked bruised already. Her nipples looked like the ends of his little finger; they were so big.

His mouth watered when he thought of sinking his teeth into the thick nubbins. His breath caught in his throat when he thought of grinding them between his molars while she screamed.

Straightening, she laid the palm of her hands against the outside curve of each tit, and pushed them together. She rolled the flesh, trapping her nipples between two fingers and squeezed them. He watched the tan nubbins flatten and stick out even more as she moved her fingers.

God, if he could just get his prick in there—he'd shoot in seconds. He had to let his cock go, he was close and the show hadn't even started yet. A beer, that'd calm him. He trudged out of the room, his pecker leading the way in its lusty dance. He returned with a beer in hand, his passion had cooled enough to safely watch his neighbor's mischief. Johnny plopped back into his chair.

Settling back with his knees splayed comfortably wide, he took a gulp of beer. She'd already begun wrapping rope around her tits. He loved this part. She leaned forward, letting those luscious globes dangle. Then she looped the rope around them, one at a time, right at the base, and cinched it tight making sure the knot was at the top. When she pulled the ropes tight, he was close enough to see her wince. She left plenty of extra rope dangling.

Johnny squirmed in his seat. He really wanted to rub himself, get off, but he wanted the tension to build even more. He took another long drink of beer and ran the cold can over his chest. Patience, you got to have patience, he smiled.

She straightened up then and moaned in appreciation. Those huge jugs jutted out. The way she'd tied them made them sit high on her chest. She took the loose ends of the rope and tied it behind her neck. She pulled. Then, she pulled again, making her tits climb even higher on her chest. They looked like two giant balloons crowned with cherry kisses.

He wondered if she could reach down with her tongue and just lick them.

She pranced around her room like that, swinging her tits, jiggling them, bouncing up and down. It was like she was putting on a show for someone. He loved that. The longer she danced, the more color appeared. At first, the skin was pale, translucent almost, but the more she swung herself around, the more he saw her tits darken. They went to kind of a pink color, then red appeared. When she was struttin' like she was on some fancy catwalk, they'd turned that purple mottled color he loved the best.

His hand went to his cock, absentmindedly stroking it a couple of times, then forced his hand away. It felt too good, he knew he'd come if he didn't stop.

His inadvertent flasher stopped her gyrations when she stood in front of her neatly laid out row of toys. She pulled the lid off the small container holding the clamps. Tossing the lid on the bed, she reached inside and pulled out a handful of tiny, black-handled clamps. Those he'd seen before. They were spring-loaded and had teeth that'd bite into her tender buds when she attached them.

"Go baby," he muttered as he gripped the arm of his chair tight. Taking another gulp of his beer, he pressed the frigid can against his face hoping to cool himself off a little. Fuck, she was hot.

She pinched one nipple, pulled on it and gave it a twist. While he sat gape-mouthed, she slipped a clamp over the puckered nip. He could tell when she let go. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes got huge. Her brow furrowed. She shuddered. Her tits jiggled.

She took a deep breath before tackling the other nipple. For him, that was a pleasure all by itself. She repeated the pulling and twisting procedure, perhaps even added a few extra tugs to that nipple, then on went the clamp. This time when she let go, he was sure he heard a yelp. She shook her tits wildly back and forth, as if trying to swing the clamps off.

Johnny chuckled. His cock throbbed against his belly. "That's it baby. Shake 'em up for old Johnny." He tightened his butt muscles, felt his balls move around inside their sac. Reaching down, he gave them a gentle tug, but no more.
Multi-published Canadian author, Jude Mason, writes in a variety of genres and adores stretching the boundaries. The bulk of her work has been D/s and femdom, but she enjoyed straying into fetish, pulp fiction, m/m. f/f, paranormal and sci-fi, among others.. A picture, a smell, an unexpected glimpse of flesh, or a load of soil in the back of a pick-up, are all fodder for her writing. Her male characters run the gamut from the alpha male ruling his women with an iron fist, to a simpering purple-clad boy-toy, whose only desire is to please. As diverse and as richly depicted, her women find themselves in a myriad of exotic and erotic situations, and are as lusty as their male counterparts, of not more so. Jude has work in print, ebook form and audio

Interested, Google her name, you'll find her. ‘Readers needed: Come, explore with me…if you dare!

LICKS & PROMISES - Out Now From M.Christian

Phaze Books is proud to announce the publication of a brand new collection of M.Christian's erotic fiction:



Licks & Promises is a new erotic short story collection from a master of the genre. If you like your sexy stories sweet, silly, scary or simply outrageous, this is the book for you!

Featuring classic M.Christian stories plus some tales that have never been seen before - as well as an introduction by the wonderful Sage Vivant - this is an erotica collection you'll read, re-read, and remember for a very long time!

Featuring the stories -
The Train They Call the City of New Orleans
Dead Letter
Dust
The House of the Rising Sun
In Control
Kiss, Kiss, Hug, Hug
Mile After Mile
The Naked Supper
Nighthawks
Regrets
The Tinkling of Tiny Silver Bells
Water of Life
The Will of Dr. Mabuse
The Waters of Biscayne Bay
The World Game
One After Another
Her First Thursday Evening
Here's what people are saying about M.Christian:
Reading M. Christian is like climbing on for a sexual magic carpet ride through different times and places, diverse bodies, and infinite possibilities.
- Carol Queen, Sex writer, speaker, educator and activist

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 gripping
- Maxim Jakubowksi, Editor, Mammoth Book of Erotica series

M. Christian is a literary stylist of the highest caliber: smart, funny, frightening, sexy -- there's nothing he can't write about ... and brilliantly.
- Tristan Taormino, Sex educator, author, columnist

M. Christian speaks with a totally unique and truly fascinating voice. There are a lot of writers out there who'd better protect their markets -- M. Christian has arrived!
- Mike Resnick, Hugo and Nebula Award winning science fiction author

M. Christian's stories squat at the intersection of Primal Urges Avenue and Hi-Tech Parkway like a feral-eyed, half-naked Karen Black leering and stabbing her fractal machete into the tarmac. Portraying a world where erotic life has spilled from the bedroom into the street, and been shattered into a million sharp shards, these tales undercut and mutate the old verities concerning memory, desire and loyalty. Truly an author for our post-everything 21st century.
- Paul Di Filippo, author of The Steampunk Trilogy

With his amazing versatility and silky smooth prose, M. Christian helped forge the erotica revolution of the 1990s and he’s still going strong
- Donna George Storey, author of An Amorous Woman
Order A Copy Today:
Phaze Books
Paperback: $11.95
Kindle: $4.80
Fictionwise: $5.40
ISBN-978-1606591840
If you're interested in reviewing Licks & Promises please email M.Christian:

zobop@aol.com
mchristianzobop@gmail.com

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Karkataka or How the Crab Got Its Knees by Jeremy Edwards (Part 4)

Here it is, ladies and gentlemen: the final part (part one is here, part two is here, and part three is here) of the fantastic Karkataka or How the Crab Got Its Knees by Jeremy Edwards.




Karkataka
or
How the Crab Got Its Knees
By
Jeremy Edwards

Man-Man hurried back to Woman-Woman and told her what Tepid Rhino had told him (but leaving out the song, even though he remembered it perfectly well, because he thought it might annoy Woman-Woman). Woman-Woman became so excited that she spent the rest of the day among the firm-trunk-with-soft-veneer Hooplah Trees, until she ran out of Hooplah Trees, and veneer, too.

One vociferous night soon after, Woman-Woman said to Man-Man, ‘Let us go down to the bank of the truly undistinguished Yum Yab River, without our clothes on, and contrive to do that thing you showed me in Tepid Rhino’s air-picture.’

So Man-Man and Woman-Woman packed a thimbleful of food for the very short journey, and they went down to the River, leaving their clothes with the Hatcheck Gibbon on the way. When they arrived, Man-Man stood as straight as he could; and Woman-Woman stood with him, very much as if they were two logical corollaries. And when Man-Man’s horn began to swell and stiffen, Woman-Woman climbed onto him, taking care not to leave her oyster behind, and she engulfed him snugly, wrapping her legs around his waist like in the air-picture, only more prettily.

Well, it was like truffles and gorgonzola and espresso in the same canapé! Woman-Woman wriggled her soft, round, fleshy parts so that Man-Man’s horn felt friendly inside her oyster; and Man-Man squeezed Woman-Woman’s round, fleshy, soft parts, which made his horn tingle and swell and stiffen more.

‘Reach underneath me and contrive to address distinct sensations to my little hornlet,’ Woman-Woman requested.

Man-Man reached underneath to do this, but—incidentals!—what do you think happened, Best Beloved? Man-Man, reaching underneath Woman-Woman while she clung to him with her voluptuous legs and wriggled her soft, round, fleshy parts, lost his balance; and Woman-Woman fell backwards onto the flat, soft, fleshy bank of the ‘stremely ordinary Yum Yab River, taking Man-Man with her.

By sheer calligraphy, Man-Man’s horn was still in Woman-Woman’s oyster. But now, as you might imagine if you paid attention to the falling-backwards part of the story, they were no longer standing—not even like two logical corollaries. Man-Man was kneeling before Woman-Woman, because he had landed on his knees. And, as if that weren’t enough knees for us to be going on with, he was holding onto Woman-Woman’s knees, which had popped up like awkward questions when she landed on her soft, round, fleshy parts.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Man-Man. ‘I’m afraid that Tepid Rhino will be very disappointed in us.’

‘I feel like a Crab in this position,’ said Woman-Woman. And, to be truthful, she looked a little bit like one, though much more appealing, and with a larger vocabulary.

‘Hmm,’ said Man-Man. ‘As long as it’s such a ’ceedingly vociferous night, and we’re here by the bank of the Yum Yab River with my horn inside your oyster and your oyster, by coincidence, around my horn, p’raps there’s something we can do to occupy ourselves.’

‘Hee hee,’ laughed Woman-Woman.

‘Why are you suddenly laughing, Woman-Woman?’ asked Man-Man. ‘This is by no means the funniest part of the story, in my opinion.’

‘Your hands are lightly tickling my knees,’ said Woman-Woman, still laughing. ‘Hee hee. It feels splendid.’

‘As splendid as marzipan and sauce béarnaise and oatmeal stout, all spilt on the same tablecloth?’

‘’Proximately, yes,’ said Woman-Woman, who did not want to take the time to explain that she didn't like marzipan.

She continued to laugh, and, as she laughed, her oyster became ’specially oily; and it slithered and sluiced around Man-Man’s horn in a way that felt ’ceedingly jolly. And so Man-Man’s horn shimmied and chammied in return, until both of them felt very, very jolly indeed.

‘Shall I p’raps reach a hand between your legs and contrive to stimulate your little hornlet in a characteristic manner?’ Man-Man offered politely.

‘No,’ said Woman-Woman, still laughing. ‘Hee hee. In this ’ceedingly peculiar but ’cessively wonderful position, my little hornlet is already being very characteristically stimulated by the pressure of your flat, firm parts.’ And she removed her hands very briefly from Man-Man’s thighs, just long enough to draw him a picture in the air that explained all this, with only a few equations.

So Man-Man kept both his hands on both Woman-Woman’s knees, one hand per knee (as specified by prevailing customs and winds); and he tickled lightly, while they horn-and-oystered heavily. And soon Man-Man felt so good that he didn’t know what to do. And—what do you know, Best Beloved!—Woman-Woman also felt so good that she didn’t know what to do, because the combination of tickled knees and horned oyster and characteristically stimulated hornlet—even though it was a combination that didn’t appear on the menu and had to be requested ’specially—was positively the very, very best combination she’d ever encountered. It was like having Jane Austen and Charles Dickens and Henry James all in the same salon, only with better ventilation.

Man-Man, feeling so good that he didn’t know what to do, roared like the Tangible Ibis.

Woman-Woman, feeling so good that she didn’t know what to do either, screamed like the Civilised Civet. And an extra-’specially voluminous and indivisible dose of her oil flowed around Man-Man’s horn.

And when Man-Man heard Woman-Woman scream like the Civilised Civet (though it sounded to him more like the Discursive Pika) and felt her extra-’specially voluminous and indivisible oil flowing around his horn, he presented, as if by syncopation, an extra-’specially warm and extra-’specially algorithmic complement of treacle into her oyster.

‘I could easily be persuaded to do this again sometime,’ said Woman-Woman.

‘Well then, I suppose we’d better have a name for it,’ said Man-Man.

So they decided to call it Karkataka—which is a word I just made up, Best Beloved, that is ever so full of k’s and means crab.
THE CRAB is not a constellation—
It’s a means of copulation.
Woman-Woman’s tender knees
Will lead her into ecstasies!
We love to nestle horn in oyster,
Do so every night by choice, Sir!
Woman-Woman grips me tightly
(As I said, we do this nightly)
By the shores of Yum Yab-oomee.
She can really sock it to me!
You can keep your pink maraca—
We’re all right with Karkataka.
THE END