Saturday, October 31, 2009

Addiction? By Ralph Greco, Jr.

Here's another fantastic essay by my pal, Ralph Greco, Jr.

Ralph Greco, Jr.

Sexual addiction huh?

Jeez, can't a guy step out on his wife (a couple of times) without it being labeled an addition?

They got ol' D. Duchovny with this disease and now this ESPN analyst Steve Phillipshas it. Chris Rock says, "a man is only as faithful as his options", can't we just assume a popular dude, T.V. host or say a Senator or even President (God forbid) goes where they go if they can go there because they have the means, money and maybe even popularity to go there, not because they are addicted?

I guess it's the sheer numbers of 'extra curricular' activities in the 'addictive' cases that earns them the label, but I argue that that's not addiction, that's just energy! Here's the deal…and I'm not condoning this behavior but, if one is going to cheat on their spouse, girlfriend, hubby, boyfriend, what-have-you and one can keep more then one affair happening, whether said affairs happen all at once or over a period of time, then one must be quite clever indeed in this age of constant cell phone communication to keep their addiction secret.

That takes guile, smarts and whole bunch of energy man.

I make no judgment on any person's life. I figure if you're in that marriage thang might as well give the monogamy part of it a shot, and if you feel you can't maybe it's best to let your other half know before you cause major ripples by cheating. But calling it an addiction, going to rehab! (dude, rehab!?) just cause you want more then one affair, just cause you're downloading porn to the exclusion of all else? Nah, it's just that you're horny man, that's all it is.

Sorry to say it, but it's unnatural for us to be monogamous, we all crave a little strange from time to time. We ain't addicted, we're horny little monkeys, all of us, men and women alike. So be free and swing man.
Ralph Greco, Jr. is an internationally published author of short stories, plays, essays, button slogans, 800# phone sex scripts, children’s songs and SEO copy. Ralph is also an ASCAP licensed songwriter/performer and Internet radio D.J. He lives in the wilds of suburban NJ, where he attempts to keep his ever-expanding ego in check.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

More Sexy Yet Spooky Fun

Keeping with the season - and nicely dovetailing with my article that just appeared in Forum UK - the great folks at Phaze Books just released a pair of my stories, "Begging Ivory" and "Thicker Than Ink" as part of their HeatSheet erotic horror line. Click here to order this mini-collection, and here's a quickie description of the stories:
From an acclaimed author of erotic fiction comes two tales of titillating suspense. Begging Ivory: An antique object not only brings pleasure to it new owner, but assists in freeing her from an abusive relationship. Thicker Than Ink: Some tattoos are beautiful, others intricate and ornate. Still others provoke a variety of emotions - arousal, ecstasy, even a desire for revenge.

Soupy Sales & The Stripper

Rest in Peace, Soupy

Soupy Sales & The Stripper

Sunday, October 25, 2009

The Glorious Madness of Shintaro Kago

[see the rest of The Desperate Sadness of a Cross-Section here]

Shintaro Kago (駕籠 真太郎; Kago Shintarō), born 1969 in Tokyo, Japan, is a Japanese guro manga artist. He debuted in 1988 on the magazine COMIC BOX.

Shintaro Kago's style has been called "fashionable paranoia". He has been published in several adult manga magazines, gaining him considerable popularity. Many of his manga have strongly satirical overtones, and deal with grotesque subjects such as extreme sex, scatology and body modification.

He also wrote some Sci-Fi non-guro manga, most notably Super-Conductive Brains Parataxis for Weekly Young Jump. Many of his shorts are experimental and bizarre. He frequently breaks the fourth wall, and he likes to play with the page layout in extreme ways, mostly for comedic effect.(see his shorts "Abstraction", "Blow-Up", "Multiplication" and "The Memories of Others" for examples).

Kago likes to describe his works as "Shit".

On April 4, 2006 an exhibition of his works, called "Unsanitary Condition Exhibition" (Fueisei Hakurankai) was opened. Similarly, in the same month the first edition of his personal movie convention called "Shit Film Festival" (Unko Eigasai) was held by him. From September 3 - September 15, 2007, the Vanilla Gallery in Tokyo held another exhibition of his works, called "Unsanitary Festival in the Cool of the Night" ("Nōryō fueisei matsuri".)

Thursday, October 22, 2009

A Sexy Yet Spooky Article In Forum UK

If my fans in the UK run out to their nearest newsagent they can pick up the newest, October, issue of Forum UK (Vol. 43, No. 11) and find an essay by yours truly on sex and fear called BOO! Why A Good Scare Can Be Great For Your Sex Life.

Here's a teaser:
You can't run. You can't hide. No matter how hard you try, it creeps up on you, tenses, pounces, and then traps you in an terrifyingly inescapable truth: a good fright –a really nightmarishly fine bout of terror – can really put the libido into overdrive.

There are as many theories about why scares and sex go hand-in-bloody-hand as there are movies featuring unstoppable forces of demonic fury. In other words, a lot. In fact one popular idea about why we have such a strong connection between the two is because for many folks, the first time they are introduced to anything really sexual, it’s thanks to a horror flick. Or, to put it in UK terms, because they'd watched a video nasty.

And no wonder it's a popular idea: From Jason to Freddy to Michael (that silly fisherman guy in the pathetic I Know What You Did Series), the formula is the same: boy meets girl, girl gives boy head, boy (and then girl) loses head. For lots of teens, these kinds of films are the first time they'll see anything really sexual, even if it's just the first sight of bare boobs. You don't have to have a degree in psychology to figure out that if the next scene has those same jiggling tits sprayed with arterial blood there might be a connection between getting rabidly turned on and getting totally freaked out. Add to this that, for a lot of people, a horror film was the first chance to get really close to the opposite sex, even if the embrace was one of terror. Think of it this way: no one ever got lucky after a Disney matinee.

[For the rest yer gonna have to buy the mag]

Trust By Rajah Dodger

Here's a great tale by a newcomer to Frequently Felt. Welcome Rajah!

Rajah Dodger

"She trusts you."

My fraternity brother Greg had just given me the strangest request I could imagine. He said his girlfriend wanted to be spanked and she wanted me to do it.

Now I'm not overly handsome and he'd never taken particular note of me before, so this seemed odd. But a brother is a brother, so I found myself Friday night sitting in Greg's apartment, having a rum and coke and waiting for his girlfriend Elena to tell us she was ready. In a little bit she called out, and Greg ushered me into the back room. Elena was in there, naked, bent over a sofa with her feet wide apart, her brown bottom cheeks glistening with oil or lotion. I could see everything from the dark winking rosebud to the swollen pussylips dangling between her spread thighs. I started to back up but Greg was right behind me. "Go on," he urged me, "she trusts you."

I moved forward, conscious of the erection trapped in my slacks. I flexed my hand, then slapped her right cheek tentatively. "Harder, please," she said. My next slap had more meat and sensation to it, and I soon found myself in a regular rhythm, alternating cheeks until Elena was twisting and rocking and my palms hurt.

My pants were around my ankles; when did that happen? Greg had one hand around my cock, thumbing the vein under the shaft, his other hand on my bottom pushing me toward Elena's flared rosebud.

The sensation inside her squirming ass was incredible; I moaned louder than Elena did. I felt Greg's finger slide into my bottom while I came. He was murmuring, "she likes company".
Rajah Dodger is a Houston-based computer professional who enjoys science fiction, classical music, comic strips, women and dogs. When the muse takes him by the throat (or other responsive part of his anatomy) he turns into an erstwhile composer of erotica and has done so for over a decade.


Just wanted to throw out a very sincere linkshare howdy to the House of Void: a great -- and extremely sexy -- site that you should check out asap!

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

"Do you like Kipling?"


Donald Fraser Gould McGill, (28 January 1875 – 13 October 1962) was an English graphic artist whose name has become synonymous with a whole genre of saucy seaside postcards that were sold mostly in small shops in British coastal towns. The cards feature an array of attractive young women, fat old ladies, drunken middle aged men, honeymoon couples and vicars.

He has been called 'the king of the saucy postcard', and his work is still collected and appreciated for his artistic skill, its power of social observation and earthy sense of humour. Even at the height of his fame he only earned three guineas a design but today his original artwork can fetch thousands of pounds.

McGill was born in London in 1875. He lost a foot in a school rugby accident, and, having studied at Blackheath Proprietary School, spent most of his life in the Blackheath area of south-east London (living at 5 Bennett Park, SE3 - a blue plaque location).

He was a naval draughtsman until his career in postcards began accidentally in 1904 when an in-law encouraged him after seeing an illustrated get-well card he had made for a sick nephew. Within a year it was his full-time occupation. He studied art and married the daughter of the owner of Crowder's Music Hall in Greenwich.

McGill spent virtually the whole of his career creating the distinctive colour washed drawings which were then reproduced as postcards. He ranked his output according to their vulgarity as mild, medium and strong, with strong being much the best sellers. His family, however was steadfastly respectable. He said of his two daughters: "They ran like stags whenever they passed a comic postcard shop".

During the First World War he produced anti German propaganda in the form of humorous post cards.

In 1941, the renowned author and commentator George Orwell wrote an essay on his work entitled "The Art of Donald McGill". Orwell stated that he was not sure if McGill was a real person or simply a trade name.

At the age of 80, McGill fell foul of several local censorship committees which culminated in a major trial held in Lincoln on 15 July 1954. The charge was breaking the 1857 Obscene Publications Act. He was eventually found guilty and made to pay a £50 fine and £25 costs. The wider result was a devastating blow to the saucy postcard industry. Many postcards were destroyed as a result and retailers cancelled orders. Several of the smaller companies were made bankrupt as they survived on very small margins.

In the late 1950s, the level of censorship eased off and the market recovered. In 1957, McGill gave evidence before the House Select Committee set up in order to amend the 1857 Act.

Over the span of his career McGill produced an estimated 12,000 designs, of which 200 million copies are estimated to have been printed. He died in 1962 with all his designs for the 1963 season already prepared. He was buried in Streatham Park Cemetery. Despite their wide circulation, McGill earned no royalties from his designs; in his will, his estate was valued at just £735.

One of his postcards, "Do you like Kipling?" "I don't know, you naughty boy, I've never kippled!" holds a world record for selling the most copies at over 6,000,000.

Thursday, October 15, 2009


Bondage, science fiction, fetishism, real realities and virtual realities collide in this unique collection by one of the most popular authors of erotica - ever!

Two unforgettable novellas highlight Rude Mechanicals: In "Hot Definition," the story of a future just around our corner, Neko experiences the ultimate domination from the woman who is her master; and in "Speaking Parts," the second novella, two lovers, one with a camera-shutter eye, come together in a scorching, obsessive, edgy relationship that will take them both to the limits of sexuality and beyond. Plus four provocative, physically explicit short stories of sex and technosex.

"M. Christian's stories squat at the intersection of Primal Urges Avenue and Hi-Tech Parkway ... feral-eyed, half-naked ... Truly an author for our post-everything 21st century."
- Paul Di Filippo, author of the Steampunk Trilogy.

"M. Christian writes like dream!"
- Paula Guran, DarkEcho

Rude Mechanicals
Renaissance E Books Inc

Sliding By Ralph Greco, Jr.

Here's another great essay by my pal, Ralph Greco, Jr.

Ralph Greco, Jr.

As I have always said: it’s only a vacation if you plan to go home.

Following this logic, I have come to realize that something is only wasted if there was ever a consideration to use it.

In the wake of the past few weeks and Prez. O’s stirring (some would say stirring, I’d say busy-body) speech to school kids I have been considering wasted talent, the unused, slacking, not ‘living up to one’s potential’ (despite what some Obama detractors would say, this really was what his speech was about). And I’ve have come to realize that sliding, just existing, taking things as they come, not effecting the world around you a wit, this is as valid a world view as much as contributing to society.

Like atheism, which always gets such a bad wrap, not using one’s god givens is always shot through with pejoratives. But I have to defend us slackers (see, even that’s a pejorative!) the mass of us out here who do not want to contribute. First of all, the thing about potential is…its potential, nobody knows what it might turn into, how it might ‘Uncle’ fester, how it might or might not grow. Secondly, it’s everybody right to believe or not believe in their talent or believe or not believe they have one as much as it’s their right to believe or not believe in a God. I don’t want my President preaching to me (and let’s face it, that’s really he was doing…anybody catch the God bless America at the end of the speech?) a philosophy of working for something I might not have anyway. And even if I allow the supposition that we all might in fact have a talent (or two or three) then it’s still an individuals right to pursue it or not.

I used to hear, do your best, that’s all anybody can ask of you. My friend Bob has a pet peeve about people saying “I’ve given one hundred and ten percent” as he points out you can’t give more then one hundred but the point is we always need to show we are doing more, striving, aching, but how bout not doing your best? What’s wrong with that? Especially on pursuits that bore the shit out of you?

Here’s the deal as far as I see it, jaded though it might be, slightly off center and I say this with as much love as I can muster given my morally bankrupt soul but…Fuck you all to tell us, that we need to contribute, that if someone has a talent that it needs to be used...especially ESPECIALLY, ESPECIALLY for the possible betterment of humankind! Excuse me, but fuck you for telling me anything about how to live my life and implying that if I do not ‘use my potential’ I am letting myself or you or the world down. Really, I love you, but, fuck you very much.

Shit, I’m exhausted. This whole essay took way too much action on my part. Time for a vacation.
Ralph Greco, Jr. is an internationally published author of short stories, plays, essays, button slogans, 800# phone sex scripts, children’s songs and SEO copy. Ralph is also an ASCAP licensed songwriter/performer and Internet radio D.J. He lives in the wilds of suburban NJ, where he attempts to keep his ever-expanding ego in check.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

A Personal Paragraph on the Gay Icon exhibition at the National portrait Gallery London By Viscount Andrew

Here's a great piece by the wonderful Viscount Andrew, from billierosie's fun blog.

What to write here? Let’s begin shall we as I feel the need to be pedantic, on the definition found in many dictionaries of the word icon as icon has become to mean all manner of nonsense! ‘Icon a sacred image on a wooden panel’ I will stick with that and shan’t mention the references to computers!

Sandy Totsvig, sorry I can’t spell is a Danish Comedienne who appears a lot on day time telly and radio. I do find her very amusing and she does make me laugh and somehow she was able to have or instigate an exhibition of so called gay icons at the above mentioned museum. As a gay guy who feels labels are for clothes not for people I have to say I found the exhibition a bit odd, not at all stuffed full of icons.

Maybe I am being a bit harsh or am I missing the point? Many of the subjects portrayed are hugely important in their own right but they are not icons! In fact many of the most important figures socially are utterly obscure and about as far away from icon status as the planet Neptune! Icon here is a modern interpretation of the word and here it used far too loosely.

Billy Gene King, great woman, great inspiration. Elton John marvellous musician now slightly eccentric but not an icon, Alan Turing who saved million of lives by helping to end the second world war early, but who killed himself because he couldn’t live in a world that hated queers is NOT an Icon; he bloody well should be but he ain’t! How odd that he (and how empty this is ) has received an apology from the prime minister for the appalling manner in which he was treated.

Interestingly, and as an aside as if to illustrate a point, the Apple Mac logo or Icon, an apple with a bite out of it is said to be a reference to Turing. He killed himself by taking a bite out of poisoned apple. That symbol is iconic as everyone is likely to know what that means, show someone a picture of Turing and they won’t have a clue!

Don’t get me wrong, I welcome anything that celebrates diversity in all its forms but this exhibition, in a small side room of The National Gallery was disappointing, I did learn that some football manager was gay and said to myself well I never guessed that one. One of my favourite folks was illustrated in a photo portrait and that was Peter Tatchell. I think he is fab but even he as great to me as he is, is not an Icon!! I should point out that I am an atheist in case anyone thinks I am some kind of rabid Christian. Not sure what my rant has to do with fetish but Tom of Finland I think did get a mention but interestingly no mention (I think) of Robert Mapplethorpe.

Anyway rant over!

Thursday, October 8, 2009

The Market By A.N. Cortez

Here's a wildly fun story by the great A.N. Cortez. Enjoy!

The Market
A.N. Cortez

You can buy a boy or girl at the market for a day. A day, mind you, for slavery is a barbaric practice and we don’t do that here. But have you some coins, jiggle the gold in your pockets, and you and I can have our hearts’ desire and our way with it until the next day’s moonrise.

No, not those young men and women, the Gentle all-a-pretty and blushing on the stands while the town’s Dom bachelors flit from one to another, taking their pick for the day, and perhaps, for eternity. They’re not for the likes of us.

It’s a tradition older than the town. The Gentle ladies’ lips are gently rogued, the Gentle young men touched up in more subtle colours and their hands bound behind their backs with a red sash. They’ll go home to a town Dom, be put through their paces, the whip and discipline so the families can see how accomplished they are. And if they find they suit each other well (accomplishments or not), there’ll be a contract and wedding bells. Yes my friends, a feast, a town celebration, the blushing couple and a contract to cement the respectable alliance between their august families.

There’ll be no shouting here or lewd remarks, pinches and slaps to the small curve of the Gentle’s backs: all of that is for the privacy of indoors.

The ones we’re after are over there: in the section marked RECALCITRANTS. The disgraced Gentle offspring of the town.

Yes my friends, you can fetch that red-haired girl with freckles and bright blue eyes, that boy with the tawny hair a-shivering, that sullen-looking recalcitrant at the very end of the stands, flinching every now and then at her minder’s whip of nettles. Her skirts are pulled from the back of her knees to expose candy-striped legs and her dark blonde hair falls in bangs around her face, so that she looks like nothing more than a Shetland pony. She’s gagged. They’re all gagged: unpromising to decent folk, for nothing is more off-putting to a respectable Dom than a disobedient Gentle; very promising to those who like a bit of sport.

No one knows what it is they’ve done. They could have broken their mother’s favourite teacup, for all anyone knows but that hardly matters. They’re in disgrace and no respectable Dom or their families will even think of glancing their way, not while they’re up on that particular block. But common wisdom says there is nothing like a night’s session with a bloody-minded Dom to set a wayward Gentle straight, and besides, there are folk who pay good coin for this privilege. There are Dom townsfolk with the taste who come by this section every now and then, too sensible to inflict their lurid tastes on their own darlings; Dom gentry from other towns who pass by the town every fortnight or so, if not more. They often send the Recalcitrants back to mother and father weeping and penitent, ready for the real Market, for respectability and a bit of gentleness.

These folk also fork generous coin over for the privilege. It’s arrangement that benefits both outsiders and the town.

With this in mind, the minders of the Recalcitrants bring their charges early. No soft darlinging or cooing and laughter for them as they are prepared for the market. Instead, their minders shake them from their beds before dawn; strip them; dash them with cold and hot water and only taking care in the dressing up: girls with their corsets and petticoats; boys in their trousers and boots, all in solemn dark velvet as a sign of their penance. Then the binding-gloves, neck collars done up from collarbone to chin, the leash. Finally with whip in one hand and leash in the other, the minders will drive their wayward charges to the marketplace and set them all-a-pretty and disgraced on the stands, to the benefit of foreigner and town.

Mind you, as with most things, things don’t always go exactly to plan. Keep your eye on the sullen-looking recalcitrant, the Shetland girl and you’ll see what I mean.

Now here comes a lady.

A beautiful lady, with short dark hair and a wicked expression. A foreigner, though she’s dressed as properly as any well-to-do lady of the Empire, and she’s been a frequent visitor for the past several days. Milady is decked out in the colour of passion, a burgundy plume on her velvet hat and her lips touched with rogue. Unlike most of the patrons of the town, she’s all a-glow, her eyes glittering as she surveys the Recalcitrants on the stands.


A soft trembling ripples through the line of Recalcitrants — all the way to the sullen-looking Shetland girl. Milady takes her time, surveying each recalcitrant, pinching their legs when she can get away with it, for the minders are all-agog. Fine ladies and gentlemen often pass by here, but the minders had never seen the like of her before she came. Milady ignores them of course and sashays her way to the end of the line where the sullen-looking Recalcitrant stands.

“And what’s the story here?” Milady says, as she stops by the Shetland girl’s stall. She points upwards, and the minder tugs at the leash, making the girl step down. Milady reaches out and taps at the gag, her beautiful brow crooking with a question at the Shetland girl’s minder.

“The gag’s customary for this lot Milady,” the minder says. Milady’s eyebrows shoot up even higher.

“Well,” she says and turns to the recalcitrant. “I suppose I can whip the story out of you, can’t I my dear?”

The minder is aghast at her vulgarity, but swallows it when Milady takes out her purse, and puts out two sovereigns, and a glossy pen to sign the contract. Hers until next moonrise.

Milady picks up a leash and tugs. The Shetland girl stands very still, for she stares at Milady as if she were a ghost.

“Go,” the minder says curtly and smacks at the small of her back. The girl flinches, and the beautiful young lady laughs.

“You come with me, darling,” she says, between peals of laughter. “You come with me. I promise you, it will be such fun.”

Now, Milady tugs the Shetland girl on the leash, guides her through the streets of the respectable town, in the manner of respectable people. She makes the Shetland girl walks before her, guided only by the tug of the leash and the tap-tapping of the whip Milady bought for that purpose.

People turn to look, not just at Milady and the beauty and opulence of her, but at the recalcitrant girl and the gag in her mouth.

“That’s Josiah Rogers’ girl, that one,” they say to each other as the pair pass by.

“His niece.” And they shake their heads at her folly, at the poor family of this stubborn, stubborn girl and go about their way.

Milady pays them no mind, but drives her heart’s desire to her little rented flat near the park. Milady rings the bell: a servant opens the gate: a girl with flaxen hair and pale blue eyes. She gives a courtesy to Milady and her guest: her gaze averted from the Shetland girl and her disgrace.

“Inside, my dear,” she says, and smacks her back lightly with the riding crop. Milady drives her new darling up the steps into her room: a confectionary of lady’s lace and silks, instruments that would be better suited to an interrogation room than one for lovers.

“Now let’s have a look at you,” Milady says to her day’s desire, and undoes the Shetland girl’s clothes.

She sees herself as Milady sees her: tall and china-skinned, patterned with freckles. Off come the buttons, down comes the blouse to her hips and it slides down with the penitent skirt, down her hips. The cheeks of her arse are plum red: an entire week’s worth of being flung over someone’s knee and paddled near to death. Milady tsks and tuts.

“What an appalling lack of imagination your Doms have had,” she says. She ties the Shetland girl’s lease to the post of her gorgeous canopy bed and sits down for a cup of tea, for the servant girl’s brought in her tray. There are cakes on a little plate, cream and sugar and tea, a pot of cinnamon, honey, and, of all things, a root of ginger.

The Shetland girl watches this last thing with interest. Her eyes are very dark and wide: she can imagine where it’s meant to go.

Across the room, stirring cream into her tea, Milady laughs.

“Oh my dear, I knew the moment I laid eyes on you,” she says.

Milady calls her servant girl, gets her to untie the Shetland girl from the bedpost and bends her over a special couch in the middle of Milady’s room. A very special couch: leather instead of velvet, heavy leather straps lapping across the chair around the waist, the outstretched arms, the leg rests that require the Recalcitrant to kneel.

The collar comes off, the binding gloves are undone though the gag stays. Shetland obediently bends over, kneels and lets the servant girl strap her in, arms, three straps over the torso, and over the calves and thighs, her arms strapped to the cold metal legs. Between the split curve of her cheeks, her sex is glistening.

She can hardly move, and to her credit, she doesn’t try it. Instead, the Shetland turns her head to stare at Milady who seems to pay no attention to the proceedings. She is busy paring away at the root of ginger. The Shetland watches as she dips it into the glass of water on the tea tray, and sashay over to the Shetland girl, bending over her ear.

“There’s a very good reason why I need to keep you gagged, darling,” Milady whispers. “Let’s see if we can’t make you lose your composure, hmmm? Anne, leave me alone with her, I want her to myself.” The servant girl courtseys, and leaves them both to each other.

Without a word, Milady reaches down, finds the clit, pinches it, rubs there, dripping and ready, then slips her fingers inside the Shetland’s arse. Slips them in and out, in and out, then slips in the ginger. Inch by inch.

It’s a large root. The Shetland girl pants, strains, tries to slip her legs wider but can’t. The straps keep her where she is.

Milady shows her a paddle. Black, made of satin and rubber. She turns it this way and that, to let the girl inspect both sides.

“Something pliable and soft,” said Milady. “You wouldn’t think it would sting much.”

Think again.

Milady steps behind her and lands the first blow, against the raspberry cream of the Shetland’s cheeks. The Shetland moans a little, winces.

“And again, darling,” says Milady, and lands it exactly on the same strip of flesh. The Shetland struggles against the straps, bucks and Milady gives her two more in the same breath. The flesh is flushing crimson.

The girl moans, begins straining against the straps, her legs bucking. She’s very wide-eyed and ohs behind the gag as she turns her head to stare up at Milady.

“Are you feeling it now, my dear?” Milady said softly. “Is it the ginger? I believe it stings very much.

It does sting. Imagine perfume rubbed in your eye, salt on a skinless wound, it’s there inside of her and her arms are strapped down and there’s no getting it out. The Shetland bucks and squirms like a mad pony. She can’t help it.

“Oh yes, a little lively now aren’t we?” Milady says. She begins spanking the Shetland with the back of her hand so that the Shetland clenches her stinging cheeks, wincing at the full bite of the juice. They give it to horses and ponies at country fairs, Milady says to the Shetland’s squirming. They do it to give them a bit more life, a bit more spark, and aren’t we excited my dear, oh yes indeed.

Milady smacks her again so that the Shetland wails, very contrary to her upbringing and she bites on the leather gag at once. She is mortified, despite the relentless burning in her arse, her shameless rut against the couch and the fruitless tugging of her limbs. A well-bred Gentle may groan, she may utter small delicate ohs as she’s being put through her paces by her Dom, but she does not go on in this unGentle fashion no matter how much a Dom might try them. But Milady gives her another smack, digging the ginger in and the Shetland howls lets out a string of gagged adjectivals. Milady laughs delightedly and smacks the tender skin.

“Oh darling, what unGentle sounds you’re making. Oh my darling, what a shame. I believe I’m well within my rights to punish you for that.”

Indeed she is, and the Shetland almost feels she deserves it as the paddle slams down again and again on her cheeks.

Milady has a fast stroke and she’s merciless, spanking her again and again, the same bit of abused flesh. She slams the paddle against the cheeks, as she would at a dusty rug, and leaves the pale flesh raw red and sizzling and the Shetland can’t help it: she clenches at each stroke, sobs behind the gag as the stinging juices burn her inside out so that she plumps up her cheeks — just as the paddle slams down again, and forces her to clench on the stinging ginger root.

She’s in such a frenzy of sobbing, crying and clenching and begging, for what she doesn’t know, that she doesn’t even notice Milady finally slipping the ginger out. She barely registers it when Milady’s fingers begin stroking her there. The sobbing slowly turns into pleasured ohs, a very different kind of begging.

Inside, inside, Oh God, please, I need…

“It’s alright my darling,” Milady murmurs, slipping her gloved hand inside as if to soothe. The Shetland moans.

A finger, two, three, four maybe. She rocks against it, well as she’s able to, strapped down as she is. She sobs as it works her, slow and easy and filling her with a welcome ache.

She’s eager enough to take the entire hand in.


When the Shetland wakes, she’s robed, the front completely undone. Her wrists are tied and her arms are crossed over her breasts. She looks over at Milady, who’s smiling at her from across the bed. She traces fingers up and down the Shetland’s body.

“Luncheon,” she says, and shows the girl a tray. Orange juice and sliced pieces of toast, roasted potatoes, baked ham and eggs. Slices of avocado and fruit.

The Shetland girl is ravenous. She’s piquant and quiet as Milady slowly unties her wrist. But the instant her hands are free, she makes for her share: buttered toast in one hand, roasted potato in another and she’s devouring one after the other. Milady laughs and presses more food on the Shetland: she’s already dined, watching the Shetland sleep and a very pleasant luncheon it was too. The Shetland slows enough to be more ritualistic about her food. She cuts up the potatoes, lays slices of them on top of the toast, layers them with ham and hard boiled eggs. She devours them the way they are. Milady watches.

“Darling, how long do you plan to stay up on that block?” She says it with a melancholy air. The Shetland tosses her head.

“As long as I like,” she says. The Shetland focusing her attention on cutting and buttering up another potato. “I won’t marry or get myself to a nunnery.” She devours half of the potato, layers the slices on another piece of toast.

Milady’s voice is playful, barely plaintive when she says: “but darling, you don’t belong up there.”

“What’s it to you?”

What indeed. Milady’s a foreigner and the Shetland’s family will never sign a contract with her. Never ally themselves with a wog of a family that they may well never see. Milady drops it.

Still, Milady comes for the Shetland again and again, to put her through her paces in the beautiful little room in the flat. Not the same bag of tricks: that will never do for Milady, and she says the Shetland needs a proper breaking in. So Milady has the Shetland naked and kneeling, keening behind her gag from the wooden pegs Milady adorns her with: breasts and thighs, underarms and the tender of her sex; paddled mercilessly and screeching as she hangs helpless from a harness; and on the third day naked and trembling on her toes. For feet down, the Shetland taps a lever and the box at her feet sends an electric current through wires attached to sex and breast. And goodness, how the Shetland wails at that, though she’s kissed and soothed by Milady afterwards, swathed in a crimson robe of wine. See how Milady loves her darling, she does everything she can to bend her and make her happy.

Afternoon session, with the Shetland tied to Milady’s magnificent bed. To the Shetland’s delight and horror, Milady holds up a carving of ginger. Not phallus shaped: a wedge. The girl whimpers as Milady reaches down again, slips the ginger between her legs, on her clit. It’s soft and cool, quietly building to a burning of a very different kind.

“Please,” moans the Shetland, bucking her hips. She’d do anything, anything, for something inside of her.

“Maybe my dear,” Milady says softly. “But I want to know who it was.”

The Shetland moans.

Milady reaches down. She clamps the Shetland’s lips together, little wooden clothespins biting at the rose between her legs. The Shetland bucks her hips. They’re held so fast by rope, keeping her legs apart. The desire keeps building and this time, there’s nothing to relieve it.
The Shetland sobs and bucks.

“Please,” the Shetland begs, and arches her back.

“What was their name, my darling?” Pinching the inside of the Shetland’s thighs.

It’s not enough, it’s hardly enough, and the Shetland sobs and bucks. She’d do anything, anything, for something inside of her and so the answer is wrung out.

“He was a foreigner.”


They hung his body outside the gates of the town. You might have seen it, fine-rags-and-tatters, long since picked clean by crows. Foreigners, however, need not be alarmed, for the painted sign they placed on his neck says: THIEF. Obviously, it doesn’t apply to respectable, law-abiding folk!

Treat with the town honourably, don’t corrupt their sons and daughters, and you should be alright. It’s because of him we’re all stuck with the Recalcitrants, though I honestly can’t complain.

It wasn’t always so. Yes, the Recalcitrant section was always there, for those with wicked tastes, but foreigners were allowed to come into the market to watch, to purchase a Gentle, for a day or so from the main section. Why not? Hospitality for visitors and besides, a young Gentle benefits being exposed to a wide range of Doms. Get their curiosity for outsiders out of their skin before they finally settle down to serve their Doms and raise their families in this very respectable town.

Imagine the Shetland girl a year ago. It’s her first time at the market and she’s all a-glow. She and her Gentle brother pretty each other up for the day: she’s got a velvet choker with a teardrop of a pearl and her bonny hair is let down. They tie her hands with a pale blue sash and that’s all.

The foreigner’s a young thing: the son of a bourgeoisie family from the Colonies. He’s not completely Pedigree: the dusky skin gives that away for all his polish and Latin. But he’s good enough to buy a Gentle at the Market, bring her home for a day. It would be good for her to learn to submit to someone else’s Desires, even if that someone’s a foreigner. So he pays a sovereign and takes her home, and in the manner of all ordinary young people, they play and discover that they suit each other.

The Shetland discovers she likes the bite of his whip, the way he sets her through her paces, brings her to the point where she’s all-a-howling and then lays her soft and pliant on the bed. He discovers that he likes the Shetland girl’s tart tongue.

There’s no actual fucking: that’s reserved for the marriage contract and woe betide the Dom who breaks the law. But they’re young, they’re in love, they believe anything is possible and so after three days of cavorting, the boy coming back to Market Square to purchase the Shetland again and again and her with no objections, they go to the Shetland’s family to ask for a marriage contract.

What a scandal.

“Our darling and that mutt!” They lamented. What a shock it was to discover that their beautiful little baby fell in love with that, but then young Gentles are so easily led unless they have a good Pedigree Dom to keep them in line. They appease the Shetland’s tears with consolations: you’re too young my darling, there’s no rush, you should go with as many young Doms as possible before deciding, and really dear, what’s the rush?

No, no, we’re not saying you can’t see him again.

They tell her nothing at all, so the lovers don’t suspect a thing. But the family goes to the town hall, presents the case to the magistrate and accuses the foreigner of corrupting their pure Gentle darling. The magistrate agrees and has him dragged out of the flat: he’s sentenced within an hour or so. They tie a rope around his neck and fling him out of the town walls. And all the while, she’s in market square, innocently waiting for a Dom who never arrives.

She finds out days later, after bribing her servants for a word and slipping out of the house under the cover of night. His bones had long since been picked clean and glisten white in the moon.


She had herself set up on the block. She refused suitor after suitor until she exhausted her family’s patience — enough for her gentle, indulgent family to let her go. They’re quite sure she’ll come running back when she’s had enough of the wild goings-on the frequenters of the Recalcitrant section demands. They don’t quite understand this is precisely what she’s looking for.

So when up comes Milady with her games, her wicked pins and needles, her ginger and her clamps, the Shetland is relieved. She’s very different from the darling who died, and wicked enough to distract her from her grief, though she’s all darling and cooing afterwards, promises of love and forever. That is unfortunately the trouble.

Come with me.

You? A foreigner?

Come now, that doesn’t really matter to you.

Just because we take your coin doesn’t mean we’ll sign contracts with you. Now take me back.

The Shetland leaves the house at moonrise, as agreed. Her cheeks are sore, and she’s full of ache, but it’s precisely what the Doctor ordered. The corpse, the sad, unfortunate Other dancing on the end of the rope won’t haunt her for another week.

Tomorrow, Milady will sashay up the Square, a bright bloom in her cheeks and sovereigns in her purse. She’ll buy the little Shetland and take her home, put her through her paces and make her shriek until she’ll almost believe she’s in love.
A.N. Cortez is a Filipino-Australian writer of erotica and fairy-tales. She lives in Melbourne Australia with an imaginary menagerie and the scandalous shenanigans of imaginary people inside her head.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Still More Burning Bras

Swedish military bras burst, melt during 'rigorous exercise'
Young female conscripts forced to strip hastily

The Swedish armed forces have been hit by a major equipment problem, according to reports. Flimsy military brassieres are unable to stand up to the strains imposed when female Swedish troops perform "rigorous exercises", routinely bursting open or even catching fire - so forcing busty young conscripts to hurriedly strip off in the field.

The revelations come courtesy of the Gothenburg Post and English-language Swedish journal The Local. The Post reported yesterday on concerns raised by the Swedish Conscription Council, an organisation concerned with the rights of conscript troops in the Swedish forces.

Council spokesperson Paulina Rehbinder told The Local that government-issue military brassieres supplied to young female soldiers have long been unfit for combat

According to the paper:
The women complained that the bras’ fasteners have a tendency to come undone when the women performed rigorous exercise, forcing the female soldiers to take off all of their equipment in order to refasten the brassieres.

The Post apparently brought the related bosom-combustion issue to light, noting that bras can catch fire during combat and then "melt onto conscripts’ skin".

“Our opinion is that the Swedish Armed Forces should have ordered good, flame-proof underwear,” Rehbinder said.

“There should be suitable apparel for women.”

Rehbinder reportedly added that the problems have persisted for twenty years, with generations of young Swedish womens' tophamper routinely breaking free of confinement to oscillate wildly during army PT sessions and field exercises - presumably often followed by impromptu stripteases as the more jubtabulously fortunate female troops sought to re-fasten their flimsy government lingerie.

The problems would apparently be easy to sort out. Unaccountably, however, it appears that the male-dominated Swedish military hierarchy has failed to act.

Rehbinder reportedly - though perhaps mistakenly - believes that change is on the horizon. She told The Local that 2,000 new young female recruits are to enter the Swedish forces next year, and that top brass had been informed of this recently.

"That got them moving,” she said.
[From The Register]

Monday, October 5, 2009

I Need To Get Out More


World Naked Bike Ride (WNBR) is an international clothing-optional bike ride in which participants plan, meet and ride together en masse on human-powered transport (the vast majority on bicycles, and fewer on skateboards, rollerblades, roller skates) to "protest oil dependency and celebrate the power and individuality of our bodies".

The dress code motto is "Bare As You Dare". Full and partial (especially topfree) nudity is encouraged, but not mandatory, on all rides. Requiring partial cover-up is strictly forbidden and is a distinguishing feature of WNBR versus other cycling events.

Creative expression is also encouraged to create a fun and immersive atmosphere during the ride, to capture the attention and imagination of passers-by and the media, and to make the experience more personalized and fulfilling for the riders. Body art (such as body painting) are common forms of creative expression, as well as costumes, art bikes, portable sound reinforcement systems (such as public address systems/bullhorns, boomboxes) and musical instruments, as well as other types of noisemakers.

Pre-ride parties for WNBR have become events unto themselves featuring musical bands, DJs, bodypainting, temporary structures/installation art, political tabling, and catering. In addition to simply being able to ride clothes-free on community streets, some rides have established precedent by having body-painting parties, often involving numbers of naked riders and artists, in high-visibility municipal parks.

This distinctive form of Critical Mass, occasionally called Critical Ass, is often described or categorized as a form of political protest, street theatre, party-on-wheels, streaking, public nudity and clothing-optional recreation and thus attracts a wide-range of participants.

The first Naked Bike Ride was celebrated in Zaragoza, Spain, in 2001. In 2003 Conrad Schmidt conceived the World Naked Bike Ride after organizing the Naked Bike Rides of the group Artists for Peace/Artists Against War (AFP/AAW) which took place in the early part of the same year, as well as other high-profile political/media events leading to the creation of The Work Less Party of British Columbia.

WNBR rapidly started to come to life through collaborations with activist groups and individuals around the world. The first WNBR event in 2004 was a collaboration between the WNBR group (June 12) and Manifestación Ciclonudista in Spain (June 19), establishing a precedent as a solstitial Saturday observance. Since that time rides have also taken place in February and March (mainly in the Southern Hemisphere). A smaller number of rides have taken place at other times of the year.

Prior to the first World Naked Bike Ride event in June 2004, two independent organizations - AFP/AAW and Manifestación Ciclonudista - had been organizing very similar political events with virtually identical messages of protesting oil dependency. Despite having similar political messages neither of these groups knew of the existence of the other until collaboration began many months before the first WNBR event.

The 2004 WNBR saw events in 28 cities, in 10 countries on four continents.

Friday, October 2, 2009

Bet You didn't know this -

Wiki (from the History of Brassieres):
... in the late 1960s, some of the emblems of femininity became targets of feminist activism. Feminists charged that these objects, typified as patriarchal, reduced women to the status of sex objects. Some women publicly disavowed bras in an anti-sexist act of female liberation.

When Germaine Greer stated that "Bras are a ludicrous invention," her statement resonated with many women who had been questioning the role of the bra. Pivotal in popular bra culture is a now-notorious protest against the 1968 Miss America beauty pageant, seen as an oppression of women. About 400 women from the New York Radical Women were involved in a demonstration at the Atlantic City Convention Hall shortly after the Democratic National Convention. Protesters saw the pageant and its symbols as an oppression of women (because of its emphasis on an arbitrary standard of beauty, and its elevation of its choice of the "most beautiful girl in America" to a pedestal for public worship and commercial exploitation). On September 7, 1968, a "Freedom Trash Can" was placed on the ground, and filled with bras, high-heeled shoes, false eyelashes, girdles, curlers, hairspray, makeup, corsets, magazines (such as Playboy), and other items thought to be "instruments of torture," accoutrements of enforced femininity. Someone suggested lighting a fire, but a permit could not be obtained, and so (contrary to the subsequent urban legend) there was no burning, nor did anyone take off her bra. Another similar protest was held in 1970.

The event received quite a bit of media coverage at the time but the notion of women burning their bras was merely a concatenation of several movements, including sexual liberation, in the media imagery. A number of journalists who wrote descriptions of the incident drew parallels with the young men who had burned their draft cards in opposition to the Vietnam War with the women's action and used the term "bra-burning." These parallels were encouraged by organisers such as Robin Morgan. Lindsay van Gelder's account in the New York Post carried a headline "Bra Burners and Miss America". The phrase became headline material and was quickly associated with women who chose to go braless, following Germaine Greer's comments. Feminism and "bra-burning" then became linked in popular culture and Greer became a metaphor for bra burning. It has been suggested that the association between feminism and bra-burning was encouraged by those in opposition to the feminist movement, as it created an image less of women seeking freedom from sexism, appearing more as though they were attempting to assert themselves as sexual beings. This might lead to the assumption that, as Bonnie J. Dow wrote in her article "Feminism, Miss America, and Media Mythology," they were merely trying to be "trendy, and to attract men." The association between "bra-burning" and the feminist movement has led to somewhat of a misrepresentation of the movement and the actual purpose of the "freedom trash can." By being associated with an act like bra-burning, feminists may be seen, by those less knowledgeable of the movement, as law-breaking radicals, eager to shock the public. For obvious reasons, this is not good for the movement, and promotes the efforts of those against feminism to invalidate the movement. Since then anti-feminists have used "bra burning" and "braless" as derogatory and trivializing terms for the feminist movement. What got lost in the rhetoric, and is probably more important, is that it became quite acceptable in the 1960s and 1970s to not wear a bra. Thus echoes of the 'liberated 60s' or 'bra-burning 60s' have continued to reverberate in women's fashion history.

Many women stopped wearing bras, but few did so with a public ceremony: they simply left their existing bras in a dresser drawer and stopped buying more. In 1971, Herb Caen, a San Francisco Chronicle columnist, reported that the Berkeley Roos/Atkins store had closed its bra department because of poor sales.

Bra sales were not noticeably affected by the protest, and manufacturers capitalised on the attitudes of sexual liberation by emphasising allure. They also promoted "no-bra" alternatives like the "no-bra bra" and adhesive pads that supported the breasts and covered the nipples. These stratagems were clearly attempts to recover braless women as customers, by offering them something that they could spend money on. Nevertheless this era was perceived by the industry as a crisis, and a preoccupation, which led indirectly to multiple mergers and acquisitions and the development of large corporations.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

But is closed three days every month ...

From the great Atlas Obscura:

Museum of Menstruation

Housed in the basement of a Washington D.C. home, the museum closed in 1998, but there may be some possibility of seeing the collection by contacting the creator and curator of the museum, Harry Finley.
Containing over 4000 items related to menstruation, this is the only collection of its kind in the world. If you get a chance to see the museum, be sure to look for the rubber menstrual apron sold by Sears And Roebuck in 1914. It isn't a pretty site.

The collection is currently seeking a permanent home.