Thursday, April 29, 2010

Need can't be kept waiting. Need is here. Need... is now!




Wiki:
Candy is a 1968 sex farce film directed by Christian Marquand based on the 1958 novel by Terry Southern and Mason Hoffenberg, from a screenplay by Buck Henry. The film satirizes pornographic stories through the adventures of its naive heroine, Candy, played by Ewa Aulin. Many established actors are featured in the film, and popular figures such as Sugar Ray Robinson, Anita Pallenberg and Florinda Bolkan appear in cameo roles.

High school student Candy (former Miss Teen Sweden Ewa Aulin) seemingly descends to Earth from space. In the relatively simple plot, she naively endures an escalating series of situations in which her oblivious allure triggers satirical porn-film-like encounters. Roger Ebert wrote, "Candy caroms from one man to another like a nympho in a pinball machine, and the characters she encounters are improbable enough to establish Terry Southern's boredom with the conventions of pornography."

In school, her father (John Astin) is also her teacher. At a poetry recital, eccentric poet MacPhisto (Richard Burton) offers Candy a ride home in his limousine. At her home, MacPhisto drunkenly waxes boisterously poetic, arousing Candy and her gardener Emanuel (Ringo Starr) into sex. Scandalized, her family sends her to private school, where she embarks on a psychedelic journey during which she meets a number of strange people, including a sex starved military general (Walter Matthau), a doctor who performs public operations (James Coburn), a hunchback (Charles Aznavour) and a fake Indian guru (Marlon Brando). As the film ends, she continues to cavort with other people plus some of the characters she met in the film, followed by her return to outer space.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

WriteSex and SavvyAuthors!


Check it out: The wonderful Writesex bunch (including Sascha Illyvich, Oceania, and Jean Marie Stine ... and me) are going to be holding a special forum/class on Defining Erotica – A Primer for Authors of All Genres for Savvywriters. First up was Sascha Illyvich (on the 26th), after Sasha is Jean Marie Stine (on the 27th), then it's Oceania (on the 28th), on the 29th it's me, on the 30st it's Thomas Roche. For more info go to the Savvyauthors site. Tune in, have fun, and learn something.

Me Tarzan. You Sexy -

The amazing art of Roy Krenkel. From the always-wonderful Pictorial Arts blog.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Salome's Last Dance


(and here's the entire film!)


Wiki:

Salome's Last Dance is a 1988 film by British film director, Ken Russell. Although most of the action is a verbatim performance of Oscar Wilde's 1893 play Salome, which is itself based on a story from the New Testament, there is also a framing narrative written by Russell himself. Wilde (Nickolas Grace) and his lover Lord Alfred Douglas (Douglas Hodge) arrive late on Guy Fawkes Day at their friend's brothel, where they are treated to a surprise staging of Wilde's play, public performances of which have just been banned in England by the Lord Chamberlain's office.

In the play, all the roles are played by prostitutes or their clients, and each actor (except Grace) plays two roles, one in the brothel and the other in the play. King Herod (Stratford Johns) begs his young stepdaughter Salome (Imogen Millais-Scott) to dance for him, promising to give her anything she desires, much to the irritation of her mother, Herodias (Glenda Jackson). Salome ignores him, choosing instead to try and seduce John the Baptist, who is Herod's prisoner. John responds by loudly condemning both Herod and Salome in the name of God. A spurned and vengeful Salome then agrees to dance for Herod — on the condition that she be given anything she asks for. Herod agrees, but it is only after the dance is over that Salome asks for the head of John the Baptist on a platter. Herod is appalled, tries to dissuade her, but finally gives in to her request. The scenes from the play are interwoven with images of Wilde's exploits at the brothel.

This film met with modest critical acclaim. The review in the New York Times called it "a perfumed, comic stunt," but noted that "Mr. Russell forces one to attend to (and to discover the odd glory in) the Wilde language, which, on the printed page, works faster than Valium."

Less Than 1000 Words About A Certain Picture

Some of you - those of you who have known me for quite sometime - may know that I posed for a certain, kind of 'infamous,' picture. Well, the great folks at F-Stop (Neve Black, Donna George Storey, and Shanna Germain) asked me to write about the shot - which I have done.

It was really a very special thing to do and I want to really thank the great folks, the great friends, who gave me this opportunity to put my thoughts about the picture, and the man in it, out there. Thanks!

Meanwhile here's a teaser for the essay. For the rest of it just click here.

I know that’s me. I remember that afternoon: a house in the Sunset District of San Francisco with an intimate playroom in the basement, owned by a friend, since passed away. The woman was my wife, now ex-wife.

I remember Michael Rosen, the magnificent photographer who took the shot, saying “Open your eyes” over and over again. I remember she was almost standing on her head, laying backwards on a GYN table with her ass raised high. I remember the shot took a long time — so long my hand began to cramp. I remember the day Michael sent us a copy of his magnificent book Sexual Art with the photo published in it.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. They say that pictures don’t lie. They say ‘photographic evidence.’ I don’t know why ‘they’ are, but when I look at that picture I wonder about what’s real and not real, about who that man really is.

[MORE]

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Big Dick Rides The Subway

Big Dick rides the Subway from David Livingston on Vimeo.

The Forfeit by KR Silkenvoice

Here's an absolutely brilliant story by a writer, I think you'll all agree, we all have to see more of. Bravo, KR Silkenvoice!



The Forfeit
By
KR Silkenvoice

We arranged to meet at Sutro Heights Park, a green gem of a place sited on the cliff overlooking the Sunset District of San Francisco. Most people find the park by accident, curiosity driving them to push past the lions guarding the gravel path that looks like a private driveway. The landscaping is luscious and interspersed with benches and bits of statuary. The light has that quality that the Impressionists all tried to catch -- perfect for painting, photography, and picnicing. I waited for him in a sunny spot up on the foundation of the old Sutro mansion, watching the ocean I'd recently flown across, the ocean that had stood between us for three weeks.

He surprised me by slipping his arms around me and burying his face in my hair. I relaxed against him and smiled, basking in his warmth. His kiss was gentle. His lips brushed against my temple, and they were warm, almost chaste. I leaned farther into him, sighing a little, and turned my head so my cheek leaned against his bristly one. His shadow was heavy and it stung deliciously. His chilled fingers sought the warmth of my flesh, sliding themselves beneath my waistband of my skirt. I hissed briefly as his fingers pressed into me like an icy brand.

"Missed you," he said into my ear, and I turned and burrowed further into his embrace, seeking shelter from the cool morning breeze blowing off the Pacific.

"I missed you more," I said and smiled up at him with a bratty expression on my face.

He turned his head and kissed me again, and this time his tongue sought mine. I opened my mouth to him and let myself relax against him, enjoying the cascade of sensations tapping on my nerve-endings. His hand slipped farther down, his fingers just a bit warmer, until the tips touched my panties. With a flick he snapped the elastic, making me jump a little. He chuckled, flicked a finger again. Again the snap of the elastic against my skin, and again, I twitched. With his free hand he pulled me closer and I leaned my forehead into the place where his neck met his shoulder. The scent of him was strong and heady.

He wiggled his hips a little, brushing his hardness against me.

"Three weeks," he groaned into my ear. "I hope Japan was worth it, because I hardly slept for all those erotic dreams I was having."

"Mmmm.... it was amazing." I slipped my arms around his neck and kissed him, softly at first, with tenderness and love, but at some point the erotic energy changed and I sucked his bottom lip into my mouth and scraped it between my teeth.

He growled "wench" and swung us both around until my back was pressed against a gnarled old Monterey cypress. He gathered my hands together above my head and with his free hand teased my nipples. Such sensitive nipples. The touch of his fingers electrified me, making me vibrate with jolts of pleasure.

"Fuck!" I gasped against his mouth.

He pulled back and smiled.

"My place or yours?" he asked.

"Neither. Here. I can't wait."

"Here?" His eyes widened.

"Well, not right here, but there is a perfect spot down below here..."

I pulled a hand free and started down the steps. At the bottom, I turned left and walked up a little trail that ran alongside the stone wall of the foundation. In just a moment I located the sheltered spot where trees and shrubs grew thickly enough to cast deep shade.

"Here," I said, leaning my back against the rough stone wall and pulling him toward me by his belt. I had it unbuckled and his pants unfastened in record time. My hands dove down into the open vee and pulled out his cock and balls. His eyes were dark, his face flushed with excitement, and his sex... Oh sweet heavens, it was so full of blood that it bounced with each beat of his heart. The sight of him engorged and bobbing made me dizzy and suddenly I was on my knees with my mouth on him, moaning deliriously.

He leaned his palms against the wall and watched me, his body occasionally arching, his thighs tensing and releasing under my hands. I worked my mouth artfully upon him. I love oral sex. It is its own form of worship, of worshiping the divine spark in my partner. I gave myself up to it, to the sacred joy of it. I was a priestess, and the cock I worshiped with my mouth was a flaming torch, and the thighs before me were sheaves of grain, and the passion-blurred man presiding over me, he was a god, my god.

Too soon, he was pulling me up onto my feet and turning me around to face the wall. He raised my skirt and his searching fingers felt between my legs, delved deep until he found my wetness. I lay against the cold stone, moaning open-mouthed into it, my hips rocking to the rhythm of his cupped fingers. The teasing had become almost unbearable when he drove his fingers into me, up into the hot slippery core of me, and it made me gasp and jolt. He rocked his fingers deeper and his knuckles rubbed against my pubic bone once, twice, three times -- and then I convulsed, my body goaded beyond the limits of sensibility. I cried out, shuddering through a long climax as he urged me to keep coming with his voice and his fingers.

I felt him pressing against me, felt the heat of him against my ass, and he entered me slowly, releasing his breath on a long, low moan. I leaned my forehead against the back of my hand, and as I did so, I glanced at my watch. 9:16am.

He reached around and found my clit, rolling it between his fingers. I yelped and thrust my hips back against him. I heard my voice, heard my self whispering to him, telling him how much I missed the feel of him inside me, begging for him to fuck me, to make me come. And fuck me he did, hard and fast, ramming himself into me while he tormented my clit. My orgasm slapped me like a rogue wave, tumbled me, sightless and breathless, into a realm of sensation. I threw my head back and screamed silently up into the sky.

The feel of me clenching on his cock was all the stimulation he needed. He flattened me into the wall and thrust long and deep, raising me up on my toes and sending a jolt of pain through me.

"Too deep," I wanted to say, but I had no breath, and so I clung to the wall and worked my body around the axis of impalement, milking his cock until he shuddered against me and moaned like a man in pain.

"Never again," he panted into my ear.

"Never again what?"

"Never again will I let you talk me into masturbating to the edge without cumming for three weeks. It was torture."

"Ah sweetie," I said, as I slipped away from him and pulled a packet of wet wipes from my bag. I glanced at my watch. 9:19 am. "It wasn't torture. It was teasing and denial."

He groaned and leaned his back against the stone wall, catching his breath while I cleaned us both up.

"I won, by the way."

"Oh?" he asked.

"I told you that you wouldn't last 5 minutes." I tapped my watch. "You managed three."

He growled and made a clumsy swipe for me.

I laughed. "Are you trying to get out of your forfeit?"

"No, I honor my bets. An hour tied to your bed it is," he said, putting emphasis on the words your bed.

Originally I'd wanted the forfeit to be an hour of play at The Citadel, a great space that serves the kink community in San Francisco, but he'd flatly refused. He enjoyed kinky sex, and while the Citadel has a superbly equipped dungeon, he didn't like performing for an audience. So my bed it was.

"Sweet!" I bounced. "Lets get you back to my place."

He groaned. "Insatiable wench!"

"Hey, I figured after three weeks without sex, edging the whole time, you'd finally be able to keep up with me."

"We'll see."

***

It was a short drive to my home in Outer Sunset, just a few blocks from Ocean Beach. He teased me as we climbed the stairs to my third floor bedroom, slipping his hands along my legs and up under my skirt. I walked across the gleaming hardwood floor to the french doors and threw them open. The wrought-iron balcony railing afforded a view of the ocean, and the wind caused the sheer curtains to billow. With his help I set my massage table up under the skylight, and then I warmed the massage oil while he stripped down and slipped under the sheet.

I massaged him slowly, anointing his flesh with faintly scented argan oil. From memory I recited the poetry of Rumi and Neruda, sensually guiding the words with their vivid imagery into his mind. I left no inch of him untouched, and when I finished, his body was completely limp -- with the exception of his cock, which I'd brought to full attention.

It took some effort to rouse him up off the massage table, and when he was vertical I had to help guide him over to my bed, where I put him on his back and bound his limbs to the head and foot boards with silken sashes. When I kneeled next to him on the bed his eyes fluttered open. They were warm and lustrous, the pupils dilated. He smiled at me, a slow, sensuous smile that brought my attention to his lips.

I leaned over him, slowly lowering my head until my lips hovered over his.

"I love you," I said, and as I said it I opened myself completely, letting the love flow from me.

"Mmm.... I love you too," he mumbled back almost drowsily, and pursed his mouth for a kiss.

How do you describe a kiss that commingles elements of the sacred and profane: awe and love and passion and desire? It was all there and more as we breathed each other in and let the energy flow between us.

I straddled him, and as I lowered myself onto him, as I worked the wedge of him into me, I felt myself splitting open on so many levels: physically, emotionally, spiritually. A prayer came to my lips unbidden, and as I sat unmoving upon him, I slowly recited from the Songs of Solomon, "Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits."

His eyes opened, and he watched me, and his expression transformed from uncertain to transcendent in a few heartbeats. He felt it, I knew, that sense of the sacred that seemed to pervade our joining, and he responded with his own verse from the Songs, "O my dove, in the clefts of the rock, in the secret place of the steep pathway, let me see your form, let me hear your voice; for your voice is sweet, and your form is lovely."

I leaned forward, moving my hands so they pressed into his upper arms, so the weight of my upper body restrained him further, and my eyes holding his gaze, I put my inner muscles to work. I sat unmoving astride his immobile body and yet we moved together, our PC muscles undulating. His cock twitched within the fist I made of my pussy, and it was intense, oh so intense!

We maintained the stillness as long as we could, but eventually his thigh muscles were clenching and releasing and I was swaying. I brought my hands up to my nipples and with one tweak I went off like a fireworks display, keening louder and louder. He convulsed under me, his entire body straining, pulling at the sashes that bound him to the head and foot boards. He lifted his head up off the pillow, his eyes wide and wondrous, and then his face contorted and his hips raised, lifting us both up off the bed. The power of his orgasm awed me, blew through me like the breath of God, and left me tingling with profound joy.

I untied his arms before I curled up next to him, drowsy and sated in a way that was soul-deep. My love for him and what we'd shared radiated from within. I felt like a small sun had been born inside me.

"We should do that more often," I whispered into his ear.

"Peace, woman," he gasped in response. "There is only so much the human body can take."

I smiled ruefully and nodded my head against his shoulder. I wondered briefly how many people really experienced the Divine in sex, then drifted off to sleep with the sounds of San Francisco wafting in from the balcony.
In addition to hosting her weekly Silken on Sex Podcast, Kayar Silkenvoice writes erotica for online and print publishers and produces erotic audio recordings. In 2009 she released the album AudioSensual Erotic Shorts on both Amazon and iTunes. Kayar's passion is sexual exploration. Join her on SilkenOnSex.com

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Bon Appetite By J. Troy Seate

Here's an absolutely delightful story by a newcomer to Frequently Felt, J. Troy Seate. I know you'll all agree with me that Troy is a wonderful writer and, absolutely, has to send us more!




Bon Appetite
By
J. Troy Seate

—The Appetizer—

I turned the ignition key. The cold engine growled like a savage beast prematurely disturbed from its slumber, frighteningly similar to the way Madeline sounds when she is in the throws of passion. I’m not complaining, mind you. Madeline has proven to be everything I have ever wanted in a lover, or so I thought, and I take pleasure in recounting her unique talents as I wind my way up and down the hills of San Francisco.

Madeline glows with a year-round, California tan. She possesses luxurious black, curly tresses. In her scarlet eyes lie the mysteries of deep waters a man can drown in. Her lips are full and pouty. Her blemish-less torso features perfectly formed breasts with puffy pink nipples. The hourglass figure splits at her velvety triangular swatch of neatly trimmed pubic hair. Her legs are long and her feet are delicate. In a word, she has a body that could launch a thousand ships toward the bay. In another word, she looks like a breathing version of a Vargas.

Madeline’s straightforwardness is a quality most rare. She told me straight out that she had picked me from a gaggle of other men at a local single’s picnic for two reasons: because I have an easygoing personality and because of my cock size.

“When I saw that bulge, I knew you could satisfy me,” she explained. “I sense that your cock is a custom fit for me, somewhere between comfort and at the threshold of pain, the way I like it. There are any number of ways you will be able to satisfy me.”

Madeline let me have sex with her that very night and I soon discovered that she also sensed how best to satisfy my needs. Because of where she has led me, I manage my way through each work day with a smile on my face and a melody in my heart. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been and always look forward to three nights a week of warm embraces.

Madeline has but one requirement: complete honesty—a pledge that we will keep our relationship light and breezy, like the city we both love. If one tires of the other, it is okay to say so. Even though sex is a given, I try to keep our evenings together original as well as breezy.

Last week, I ask a buddy to prepare one of his succulent, gourmet dinners for Madeline and me, to be served by candlelight in the perfect setting—on the roof of my apartment building that looks toward the Golden Gate across to Mill Valley. “Anything to enhance a buddy’s sex life,” he said, and promised to prepare a feast.

Madeline arrived at eight. Being a woman who would look fetching in a simple tow sack, her choice of duds always surprised me. On this evening, she was decked out in black stilettos, tight black toreador pants, a ruffled white blouse, and a gold tunic similar to that of a matador.

“Ole” I said, and offered her a drink. I brought her a martini and kissed her passionately on those ruby-red, bee-stung lips. “Are we fighting bulls after dinner?”

“When I was getting dressed, I thought about the other night when you came to bed with your face painted white and black circles around your eyes.” She giggled at the recollection. “You did the zombie walk with your arms and your dick sticking out, coming for me.”

“It was The Night of the Fucking Dead. So?”

“You were good and horny that night and I had a feeling this was going to be an even hornier night, so I dressed appropriately.”

“Uh oh. One of your feelings again. Isn’t every night hornier than the time before?” I asked.

“But tonight will be different. I think that tonight, our relationship will reach another level.”

Her forecasts usually proved true, so I could only look forward to the evening with baited breath. I sat aside her martini glass and took hold of her. A rye, openmouthed smile lit up Madeline’s face. I wanted my horn to pierce her sooner rather that later. I pressed her against the wall and pulled down her black pants and panties.

“Not even one pass with my cape?” she giggled.

I dropped my shorts and skivvies to my ankles. “You said you’d make me horny and you were right.”

“How bullish you are,” my bullfighting senorita said.

“You’ll have to settle for one horn rather than two” I huffed. “Hope that’ll do?”

“Quite an appetizer. Your bull-cock is always a custom fit.”

“Better than being gourd on the streets of Pamplona, I promise you that.” Her legs spread to take me in and I plunged into her enveloping depths.

“Run bull, run,” she panted as I pounded her into the wall.

“Just don’t cut off my ears when we’re done,” I groaned.

“Maybe just one, but I’ll let you keep your balls,” she growled like a savage beast disturbed from its slumber, caught up in the throws of passion. “Gourd me deeper before I have to plunge my sword between your eyes,” my stud bull,” she cried while our imaginary audience again shouted, “Ole!”

The metaphor lasted longer than I did
.

—The Dinner—

“We are dining on the roof, so we can consider it a bullring if you like.”

“Wonderful.” Madeline shimmied back into her tight pants. “I like doing things out of the box.”

We took our glasses and I led her up the stairs. Light shimmered across the bay and the moon had risen above the rooftops, creating an atmospheric, languid backdrop on a warm night. My good buddy, Marshall, stood behind a sizzling hibachi. He had decorated a card table with a red tablecloth, two lit candles, and bone china. The aroma of barbequing steaks and fresh scampi from the market found its way to our noses.

“How opulent,” the contessa exclaimed.

“Only the finest for the Goddess of North Beach.” I ushered her to our table for two.

Marshall made sure we were seated comfortably. He took Madeline’s hand and introduced himself. She smiled warmly and thanked him for his contribution to our evening.

“I’m going to disappear,” he told us, “but I’ll be back later to deliver dessert.”

Madeline and I were alone on the rooftop with the sounds of the city a few floors below. I watched as her face flicker in the candlelight. Glossy lips red as maraschino cherries flashed around perfect white teeth. Glinting nails played with her wine glass. Her white throat, begging to be kissed, arched from her blouse collar.

She captured each mouthful of food and sip of wine with the gusto of a person savoring every taste as if it were her last. Her gastronomic pleasure carried with it such sensuality that my cock began to stiffen and my libido would have gone through the roof had I not already been there.

I recalled an article devoted to sex and food. Madeline’s pulchritude somehow captured the essence of the concept: Good food to be preceded and followed by good fucking, my two favorite F’s.

We enjoyed Marshall’s sumptuous dinner while the hanging moon shined and the vehicles below played a haunting rhapsody with their wheels and horns. Watching Madeline devour her meal gave rise to that other craving. That appetite had already served as an appetizer and would soon become a succulent nightcap.


—The Dessert—

Good to his word, Marshall returned with two servings of chocolate moose and truffles from Ghirardelli Square. I invited him to pull up a chair and join us. I was willing to share my beautiful vixen for the time it takes to spoon down the creamy treat and drink a final glass of wine.

Madeline complimented both of us on the evening meal. After some chit-chat, Marshall removed the dishes and prepared to bid us adieu.

“I owe you one, buddy,” I told him.

“Why don’t you hang around,” Madeline told him, “provided it is all right with you, Dillon.”

“Sure. I guess,” I said, not knowing what Madeline had in mind.

“The meal was wonderful,” Madeline continued, “and I have a confession to make, Marshall. When we touched hands, I knew that you, as well as Dillon, possess a special type of gift.”

Marshall and I looked at each other and waited for my dreamboat to continue. She took our hands in hers and looked at my buddy. “Your package is just right for something. Don’t let it embarrass you when I say that I would like to have you as well as Dillon. The two of you, doing me together and each using you’re your own talents.”

Who can fathom the caprice of a sensual woman? Madeline stood and undressed.

“This may not be your cup of tea, either one of you, but I think it will take all of us to another level, if you’ll go along with me.”

I was downright stupefied at this development, but Madeline usually knew best. Without another word, both Marshall and I disrobed. All three of us placed our clothes over the chairs. We stared at one another, naked, bathed by moonlight, candlelight, and the faint, reflected haze from the surrounding metropolis.

She appraised Marshall’s body. “Hello, gorgeous,” she said like Barbara Streisand.
Marshall was well built, but his cock was smaller than mine, a steroid dick, perhaps. She beckoned for us to fondle her. We kissed her face, her breasts, and squeezed her ass while she caressed our respective shafts.

When our organs grew hard, Madeline squatted and sucked our cocks, switching from one to the other every few strokes. “You two are perfect for a sandwich,” she told us. “Dillon’s a perfect fit for my pussy, and Marshall, you’re a perfect fit for my ass. Lick my cunt a little, then you both can fuck me.”

I was too hot to worry whether or not I was bothered by sharing my centerfold with a friend. How could I argue with a woman who seemed to know more about pleasure than anyone I had ever met? Marshall and I got on our knees and lapped at Madeline’s clit like a couple of thirsty dogs at a water tap. Our tongues shared her sweet spot. Madeline’s pubic hair dripped with our saliva, but neither of us cared.

Finally, she ordered us to our feet. “Dillon, pick me up and impale me with your prick.”

I obeyed. She slid onto my shaft with a satisfying moan. Her canal of love surrounded my manhood like a snug, velvet glove. She wrapped her ankles around my hips to anchor the weight of her body.

“Marshall, slip that beautiful cock of yours up my ass.”

I could feel Marshall’s knees bump against mine as he positioned himself under Madeline’s rump. When Marshall rammed his dick into her rectum, she slid up my shaft an inch or two from the impact.

“Ohhhh,” she offered in response. “My two beautiful bulls. You have both hooked me. Now double-fuck me.”

We got into a rhythm that allowed Marshall and me to alternate thrusts. I could feel the movement of his penis sliding back and forth on the other side of Madeline’s muscular, internal wall that separated our two cocks. I had the additional thrill of sucking on a bouncing tit, but could tell that Marshall was not feeling deprived.

We panted and heaved, overwhelming the other sounds in the night. Sex was in four-wheel drive—illicit bumping and grinding with an element of risk. We were out in the open, after all.

Here was the real Madeline. The roll-playing with orderly conversation and clothes had ended. She was now free of pretend and busy telling Marshall and me how to please her. She didn’t give a damn about convention and neither did we.

Marshall came first. His quiver of delight was transmitted through Madeline’s legs. She threw back her head and yelled, “One down and two to go. Let’s all get our rocks off.” When he pulled free of her, she reached around and wiped the fluid from Marshall’s cock onto her palm and fingers. She licked away some of his issue and put her fingers to my lips. I would do anything for Madeline’s pleasure and I tasted. “You and me and Marshall, coming together as one. What a turn-on. Viva the stars and little cable cars,” she growled.

When Madeline emitted that patented animal sound, I knew her orgasm was imminent. We came within seconds of each other. Juices ran down my thighs and Madeline encouraged Marshall not to let such a superb substance go to waist. I felt his tongue on my thighs and balls. And while Madeline’s vagina held tightly to my cock, I found the lapping sensation most pleasurable.

Once Marshall’s head was clear of our bodies, Madeline’s ankles unhooked and she dropped to the roof. “Now that’s what I call a spectacular after dinner special,” she said. She threw one arm around each of our necks to form something resembling a small football huddle. We sauntered around in slow dance steps while Madeline hummed a popular dance tune.

I might have expected Marshall and me to be eying each other rather sheepishly at this point, but we didn’t. We were okay with what Madeline had orchestrated and frankly, my balls still tingled from the feel of Marshall’s tongue and day-old beard against my thighs.

During our impromptu dance that had turned into a conga line, an alley cat joined Madeline in song, expressing his desires for the evening. We took that as our cue to leave. We dressed and walked down the stairs to my apartment. I poured drinks for Madeline and Marshall and we chewed nothing more than the fat for an hour or so. Finally, Marshall kissed my alley-cat/matador goodnight and we were again alone for whatever adventure our nightcap might bring.


—The Nightcap—

In bed, we sucked each other’s genitals for half an hour before Madeline crawled up to my face to talk. “Thanks for fulfilling my desires,” she said while juggling my moist ball-sack. She always seemed to know the right gesture to make or place to touch. “I sensed something different would happen tonight. When I touched your friend, I knew how I wanted it to go down. I sensed you got off on it, too.”

“Actually, yes, and I wouldn’t mind double-fucking you again or even a double-blow,” I told her while she was making my flesh-covered acorns dance.

“No time like the present,” Madeline laughed. “Call your chef back.”

“We’ve been friends for a long time.”

“I can tell you that he’ll be all for it.”

Marshall answered his cell phone and said he would come back over.

“Let’s do some more yum-yum until he arrives,” Madeline suggested. “In the meantime, you might like the view that Marshall had.” Madeline got on her knees and laid her chest across the bed. She reached back and grabbed hold of her butt cheeks and spread them apart so I could study her sphincter. “Fuck my pussy and titillate my asshole until your friend arrives,” she ordered.

Can a bull ignore the flash of red from his matador? I teased her bunghole because I didn’t need psychic power to know that she wanted my finger or Marshall’s dick back inside it. On the road to her sweet spot, my lips made pit stops on the bottoms of her feet, her calves, her thighs, and her puckering anus. I tasted the seed of Marshall, and my cock tightened. I grabbed a handful of her luscious, raven curls, put my thumb in her butt, and pierced her warm, pretty pussy. It was some damn good yum-yum. Once I was properly lubricated, I pulled my cock free and penetrated her ass.

“Oh yeah. Shove it all the way up to tonsil-town,” she screamed in the key of C.

With her mane in my fist, I felt like a Roman charioteer guiding my beautiful mare around the Circus Maximus. My second explosive wad of the evening made her scream, to my delight. “That thing’s so damned big, you might need a building permit, Dillon,” she said. “We may have to cut back to two nights a week, lover. I still walk to work in the mornings.”

After I pulled out, she turned, grinned, and kissed my sweaty forehead. She pressed her body next to mine in a full frontal. “It’s been an unusual and amusing night for the both of us and the best may be yet to come.”

When Marshall knocked on the door, I got up and let him in. “We decided dessert was the best part of the night and you might as well be part of the nightcap,” I told him.

Madeline waited in bed for the two of us. “Honesty is the big part of my relationships and Dillon told me he got off on sharing me with you, so present your weapons, boys,” she decreed.

“I’m up for whatever you guys have in mind,” Marshall told Madeline and me, “but what’s after the nightcap?”

“The morning after, of course,” Madeline said with a grin.


—The Morning After—

When I woke up, I realized our female participant was long gone. Marshall was still in my arms, however. A whole new word had opened up overnight. I had enjoyed fucking Marshall as much as Madeline.

He stirred and playfully ran a finger around my rectum. “We’ll start nice and slow,” he said. “It can be as good to receive as to give. I hope the nightcap was as satisfactory as last night’s dinner?”

I had to admit that is was.

“Here’s something good to start a morning after a pleasurable night—protein.” He put his mouth around my cock and sucked gently. Marshall’s lapping tongue, though different, was as pleasurable as that of my horny vixen. I again tingled from the feel of his day-old beard against my nuts and my thighs.

By noon, I had returned all of Marshall’s favors by sucking my first dick and receiving my first cock. And without a vagina in sight, I enjoyed taking sex and giving it, tit for tat, pound for pound.

Madeline called me that evening. “Hey, Bi-guy,” she said with a giggle.

She was right. Our impromptu ménage-a-trois had blazed new trails. I realized I enjoyed playing both parts—matador and bull. It resulted in a revamped, partnering schedule. I have Madeline to myself one night a week. On a second night, I share her with Marshall. A third night is obligated as well. That’s the night Marshall and I spend with each other, sans Madeline.

I am happier than ever that my home is in the city by the bay where the good people, for the most part, live and let live. And I now see the world through slightly different eyes. Every time I bite into a pizza wedge, a piece of pie, anything triangular-shaped, I think of Madeline-the-Magnificent’s fiery twat. And every time I partake of breakfast sausages, hotdogs, or any tubular treat, I think of my good buddy, Marshall.

Bon appetite.
Troy has written everything from humor to the erotic, to the macabre. His short stories and memoirs appear in several magazines, anthologies and webzines. His two one-author anthologies, Descent into Darkness and From the Depths of Darkness, and his two suspense thrillers, Chosen, and its sequel, Shanghai is Crying are available through amazon.com and most bookstores. You may contact him at troyseate@hotmail.com or www.whispershome.com while his website undergoes an overhaul.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

... also known as bluesies, eight-pagers, gray-backs, Jiggs-and-Maggie books, jo-jo books, Tillie-and-Mac books, two-by-fours, and fuck books ...

Wiki:

Tijuana bibles (also known as bluesies, eight-pagers, gray-backs, Jiggs-and-Maggie books, jo-jo books, Tillie-and-Mac books, two-by-fours and fuck books) were pornographic comic books produced in the United States from the 1920s to the early 1960s. Their popularity peaked during the Great Depression era. The typical "bible" is 4 by 6 inches (approx. 10 x 15 cm), with black printing on cheap white paper, and eight pages long. In most cases the artists, writers and publishers of these tracts are unknown. The quality of the artwork varied widely. The subject is explicit sexual escapades usually featuring well known cartoon characters, political figures or movie stars, invariably used without permission. Tijuana bibles repeated ethnic stereotypes found in popular culture at the time.

People distributed Tijuana bibles "under the counter" in places such as schools, garages, barber shops, the hatches of station wagons, and from persons selling them on the street. In a 1997 Salon.com article, cartoonist Art Spiegelman said that little established data about Tijuana bibles exists; Spiegelman said that the term may have originated from slurs against Mexican people or the concept of the border towns being centers for vice.

Spiegelman says that records of prosecutions against publishers and artists for making Tijuana bibles "don't seem" to exist; the cartoonist added that on occasion authorities seized shipments and salespeople of Tijuana bibles. According to Spiegelman "it's not clear" whether mom and pop outfits or organized crime created Tijuana bibles. In some senses, Tijuana bibles were the first underground comix, and they featured original material at a time when legitimate American comic books were still exclusively reprinting material from newspaper strips. After World War II the popularity of the Tijuana bible began to decline.

Little is known about the anonymous artists who produced the Tijuana bibles. Wesley Morse (who later went on to draw Bazooka Joe) is believed to have drawn many of the pre-WWII bibles. A number of books have tentatively identified the freelance cartoonist Doc Rankin as the creator of numerous Tijuana bibles in the 1930s, although this remains unproven.

Joe Shuster illustrated a Tijuana bible-styled erotic work called Nights of Horror in the early 1950s; his male characters are strongly reminiscent of Superman, and some of his female characters resemble Lois Lane.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Everything You Ever Wated to Know About Irrumatio

Wiki:
Irrumatio, also called irrumation, is a type of sexual intercourse performed by actively thrusting one's penis into a partner's mouth and throat. It may also be the thrusting of the penis between the legs, feet, upper thighs (also known as interfemoral sex), or between the abdomens of two partners.

"Latin erotic terminology actually distinguishes two acts ... First, fellation, in which the man’s penis is ... orally excited by ... the ... fellatrix ..., [and] Second, irrumation ... in which the man (the irrumator) ... engages in ... motions by moving his hips and body in a rhythm of his own choice."

The English noun irrumatio or irrumation and verb irrumate come from the Latin irrumare, to force one to perform fellatio. Also note that J. L. Butrica, in his review of R. W. Hooper's edition of The Priapus Poems, a corpus of poems known as Priapeia in Latin, states that "some Roman sexual practices, like irrumatio, lack simple English equivalents."

As the quotation from Butrica suggests, and an article by W. A. Krenkel shows, irrumatio was a widespread sexual practice in the Roman Empire. J. N. Adams states that "it was a standard joke to speak of irrumatio as a means of silencing someone". Oral sex of any kind was considered to be an act of defilement: the mouth had a particularly defined role as the organ of oratory, as in Greece, to participate in the central public sphere, where discursive powers were of great importance. Thus, to penetrate the mouth could be taken to be a sign of massive power differential within a relationship. Remaining frescos from the Roman city of Pompeii demonstrate that irrumatio was one of the specific Roman sexual acts, the others being fututio, fellatio, pedicatio and cunnilingus. This was probably because the extant frescos appear to be in bathhouses and brothels: oral sex was something usually practiced with prostitutes because of their lowly status. Pedicatio and Irrumatio are referenced in Catullus 16.

Still, C. A. Williams argues that it was accepted as a degrading act, even more so than anal sex. S. Tarkovsky states that despite being popular, it was thought to be a hostile act, "taken directly from the Greek, whereby the Greek men would have to force the fellatio by violence". Furthermore as A. Richlin has shown in an article in the Journal of the History of Sexuality it was also accepted as "oral rape", a punitive act against homosexuality.

Roman historian Suetonius has a passage in his De Vita Caesarum which inconclusively states that Roman emperor Tiberius took great pleasure from forcing women, even those of rank, to perform fellatio.

In oral sex, irrumatio is performed by actively thrusting the penis into the mouth of the partner. In slang, this act is called face fucking, throat fucking, mouth fucking or skull fucking.

As with fellatio, it may be performed to induce male orgasm and ejaculation of semen. The passive partner may simultaneously be induced to climax if so desired. It can also be used as foreplay prior to vaginal or anal forms of intercourse. However, the passive partner might experience certain difficulties compared to less-aggressive fellatio, such as feeling as if they are abused, boredom, uncomforting reflexes, coughing up saliva, vomiting, being unable to breathe, etc. One method for the passive partner to overcome such difficulties is using the so-called stopper technique by wrapping one hand around the lower shaft of the penis thus being able to control its movement. Irrumatio can take place in a variety of positions. Possible positions: The passive partner with the back on the bed with the head tilted over the edge or the passive partner kneeling in front of the active partner.

Fellatio and irrumatio can be used interchangeably during oral sex. Indeed the distinction between fellatio and irrumatio has vanished in modern English and the latter term has fallen out of widespread use.

According to Maggie Paley's argument in her work, The Book of the Penis, some receivers regard receiving oral sex as an ego boost, believing that such an act is a form of dominance over their sexual partner because of the overt submissive nature of the act; the giver may often be on their knees before the receiver to perform the act of pleasure. As the Roman conception of the act also indicates, this is more so for irrumatio than fellatio in oral sex, as the male partner is dominant in action and the act of deep throating is easier.

“Peruvian erotic pottery of the Mochica cultures ... represent ... a form of fellation ... in the vases showing oragenital acts ... . See the vases illustrated in color in Dr. Rafael Larco-Hoyle’s ... Checan (Love!), published in both French and English versions by Éditions Nagel in Geneva, 1965, plates 30-33 and 133-135. ... The action should really ... be considered irrumation”.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

The New Look--A Fashion Statement By Mykola Dementiuk

Here's another fantastic story by my great pal, and a more-than-frequent Frequently Felt contributor, Mykola Dementiuk. Bravo, Mick!




The New Look--A Fashion Statement
By
Mykola Dementiuk


I darted across the empty lounge and quickly stepped through the open door of the ladies’ room. I took a deep breath and frowned, disappointed by the faint but ever-present ammonia smell. She’ll make it pretty, I smiled, and bustled into a stall, clicking the latch behind me.

Just moments before I paced the back of the theater, nervously peering out the lounge door and finally saw her enter the movie house, her large bosom thrust out, her walk exaggerated, her legs and thighs strong and thick. There had been some exchange of words at the ticket booth and I was afraid the old crone in the booth would enforce the No Unescorted Ladies policy and not let her in; though I’m sure she wasn’t taken in by the lipstick and high-hair and knew quite well what the lady had between her legs.

But I finally heard the turnstile clicking, the crone gesturing, and watched her scraping her heels, wobbling towards the lobby doors. She wore a loose short skirt and I nodded contentedly at her black nyloned legs and red high heels but blushed and drew back when she spotted me gaping out the open door. I hurried to the bathroom; I should not have been upstairs; that wasn’t part of the scenario; even though she was late I should have been patient and awaited her in the bathroom stall, just as I had done all the weeks before. Would she now be angry and not come down?

I sat on the toilet and clenched my thighs, listening to the faint movie grunts and cries pushing in through the bathroom door. Still, I kept my hands off my cock, willing to be patient now that I knew she was so near; she provided me with enough fantasies to keep me occupied all week; I simply had to be patient a bit longer.

I did not wait long. Her high heels clicked loudly on the marble lounge floor and my cock jumped as the heel-clicks moved closer and entered the ladies’ room. I stooped to the stall door and pressed an eye to the narrow slit between the door and panel frame, watching her shut the bathroom door behind her and click to large clear mirrors above the wash basins. I clenched my thighs and sucked my breath, catching the rising traces of her sweet perfume, each tincture pulsing thicker and sweeter through the door interstice and ridding the air of the too-clean bathroom smell.

She paused at the mirrors and flounced up the back of her beehive, then turned to examine her bosom from the right side and then from the left. Not satisfied with the position of the left side she reached into her blouse at the shoulder and jerked on the limp bra strap. The breast wobbled on her chest as she adjusted the strap until the loose bosom rose into proximate position with the other hovering buoyant one. I fell to my knees off the toilet seat and pressed my face to the stall door as if I could suck in the shaking tit through the narrow door gap. Content with her balanced bosom she smoothed the blouse and brushed at her shirt loose skirt.

Suddenly she bent over and reached down to align a twisted ankle bracelet and what should have driven me into a masturbatory frenzy at the clear view I had of her large fat ass beneath the rising and hiked-up loose skirt only made me grimace and curse at the frustrating lurch of my dying cock from the unexpected new-style pantyhose covering her thick thighs and legs and the dimming the slither of panty G-string she wore underneath that inched into her upturned ass.

I thought of pouncing out of the stall and calling the whole thing off; I didn’t mind this new fashion style of higher-rising skirts but I did object to the elimination of garter belts and nylons, which she usually wore, that were the crux of my masturbatory dreams. As fashion moguls dictated that skirts rise each season, from ankle bottom to pussy apex, the new look necessitated a utilitarian solution to convince women to purchase and wear the shorter skirts without turning them into porno magazine frumps. Hence the pantyhose, an all-in-one garment of panty and nylon melded together, easily slipped on, easily adjusted, --Wear it like a ballerina!-- eliminating the need for a cumbersome garter belt with its awkward dangling straps and clinching rubber-button clasps. Ladies! No more Embarrassing Situations! Be the New Woman! Discover the Total Freedom of the New Look! Even the Sunday papers displayed full-page colored advertisement of before and after shots of seated women; porno garters on the left, demure New Look on the right. I cut out the garter left side, jerked off, and added it to my collection of woman/man cutouts from magazines and papers.

Still for a few months, before the short-skirt/pantyhose fashion was fully accepted by skeptical women, and hose moguls turned even richer by adapting and out-besting minis with micros, all you had to do for thrills was ride any street bus and see the fashionable broads in their fashionable short skirts struggling to cover their gartered thighs as the gawkers in opposite seats sat with elbows on knees disbelieving that suddenly life all over the city was even more thrilling and lustful than any Times Square delusions.

And though I never came in my pants on a city bus, I often rode for blocks out of my way, gaping at nervous crossing and re-crossing dark legs, fascinated by the insistence of flustered dames to hide what they must have known would be seen by all. Yet wasn’t the point of the New Look to show all to all? In the argument over the promiscuity of certain women’s fashions the point is moot, or should I say stiff? It’s like pornography and erotica: one makes you go home alone and jerk off in your solitude, the other makes you take home a partner and make love together.

She adjusted her ankle bracelet and slowly straightened up, her short skirt sliding back down over her fat ass and thick hose thighs. My cock re-stiffened at the sight of her quivering skirt bottom: once more the image of skirt and legs stirred the fantasy of unattainable pornographic sex and I unzipped my pants and pulled out my cock before she surprised me with some other frustrating New Look.

She turned and looked at my knees and jerking cock beneath the stall door then leaned back on the sink, her legs slightly outspread, her heavy aligned bosom pushed out on her chest. I pressed my lips to the door gap and darted my tongue into the narrow slit, running my eyes from her high-heel shoes, up her black leg hose, to her swaying skirt bottom, the tiny folds and creases in her short loose skirt, the wide shiny belt about her waist, onto her smooth blouse belly above the belt, the large high breasts and finally settling on the stitch of a bra strap molded under her tight blouse and rising from a lumped left bra cup across her shoulder.

I looked at her round puffy face: a glistening drop of sweat seeped down her forehead in a thin swift line, leaving a streak of separated makeup which melded into the arch of a black eyebrow. I rubbed my own sweated cheeks on my shoulders and pressed my eye back to the gap.

Every Friday the same scenario: posing, teasing, revealing, and finally, if it all fell in place and at the right moment, mutual orgasms and ejaculation from across the room,
--though I sometimes think she faked it. And she looked ready: she licked her red lips and slowly raised the front of her loose skirt, pulling it up her disappointing hose-covered thighs, swaying the hem at the bottom edge of her groin and suddenly lifting the skirt to her waist.

It was an unexpected sight and my torso buckled in surprise as my hard cock lurched out of my hand beneath the stall door as if breaking from my body and surging to attach to hers; the incredible but possible scenarios streaked through my mind as I caught my cock and pulled back under my door.

I had never imagined such a sight: she stood with her skirt around her waist, her high-heeled legs outspread, her hairless hard cock and balls braced up the front of her belly and out of the skimpy panty G-string, but trapped in the shifting mesh of the dark nylon pantyhose material. If ever a fashion was designed for the wrong gender this was it (at least males had something to show in the hose, whereas women didn’t).

I tottered on my knees and struck my head against the door, straining my bulging eyeball into the narrow slit. She leaned further back on the sink and slightly pushed up her groin; the head of her cock peeped out of its uncut fleshy sheath as if probing the unfamiliar restrictive mesh. On one side of the stiff dick a thick nylon seam rose from the bottom of the panty crotch and wove up the center of the belly and disappeared into the folds of the raised skirt.

I settled into a steady even masturbation and watched her slither her fingers around the base of her balls and up fat cock to the trapped round head. She reached under her rumpled skirt and groped for the pantyhose top.

-No! I moaned, beating my cock furiously and pounding the door. She dropped her hand and once more outlined the large cock with her fingers. I screamed and fell back from the door and doubled over against the toilet bowl, my scum spewing over my fingers and onto my shirt and pants. I cursed at the abrupt ejaculation, but my penis remained stiff and I continued squeezing and rapidly stroking my cock as if trying pro-long the too-short masturbation. Would she wait for me to come again?

I heard the clicking of her heels scraping from the sink and towards my stall and I jolted at the raps on my door. Impatient little bitch, I thought, but let go of my cock and reached into my pocket for the money I had set aside every week. I glanced at the two folded bills --this week she was worth more and didn’t even know it-- then kissed them and rubbed them against my wet cock and lifted them to the door and stuck them into the narrow sweated door gap. They were pulled from my fingers as soon as they poked through the other side. I heard the heels return to the sink and I fell back against the toilet bowl. There was a splash of water and then the heels clicked to the front door.

A movie female groan drifted in through the opening/closing door; the actress was probably getting fucked in old fashioned nylons and garters. I thought of the New Look --tight panty hose around a hard cock. I began to jerk off.
Mykola Dementiuk is the author of the novels Vienna Dolorosa, Holy Communion, Times Queer and others. His novella, "My Father's Semen" in Cruising for Bad Boys came out last June 2009. Also a sexual novella about D Day, "Dee Dee Day," will be out in March, 2010, from eXtasy Books. See his web page for more information: Mykola Dementiuk.