Tuesday, July 31, 2012


LGBT- Letting Go of Bygone Thoughts that heterosexuality is a norm, possible, or desirable by all. Erotica has so much more to offer. Who doesn't find two strapping young men or a huddle of naked women alluring? Come on, admit it. ;-)

Helmut Newton

Try The Pie


Got Milk?

Splish splash, I love milk!
via Sub Jaunita

From Work In Progress

Corrine had a hard time not seeing a cane swinging from Emma’s hand or a paddle smacking against her thigh. She swallowed, hoping the liquid in her mouth would wash away the image, but it remained like an aura behind Emma.

Medical Erotica

It is ironic, as a writer, when life imitates art, specifically erotic fiction. My current work in progress is a lesbian medical erotic tale of a power tussle. The woman, Corrine, locked to her hospital bed by leg braces and an IV is at the mercy of her nurse, Emma, who is all too similar to a nanny she had as a small child. Emma is determined to give Corrine exactly what she needs whether Corrine wants it or not; and, Corrine is determined to get the better of Emma but can’t move.

And so, yesterday I had the un-joyful experience of going for a CT scan with injected radioactive dye. I had thought the tech would inject me and that would be the end of playing needle games in my body. I am a firm believer that if there are needles involved I should be the one doing the poking. But oh no, without telling me he had me set up for an IV and there I was tethered to medical equipment without my knowledge and unable to move save on command. I might be rather harsh on Corrine in my writing, but I felt a special bonding then and there. God it was awful, but not as awful as what was to come.

As the dye enters the body, the first thing you notice as the victim, is a strong metallic taste and smell. Yes, the drug takes over two senses right away and then goes for a third. A paranormal heat travels through the body and goes everywhere; yes, I do mean everywhere. I thought my clit was going to explode with heat, and not the good kind of heat. This heat felt evil and not of any realm I’d like to know, more a devilish realm. My body broke out into a sticky sweat and I could feel my heart beat speed up as the tech moved my gurney into the bowels of the SOMATOM Sensation 16, the name of my CT scanner. All I can imagine is someone thought Barbarella should be a sequel to 2001: A Space Odyssey when they came up with that idiotic name.

The test didn’t last that long, but the aftereffect is still with me and leaving me shaky, ill, and light headed, not so unlike the state submissives are in after play, but for me it is medically induced. I certainly can see why medical play would be someone’s fetish, but it isn’t mine, not unless I get to be the doctor.

What a Show Off!

And on the street, too
via Hosed Legs

G-Spot Mouse

You Mouse Around Here Often?

This mouse is called the “G-Spot” – I am not even effin with you. Where to find the mysterious spot of pleasure’s center? With which woman will it be found? Can it be found? These are all questions. Is this spot to be found within devices? Perhaps a mouse? And if so, what would happen if that spot were found?
To where would it lead?
Any sensible person’s mousy G-Spot would lead directly to Yanko Design, of course! Oh my goodness! The shame! I’ve told you the truth. This mouse has a secret spot. When you find it, to your favorite place on the computer it’s connected to you will go, be it your email provider or your favorite industrial design blog news website. There ye shall be.
Designer: Andy Kurovets

Monday, July 30, 2012

The Way To A Man's Heart -


Thank you

When M. Christian asked me to join this illustrious group, I was taken aback. It felt like such an honor and approval of my writing. My first book, Tied To Passion, came out in September of last year and I am still figuring my way around the world of eBooks. Of course I said yes immediately. You don't ever say no to such an opportunity. I hope I can bring the new thoughts and ideas to this blog that he wants. I've always had a fondness for the Victorian era and erotica so the merging seems quite natural to me. Case in point, the book Tipping the Velvet did just that and is quite popular. It was even made into a movie so it must be important. :-)

A bit about my focus. I noted early on in my time within the BDSM community, that there are always people looking to be dominated but fewer people willing to do so. This leaves a dearth of people ready to exert power over others. And that power is so desired by the majority that there is a jockeying to find a dominant or dominatrix.

I wish to help fill this need through my writing. All my books involved power games, dominance, and submission. If you are waiting for the perfect play or life partner, in the mean time I hope you can find him or her in my books. Amber Rose Thompson

The Facialist-Coming Soon!

My new paperback novel, The Facialist, from JMS Books will be available August 31, 2012. Read about a young man undergoing changes in his life, besides his crossdressing and other things he lives through. A sexual novel? No, just life.
via Mick's Web Page

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Welcome Amber Rose Thompson!

I'm extremely pleased and proud to be able to announce a brand new member to our Frequently Felt family: the brilliant writer Amber Rose Thompson!
I write under the pen name Amber Rose Thompson. Why don’t I use my legal name? Well, I don’t want to be fired from my day job, now do I? By day, I am a public librarian working in the metropolis of New York City. I write the kinds of books that will never be offered at my library or even considered. And that is why I use a fictitious name. It is a bit sad to promote reading by day and hide my own writing while doing so. Before work, on lunch, break, and after work I write hot, erotic tales that I hope will make readers squirm and fan themselves. My one major hurdle in writing is my kitten who believes laps are for sleeping, not laptops. With this hindrance, I often write one-handed, and not for the reason your dirty mind is thinking. I hold the laptop with one hand and type with the other so my little bundle of fur can purr in her sleep. My muse for writing is my lovely and amazing partner who I’ve been married to for sixteen wonderful years. We all must get our inspiration from somewhere after all. My marriage is an interesting one, while we have been married for awhile, we actually have two marriage certificates. You see part way through our marriage we both transitioned to the opposite gender. I told you my marriage was different. I am a trans man writing under a female name, talk about gender bending and mental games.
Some Reviews
"Amber Rose Thompson is an excellent writer." - Laura Antoniou, author, The Marketplace Series
Scheherezade’s Gift: Beth’s Wild and Crazy Book Reviews- “Wow talk about a hot sexy book…who knew going to the bookstore so often would get you a magical book that gets you laid by the man of your dreams.” 
Tied To Passion: Sizzling Hot Books Reviews- “Tied to Passion is not for the faint of hearted...I would recommend Tied to Passion to those who enjoy erotic romances...” 
Tied To passion: BDSM Book Reviews- “ Based on sex scene alone, I would have rated this book a 4 paddle because it made me want to jump my husband after reading it....I recommend this book for BDSM light readers who like to read about a bringing an innocent to the dark side.”

Sigourney Weaver by Helmut Newton

Call Me?


Saturday, July 28, 2012

Sizzler's Fifty Shades Trailer

I'll never stop saying it: the folks at Sizzler Editions/Renaissance E Books are not just wonderful but wonderfully smart (and great to work for).  Just check out this video they just released:

Helmut Newton

15 Century Bras-Who Would-a Thunk It?

Archaeologists have unearthed several 600-year-old bras that experts say could rewrite fashion history. While they’ll hardly send pulses racing by today’s standards, the lace-and-linen underpinnings predate the invention of the modern brassiere by hundreds of years. Found hidden under the floorboards of Lengberg Castle in Austria’s East Tyrol, along with some 2,700 textile remains and one completely preserved pair of (presumably male) linen underpants, the four intact and two fragmented specimens are believed to date to the 15th century, a hypothesis scientists later confirmed through carbon-dating.
via Ecouterre

Friday, July 27, 2012


So Bright The Vision?

(from M.Christian's Technorotica)

In Clifford D. Simak's short story, "So Bright The Vision," fiction writing has been replaced by machines called yarners - that chug out stories or books on demand. Well, someone's taken that idea into erotica with The Fifty Shades Generator - a site that will create pornographic passages in the style of ... well, you guessed it:
"The feeling of his man fat seeping down my throat got my fallopian fish stock flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and cock custard in my puckered brown eye created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. The seemingly neverending streams of penis pudding eminating from his throbbing quim dagger soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. By now, my gashtray was leaching like a broken fridge freezer. Inserting a squash into my hot pocket got me spraying fallopian fish stock faster than a greased weasel shit."
Welcome to the world of tomorrow....


I've run across a number of erotica writers who've said they haven't and won't be reading Fifty Shades of Grey.  In all honestly, this blows my mind. You can try to dismiss it, as many critics have, by calling it 'mommy porn'. You can deplore its writing style - lord knows, even die-hard fans don't attempt to defend the poor quality of the prose. But you can't ignore the fact that it has now sold over 20 Million copies in the US. In the UK it became the fastest selling novel of all time.

As writers, it is important for us to interrogate its success and to attempt to understand what it means for the genre, for levels of explicitness in mainstream fiction, and for the way publishers are going to inevitably behave in the light of it.

I have a theory…

To read about Remittance Girl’s theory; click here.


Whee, Wedding Time!

Aw, damn, I didn't mean I was SO happy, now what'll happen?
via Hairy Panther

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

A Bit Of Everything But The Smell Of Lilies -

From M.Christian's Technorotica

In celebration of the release of Betty Came: The Best Of M.Christian, here's a teasing taste of "Everything But The Smell Of Lilies" ... which also appears in my collection of cybersexy fiction, The Bachelor Machine

Everything But The Smell Of Lilies 

She is wearing spandex pants decorated with the bold black and white icons of half a dozen Tokyo corporations. Her hair is in dreads, spiced with glittering watch parts. Her shoes are new and intelligent, contouring to her feet as she runs out of the crowd towards the place. Her poncho is tiger-striped, the newest Eurotrash fad, and the by- standers can see, as she pumps those strong legs in those black and white spandex pants, that she doesn’t have a top on, and that her nip- ples (flashing out from under the red and black of the poncho) are only covered by crosses of black electrical tape. She is a mix of black and something else. All can see—even in the midnight glare of Broad- way’s brilliance of neon, lasers, fluorescents, and headlights from blur- ring cars—is that her skin is a brown like stained wood. Her face is high-cheeked, her lips dark brown, her eyes hidden behind mirrored image-intensifying glasses.

She is running for her life: down the street, through the sidewalk crowd, panic in her strides, panting breaths.

It is drizzling, like static.The muscles at the door to the place don’t like it because it messes up their radar goggles. The clients don’t like it because it gets their furs and leathers all wet. The street drek don’t like it because it pisses off the money and the muscles and they usu- ally take it out on whoever is closest and can’t afford to fight back. The limos come and go, a high-class and costly river of black plastic and steel.The rich’s banter is light and sparkling above the rain, and it blends, as only it could in the 21st century, with the chatter from the muscle’s narrow-band radios.

She runs through the crowd, pushing streetdrek and citizens aside, glancing back over her shoulder at every opportunity. Panic lights her muscles, her stride, and she looks for someone to—

The words finally come out in an oscillating scream as she slams against the first ring of genetically-enhanced, neurochemically boosted, electronically hot-wired thugs. True to their purpose, mis- sion, and few remaining authentic brain cells, they smash back, sur- rounding her with dense muscle and squealing radios, and push her back into the crowd.

Her hands are grasping claws, her nails draw blood in a triad streak down the face of one of them (who doesn’t blink against his condi- tioning), and her legs hammer against his ballistic-nylon pants. Her scream sounds like some kind of a weapon, and the few cheap, off-the- shelf guards pull their own weapons and track the high windows around and up—unable to distinguish one crazed woman from an armed assault squad.

Then an arm snakes out of the crowd and, with a clean, sure swipe, slices her throat ear to ear.

The city is big, but not so big as to make the woman’s throat open- ing up and the resulting fine fanning spray of arterial blood com- monplace. A muscle reacts first, being now freckled with potentially dangerously infected blood, and draws and aims... at nothing but the already twitchy street. At the sight of the weapons being quickly drawn and dropped to street level, anyone who has any kind of survival skills instantly turns and runs.To a street of people used to sudden urban vi- olence, turning and running is called a riot. Luckily for the muscle and the few really innocent bystanders, the riot has a place to go: down the street like water down a cascade, away from the Men With Guns, away from the dangerous Blood, away from the Rich People being thrown into their cars by their overreacting bodyguards.

The street is nearly quiet very soon after, save for the wailing of an approaching ambulance, called in a moment of rare altruism by one of the suits, and the last foaming, crackling bubbles from the woman’s throat.


Disturbia by UniqueNudes

Disturbia by UniqueNudes

Adam Warren

Drowned Sex Doll

The phrase "inflated body count' took on new meaning for 18 cops in China's Shandong Province who worked together to save a sex doll they thought was a drowning woman.
The incident happened July 11 when officers responded to a report that there was a lady in distress in one of the province's rivers. The crew worked frantically for nearly an hour to rescue the woman, according to Digital Journal, and in the process, attracted a crowd of about 1,000 curious, excited and anxious spectators to the scene.
It took more than 40 minutes before the officers were able to recover the pleasure toy.
After confirming that they had indeed run around in a panic for nearly an hour over trying to rescue someone’s blow-up girlfriend, the police presented it to the anxious crowd, who quickly covered their children’s eyes and walked away, according to RocketNews24.com
No word on how the sex doll got in the river in the first place, but the Times of India reports that Shandong is an important center for producing sex toys in China and supplies them across the globe.
via Huffington Post

Friday, July 20, 2012



It was the scandal of the decade, if not of the twentieth century. The year was 1963, an austere time in England. We were still recovering from the devastation we had suffered during WWII. Rationing had only ended in the late 1950's. It was the height of the Cold War, when spying was rife and the threat of war was imminent, with the outbreak of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

And fear of spies was a reality. Britain was reeling from the revelations that Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean were Soviet spies. There was sexual intrigue involving men high in the social scale. A Minister of the Crown; an eminent Harley Street doctor. Sex and lies from those very men that we looked up to. The idea that a British politician was not only cheating on his wife with a call girl and sharing the call girl with a Soviet diplomat, sent the public reeling.

This scandal of sex and betrayal saw the resignation of one Cabinet Minister, the retirement of a Prime Minister and I don’t think I am exaggerating, when I say that the scandal eventually caused the downfall of a government.

The 1960’s was the decade that the publisher Penguin was prosecuted for publishing D.H. Lawrence's racy novel Lady Chatterley's Lover. Penguin won the case and was able to publish 200,000 copies as people raced to get their hands on it. The old order was being challenged and a new order was just beginning. The children born just before and during the war were coming of age. The Beatles still had mop haircuts and had just released “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”, Ian Fleming's spy novels had hit the screen starring the very sexy Sean Connery as 007. The newest actors in Britain were not Hollywoodized versions of British men, but actors like Albert Finney and Michael Caine who were working class.

New magazines like “Private Eye” which poked fun at everyone and everything was established. Beyond the Fringe starring Peter Cook, Alan Bennett, Dudley Moore and Jonathan Miller hit the West End. And David Frost became a national celebrity hosting the hit TV show That Was the Week that Was (a more topical version of VH-1's Best Week Ever).

Yet for all the changes, Britain was stuck in the 1950's. This was still the era when unmarried girls who found themselves pregnant, were packed off to places where they could have their babies in secret and then give them up for adoption.


And politically things were not good. Although Harold Macmillan had swept into office in 1959 with a majority in the House of Commons, there was discontent in the country. While Japan and Germany had recovered nicely from the war, the economy in Britain was stagnant. There was inflation and labour unrest. Unlike America, with its young, vibrant president, Irish-Catholic, war-hero with a beautiful young wife, and two adorable children, it seemed that politicians in office reflected a by-gone era, the era of Churchill and Lloyd-George, old school politicians.

So at the height of the cold war in the early 60s, as the established order was challenged as never before, Britons paid rapt attention to a sordid little affair which involved a cabinet minister, a showgirl and a Soviet naval attaché.  It was an era in which anything was possible and nothing was safe; a time when the established order was being challenged, subverted, and ultimately buried.

Even today, in our peculiar society, we get excited when ministers and other public figures are caught with their pants down. In 1963, the very notion was deeply, deliciously shocking.

It was still mostly a pre-pill, pre-promiscuity age, when unmarried pregnancy was a matter of deep family shame, and back street abortionists thrived. The tabloid newspapers were already brash but not yet sex-crazed, and were by and large polite to politicians. But when the storm broke, it was not simply driven by sex; there was a deep, dark context of rank treachery.

The chief players in the unfolding drama were;

John Profumo - Secretary of State for War, married to the actress Valerie Hobson.
Harold Macmillan aka Supermac - Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland
Christine Keeler - goodtime girl and model
Mandy Rice-Davies - fellow goodtime girl and model
Stephen Ward - osteopath and panderer
Lord Astor - A member of an old, respected, aristocratic family. He was the owner of Cliveden, a large country house where sexual intrigues took place.
For months, rumours had circulated about the private life of John Dennis Profumo, secretary of state for war. Educated at Harrow and Oxford, he was a quintessential high Tory who had achieved cabinet rank after serving in a number of junior posts. He and his wife moved effortlessly in the crème of society.

In the deferential spirit of the 1950s, the rumours may have been restricted to salon gossip. Now, in the new age of iconoclasm, the whispers were amplified in the media. “That Was The Week That Was” scored a telling blow with a splendid parody of the old music hall number, “She was Poor but she was Honest”. The words of the new version went: "See him in the House of Commons / Making laws to put the blame / While the object of his passion / Walks the streets to hide her shame."

The "object of his passion" was a young woman whose name is now embedded in British political folklore: the incredibly beautiful Christine Keeler.

Christine Keeler, unlike Profumo, had had an extremely undistinguished life. Born in 1942, she left home at 16 after an unhappy childhood in the Thames Valley, and gravitated to London where she found work of a sort at Murray's cabaret club. There she met and befriended another showgirl, Marilyn "Mandy" Rice-Davies. Soon, both young women had drifted into the racy circle around Stephen Ward, a fashionable West End osteopath and socialite.

Christine’s relationship with Stephen Ward was both torrid and rocky. They broke up several times, but he seemed to exercise an almost mesmeric influence on her, and always she drifted back. Soon both young women were celebrated players, albeit with bit parts, in Ward's sexual circus.

Not all the action was centred on Ward's Wimpole Mews flat, equipped with two-way mirrors and other aids to lubricity. Soon, Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies were circulating in more exalted milieux, including Lord Astor's country mansion of Cliveden. It was there that John Profumo first laid eyes on her. A brief but passionate affair ensued, and tongues began to wag.

Even then, it might have been brushed under the carpet in the time honoured English way, but Profumo made a fundamental error: he lied to the House of Commons. In March 1963 he told the chamber that there was "no impropriety whatever" in his relationship with Christine Keeler. Ten weeks later he appeared before MPs again to say "with deep remorse" that he had misled the House, and would resign.

What brought Profumo down even more than his deceit of the Commons, was the startling revelation that Christine Keeler had also slept with Eugene Ivanov, the naval attaché at the Soviet embassy. It was that detail which captured world attention, notably in the United States, where the FBI compiled a detailed report called Operation Bowtie.

In Britain, Profumo's downfall naturally caused a huge sensation, inflated by the establishment's crude and cruel attempts to find scapegoats for its own embarrassment. As usual, official wrath was turned on those least able to defend themselves. Stephen Ward was prosecuted for living on immoral earnings. On the last day of his trial, he killed himself with an overdose of sleeping tablets.

In his suicide note Stephen Ward wrote; “I feel the day is lost. The ritual sacrifice is demanded, and I cannot face it. I’m sorry to disappoint the vultures”.

Some people think that Stephen Ward’s death is a little too convenient. They believe that he was murdered.

Christine Keeler was also tried and imprisoned on related charges. Mandy Rice-Davies, who escaped prosecution, earned a dubious immortality when, during the Ward trial, she was told that Lord Astor disputed her version of events and replied: "He would, wouldn't he?"

Less than two months after Ward's tragic and mysterious death, an official report was produced by Lord Denning, master of the rolls. It was a hot number: hundreds queued to buy a copy when it was released at midnight. But there were few juicy bits in Denning's findings. He criticised the government for failing to deal with the affair more quickly, but concluded that national security had not been compromised. And, to the dismay of the reading public, he failed to identify the man who, naked except for a mask, had served at Ward's dinner parties. There had been rumours that the "man in a mask" was a cabinet minister but Denning, who interviewed him, denied it.

There it ended, though it never really went away. The 1989 movie, Scandal  reignited some of the controversy, and Christine Keeler raked over the embers in her autobiography, “The Truth At Last”, published early in 2001. In it, she revived some of the more startling claims made at the time - though alas she was unable to offer convincing new evidence to back them up.
John Profumo died in 2006. Christine Keeler is now age 70. After her prison term, she
repeatedly tried to restart her life, but the scandal continued to hang over her head like a sword of Damocles. She married and divorced twice, and has two sons. Over the years, she's held various jobs as a receptionist, and as a dinner lady in a school in London, all under an assumed name.

Mandy Rice-Davies traded on the notoriety the trial brought her, comparing herself to Nelson's mistress, Lady Hamilton. She married an Israeli businessman, Rafi Shauli, and went on to open a string of successful nightclubs and restaurants in Tel Aviv. The restaurants and nightclubs, which bore her name, were called: Mandy's, “Mandy's Candies” and “Mandy's Singing Bamboo”. Mandy Rice-Davies also parlayed her minor fame into a series of unsuccessful pop singles for the Ember label in the mid-'60s, including “Close Your Eyes” and “You Got What It Takes”. I am sure that I have seen her on television too.

Few attended poor Stephen Ward’s little funeral on that day in August, but a number of leading figures such as the writers  Kenneth Tynan and John Osborne clubbed together to send a wreath of a hundred white carnations bearing the message 'To Stephen Ward, Victim of Hypocrisy'.

This post was prepared using sources including Wikipedia and Derek Brown - 1963: The Profumo Scandal And from what I recall listening to my parent’s conversations about the case. A few years later, when I was 16, I wanted to go to London to train as a fashion model. My father would not let me go, citing Stephen Ward, Mandy Rice-Davies and Christine Keeler as his reasons.


“Men-ups!” is a humorous project by photographer Rion Sabean featuring men doing pin-up-style poses. It’s interesting how much more absurd some poses instantly look when they’re being done by men.
via Peta Pixel