Saturday, December 5, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Ow! My Eye!
From Book Patrol - via the always-great Mykola Dementiuk.
Waldo Hunt and Pop-Up Books: A Brief Overview
Given the ability of pop-up books to treat a variety of subjects in a lively, entertaining and informative manner, it should come as no surprise that the erotic would gain the attention of paper-engineers.
Greenberg, Gary (Author) and Balvis Rubess (Illustrator). The Pop-Up Book of Sex.
Melcher Media for It Books, 2006. Paper engineer: Kees Moebeerk.The Pop-Up Kama Sutra. New York: Stewart, Tabori and Chang, 2003.
Paper engineer: J. Biggs.
Caution should be exercised with these two. You never know - but can probably suspect - what will pop-up in your face when you open a page. A few teens video'd themselves looking through The Pop-Up Book of Sex in a bookstore and posted it on YouTube. Giggles abound, all earned. And abuse ensues - too irresistible!
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Once Again, the Pussifycation Of America By Ralph Greco, Jr.
Here's another great essay by my always-great, Ralph Greco, Jr.
Once Again, the Pussifycation Of America
By
Ralph Greco, Jr.
By
Ralph Greco, Jr.
They were at it again today.
On a recent Ophra show titled: "Make Over My Man" the 'fashion guru' Tim Gunn called men out for their lack of fashion sense (of course presuming that there is even something called 'fashion' and not simply some annual opinions opined by the rich), by making them over. Sure Ophra's near all-woman audience cheered, the guys claimed they felt more confident post makeover, but what galls me about these shows is how they are simply another indication of the American media's constant pussyfication of the American male.
I once read a quote (and I'm paraphrasing): 'Women choose a man for the man they hope he will become, men choose a woman for the woman he wants her to remain'. This is pretty much spot on and the root of our hetero relationship problems as far as I'm concerned. You can't go changing someone, or trying to stop them from changing, it's just not going to work. But I would offer that our culture has allowed for more of the former sentiment then the latter in that quote. James Brown sang "It's a man's world" but baby, it ain't really.
Ever watch "Every Body Loves Ramon", there's the perfect example of the pussified man, cowering from his mother and wife. This mate-as-mommy syndrome is everywhere and it fed that Ophra show as much as it feeds every other aspect of our society that subtly subjugates men so we feel we are never good enough, make enough, or look 'fashionable' enough (of course presuming that there is even something called 'fashion' and not simply some annual opinions opined by the rich…oh sorry, I repeat myself). As much as the media in this country attempts to brainwash women that they can never be skinny enough, so do we get the signs-loud and clear-that men simply must change to a standard women (or gay men) are selling.
Never heard the term 'sex addict' til now have you? Sure there's many more ways to get 'it' these days, one need not even leave their computer, but didn't it used to be guys were just horny? Now our mate-mommies, doctor's, coworkers want us to see a therapist to, once again, pussify us (please don't get on me about women sex addicts, I am talking from only the male perspective here). Got a bad temper, you need anger management, maybe even a pill. God forbid we travel too far away from our girlfriends without the cell phone; mate-mommy has to be able to keep tabs on us…all my mom cared about was that I checked in when the streetlights winked on!
And how dare we think we're going out dressed like that!?
That Gunn guy called it the 'slobification of America'; he was close but had the first part of that word wrong as far as I'm concerned. During one segment of the show women were interviewed in a mall about this men fashion problem and the ladies (not all dressed attractive as far as I was concerned) went to town about uni-brows, bad footwear and pant choices of their men. What did I say as I witnessed their wailing? "Hey, if this is all you got to complain about" (and in all fairness they were being asked about their men's fashion sense… of course presuming that there is even something called 'fashion' and not simply some annual opinions opined by the rich. Sorry I did it again) "then," I continued to say to myself. "you must have wonderful husband-father-boyfriend at home'.
Men who they are no doubt attempting to twist and change every second of their day.
I'm telling you boys, we don't need Leonardo DiCap around to tell us that this fashion thang is simply the tip of the pussy iceberg.
On a recent Ophra show titled: "Make Over My Man" the 'fashion guru' Tim Gunn called men out for their lack of fashion sense (of course presuming that there is even something called 'fashion' and not simply some annual opinions opined by the rich), by making them over. Sure Ophra's near all-woman audience cheered, the guys claimed they felt more confident post makeover, but what galls me about these shows is how they are simply another indication of the American media's constant pussyfication of the American male.
I once read a quote (and I'm paraphrasing): 'Women choose a man for the man they hope he will become, men choose a woman for the woman he wants her to remain'. This is pretty much spot on and the root of our hetero relationship problems as far as I'm concerned. You can't go changing someone, or trying to stop them from changing, it's just not going to work. But I would offer that our culture has allowed for more of the former sentiment then the latter in that quote. James Brown sang "It's a man's world" but baby, it ain't really.
Ever watch "Every Body Loves Ramon", there's the perfect example of the pussified man, cowering from his mother and wife. This mate-as-mommy syndrome is everywhere and it fed that Ophra show as much as it feeds every other aspect of our society that subtly subjugates men so we feel we are never good enough, make enough, or look 'fashionable' enough (of course presuming that there is even something called 'fashion' and not simply some annual opinions opined by the rich…oh sorry, I repeat myself). As much as the media in this country attempts to brainwash women that they can never be skinny enough, so do we get the signs-loud and clear-that men simply must change to a standard women (or gay men) are selling.
Never heard the term 'sex addict' til now have you? Sure there's many more ways to get 'it' these days, one need not even leave their computer, but didn't it used to be guys were just horny? Now our mate-mommies, doctor's, coworkers want us to see a therapist to, once again, pussify us (please don't get on me about women sex addicts, I am talking from only the male perspective here). Got a bad temper, you need anger management, maybe even a pill. God forbid we travel too far away from our girlfriends without the cell phone; mate-mommy has to be able to keep tabs on us…all my mom cared about was that I checked in when the streetlights winked on!
And how dare we think we're going out dressed like that!?
That Gunn guy called it the 'slobification of America'; he was close but had the first part of that word wrong as far as I'm concerned. During one segment of the show women were interviewed in a mall about this men fashion problem and the ladies (not all dressed attractive as far as I was concerned) went to town about uni-brows, bad footwear and pant choices of their men. What did I say as I witnessed their wailing? "Hey, if this is all you got to complain about" (and in all fairness they were being asked about their men's fashion sense… of course presuming that there is even something called 'fashion' and not simply some annual opinions opined by the rich. Sorry I did it again) "then," I continued to say to myself. "you must have wonderful husband-father-boyfriend at home'.
Men who they are no doubt attempting to twist and change every second of their day.
I'm telling you boys, we don't need Leonardo DiCap around to tell us that this fashion thang is simply the tip of the pussy iceberg.
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.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
The Sexy Art of Raf Marinetti
Here's a special treat: the seriously-kinky and seriously-excellent artwork of Raf Marinetti. A tip-of-the-hat goes to my pal, Mykola Dementiuk, for this great find.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
So Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very, Very Wrong
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Rude Mechanicals - The Commercial! Part 2
To go along with their commercial, here's a special solo spot the great folks at
Present And Corrected By Elizabeth Coldwell
I'm VERY happy to be able to share this great story by not only a wonderful writer but also a wonderful friend: Elizabeth Coldwell.
It was a black satin blindfold.
Jillian looked at the package incredulously, searching for some clue as to who might have sent it. All round her there were neutral faces, enigmatic as a gathering of sphinxes. giving absolutely nothing away.
It had been a tradition to buy presents and hand them out on the afternoon of the staff Christmas party .as long as Jillian had been working at the agency. A week or so in advance, everyone would draw the name of a fellow worker, and be dispatched to buy them a little something. There were only two rules: no one was to spend more than five pounds, and no one revealed whose present they had bought.
Something had infected the air this year, Jillian was sure of it, for almost everyone seemed to have bought a present which was mildly erotic in nature. Steve, the senior designer, for instance, had unwrapped a paperback book which featured a pretty blonde heroine, her hands bound behind her, face turned away as if in shame, but her almost naked buttocks prominently displayed. Judy, his assistant, had been given a tub of chocolate-flavoured body paint, while Dennis, the chief copywriter, who had a renowned weakness for Italian food, had received a box of penis-shaped pasta. The devil must even have been in Jillian when she had gone shopping. She’d had to buy a gift for Marion, the department secretary, with whom she had never got on. The woman, who always dressed in a prim, severe fashion, with calf-length tweed skirt suits and scraped-back hair, appeared to know almost nothing about her own sexuality: it was even rumoured that, at forty, she was still a virgin. Some cruel impulse had driven Jillian to pick out a pair of whisper-thin seamed stockings for the dowdy secretary in the lingerie shop at Canary Wharf. She had noticed a startled look creep across Marion’s face when she had unwrapped the stockings and had been silently congratulating herself on her choice of present – until she had opened her own.
Closer inspection showed her there was a scrap of card in the cast-off wrapping paper. In typewritten capitals, it read “FOR LATER”. A shudder went down Jillian’s spine, part fear, part anticipation, as she realised that someone in this room was intending to see her wearing the blindfold. Who it might be, and for what reason, she dare not begin to guess.
Work ground to a halt in the department about an hour later, as Steve pulled a bottle of bourbon out of his desk drawer and sent Judy off to the vending machine to buy a couple of cans of Coke. Plastic cup of alcohol in hand, Jillian wandered into the ladies’ to start dressing for the party. She commandeered one of the cubicles, and quickly stripped out of her office clothes, changing into a black sequinned sheath dress which clung to the contours of her slender body and finished at mid-thigh level. Beneath it, she wore nothing but a pair of black hold-up stockings and a navy lace G-string, knowing that anything more substantial would show through the dress. She applied her make-up with care, reddening her lips and darkening her eyes more than she ever would during the day, and teased her blonde curls with her fingers until they had a tousled look which suggested she’d just tumbled out of bed. She felt strangely excited and giddy, as though she were dressing for a secret admirer. And perhaps the blindfold was a clue that she did have an admirer. There were a couple of good-looking men in the department, but she didn’t usually believe in mixing business with pleasure – she had seen too many inter-office relationships turn sour. But this was Christmas, when the usual rules did not apply, and if she happened to find herself with someone tonight who was looking for a night of fun and pleasure, that was fine by her.
She blew a kiss at her reflection in the mirror, and walked out of the toilets.
Two hours later, she found herself leaning against a wall in the dockside wine bar the agency had hired for the night, wondering if she had been mistaken. It had been a Christmas party just like any other, so far. The managing director had made his usual speech, which everyone had laughed at dutifully; the buffet had been picked over, but largely ignored in favour of the free sparkling wine which was being dispensed from behind the bar, and the single, predatory males had already begun their pursuit of the tipsy secretaries and junior accounts girls. No one had approached Jillian, however, and she had spent the last half an hour dancing with Judy and a couple of the other girls to the unimaginative selection of Motown oldies and Christmas standards that was being belted out by the DJ. She was surprisingly sober, and surprisingly bored. For want of anything else to do, she had helped herself to a glass of wine and was scanning her work colleagues, less for signs of their increasingly obvious indiscretions than for some indication as to who had sent her that wretched gift.
On some unnamed impulse, she had stuffed the little satin blindfold into her handbag. Now she pulled it out, and left it dangling from the top of her bag, like a flag. If someone was playing a game with her, as she suspected, perhaps this would be the signal they needed.
It was getting hot and stuffy in the wine bar, and she pushed open the door and stepped outside. There was a small asphalt square by the main entrance, with half-a-dozen wooden trestle tables which were used in summer, when it was warm enough to sit outside and enjoy the breeze from the adjacent dock, but now everything was dark and quiet, the tables shrouded in tarpaulins to protect them from the winter weather.
Jillian was about to reach into her bag for a cigarette, when she was grabbed from behind. A gloved hand was placed over her mouth, stifling her cry, and then, even more shockingly, something was slipped round her wrists. She had time to register the cool, hard feel of metal and then the cuffs were snapped shut, securing her hands behind her. A thousand fearful images rushed through her mind, but when the next thing she felt was the blindfold being pulled from her bag and wrapped round her head, she realised what was happening. “FOR LATER,” the note had said. Obviously, this was later.
The hand had been taken away from her mouth, and Jillian took her chance to ask, “Who are you?” There was no answer. Whoever her mysterious assailant was, they had taken pains to disguise their identity. The gloves disguised the feel and appearance of their hands, they wore no distinguishing cologne and they had not spoken a word. Privately, Jillian suspected it was Steve. His delight at receiving the erotic paperback with its submissive cover girl pointed to an interest in bondage games, and the model herself had not looked dissimilar to Jillian, with her curly blonde hair and slim, curvy figure. If that was the case, she didn’t mind: Steve was almost six foot in height, dark-haired, handsome in a weather-beaten sort of way. Just her type, if she was honest.
She had no chance to speculate further, as she felt a hand roaming over her chest, stroking and caressing her breasts through the dress. Jillian gave in to the sensations the hand was creating, leaning back against the solid body of her unknown admirer. Seduced into submission, she was shocked back to awareness when the zip of her dress was pulled down several inches and the thin straps pushed off her shoulders, exposing her naked breasts to the cold night air. Her nipples stiffened immediately, though she was shamefully aware that it was not just the temperature which was causing them to react so violently. The thought that she had been partially undressed just a few feet away from the place where a party was in full swing frightened and excited her. Anyone could walk out of the wine bar, or glance out of the big picture window, and see her as she was now, cuffed and blindfolded, her small, firm breasts on display. She could hear no traffic driving along the road at the moment, but a car might pass at any time. For all she knew, someone could be standing nearby, watching the erotic tableau unfold. And she did not know whether that scared her or turned her on.
The gloved hands were plucking at her dress again. This time, they were working on the hem, pushing it up her thighs until it bunched at a level where she was sure her underwear – what little of it there was – was clearly visible. A thumb reached up under the rucked-up fabric, hooked itself into the waistband of the G‑string and began to tug.
“Nooo,” Jillian moaned, frightened by the turn events were taking, and yet wanting it to happen, wanting to have her pussy bared for the eyes of whoever might be looking on.
First one side of the flimsy garment, then the other, was pulled down, until it was halfway down Jillian’s thighs. Now her wispy blonde pubic hair, which did so little to reveal the fat pink lips beneath it, would be on show. If her admirer cared to delve back between her legs, they would find that she was damp, the briny smell of her excitement already strong.
She was dragged forward, her movements hampered by the restriction of the G‑string, and pushed down, so that her chest was pressed against one of the tarpaulin-covered tables. The bitumen smell of the fabric seemed the perfect contrast to her own salty, seashore aroma, and the rough surface scraped against her nipples, stimulating her further. A foot nudging her ankles urged her to widen her stance as far as it would go.
For what seemed like minutes, nothing happened. Jillian imagined that whoever was standing behind her – and though they had still not revealed the merest hint as to their identity, she was now almost utterly convinced that it was Steve – was looking at her body as it was presented to them, the dark cleft between her pale, firm buttocks leading down to the hair-fringed pouch of her sex.
Suddenly, and without warning, a gloved palm slammed down firmly on her left bottom cheek, hard enough to leave a flaming crimson imprint on Jillian’s white flesh. With her hands still fastened behind her, she would have staggered and fallen had not her admirer grasped her firmly around the waist. What followed was a prolonged spanking of the kind Jillian had never expected to endure. The hand came down too many times for her to count, methodically covering the surface of her buttocks. The pain was like nothing she had experienced, throbbing and relentless. A tear rolled down from behind the blindfold, but she restrained her impulse to break down and sob like a child. That would have been just too humiliating.
She tried to wriggle free, but she was being held too tightly. The realisation that she was being forced to endure whatever might be done to her heightened her awareness that the pain she felt was changing. Strangely, it was becoming easier to bear, and there was a new, sweet undercurrent that she would – had she cared to put a name to it – have called pleasure.
She was being held so that her pubic bone was pressing against the edge of the table, and she attempted to grind herself against the tarpaulin-covered wood, wanting to assuage the fire that now burned as deeply in her sex as it did in her abused buttocks. She knew that if the spanking stopped now, she would carry on masturbating herself in this way, desperate to reach climax. The thought that the whole department might have stepped out of the wine bar and be watching as she did so was enough to trigger the beginnings of an orgasm, and she moaned low in her throat, hoping that her admirer would realise what was happening and thrust their hand between her legs.
What happened was almost the exact opposite. Jillian was spun round, her sex still pulsing, and pushed to her knees on the cold asphalt. She heard the sound of a zip being pulled down, and realised what was to come. She was certain a fat, erect cock was about to be presented to her mouth, and she prepared herself for the heady taste and odour of an excited male.
A hand was twined in her hair, forcing her head up to what she assumed was crotch level. A rich, gamy scent assailed her nostrils; Jillian opened her mouth, and leaned forward. And forward...
Her nose was touching crisp pubic hair, but the penis she had thought to engulf with her lips was not there. Instead, as she reached out a tentative tongue, she touched a soft, moist cleft.
No wonder her admirer had not spoken, and covered their hands with gloves. Otherwise, she would have known immediately that she was being cuffed, stripped and spanked by another woman. Briefly, she fought against the knowledge, then gave in. So she had a mistress, rather than a master. Instead of sucking Steve’s cock, as she had hoped, she was more than likely about to pay oral homage to the pretty, red-headed Judy, or Lisa in marketing, who had once boasted over a Dubonnet and soda too many of her occasional bisexual flings. Did it really make any difference?
Beginning to lick, she decided it did not. The sex that unfurled beneath her questing mouth was as sensitive and responsive as her own, and from the murmurs of appreciation, she knew that what was she was doing was more than welcome. When her tongue settled on the other woman’s fat clitoris, already peeking from its protective hood, the murmurs turned to moans, and then to throaty exhortations for Jillian to lick harder and faster. When she came, she pulled Jillian’s face hard into her cunt, strong thigh muscles flexing as she swore an oath to the December sky.
At last, her spasms subsided, and she released her grip on Jillian’s hair. Jillian knelt back, feeling the woman’s juices sticky on her mouth and chin, and hoped that she might now be permitted to see exactly who she had been servicing.
When the blindfold was removed, Jillian almost gasped aloud in shock. Standing before her, naked from the waist down but for a familiar-looking pair of sheer, seamed stockings, a smile of witch-like triumph on her face, was Marion.
It was a black satin blindfold.
Jillian looked at the package incredulously, searching for some clue as to who might have sent it. All round her there were neutral faces, enigmatic as a gathering of sphinxes. giving absolutely nothing away.
It had been a tradition to buy presents and hand them out on the afternoon of the staff Christmas party .as long as Jillian had been working at the agency. A week or so in advance, everyone would draw the name of a fellow worker, and be dispatched to buy them a little something. There were only two rules: no one was to spend more than five pounds, and no one revealed whose present they had bought.
Something had infected the air this year, Jillian was sure of it, for almost everyone seemed to have bought a present which was mildly erotic in nature. Steve, the senior designer, for instance, had unwrapped a paperback book which featured a pretty blonde heroine, her hands bound behind her, face turned away as if in shame, but her almost naked buttocks prominently displayed. Judy, his assistant, had been given a tub of chocolate-flavoured body paint, while Dennis, the chief copywriter, who had a renowned weakness for Italian food, had received a box of penis-shaped pasta. The devil must even have been in Jillian when she had gone shopping. She’d had to buy a gift for Marion, the department secretary, with whom she had never got on. The woman, who always dressed in a prim, severe fashion, with calf-length tweed skirt suits and scraped-back hair, appeared to know almost nothing about her own sexuality: it was even rumoured that, at forty, she was still a virgin. Some cruel impulse had driven Jillian to pick out a pair of whisper-thin seamed stockings for the dowdy secretary in the lingerie shop at Canary Wharf. She had noticed a startled look creep across Marion’s face when she had unwrapped the stockings and had been silently congratulating herself on her choice of present – until she had opened her own.
Closer inspection showed her there was a scrap of card in the cast-off wrapping paper. In typewritten capitals, it read “FOR LATER”. A shudder went down Jillian’s spine, part fear, part anticipation, as she realised that someone in this room was intending to see her wearing the blindfold. Who it might be, and for what reason, she dare not begin to guess.
****
Work ground to a halt in the department about an hour later, as Steve pulled a bottle of bourbon out of his desk drawer and sent Judy off to the vending machine to buy a couple of cans of Coke. Plastic cup of alcohol in hand, Jillian wandered into the ladies’ to start dressing for the party. She commandeered one of the cubicles, and quickly stripped out of her office clothes, changing into a black sequinned sheath dress which clung to the contours of her slender body and finished at mid-thigh level. Beneath it, she wore nothing but a pair of black hold-up stockings and a navy lace G-string, knowing that anything more substantial would show through the dress. She applied her make-up with care, reddening her lips and darkening her eyes more than she ever would during the day, and teased her blonde curls with her fingers until they had a tousled look which suggested she’d just tumbled out of bed. She felt strangely excited and giddy, as though she were dressing for a secret admirer. And perhaps the blindfold was a clue that she did have an admirer. There were a couple of good-looking men in the department, but she didn’t usually believe in mixing business with pleasure – she had seen too many inter-office relationships turn sour. But this was Christmas, when the usual rules did not apply, and if she happened to find herself with someone tonight who was looking for a night of fun and pleasure, that was fine by her.
She blew a kiss at her reflection in the mirror, and walked out of the toilets.
****
Two hours later, she found herself leaning against a wall in the dockside wine bar the agency had hired for the night, wondering if she had been mistaken. It had been a Christmas party just like any other, so far. The managing director had made his usual speech, which everyone had laughed at dutifully; the buffet had been picked over, but largely ignored in favour of the free sparkling wine which was being dispensed from behind the bar, and the single, predatory males had already begun their pursuit of the tipsy secretaries and junior accounts girls. No one had approached Jillian, however, and she had spent the last half an hour dancing with Judy and a couple of the other girls to the unimaginative selection of Motown oldies and Christmas standards that was being belted out by the DJ. She was surprisingly sober, and surprisingly bored. For want of anything else to do, she had helped herself to a glass of wine and was scanning her work colleagues, less for signs of their increasingly obvious indiscretions than for some indication as to who had sent her that wretched gift.
On some unnamed impulse, she had stuffed the little satin blindfold into her handbag. Now she pulled it out, and left it dangling from the top of her bag, like a flag. If someone was playing a game with her, as she suspected, perhaps this would be the signal they needed.
It was getting hot and stuffy in the wine bar, and she pushed open the door and stepped outside. There was a small asphalt square by the main entrance, with half-a-dozen wooden trestle tables which were used in summer, when it was warm enough to sit outside and enjoy the breeze from the adjacent dock, but now everything was dark and quiet, the tables shrouded in tarpaulins to protect them from the winter weather.
Jillian was about to reach into her bag for a cigarette, when she was grabbed from behind. A gloved hand was placed over her mouth, stifling her cry, and then, even more shockingly, something was slipped round her wrists. She had time to register the cool, hard feel of metal and then the cuffs were snapped shut, securing her hands behind her. A thousand fearful images rushed through her mind, but when the next thing she felt was the blindfold being pulled from her bag and wrapped round her head, she realised what was happening. “FOR LATER,” the note had said. Obviously, this was later.
The hand had been taken away from her mouth, and Jillian took her chance to ask, “Who are you?” There was no answer. Whoever her mysterious assailant was, they had taken pains to disguise their identity. The gloves disguised the feel and appearance of their hands, they wore no distinguishing cologne and they had not spoken a word. Privately, Jillian suspected it was Steve. His delight at receiving the erotic paperback with its submissive cover girl pointed to an interest in bondage games, and the model herself had not looked dissimilar to Jillian, with her curly blonde hair and slim, curvy figure. If that was the case, she didn’t mind: Steve was almost six foot in height, dark-haired, handsome in a weather-beaten sort of way. Just her type, if she was honest.
She had no chance to speculate further, as she felt a hand roaming over her chest, stroking and caressing her breasts through the dress. Jillian gave in to the sensations the hand was creating, leaning back against the solid body of her unknown admirer. Seduced into submission, she was shocked back to awareness when the zip of her dress was pulled down several inches and the thin straps pushed off her shoulders, exposing her naked breasts to the cold night air. Her nipples stiffened immediately, though she was shamefully aware that it was not just the temperature which was causing them to react so violently. The thought that she had been partially undressed just a few feet away from the place where a party was in full swing frightened and excited her. Anyone could walk out of the wine bar, or glance out of the big picture window, and see her as she was now, cuffed and blindfolded, her small, firm breasts on display. She could hear no traffic driving along the road at the moment, but a car might pass at any time. For all she knew, someone could be standing nearby, watching the erotic tableau unfold. And she did not know whether that scared her or turned her on.
The gloved hands were plucking at her dress again. This time, they were working on the hem, pushing it up her thighs until it bunched at a level where she was sure her underwear – what little of it there was – was clearly visible. A thumb reached up under the rucked-up fabric, hooked itself into the waistband of the G‑string and began to tug.
“Nooo,” Jillian moaned, frightened by the turn events were taking, and yet wanting it to happen, wanting to have her pussy bared for the eyes of whoever might be looking on.
First one side of the flimsy garment, then the other, was pulled down, until it was halfway down Jillian’s thighs. Now her wispy blonde pubic hair, which did so little to reveal the fat pink lips beneath it, would be on show. If her admirer cared to delve back between her legs, they would find that she was damp, the briny smell of her excitement already strong.
She was dragged forward, her movements hampered by the restriction of the G‑string, and pushed down, so that her chest was pressed against one of the tarpaulin-covered tables. The bitumen smell of the fabric seemed the perfect contrast to her own salty, seashore aroma, and the rough surface scraped against her nipples, stimulating her further. A foot nudging her ankles urged her to widen her stance as far as it would go.
For what seemed like minutes, nothing happened. Jillian imagined that whoever was standing behind her – and though they had still not revealed the merest hint as to their identity, she was now almost utterly convinced that it was Steve – was looking at her body as it was presented to them, the dark cleft between her pale, firm buttocks leading down to the hair-fringed pouch of her sex.
Suddenly, and without warning, a gloved palm slammed down firmly on her left bottom cheek, hard enough to leave a flaming crimson imprint on Jillian’s white flesh. With her hands still fastened behind her, she would have staggered and fallen had not her admirer grasped her firmly around the waist. What followed was a prolonged spanking of the kind Jillian had never expected to endure. The hand came down too many times for her to count, methodically covering the surface of her buttocks. The pain was like nothing she had experienced, throbbing and relentless. A tear rolled down from behind the blindfold, but she restrained her impulse to break down and sob like a child. That would have been just too humiliating.
She tried to wriggle free, but she was being held too tightly. The realisation that she was being forced to endure whatever might be done to her heightened her awareness that the pain she felt was changing. Strangely, it was becoming easier to bear, and there was a new, sweet undercurrent that she would – had she cared to put a name to it – have called pleasure.
She was being held so that her pubic bone was pressing against the edge of the table, and she attempted to grind herself against the tarpaulin-covered wood, wanting to assuage the fire that now burned as deeply in her sex as it did in her abused buttocks. She knew that if the spanking stopped now, she would carry on masturbating herself in this way, desperate to reach climax. The thought that the whole department might have stepped out of the wine bar and be watching as she did so was enough to trigger the beginnings of an orgasm, and she moaned low in her throat, hoping that her admirer would realise what was happening and thrust their hand between her legs.
What happened was almost the exact opposite. Jillian was spun round, her sex still pulsing, and pushed to her knees on the cold asphalt. She heard the sound of a zip being pulled down, and realised what was to come. She was certain a fat, erect cock was about to be presented to her mouth, and she prepared herself for the heady taste and odour of an excited male.
A hand was twined in her hair, forcing her head up to what she assumed was crotch level. A rich, gamy scent assailed her nostrils; Jillian opened her mouth, and leaned forward. And forward...
Her nose was touching crisp pubic hair, but the penis she had thought to engulf with her lips was not there. Instead, as she reached out a tentative tongue, she touched a soft, moist cleft.
No wonder her admirer had not spoken, and covered their hands with gloves. Otherwise, she would have known immediately that she was being cuffed, stripped and spanked by another woman. Briefly, she fought against the knowledge, then gave in. So she had a mistress, rather than a master. Instead of sucking Steve’s cock, as she had hoped, she was more than likely about to pay oral homage to the pretty, red-headed Judy, or Lisa in marketing, who had once boasted over a Dubonnet and soda too many of her occasional bisexual flings. Did it really make any difference?
Beginning to lick, she decided it did not. The sex that unfurled beneath her questing mouth was as sensitive and responsive as her own, and from the murmurs of appreciation, she knew that what was she was doing was more than welcome. When her tongue settled on the other woman’s fat clitoris, already peeking from its protective hood, the murmurs turned to moans, and then to throaty exhortations for Jillian to lick harder and faster. When she came, she pulled Jillian’s face hard into her cunt, strong thigh muscles flexing as she swore an oath to the December sky.
At last, her spasms subsided, and she released her grip on Jillian’s hair. Jillian knelt back, feeling the woman’s juices sticky on her mouth and chin, and hoped that she might now be permitted to see exactly who she had been servicing.
When the blindfold was removed, Jillian almost gasped aloud in shock. Standing before her, naked from the waist down but for a familiar-looking pair of sheer, seamed stockings, a smile of witch-like triumph on her face, was Marion.
Elizabeth Coldwell lives and writes in London. Her stories have appeared in a number of anthologies from Cleis Press, Xcite Books, Black Lace and Ravenous Romance among others. She's hoping she gets everything she wishes for this Christmas.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Ewwwwww ....
Wiki:
Jenkem is an alleged hallucinogenic recreational drug composed of noxious gas formed from fermented sewage. In the mid to late 1990s, several reports stated that Jenkem was being used by Zambian street children. In November 2007, anecdotal American media reports gave the impression that Jenkem was a popular drug taking hold with American teenagers. Media reports were characterized by disbelief and distaste for the "grossness" of the phenomenon. Since November 2007, no new reports have appeared to corroborate the early speculations.Several sources allege that this sudden spur of reports in US popular media were based on a hoax (see section below). David Emery of About.com, popularly noted as an "urban legend guru", concluded that the recent news media reports that Jenkem is gaining a foothold as a substance of abuse among American youth is doubtful and "based on faulty Internet research."
The surfacing of the drug, or rumours of its existence, has caused at least one US municipality to amend its city ordinance regarding substances that cannot be legally inhaled to include organic substances.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
