Here’s something you don’t see every day, courtesy of the “Furry Fandom” sex pack in 3D SexVilla. Furries going at it!

Sadly for our furrier friends, the furry functionality of the 3D SexVilla software is somewhat limited. Right now there appears to be only two outfits (the tiger for male avatars, the bunny for female) and the hoods are closed-face, so using any oral-contact poses causes the software to remove the hoods. And, personally, I find that the expressive faces of the normal hoodless models go along way toward making the simulation seem lifelike; the unmoving furry-faces, for me, detract from the illusion. But perhaps a furry-fetishist might see it differently.

Furry things I think the software would need to be really furry: more animal types, an assortment of tails, half-face furry masks, furry leggings and boots, furry gloves/paws..

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This sex vignette from Under His Hand reminds of the sort of blog post I was always looking for (and too rarely found) back when I would sometimes do Sex Blog Roundups for Fleshbot:

He was standing on his side of the bed when he started stripping, looking at me.

There was an animal in his eyes.

Standing on my own side of the bed, I started stripping, too. Cooperative prey, I am.

He climbed up on the bed, on his knees, and started toward me. I followed suit, climbing up and walking on my knees to meet him in the middle.

“Only in missionary and with the lights out.” I said playfully, thinking of the prudish behaviors we’d been mocking.

He gripped the hair at the back of my head and crushed his mouth to mine in reply.

Prudish wasn’t happening.

This was one of the rare times when kissing hit me as I assume it hits others. One of the rare times that I leaned into it, encouraging his tongue to probe and explore. His appreciative moan sent shivers down my spine and I went on my own exploration with my own tongue.

When we pulled away, wiping wetness from our lips and chins, there was a bit of animal in both of us. I felt bold and uninhibited, seeing the goosebumps, goosebumps that I gave him, peppering his arms and legs.

And his cock. Stiff and jutting. I grinned and went back in for more. Taking the initiative and grabbing, wanting, nipping at his neck and shoulders, his nipples, my fist wrapped around him.

I’m not usually the aggressor in bed. I’m much more suited to the submissive role— go figure, right? And generally, he’s not much of one for laying back and taking it.

He wasn’t this time either. He met my aggression with his own, sinking his teeth into the spot where my neck curves into my shoulder and growling. My movements on his cock, so sure and determined before, faltered. My head bowed and fell against his chest.

I tilted my head to the side, exposing myself to his mouth. Normally I dislike biting, finding the sharp pain of flesh trapped between unforgiving teeth to be jolting and unpleasant. But this time… this time, the pain came in delicious waves, seeming to start at the point of the bite and working their way down to my cunt, in a seemingly endless influx of pleasure.

“Oh.” Lightly, softly, the surprise carried in my voice. “I like that.” I felt his lips curl against my skin. “I knew you’d see it my way eventually,” he said, his mouth opening for another bite.

Across my collarbone, down my chest, back over my shoulders. My own body rippling into goosebumps; still we stayed as we were, up on our knees, face to face.

I wondered how I could get his cock in me from that position.

It was still wrapped in my fist. Hot and dry, smooth as velvet. And hard. So. Very. Hard. It was also about even with my belly button, and hot as belly button fucking sounds, I wanted him in my cunt. Now.

I tilted my hips forward, rubbing against him, inviting, wordlessly begging. Without loosening his teeth, he shoved a hand down between my legs and attacked my pussy. He chuckled at finding me so wet, greedy greedy cunt, and easily slid in a finger, two, then three, fucking me with them while I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and hung on for the ride.

And what a ride he is.

I came, hard, soaking over his fingers. When pulled his hand away, his gleaming, glistening hand, he pushed my head down to his crotch. As I took him into my mouth, I felt him wiping the warm wetness of my pussy juices across my back, in my hair, down my arms.

As Paris would say— that’s hot.

The smell of sex filled the air. I didn’t suck him long before I was rolling over on to my back, spreading my legs, a wanton whore inviting him in.

He accepted the invitation.

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I think the man with the electrified penis is asking a very good question here:

A Wall Street retiree wearing a red latex bodysuit and a black hood is strapped to a table while electric shocks surge into his penis. Talking to Daniel Bergner in his new book, “The Other Side of Desire,” the man compares his masochistic ecstasy to having onion skins stripped off his psyche.

“Is this a weird way to deal with life?” he asks Bergner at one point. “Consider the man who bought Mark McGwire’s seventieth home-run ball for three million dollars. Who’s weirder?”

They are having a discussion at Bondage Blog about whether this girl is tied to the tree, or just kneeling there with her wrists near the rope around its base. I think we can all agree, though, that she’s fetching in that tattered slip of a dress:

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There’s something deeply, bizarrely, and recursively ironic about this. While I was playing with the 3D SexVilla BrainImageInstantiator (mock trademark hereby claimed), an exceedingly primitive AI (aka weblog spamming script) landed in Faustus’s post about the future of such tools, and successfully (albeit briefly) hacked a nascent argument about the potential capabilities of AIs by taking three sentence fragments from the previous comment and rearranging them into something that looked superficially plausible to my own primitive high-speed “is this comment human?” Turing-testing algorithms.

Ladies and gentlemen and assorted avatars, please fasten your seatbelts, this is gonna be a long and bumpy ride. And there’s no telling where we might end up.

Meanwhile, back at the dance club, it’s after hours and one of the t-girls (that’s the term the 3D SexVilla software uses, not mine) has gotten bored and perhaps a little lonely:

We are indebted to World Sex News Daily for finding the link to this very thoughtful article by a London art critic about (I would say) the hypocritizing influence a “fine art” label has on our perception of smutty images:

Not far from the strip joints of Soho is an image of a child having sex with an adult that can be seen for nothing any day of the week. The child is a boy of about 10 or 11, completely naked, his backside raised and partially turned to the viewer. The adult is a young woman, also naked. She is slipping her tongue into his mouth; he is squeezing her right nipple between his fingers. Not only is the boy clearly underage, but this sexual abuse of a minor turns out to be incestuous, too — the woman is actually his mother.

Anyone can view this scene between the hours of 10 and 6 throughout the year. There are no cordons or barriers, no advance warnings. Children are actively encouraged to look. The police have never shown the slightest interest. Indeed, practically the only people who have tried to censor Bronzino’s An Allegory with Venus and Cupid are the Victorian moralists who painted over the nipples.

What is going on in this bizarre gridlock of limbs? At the National Gallery, where the painting hangs, there is general agreement that nobody agrees. The picture was probably painted for a French king known for “his lusty appetites”, in the euphemism of the gallery guide; but it may also incorporate a warning against depravity: the howling figure on the left is commonly held to personify terminal syphilis.

Now, I submit that when you look at reproductions of the image — away from the milling crowds, out of its frame, in a different context, all of which could describe equally well the conditions in which it was painted — you cannot help but notice that a child is explicitly fingering an adult. It may be that you are struck by this in the gallery too, in which case you have probably also observed that your fellow visitors manage to notice no such thing. We are either blind to — or very good at ignoring — the sex in old master art.

Also:

We would never remove these paintings from the National Gallery or the Louvre. Not only are they prophylactically sealed against affront by virtue of time and status in these cathedrals of sanctified art, but they have the figleaves of myth on the one hand — not real people, only gods indulging in the usual revolting ways — and moral content on the other. To the pure of mind, everything is pure; filth is in the eye of the beholder.

And in any case, these are paintings not photographs. They have passed through someone’s imagination; they don’t stand in one-to-one relation to reality. They are what we might call fictions. But that, alas, apparently no longer stands as a legal argument in the English-speaking world. Witness two recent cases in America and Australia.

In Australia a man was convicted of possessing child porn in 2008. The offensive images showed Bart and Lisa Simpson engaged in lewd acts. The defence argued — as we all might — that the Simpsons aren’t real children, never mind that they are bright yellow, have only four fingers and very oddly shaped heads. The judge ruled that “the mere fact that the figure depicted departed from a realistic representation in some respects of a human being did not mean that such a figure was not a ‘person'”.

In America, last December, Dwight Whorley appealed against his jail sentence for knowingly receiving pornographic manga cartoons involving the rape of children. These were defined as “obscene visual depictions”. The judgment — Whorley versus the United States of America — is extremely finely detailed and involves numerous other counts, including downloading obscene photographs of children, all of them indicating the defendant’s paedophilia — but what it makes clear is that the court allows no distinction between “actual” and “virtual” pornography.

I may be wrong, but it seems to me that Bronzino (or the National Gallery, to be precise) might be in trouble were a case to be pursued before such judges in America.

It’s an Elvgren classic witch to put you in the mood for your Halloween festivities:

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