I know our gracious host mentioned this illustrious artwork a while ago, and included a link to a version of it. But that version is just black and white. It’s so much prettier in full Disney-style color:

You say it’s too small for you to appreciate the depicted debauchery? Okay then, here’s the larger version a friend sent me.

Update: Bacchus here. Since I posted the earlier post to which Aphrodite refers, I’ve discovered that this artwork is available in a handsome poster format from the website of the artist original publisher himself, one Paul Krassner. As you can see on his page, Paul’s got a modern digital recoloring, in a lighter and (to my eye) prettier set of colors. I actually ordered several copies of the poster from Paul, and he was fast and friendly about getting them in the mail. ErosBlog recommended!

In the tired stereotype of the semi-satisfying suburban sex life, blowjobs often feature as a “special” activity if at all — birthday sex, or as a sexual “reward” for being a well-trained man, as in this old joke. As is obvious to any sex blog reader, that old stereotype is getting less and less apt these days, but it still rings true for a vast swathe of American manhood.

But not, it must be said, at Kaya’s house:

He likes to be serviced sexually while He’s busy doing something else. I suppose that could be labelled a fetish of sorts. He likes to have me working hard to suck His cock while He’s distracting Himself with… well, with anything. A book, the tv, the computer. It’s a challenge for my dick-sucking abilities to keep Him hard when He’s otherwise occupied. When He starts going soft I know I’m beginning to lack in effort. That’s about when He’ll start chastising me too. If it happens too often, if I’m really lacking in effort, He will get mad.

I know alot of people, women, would find that to be disrespectful or they’d flat out refuse to do it. I’ve read it, I’ve heard it. They want or need that attention, they’d see His focusing on something else as an insult of some sort. And I’ve experienced that too. I feel that at times and I get irritated and frustrated and have let it become personal. I’ve gone down the road of “He doesn’t like me, He doesn’t want me, I could be any whore down here, I’m not attractive to Him, blah blah blah.” Been there. But it’s not about that. Not really.

He is getting off on the humiliation that it causes me, of course. And it *is* humiliating. Mostly though, He’s getting off on the power and control. It’s a huge power trip for Him. He gets off on the effort I put into it. I’m *working* to please Him while He’s working to ignore it. While He lies/sits there, cool as a cucumber and seemingly uninterested, I’m sweating, I’m grunting, I’m generally in some degree of discomfort or pain and all I am getting out of it is a ‘good girl’ at the end. And I’ll only hear that if I’ve put enough effort into it to have impressed Him.

It’s a victory for me if I can make it good enough and catch His interest enough, that He stops everything else that He’s doing and focuses on me. Focuses on me in a good way that is, not because I’ve messed things up somehow. I was victorious on this night though.

The computer is just one of the things that He will be busy doing when He snaps and points at His crotch. The ol’ snap-n-point. Snap and point and I am on my knees searching for His cock. What a spoiled man He is.

For some reason, I always like to read accounts of people’s sex dreams, perhaps because the filters that kick in when we consciously create fantasies in erotic fiction aren’t present in dreams. From Provocative Persiflage, we hear about the dream of twelve tushes:

The Tale of Twelve Tushes

All lined up in a row.

This was my dream the other night.

The room was dark and mahogany paneled. The light from the wall sconces was enough to illuminate their flesh but cast a glow rather than a glare on the 12 perfect asses raised, waiting.

I was wearing a strap on harness, a large, very life-like dildo protruding from my hips, and standing behind the girls. (Well, women really, all were of age but since it was a dream, the ages were sketchy at best.)

J was in front of them, his hard cock perilously close to their mouths.

We moved down the line. I fucked each one fluidly as they sucked his cock. When I was finished with one I signaled to him and we moved to the next girl. Their greedy pussies begged for more as I thrust in and out. They were all perched on the perfect height “table” and we both move fluidly from one to the next. I recall we were having a grand time.

All 14 of us.

Wow, ErosBlog turned four today. First post: October 3, 2002.

It’s been a good four years — and it doesn’t feel like it’s been that long.

It’s the end of September, summer is fast becoming but a memory, and so I think it’s time and past time for one more dose of sun-worshipping beauty from Hippie Goddess:

I dunno about you, but that’s warming me up!

In which Monmouth demonstrates the fine art of gift-giving:

For her 40th birthday, I gave Betty a belated present: A shiny, black hand-poured silicone buttplug, tapered in shape, with a generous bell end at the bottom, just above the recess.

It was destined to fit snugly into her tight, pink anus.

…

I smeared some lube on the puckered opening of her ass, and buried my cock again in the wet depths of her pussy. Betty pressed back against me, driving herself onto my hard shaft, and I slid my thumb experimentally into the lubricated tightness. She let out a deep groan.

“Fuck…” she muttered, and I pulled my thumb out to reach for the plug. Teasing her, I slid it down the slippery crack of her ass, down to the waiting anus, and began to massage her with it, gently. With one hand on her hip, I kept her still, just the tip of my cock still inside her, and pressed the tapered smoothness of the buttplug against the resisting muscle.

“Open up,” I purred. “Show me how you take it in your ass.”

…you were looking for. Nor the droid, either.

Really. She’s not.