I must say, I’m impressed. I managed to offend ErosBlog’s audience on my very second post. Don’t give in so easy. Make me wait for it. Make me earn it. Don’t give it away for free, I’ll get complacent.

But let me change the subject here.

While we’re on the topic of mythology and sex (and when, frankly, are we not in this space), I wanted to point out a newly-released e-book by the lovely and talented Doxy Wringer entitled Satyrs, Sex & Cookies. This is a collection of erotica which, in Doxy’s own words, ‘houses both a few old favorites and a smattering of never-before-read lewd treats.’ It’s got a couple of supernatural stiffeners, a near-incest tale and a tasty lesbian encounter.

Doxy never disappoints. She’s got my five simoleons.

Sample:

I was on some kind of padded surface. It felt like a doctor’s table, only in the shape of a letter “X” with an added support for my head. The cold vinyl under my back sent gooseflesh up and down my spine. It was an altar. Incense bowls burned at the four corners of my spead-eagle form, issuing a foul, herbaceous, sickly-sweet mist. Leather tethers braced my wrists, and my ankles. I was open so wide that my thigh muscles felt overextended. A dull pang radiated up the creases where my legs attached to my torso and in my sweaty armpits.

Cool air was free to lick up between my legs like some twisted gynecologist set-up. I groggily realized the way I was spread open and the lack of a table between my legs would allow them to walk right up between my thighs and…

To my far left was a statue of some kind – it looked like a prop out of a Buffy the Vampire Slayer re-run. An obscene monstrosity of black marble and what looked like red jasper. Some kind of satyr-demon. A man’s head, but for horns, atop a torso of rippling brawn, but that’s where the human parts ended. His legs were gnarly. Hoofed and hairy. Goat or Clydesdale or grizzly llama.

And an erection the size of a Buick.

* * * *

He walked up between my legs until the dangling sheath of his sex idly thumped my thighs. His thick-fingered hands reached forward, grasping hold of my already tender breasts and mauling them in lusty, kneading handfuls. A shimmer came into his black eyes – a carousing to a silent summons.

The chanting was more like music now, a buzzing drone of strings and wind instruments – badly tuned flutes and lyres. Or maybe it only seemed that way because I myself was being strummed.

“It has been ages upon ages since I have indulged in the flesh of a human woman,” he crooned in a breathy gust of sound. “You are a girl. Young. Supple. Succulent.” Without warning, one hand shoved between my thighs and I felt long, probing fingers stretch into the swollen tenderness of my slit. “And tight,” he leaned his head back in a lecherous moan of satisfaction.

I wish I had a picture to post. There seems, as yet, to be no good graphic representation of this entity floating around the internet.

However, there seems to be a new bad boy in town, down Zanzibar way, who goes by the name of Popo Bawa.

CHAKE CHAKE, Tanzania (Reuters) – Mohammed Juma starts to sweat and fidget as he recalls his rape by Popo Bawa, the most feared spirit-monster of the Zanzibar spice islands.

“We believe reading the Koran is our only defence, nothing else,” says the 41-year-old driver and father of four. “But Popo Bawa is real, and well prepared.”

Holidaymakers on the Indian Ocean islands tend to smile dismissively at accounts in guidebooks of the bat-like ogre said to prey on men, women and children. But for superstitious Zanzibaris a visit from the sodomising gremlin is no joke.

Although no one ever has seen it, belief in the monster and his unnatural lust is so strong that entire villages will sleep out of doors for protection: Popo Bawa (Swahili for Bat’s Wing) prefers to attack behind closed doors at night.

In huts set amid rustling groves of jackfruit and mangoes on Zanzibar’s Pemba island, victims told Reuters in interviews that they detected a bad smell, became cold and went into a trance in the moments before they felt the creature’s inhuman strength.

Some attacks were heralded by the sound of giant wings and claws rattling and scraping on huts’ tin roofs. Others cringed in terror at what sounded like a car engine ticking over.

“We heard a rustling on the roof,” recalls Asha Saleh, in her late 50s, in Machomanne village near Pemba’s main town of Chake Chake. “I felt someone fondling me. I felt very cold. I felt weak,” she said, recalling the attack some 35 years ago.

You know, one simply has to love anything called a raping demon. It puts one in the mind of Incubi & Succubi, a most twisted erotic fantasy.

To have one’s will sapped, in bed, asleep. The most vulnerable of positions, the most secure, safe, friendly place in one’s home. To have it take, violated, not by force, but by cold, evil, supernatural coercion.

To have this power — to be this entity. To slink in and take control, do wicked, carnal harm.

What’s not to like in this fantasy?

Thanks to the wonderful BoingBoing for this story.

Folks, I’ve got a guest blogger to introduce. The next two weeks for me are set to be a whirlwind of travel and (fun but hectic) turmoil, with few opportunities to blog and little time to do it in. Aphrodite should be putting in some appearances with any luck, and I’ve implored The Nymph to post once or twice — but I’d hate for you to grow bored.

No fear of that. Not any more.

Your new guest blogger has volunteered to do some guest sex blogging under the handle “Dionysus”, and I jumped at the chance to have him. He’s an experienced blogger whose intense sex writing has been known to make my jaw drop. But like many bloggers, even psuedonymous ones, he’s become — to an extent — a captive of the expectations of his regular readership. Guest blogging here, under a new name, should let him really cut loose. Whether he plans to tell stories he dasn’t tell where they know him, or whether he plans to turn the intensometer dials to eleven, I couldn’t tell you (because he hasn’t told me). Who knows? Perhaps he plans to write tender tales of young lesbian love, full of flowers and unicorns and fluffy cotton-candy orgasms. We’ll all find out together.

Welcome, Dionysus!

Fun thing from Japan, via J-List: Girl In A Cup. Also called an “Onanie Hole”. Quoth the vendor: “This can best be described as Pussy in a Cup.”

I admit that it seems rather churlish, but if I had paid the large sum of cash it would take to get Tori Stone and her “sister” Tawnee Stone to come to my house and wash my car, I think I’d be going “Ladies, ladies, you look real nice and all, but how about sponging some of those suds onto my actual vehicle?”

“Girls, you missed a spot….”

A rare political excursion for ErosBlog:

Quietly and unanimously, the Senate passed the Real ID Act last week. It’s been signed into law. Within a few years you will have a national ID card. Or you’ll be an extremely marginal member of society.

Or (and this is not exclusive with option two above) you can join the Real ID Rebellion.

Whatever your politics, remember this: sexual nonconformists always suffer in a police state.

My delete finger is gonna be twitchy in the comments on this thread. I posted the link to help people as angry as I am find like-minded folks who are looking for ways to fight. If you think this is no big deal, please express that opinion elsewhere. Save the debate for your blog. And don’t bother with partisan comments — because no Senator from either party voted against this monstrosity. I’ll ruthlessly delete any comments that try to promote or specially accuse either faction of these power-mad bastards.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Roll The Dice!
• Ten Candles
• Bondage Sex And The Liberation Of Culture
• Defining Sex Positivity
• Head-In-The-Toilet Sex
• Evil Porn Werewolf Enslavers Debunked
• THIS Is The Culture War?

You’ve probably seen the famous Wally Wood “Disneyland Memorial Orgy” picture before, but the LA Weekly is showing a fairly-high-quality version of it on the web just now. But what caught my eye was the straightforward description of the image. It reads something like an obscenity indictment and something like the the poem an acid-head might write:

Pluto is pissing on a portrait of Mickey Mouse, while the real, bedraggled Mickey is shooting up heroin. His nephews are jerking off as they watch Goofy fucking Minnie Mouse on a combination bed and cash register. The beams shining out from Sleeping Beauty’s Castle are actually dollar signs. Dumbo is simultaneously flying and shitting on an infuriated Donald Duck. Huey, Dewey and Louie are peeking at Daisy Duck’s asshole as she watches the Seven Dwarfs groping Snow White. The prince is snatching a peek of Cinderella’s snatch while trying a glass slipper on her foot. The Three Little Pigs are humping each other in a daisy chain. Jiminy Cricket leers as Tinker Bell does a striptease and Pinocchio’s nose gets longer.

Thanks to Boing Boing for the link.