This picture from Der Spiegal shows Miss Bulgaria 2001 protesting for peace outside the U.S. Embassy in Sophia, Bulgaria:

There’s always room on ErosBlog for half-naked beauty queens!

I’m a very big fan of corsets. It’s hard to find a woman who looks bad in a corset. I mean, take a look at Corset Dreams for some lovely examples.

But here’s another kind of corset. The Corset Piercing.

You can look on Snopes if you think this isn’t real. It’s very real, and (in this blogger’s opinion) incredibly hot.

Thanks to BMEzine.com for the image!

I decided now would be a good time to pop out of the woods for a chat. I’ve been a busy nymph since Spring arrived but I wanted to check in. I’m still amazingly happy and more in love with my Bacchus than ever. Life is good here.

I admit I normally feel extra frisky this time of year but being in love makes it more intense. On top of that, I’ve got this irresistible urge to go out and buy pretty things to wear. Bacchus is completely baffled by this. If it were up to him, I’d wear nothing at all. Go figure.

The main reason I’m thinking about this is that I’m plannng something special for Bacchus and I’d like to find something sexy to wear for this occasion. I love wearing pretty things for him but I’m wondering if it’s more for me or him. Is it really true what they say about men being more visually stimulated than women?

For my part, I enjoy playing the role of the sexy siren. I love the feel of satin, lace, and soft materials that caress my skin as I move. I like the way his eyes light up and the way he can’t keep his hands off me when I appear in something especially naughty. It’s delightful.

So would it be selfish if I go out and buy something like this?

I found this sweet little outfit at Eros Boutique but I think I’ll look around there some more while I try to decide. Now under what rock did Bacchus hide that credit card?

This isn’t objectively gross or anything, but I don’t mind confessing that it creeps me out. All I can really say is “Ew!”

Thanks, I guess, to Violet Blue for the link.

I really should put the answer to ‘what is that’ after the cut in an extended entry. But you know, for some reason I’m not going to.

Still. Play along. Take a guess. What exactly are those things?

?

What they are, is animal-penis-shaped dildos. No, I am not kidding. Top to bottom, those are:

Raccoon, Crocodile, Orca, Kangaroo.

I’m telling you, I am not kidding.

These simply – um – amazing creations courtesy of the very, very interesting people at Zeta Creations (zoofur.com).

And frankly I’ve never seen anything like them.

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.