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The Sex Blog Of Record
Thursday, December 11th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Poor Cinderella, given nothing but rags to wear as she is forced to scrub the endless castle stairs with her bare hands and a bucket of ice-cold water:
Do you think her prince will ever come?
As Beavis and Butthead would say: “Heh, heh. Yah. He’ll come, all right. On her face!”
Of course that’s not actually Cinderella, it’s Sabrina Fox, finishing up her advanced slave training at The Training Of O.
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Monday, August 11th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
This could be coincidence, or I could be seeing similarities where none were intended. But I think one of Kink.com’s photographers remembers his art classes, and is laughing his ass off about getting this picture into a photoset (spotted at Spanking Blog) for the The Training Of O slave-training website:
Maya Matthews and Mona Lisa, separated at birth?
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Friday, April 4th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
A spam that made it through my filters today made me smile with the sheer excess of the offer in the subject line:
Hogtied Amateur Vacuum Tortured On Butt Hardcore
Gracious me, I sure wouldn’t want to settle for softcore vacuum torturing on the butts of hogtied amateurs!
The pitch inside the spam email was softened just a bit: “Brunette Bdsm Slave Vacuum Tortured Hardcore” and a link.
It’s possible they actually wanted to sell me some hogtied amateur brunettes, but I doubt it. Reputable porn sites eschew spam as a marketing method, because spam creates blind rage that tends to be an insurmountable marketing barrier. Plus, it’s illegal in the United States. Sometime I’ll get spam (not this one) that seems to be selling a porn site I know about, but it’s usually a form of social proof; if you think you’re familiar with the pitched product, you’re more likely to click through into unsuspected spyware browser-hijacking hell.
Anyway, I’ll never know for sure what this particular spam was selling, because I lacked the courage or foolhardiness to click the link. The domain had certain famous small fuzzy toy keywords in it (maybe so it would look safe?) and a .cn domain extension. Those Chinese domain names are notorious these days because spammers can buy them in bulk for cheap, which means that they can use them for hostile and malicious spam campaigns that lead directly to aggressive malware installers, browser hacks, and the like. Once the domain gets widely banned, or even deactivated, just move on to a new one!
The return email address looked like the email for some poor guy’s AT&T cell phone. That’s easily spoofed and was probably pure fiction, but it made me wonder. Is this yet another bad thing that can happen to you when you get your cell phone stolen?
Now, start your vacuum cleaners!
Sunday, March 30th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Holly from The Pervocracy writes:
I have to stop reading radical feminist writing. … I go nuts when I read stuff like this:
“In a patriarchy, the cornerstone of which is a paradigm of male dominance and female submission, women do not enjoy the same degree of personal sovereignty that men do. This oppressed condition obtains a priori to all other conditions, and nullifies any presumption of fully human status on the part of women. A woman, therefore, cannot freely “consent,â€? because her will is obviated by her status as a subhuman.”
I don’t know what kind of women-in-chains Gor crazyworld this author is coming from, but I’m pretty damn sure that no means no, yes means yes, and throwing up your hands and screaming “we’re so oppressed we can’t even make decisions!” is not actually advancing the cause of female strength and independence.
In fact, it’s an example of something I’ve seen a few times in radfem thought–going so far that they actually come full circle. You see statements like “women aren’t able to give consent” and “women just want love, but men exploit it for sex,” and you might as well be on the Abstinence Warriors forum–it’s the same stereotyping of both men and women and unreasonable fear of sex.
Amen, sister!
I’ve always been surprised to hear so-called “feminist” arguments that are founded in claims of female incapacity or inability to consent, or to discover and to know their own best interest.
(I say “so called”, and use scare quotes, because I’m on record: when feminists stop standing up for the choices women make, I stop recognizing them as feminists.)
Holly may wonder what sort of “women-in-chains Gor crazyworld” these arguments are coming from, but I’m more concerned with the people-in-chains world these arguments are aimed at creating. I’ve said it before in a post defending the, uh, “fully human status” of porn performers, and I’m sure I’ll say it again: once you stop respecting people’s choices, you’ve embraced the ideology of enslavement:
Built right into the postulate that people can’t know what’s good for themselves is the idea that somebody else knows better, and should therefore have the right to control the poor people who can’t tell their own good. A nasty and foul rhetorical trick to justify political power over others, and I reject it categorically.
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Monday, March 24th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
OK, so there’s been a long string of vintage and classic erotica around here lately. Is it time for something nice and modern and filthy?
Why, yes, I think it might be. Will an anal fisting “cartoon” do the trick, do you suppose?
Found this one at Spank Slaves: The Blog.
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Thursday, November 15th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Here are 44 Fangirls In 88 Lines. I’ll quote you eight of the lines, for flavor:
Colleen was from a comic book
Her spandex bursting at the seams
Belinda dressed up all in brass
Fulfilled my Princess Leia dreams
…
Quinn read manga night and day
She had me turning Japanese
Joanna played a slave of Gor
She had the cuffs, I had the keys
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Wednesday, October 3rd, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Ladies and gentlemen and faithful readers and visitors, I’m pleased to announce that today marks the fifth anniversary of ErosBlog’s first post.
I’m rather proud to have been in continuous publication for half a decade. 1,853 posts spread over 1,825 days averages to 1.015 posts per day. Of course it wasn’t that regular — there are a couple of posting gaps that stretch close to a month in length. But a daily post has always been the goal, and if I never managed that much, I’ll settle for that 1.015 posts-per-day average.
When I started this thing, internet diaries had been around for at least as long as the web, and some of them (especially the BDSM lifestyle ones) had a lot of adult content. Blogs (known by that name, or by its then-still-in-use linguistic ancestor, “weblogs”) were a few years old, but had exploded in popularity and visibility just in the previous year. Sex blogs — as a genre — were unheard of. There was Daze Reader, there was World Sex News, there was BJ’s Gay Porno-Crazed Ramblings. There were pretty pictures every day at Sensual Liberation Army and some other places. Lots of proto-sex-blogs, but none that had adopted that characterization of themselves. So, as far as I know, Eros Blog was the first internet thing to claim that description.
I can’t claim to have invented the idea of a sex blog — whomever registered sexblog.com, before I tried to, can prove that — and I can’t claim to have invented the act of sex blogging, which was all over LiveJournal before I ever heard of blogging. But I think I was the first person, to think of it, do it, and call it by the name.
One possible exception — a sex blogger who was there before me by a few months, doing what I’d consider the first recognizable sex blog and conceptualizing her work in roughly that way, was Susannah Breslin. She did a blog called The Reverse Cowgirl, she was well connected with web heavyweights and early blogging gurus, and she blogged pretty exclusively about sex and culture. It was nice stuff, she was kind enough to link me early, but I simply cannot remember if she ever called her project a sex blog. She might have; certainly she could have, because that’s what it was.
Unfortunately it was from Susannah that I first learned to hate the destruction wrought by blog vandalism. She was linked all over the web, she was getting a lot of media attention, and then one day without a word of explanation her blog was gone and links all over the blogosphere were 404ing. Then a while later she had another project up, very artistic and overdesigned but having many bloglike features; it too vanished. After that I lost track, but there have been more; she’s got another “Reverse Cowgirl” blog going at the moment, with archives going all the way back to 2006, but not a single link to any of her earlier projects (presumably because they are all gone). I owe Susannah a considerable debt for inspiration and early traffic, but she’s also the one who taught me to be wary of folks who treat the web like a rented space for temporary performance art.
So! Five years. Two hosts. Three blog software platforms. At least half a dozen different templates. A metric buttload of spam and raging idiocy moderated out of the comments. Two web interviews, perhaps half a dozen press inquiries (ignored because I still enjoy psuedonymous posting). One hell of a lot of fun.
One of the fun things for me is to look at how my posts (and me) have changed over five years. When I started, writing about sexual stuff was very hard for me (even in my usual detached “look at those people over there and what they say they are doing” style). I was stilted and awkward. I was afraid that to write about a thing meant people would think I liked it. Worse yet, I cared about that, and would include horrid little disclaimers. Bacchus wrote about Bacchus in the third person for eight long months. I remain indebted to Eugene Volokh for providing me, a day too late, with the vocabulary word for that literary atrocity. Thanks to him, I now understand that I Am No Longer An Illeist.
As for me, when I started this blog I was single, lonely, and underemployed by my own choice due to increasing disillusionment with my profession (a little) and with the demands of the job culture (a lot). Now I’ve got The Nymph, we’re ridiculously happy together, and my adult web projects support me better than a job ever did, with me working only when it suits me. And it does suit me! I used to read in the business magazines about successful power suit types who would wake up in the morning full of enthusiasm for getting into the office to do whatever they did, and I’d boggle at that alien worldview. Now, I wake up in the morning, often as not, with an idea for tweaking or improving one of my websites, and I’m full of enthusiasm for the idea of getting up and tinkering with it. Life has never been better.
I couldn’t hope to thank properly all the other bloggers who deserve it, for providing me with support, encouragement, linkage, ideas, material, inspiration… but to list even the first fraction of them would require listing half my blog roll. All I can say is, thanks to you all. And thanks — even more thanks! — to the thousands of loyal readers who come back every day to see my blather and follow my links.
I owe special thanks to my regular guest blogger, Aphrodite, who has been backing me up and providing the woman’s touch around here for more than three years. Although her posts have never been frequent, she’s provided considerable invisible assistance, especially with comment spam filtering before we got it as automated as it tends to be today. I remain delighted and honored to have her help.
What about the future? Will there be a “Ten Candles” post on October 3, 2012?
At the speed technology, culture, and politics are changing in this crazy world, it’s hard to know for sure, but I truly do hope so! I love doing this blog and I can’t imagine stopping voluntarily. Five years ago it was still possible to claim that blogs were a fad. Five years from now, it’s possible we’ll all be considered impossibly old-fashioned, like paper magazines and network television and phones that plug into the wall. But this is about the sex, baby! And people don’t get bored with that, so I should still have an audience.
I’ll conclude with a list of some of my forgotten favorites — an even dozen sex blog posts I enjoyed writing and still enjoy reading, posts that seemed important to me, or posts that other people seemed particularly to enjoy.
Sunday, September 9th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
In which Slave Barb seduces someone who’s not into “that kinky submission stuff” into letting her polish his boots:
“You are not going to the show wearing those boots are you?”
I teased.
“Why not? What’s wrong with them?” he looked down, turning his foot from side to side.
“They’re filthy and they look like hell. You should let me clean them up for you.”
He stared hard at me. “Look, I know you’re in to all that kinky submission stuff, but I am not. And I am not interested.”
“I offered to clean and shine your boots for you, I didn’t offer to be your slave or for you to spank me. Piss off!”
“Hey, I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t understand all the stuff you’ve been getting in to. It’s…weird.”
“Weird? Have you ever seen me as happy and well adjusted as I have been in the past year? No? Well then, I guess I’m just weird.”
“Do my boots really look shitty?” Ahhh, appealing to his fashion sense is the way to his heart.
“Yes, you look like a perfectly disheveled crack addict, not the dashing punk you’re trying to look like.” I smirked at him. “Let me get myboot kit and work on them real quick. You like how shiny MY boots look, right?”
He glanced down at my feet. “You can make mine look like yours?”
“Well, yours won’t grow a high heel, but yes, I can make them look shiny and pretty.”
“Ok. But no kinky stuff”
“Oh, shut up and sit down and pour yourself some wine”
I hustled over to the cabinet and got out my boot kit. Crap, why did I push him so hard? I mean,
yeah, I’ve had a crush on him forever — he’s had a crush on me forever too, but… I swung by the kitchen to fill up a little bowl of water to go with the saddle soap.
He was sitting on the couch and was fidgeting with the cork screw.
I hiked up me skirt as I knelt down on the rug at his feet.
“What are you doing?” He asked, dropping the cork screw and backing up as far as the back of the couch would allow.
“I’m pulling up my skirt so it doesn’t get dirty — would you prefer that I take it off?” I asked wickedly, with a grin.
“N-n-no.” he replied.
“Good. Because I wasn’t intending on doing this nude.” He smiled back.
I picked up his boot. Well, I tried to pick it up. “Look, relax — I’m going to black your boots, not cut your foot off.”
“Sorry.” He let me pick up his boot this time.
I pulled his foot towards me and settled it on my thigh as I knelt. “Hmmm….”
“Hmm, What?”
“I was thinking ‘hmmm… what a mess’….”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
I picked up the lighter.
“What’s that for?” He started pulling away.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake! Sit still, drink your Shiraz and be quiet. Obviously you’re not interested in what I’m doing or your boots wouldn’t look like this.”
I looked over his boots and ah-ha! A loose thread. I lit that Zippo and melted it off.
“Oh!” He exclaimed.
“Yeah. Oh.” He grinned down sheepishly.
I checked out his other boot and burned off another 2 threads.
Back to the first boot… I opened my tin of saddle soap. “Want to smell?, I asked as I lifted the tin to his face.
“Mmmm, nice. Much nicer that I thought it would be.”
I picked up my little brush, dipped it in that little bowl of water and lathered up the saddle soap.
I spread it over his right boot, working it into all the crevices around the sole, the harness and up the shaft. I put down the brush and started rubbing the lather in with my moist hands. I looked up surreptitiously thru my bangs to see the expression on his face. Bingo! A lovely cross between ecstasy and bewilderment. What have we here? I laughed to myself — a Boot Top in the making?
There’s a lot more, complete with flaming boot polish.
Friday, August 31st, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Here’s the comic book version of putting a slave collar on a pretty girl:
“Hey, mister, watch it with the spikes!”
Via Bondage Blog.
Update:Karl Elvis commented “I wanna see the brute who’d put that kinda slave collar on a girl.”
Easily done! The picture is, apparently, a detail from the cover of Marvel Mystery Comics #8, from waaay back in June of 1940, according to the Alien Slavegirl site where Bondage Blog found it. And the four-armed enslaving alien brute in question looks like this:
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Sunday, August 5th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Movie posters from exploitation flicks can be so much fun! This image is a detail from the poster for White Slave (1986):
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Sunday, July 15th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Remember my post arguing that making sure your porn is ethically produced is no harder than doing the same thing for your salad dressing or your cheap manufactured goods? (You’d think this was obvious, but as I documented in that post, some in the rabid anti-porn crowd dispute it.)
Anyway, Evil Porn Werewolf Enslavers Debunked remains one of my favorite pieces on this blog. In support of my argument, I chose some of the scariest Eastern European spanking porn I could find and then did some basic consumer research, quoting spanking model Niki Flynn at length on the professional conditions at a Lupus Pictures porn shoot.
 
Well, now from Spanking Blog comes a link to spanking model Adele Haze writing on the same topic: Why I Modelled For Lupus Pictures.
This was serious business — you can see her welts here — but she had her reasons:
I don’t process pain as pleasure. I knew my caning would hurt a great deal, possibly more than any of my previous experiences. I did briefly wonder whether, caught up in the moment, I would find pleasure in my real-life flogging in a way I couldn’t enjoy some other girl’s filmed experience — and, pre-empting an upcoming post on the topic, no, I didn’t get any enjoyment out of the pain until it was all over — but, on the whole, I was prepared for a thoroughly uncomfortable several minutes over the famous bench.
And that was OK, because I knew – from studying the films, and from talking to Niki Flynn, who’d gone to that scary place before — that the rest of the shoot would give me the sort of pleasures that would make a few minutes of acute pain worth going through. For somebody who has a separate fetish for artistic suffering, working with a production on the scale of Lupus’s would be worth every stroke.
I had never before worked to a script, and I’d get that. I had never had somebody else think through the costume and make-up for me — I’d get that too, and in the end even the hideous pieces of reformatory wardrobe would turn out charming in their appropriateness. I had never before taken detailed direction, or shot completely — and confusingly — out of sequence, or acted in sets built for the purpose in every small detail; in short, I had never been a part of a spanking shoot run on such a professional level — and I knew that all of these experiences were mine for the taking.
Thanks, Adele, for the eye-opening account!
Saturday, July 7th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Ok, so that first get-together with the new internet prospect can be real awkward. We know this. But there are clues:
The constant signing of emails with master so-and-so was a huge fucking clue.
The request to call him sir after three email exchanges and one phone conversation was a clue.
The ridiculous comment that “even though I haven’t met you, I miss you — do you miss me?” was the motherfucking clue of clues.
Showing up to meet her in a public place with a fucking parrot (yes, a parrot…did I fucking stutter or something?) on his shoulder was a clue.
The couple sitting next to her who were gossiping…”
Stop! Whoa! All ahead stern! Screech! Stop the music! Nobody move!
Did she really say “parrot”?
Parrot? As in, like this?
In all the ink (real and virtual) that’s been devoted to “what not to do on the first date”, I don’t think anybody ever considered the need to write “Wait until the second date to introduce her to your parrot. Do not under any circumstances take take your bird when you go to meet a woman for the first time.”
Consider it written now.
Don’t get me wrong, I actually quite like the feathery little bastards. I bought one for a girlfriend once. I don’t miss her, but I sorta do miss that bird. And, like any pet, they can be pretty good company when you’re lonely.
Remind me, why were we going on that first date again? Oh, yeah, to find another freaking human to bond with / fuck / enslave / spend time with / preen my feathers. Which of these things is not like the others?
Why do pirates take their parrots everywhere? Because they don’t have any secure place they can leave the bird without it flying away or following them. Which is the same reason they carry all their doubloons in their underwear, or bury them in a sea chest on a moonless night (not such a good option for parrot housing).
If, like a pirate, you suffer from lack of a permanent place to park your parrot, it’s best you try to conceal this factoid from your new prospective internet submissive for as long as possible.
That is all.
Well, almost all. If your internet date brings a parrot to your first meeting, you know it’s going to wind up like this:
Yarrrr!
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Monday, July 2nd, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Fans of the leading edge porn from San Francisco’s Kink.com have been looking forward for weeks to today’s grand opening of the new “reality BDSM” site, The Training of O. According to the promo material, The Training of O documents real, gritty, multi-day training sessions with submissive models, who “earn their stripes in erotic servitude” and “prove their determination to train by enduring grueling tasks of initiation.”
“Grueling tasks”, indeed! I am delighted and amused to see an old BDSM print-fiction trope come alive: namely, the huge and pointless dirty job for the naked slavegirl to perform, an endless round of weary nude labor with no earthly hope of completion in time to avoid punishment. This is grit you would not be seeing in your typical San Fernando Valley “omigawd, I might break a fingernail” posed-and-phoney BDSM porn. Here’s the glamor shot (from this introductory shoot) of a poor naked girl who’s been handed a shovel and pointed at a very large pile of dirt somewhere in the bowels of the awesome Armory shooting location:
Indeed, I was so entertained by this earthmoving project that I grabbed a few screen captures from the video. Those white heels and frilly sock-stockings are never gonna make it through this day:
Adding insult to injury, our unfortunate submissive is being made to haul that dirt quite a ways, which is real work when you do it with a shovel, as any former day laborer knows:
But the life of a slave can always get worse! Now the poor thing has lost her shovel privileges (my guess would be for excessive whining):
Does she look sufficiently put-upon yet?
Try not to look so abject, m’dear. Cheer up, we haven’t even gotten to the chaining-and-caning part, starring about eighty pounds of steel chain and your pretty bottom! But let’s not get ahead of ourselves; a girl who gets that dirty has to be very thoroughly washed.
A detailed story at Xbiz.com sets out the new site concept in even greater detail:
“It’s a startling site,” director James Mogul told XBIZ. “It’s ‘reality BDSM’ so that elicits a lot of reactions, and I think the content is super-strong. I would say it’s realistic in terms of what you might expect to see in an actual BDSM exchange.”
The basic premise of the site involves models videotaped over a weeklong course in submission training. “I’ve actually developed a training program,” Mogul said. “We take applicants and interview them and develop a curriculum based on their experience. Some girls we worked with are very experienced and some girls are brand new and I think we’re hitting a wide range of the scope. We are going to mix it up. The plan is to go with about 75 percent fresh talent and about 25 percent of the content will be experienced, known talent that we can kind of push boundaries with a little bit.”
Shot at the company’s new production facility, the massive San Francisco Armory building, Mogul is able to utilize several different sets to create a gritty, authentic atmosphere.
The spaces are beautiful. The decay is beautiful. It’s like walking onto a movie set all made for you,” Mogul said. “There’s really nothing that needs to be done in terms of the aesthetics, but there is a lot that needs to be done in terms of making production practical and that’s coming together very, very quickly.”
As always, it’s the aesthetics of the production that will set The Training of O apart from what’s been done before. Just one more example: Here’s Sarah Jane Ceylon in the handiest-ever slavegirl head box, complete with portable glory hole and cork:
Just the thing for punishments or blowjobs, or even for providing the peace and quiet a weary slave needs after a hard day’s training.
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Friday, May 11th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I gotta quote Bitchy Jones again. Unlike most of the folks who love to hate the splendidly cheesy literary phenomenon that is Gor, she gets why those books sold about a zillion copies and still go for megabucks on eBay, gets it well enough that’s she’s moved to give it a complete “vertical flip” in her mental fantasy editing software:
Gor is easy to take the piss out of, but the real truth is that deep down in my heart I know that if I were a male dom I would fucking love Gor to tiny bits. I would be in those chat rooms wanking and sweating and wanking some more while some middle aged housewife going through an identity crisis talked about herself in third person whilst pretending to serve me a mythical drink.
Yeah, like every other person in the world who believes in equality but gets off on inequity, I have the insane conflicted love for a bit of gender supremacy fantasy and I secretly in my dark heart wish that we had something as ridiculously camp and ritualised and sprawling as Gor over on our side of the river.
…
So, basically, it’s all hot and dusty and badly written and stuff. Women live in big castles and are tough and sexy and mean. But fair and honourable. And, yeah, they’re sexy, but it’s no big deal, no one’s looking at them because:
OMG the hot slaves!
Literally and metaphorically hot. Built like Greek gods and covered in sweat (from doing hard *hard* labour).
Yes, the men are, like the women’s slaves. Oh a few aren’t, but they’re weird. But also hot if you capture them and make them be slaves. So although these not-slave men are freaks they are kind of useful when complicity gets dull ’cause they have to be all *forced* and broken and whipped to shit and stuff.
Gosh, isn’t *forced* a nice word.
Anyway, on upside down Gor slave men are traded — bought and sold. There are markets. Men who transgress are punished. Viciously, mercilessly and publicly. (Which is nice.) Or maybe just punished for entertainment. Such awful punishments, predicament bondage and heavily ritualised whipping and stocks and cages and stuff like that. Really dehumanising hot stuff.
Some of the poor things are just kicked around like dogs, or made to whore themselves on the streets, butchly pretty ones wear humiliating skimpy clothes and get prodded to perform bondagey semi-naked suggestive dances with whipping. While drunken women molest them. And they would have to do all this over elaborate honourific address stuff, please, ma’am, may this slave please have permission to…
Golly, I really do like ma’am in the right context. It’s the apostrophe. You can see where his voice cracks even when the word is written on the page.
Anyway, they better get that formal address stuff right or else more whipping. Yeah. Pretty much any excuse for the whipping. And the, you know, submissive positions to vocal commands, and the bondage and… did I already say the bondage? Well I should probably say it a few times because there is so much of it.
Oh, and the key thing is that by doing this they would come to realise that they had never felt more masculine or desirable than when, er, being whipped, and sexually used and whipped a bit more.
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Wednesday, March 14th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Say what you will, but married sex doesn’t have to be either rare or (when routine) boring:
We go through condoms like matches. I began buying the large packs – 24 is it? One pack probably lasts us about a month. I would say that we probably make love 4 to 7 times a week. Sometimes daily.
It can happen in the evening during and after a kinky session, or late at night, half-asleep in bed, always following the same routine – he wakes me up, half asleep himself, by rubbing my body, caressing my breasts and rolling my nipples between his fingers, pulling down my panties and even delivering something like a vague, sleepy spank. I expose my breasts, whether it means pulling something up or down, or taking something over my head and throwing it on the floor. I remove the comforter from my chest, to feel the chill of the cold bedroom (always cold) on my bare skin, contrasted with the heat of his palm and fingers. I slip my hand between my legs and masturbate.
Inevitably, I turn over, kneeling on the bed, with my legs wide apart, my face either in the pillows or next to his. He continues to play with my breasts, as I often replay in my head various master/slave scenarios, imagining the power exchange between us. I close my eyes. He would often put his fingers into the dewy, slippery territory between my wide-spread thighs – caressing, running his fingers up and down, plunging them inside, penetrating me roughly, firmly, confidently. Sometimes I would come right there, around his fingers – I wonder if he can feel the muscles contracting. Sometimes I would come from a slightest touch of my intimate areas, sometimes from the breast stimulation. Last night was especially “dramatic,” as he put it this morning. It was loud.
The night sessions are always followed by an intercourse, almost always with me on top – I reach for the dresser drawer in the darkness, feel the condom wrapper with my hand – scratchy edges, smooth surface. Pull it out and present it to him. Put my lips around his penis and suck on it as if my life depended on it. He would lift my head off himself, place the condom on. I’d throw away the remaining clothes, if any left, climb on top of him and ride him into bliss [his bliss]. He might kiss me along the way, or slap my bottom sharply with his palm, or hold me by my neck, which I find especially hot, or my hair, or hold on to my hips and guide my body, or wrap his arms around me. I never come from an intercourse, but I love it – I like it slow and sensual, I like it rough, I like it either way – by then I am well lubricated. Sometimes I try to clench my muscles around him. He comes inside, always inside.
From A Farmwife With A Twist.
Monday, February 5th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Subbie Bunnie has something to say about erotic pain, starting with a practical tip:
you have a subbie that goes stoic? you have a girl that doesn’t cry out? i swear to god, this will fix it. take one normal ordinary chopstick. gently and sweetly take your bottom’s hand. place the chopstick across the nailbed (the root end, not the tip end). now, get ready, and press. HARD. and don’t stop pressing.. and listen to your subbie scream and scream and SCREAM. omigodpain. holy cow, holy shit, ow ow ow pain.
now, i should have taken it as a bad sign that his own slave (who takes a blade to her skin with barely a cry and the whip too) hold your head carefully in her lap and advises, “just scream. there’s really nothing else for it.”
…
i forget how the pain feels. i forget, and i need to feel it again. i’m addicted to it, to the heady spacey feeling of almost too much, of the breaths caught so hard my lungs rebel against the sharpness of the air. i long for the grey-sparkly blur of my vision when the whitehot flash of cane, or whip, or electric spark erases everything except for the heat in my pussy, the burn in my blood, the words on my lips, begging pleading for the almost otherwordly and almost equally agonizing burst of pleasure. like jumping in the deep end of the pool, when it’s not quite warm enough to swim yet, and the water is ice, and the shock is all you feel, all you can register, until your feet hit bottom , and bring you back, pushing, fighting, to the surface, and break out, gasping, into the glittering, blinding reality that is suddenly so much brighter.
hurt me again…
Monday, January 1st, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Up for some Flirty Fishing, anyone?
Ouch, where exactly did the point of that fish hook go?
It seems that the religious organization (“cult”, to its detractors, but then every small marginal religion is a cult to its detractors) known as “The Children of God” or “The Family” used to practice a modern form of temple prostitution, both to gain new adherents and to earn revenue for the organization. They called this practice “Flirty Fishing”:
Flirty Fishing (FFing) was a form of religious prostitution practiced by the Children of God/The Family cult from 1974 until it was officially discontinued in 1987 (due, in part, to the AIDS scare). Its etymology can be traced to Matthew 4:19 where Jesus says “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.”
Flirty Fishing was a subset of The Family’s love bombing activities and involved the use of sexual attraction and intercourse to win converts and favors. Female members were told to be “God’s whores” and “hookers for Jesus”, and soon after its launch as a method of witnessing, sex was given to complete strangers in combination with a request for a “donation”, or for a required fee in line with Escort Servicing (ESing) or freelance ESing.
There’s nothing new about fishing for converts using loving, available women as bait. But these people didn’t shrink from their metaphor:
Ouch, again. The text is explicit about this piercing business:
Art thou willing to become my bait? Then yield thyself therefore to be pierced through by many sorrows!
For the bait is placed again and again on the hook and pierced many times ere it is finally devoured, that it may catch many for my kingdom!
The bait is taken:
Make no mistake, though; this was not a joyous nor a sex-positive operation. Dig the text from the tract (my emphasis added):
“Art thou willing to kiss many with My kiss of life? Through thy death to thyself thou shalt bring life to many that would devour thee and feast upon thy flesh. You flirt to entice them that they may be caught!”
There are a great many more of these well-illustrated True Komix tracts on various subjects — apparently tract sales were another source of revenue — and sexual imagery was prevalent, and often very attractively presented:
But the whole sex / piercing / death theme is never very far away:
Did I say “Ouch” yet?
Given that we live in a world where popular religions are either actively hostile to sex (the sex people actually have all the time, I mean, not the limited subset involving marriage and procreation), or are (at best) tolerant of it, it’s a bit mind-warping to find religious advertising that makes graphic use of sexual imagery. Doubtless they got a lot of attention for themselves using these seductive tactics. But I think the “big-nail-driven-into-her-pussy” image says all we really need to know about the role of women in that church. Ugh.
Saturday, December 30th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
One sentence from the following caught my attention. To me, and perhaps to you, this sentence stripped from context seems almost absurd the first time you see it:
“It was garden variety whipping, a knife and sex as far as that goes.”
Whipping, a knife, sex. Garden variety. Picture me dressed as a Capital One barbarian growling “What’s in your garden?
It’s the “garden variety” that got me. I’m hard to surprise; that people mix whips and knives and sex is neither news to me, nor in the least dismaying. (But it’s not for me; I was raised in a place without much in the way of doctors and nurses and antibiotics, so I’m wired to react to knife wounds, even superficial ones, as minor emergencies requiring immediate application of disinfectant and bandages. Sure, you could have sadistic fun if you used a good old fashioned disinfectant — iodine, anyone? — but getting all those little bandage packages opened would kill the erotic flow, and who wants to find herself covered with Winnie-the-Pooh BandAids after sex?)
When you’re used to thinking of a kink as a point of departure, a “thing” that some other people do for sexual fun, it’s illuminating to be reminded that the “thing” is not just one experience oft repeated — it’s an activity like any other, with the full range of variety and differential experience and days when it’s wild and days when it’s mild and days when it works better than other days. Which means, some days it’s wild and some days it’s “garden variety.”
Now for the full quote, from this post at Magdala’s Submission:
“Are you too tired to hurt me?” I asked in a very small voice.
I don’t think the words had stopped being spoken before He was out of bed, the lights were back on and I was face down on my belly in the middle of the bed.
Apparently He was not too tired for that.
…
I think it was a whip. I think it was two, one after the other, front and back. I know it was the knife. I know the knife was not the blissful out of body experience it usually is. The knife was mean that night. It scratched and hurt me over and over again. It was blissful in a different way. I don’t know how long He whipped me first. I know He stopped several times and drew His finger along some part of my body. Following, I assume, a mark He had left upon me.
I cannot recall any words He spoke to me but I know He did. I know He said things, I know I answered Him. I do not know what those things were. I do know that the whip marked me and left it’s sweet, sweet kisses everywhere. I remember Him having me reach behind me and spread my ass cheeks wide for His whip. The damned whip that insistently struck me again and again in the same sensitive spot and not only did I accept it, but I held myself wide open for Him and truth be told, I desired it.
I remember the order things happened. Whip, knife, sex. I think. I think I came with His hand deep inside my cunt, His fist plunging in and out of me the same way His cock does. I do know that it never ceases to amaze me that each time He fills me with His cock it feels like the first time and each time, I am filled with wonder and happiness that He is a part of me. That it just feels so damn good. That it feels so good, so wonderful each and every time that my world suddenly seems manageable again. That everything just seems right when He slides His cock inside me. I think I sigh with contentment when He does.
I do know He whipped me hard, that He used me hard and rough. That His knife was hard, that His use of it rough. There was nothing spectacular, nothing elaborate. No dramatic restraints, no meticulous plans followed. It was garden variety whipping, a knife and sex as far as that goes. But something about it made it so very wonderful. If I were more arrogant I would say that asking to be hurt helped fuel a fire already burning. I know He does not need an excuse to hurt me or even a reason. It may have possibly added to that though.
Who would have thought that one little sentence would be so very difficult to say? Or that saying it would have such blissfully wonderful results?
Tuesday, December 12th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
A limerick in the best ancient tradition, being both sexually scurrilous and ludicrously anti-clerical:
A habit obscene and unsavory
holds the Bishop of Boston in slavery
midst hootings and howls
he deflowers young owls
which he keeps in an underground aviary.
Attributed to John Steinbeck (albeit the attribution is given by Robert Anton Wilson, so you pays your money and you takes your chances).
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Monday, August 14th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Remember that old calypso song, Zombie Jamboree?
One female zombie wouldn’t behave;
She say she want me for a slave.
In the one hand she’s holding a quart of wine,
In the other she’s pointin’ that she’ll be mine.
Now believe me folks, yes I had to run;
Husband of a zombie ain’t no fun.
I says “Oh, no my turtle dove
an old bag of bones I cannot love!”
What a good game!
Back to back, belly to belly
Well I don’t give a damn
’cause it doesn’t matter really;
Back to back, belly to belly
At the Zombie Jamboree!
Back to back, belly to belly, I guess it looks something like that at the zombie orgy. Is this what comes after the jamboree?
Bigger version here. What a good game!
Monday, July 31st, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Dominant women smoking cigarettes (and doing mean, mean things with them) are a frequent theme in “femdom” porn, especially from places like Japan where smoking seems to remain a bit more “cool” than it has become in the United States. Here’s a fragment from a manga comic panel featuring a vulnerably posed naked man and a domina poised to extinguish her smoke:
You can see the whole panel here, but don’t click unless you’re prepared to wince and shudder.
Found in the alt. binaries. pictures. erotica. cartoons newsgroup on Usenet.
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Thursday, June 29th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
I was cleaning out some old files the other day and stumbled over this gem. It’s a classic example of how Hogtied exploded onto the internet bondage erotica scene, and established a quality lead that’s rarely if ever been challenged. Simplicity itself: A beautiful women (look at her lovely hair, mmmm) in strict-but-not-complex bondage, holding her in a sexually available pose. What’s not to like?
See also: very flexible hogtied beauty.
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Sunday, March 19th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
I’ve commented before (most notably in the comments to this post about the production of spanking porn) that I don’t have much time for so-called feminists who can’t respect a woman’s sexual decisions. When feminists stop standing up for the choices women make, I stop recognizing them as feminists, it’s that simple.
Thus there’s some interest to be found in this Spanking and Feminism thread over at Spanking Blog. The post itself chides kinky men who won’t take ownership of their kinkiness, who can’t admit they want to spank and dominate for the fun of it, so they instead pretend (to themselves and to the world) that the women they are spanking are weak inferior creatures who would be lost without the “guidance and discipline” these ever-so-benevolent dudes are offering.
As discussion simmered in the comments, ranging wider and wider as discussions of BDSM and feminism tend to do, along came someone claiming to “respect individual choices” while simultaneously arguing that “it’s really hard to seperate out cultural expectations and personal choices.” Which, translated, means something like “You say you chose to do that, but I don’t believe you, and thus I’m free to condemn your choice.” I enjoyed the response:
No, it’s really not hard to separate out personal choices from cultural expectations. When someone says “This is my choice” you respect that, absolutely, or you just became part of the problem. If you retain niggling reservations, if you’re willing to question the individual’s self report of her choice, then you are failing to respect her personal choice and you are claiming, in effect, that you know better than the individual. Viewed charitably, the claim is still a version of “Your society has made it impossible for you to act as as a self-actualized individual adult human; you’re so messed up that you can’t even correctly determine or report what you want.” That’s an infantilizing, disempowering, patronizing claim and although it’s often made by folks who claim the badge of feminism, it’s no part of a true feminism that I could respect.
Just so.
Wednesday, December 14th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
This is a pretty challenging bit of sex writing — challenging to read and to appreciate. It’s very vivid and real, but possibly disturbing as well, depending on how you do with potentially degrading master/slave sex. Kaya writes:
I was put under the desk. Getting put under there is just as you imagine it would be. On my hands and knees, ass in the air, in the space where the chair should be. And while Master does His thing online…He’s fucking me. Sometimes brutally, sometimes not. Because He’s not really concentrating on fucking, or cumming, this can last for a really, really long time. He mostly ignores me under there, except to occasionally tell me to stop moving, or to remind me of how I am a cunt, a filthy slut, a dirty bitch…good for little more than a place to dump His cum.
The floor is linoleum and most times I’ll be awarded a pillow to put under my knees. Sometimes, just a towel. Sometimes, nothing…and the fact that my knees are hurting as He rocks me back and forth is appealing to Him. If I can orgasm it’s no concern to Him. He doesn’t care if I do or not, as He reminds me that it’s about His pleasure, not mine. I often try not to orgasm (which isn’t too hard since He isnt trying to make me anyway) as a way to hold on to a tiny bit of myself, control myself, unwilling to give Him the satisfaction. But if He wants me to, if He tries to make me, I can’t stop it. And that pisses me off to no end. All it earns me is some disparaging remark about the “mess” I make on His cock.
It’s very cramped under there (and though I make a conscious effort to clean there, it gets dusty and dirty). If I’m lucky I’ll have already had my hair in a ponytail. Otherwise it’s in my face, being sucked into my mouth and nose, in my eyes, and just generally a pain. My hands go numb from holding myself up, or my elbows get sore if I rest on those. And I am constantly having my head banged into the back of the desk. Purposely. It’s His attempt (I think) at making me press backwards against Him. And it works.
It’s stuffy down there…very little airflow. It’s hot. My pussy dries up and depending on how much it’s hurting Him, He’ll get some lube. Depending on how much He enjoys that it’s hurting me, He won’t. Sometimes He adds nipple clamps, which hurt like fuck when your tits are swinging and swaying, and the time they are on is typically long. If I remind Him they are there, He yanks them off quite cruelly. I’ve learned it’s best to suffer through them, and ask to remove them myself after He cums. He’s in a much more friendly mood after an orgasm.
You’ll feel about that…however you feel about that. To me, the interesting question is how Kaya feels about it:
It’s another one of those “I’ll love it tomorrow” things. And I do. Thinking about it after the fact, makes me twitch and squirm and generally soak my panties. I like being used, I like that He is pleased. I like that He uses me to please Himself, that is my job after all. Sure, I like being used in other, funner (for me), ways to please Him better but that’s not my choice. And I like that I have no choice about it. I’ve yet to be able to talk Him into something else when He swats my ass and points under the desk. And I have tried.
…
The stuff my fantasies are made of. Be careful the things you wish for.
Saturday, October 22nd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
One of the common mostly-false slams against porn in this era of globalisation is that the performers are mostly coerced sex slaves, or at least impoverished scared young girls with few options. (I’m not making this up as a straw man argument; see, e.g., the Biting Beaver (her term): “You CANNOT know if the girl you are masturbating to is, in reality, a sexual slave from Austria who has a gun pointed at her head just off camera.“)
Yeah. And you cannot know that the bottle of salad dressing you pour on your salad isn’t full of stale unpasteurized jizz from bored wanking food factory workers, either. But that doesn’t make it likely, or stop you from eating creamy salads. Why not? Because of branding. If you worry about funky jizz in your dressing, you buy a reputable brand from a company you trust, one that’s got white-coated vat inspectors and security cams all over the factory floor. And, if you really worry, you do research. You get a tour of the factory, or (more likely) read the article in Consumer Reports by the reporter who worked there for three days undercover. The point is, you check into it a little bit.
This is perfectly possible with porn. By way of local example, these issues came up in a peripheral way in this post about real sex in BDSM porn, where a couple of readers suggested in the comments that making such porn was degrading and unsafe for the models, only to be confronted by other readers who were able to vouch for the porn company in question based on personal acquaintance with the models and producers.
And that’s how you check out your porn brand. Research. You look for accounts (which are all over the web, since many models have blogs) of what it’s like to work for a particular porn company, how they treat their people, how the sets are run, whatever you’re worried about. Of course you can’t disprove sensationalist claims about porn factories full of enslaved Eastern European beauties this way — folks who want to cling to that fantasy will continue to do so, brandishing their “news” stories from The Weekly World News, National Enquirer, and Reader’s Digest — but you can satisfy yourself, along with any other reasonable people who might be curious, that the porn you buy is sex slave free.
To pick another flamboyantly outrageous example, how about the notoriously severe spanking and caning DVDs produced by Lupus Pictures? They are often cited as an example of a company that must abuse and exploit its models, because what right-thinking innocent girl would voluntarily consent to an ass-whipping that leaves her in tears with flaming red welts on her bottom? (Short answer: There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreampt of in your philosophy.)
Here are couple of a relatively mild screen capture samples so we know what we are talking about, courtesy of Lupus Spanking [2014 update: now defunct]:
And now some samples from an article by and an interview with Niki Flynn, who went to Prague to make a movie with these “evil werewolves from the East”. From the article (link broke awhile ago, see this .txt mirror):
I never thought of myself as a girl who could survive a Lupus-style caning. I cringe and wince when I watch the films and say, “There’s no way I could take that!” I’d heard the internet rumours, of course — about the innocent, impoverished Czech girls who are seduced by the money into being abused by the evil werewolves from the East. But I’d look at the “behind-the-scenes” pictures on the website and see everyone having a good time, laughing and horsing around, even after the canings. So the rumours never seemed to have any substance. Besides, the same girls turn up again and again to do films; they clearly know what to expect.
…
The thing that impressed me most of all was the consummate professionalism of everyone involved. This was not a group of pornographers making dirty pictures, nor was it a cruel band of misogynists delighting in taking advantage of girls who couldn’t say no. This was a real film crew working on a real film. In addition to the director, producer, script supervisor, makeup artist, properties and wardrobe mistress, caterer, cameramen, boom operator, still photographer, actors and (ahem) stunt girls, there were people on hand to offer us refreshments, comfort or anything else we needed.
…
Did it hurt? Of course. Did I enjoy it? Absolutely not. Do I regret it? Not for a moment. In fact, I had the time of my life. So did William. I knew exactly what I was getting into and I did it because this is what I like. And when it was over and I lay sobbing over the desk, I felt what mountain climbers must feel when they reach the peak. I was so high on the feeling of accomplishment and so lost in the roleplay that I nearly wished I could have some more! And when I look at the marks now I have a sense of pride and achievement. I savor the marks. No one who isn’t into this can ever truly understand. Boxers and footballers suffer broken noses and concussions. No one criticizes them or calls their sport unhealthy. What we do is so much safer. It’s really a shame so many people misunderstand.
Hmm, she doesn’t sound helpless or exploited, does she?
From her interview:
David: There are many rumors about the girls who perform in Lupus productions. Some believe that they attract poor, starving, drug-addicted Eastern European Girls. Now I know that this isn’t true. Prague is often referred to as ‘The Paris of the east”. The Czech Republic is not a third world country. What myths about Lupus would you most like to dispel?
Niki: (Sigh) Yes, the famous urban legends. I think that those rumors are insulting to the girls actually. It’s true, some people think of the Czech Republic as a third world country and that the girls are all uneducated and bullied into it. Or, they have no choice because they are so desperate for money they will do anything. The truth is that the Czech Republic isn’t a third world country; it’s a middle income country that has just joined the European Union. Most of the Lupus crew are friends on the Czech BDSM scene. Some of the girls do it because they are genuinely kinky — they come back again and again. Some may do it for money, but it’s not a crust of bread. They are paid a professional rate. On the set, they are treated as professional actors. The production team at Lupus couldn’t have been more professional or more concerned for my safety — for all of the performers’ safety.
And that’s how you know that the girl in your favorite video doesn’t have an off-camera gun pointed at her head.
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Thursday, September 29th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Two tidbits today from the vast and tasty smorgasbord that is Panties Panties Panties. First, the anal sex. There’s a recent post called “Ass: The Gateway Drug“. The post combines plenty of prurient detail with an anal sex tip that’s not always found in those dry how-to articles; namely, that good humor is at least as important as the standard “use oceans of lube” advice. But it’s the title that amused me most. It reminded me of the ancient joke: “Why don’t [insert your favorite moralistic prigs here] have sex standing up? Because it could lead to dancing!”
Tidbit the second, nonsexual: In a spiritual echo of my recent slam against office work, Hiromi posted about idleness and wage slavery and included a vignette about soul-crushing commutes:
Today I was stuck in Austin rush hour traffic. Grey-faced, prune-lipped, baggy-eyed commuters with cell phones grafted to their heads crammed in their metal hutches inching along in the 105 degree heat. And for what?
Werk. Jaabs. Wage slavery.
Folks, the horrifying thing about all of this is that it’s voluntary; there are ways out of the rat race, but you have to look hard and perhaps be willing to give up (at least temporarily) some of the excellent pellets they feed you.
Thursday, August 18th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
A while back the folks from Hogtied rented a sumptuous villa in Cabo San Lucas and took a bunch of equally-sumptuous models down there for a little working vacation. No, friends, this isn’t some trendy stretching exercise to follow one of Madonna’s Qabalah classes; it’s more in the nature of spring break bondage porn, complete with palm trees and azure swimming pools. And willing, flexible girls. And rope:
My spring breaks were never like this.
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Sunday, July 3rd, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
It’s great to hear from a man who’s not shy about his special relationship with his balls:
A guy’s balls are so interesting when you really get right down to it. They are firm, delicate, warm, fuzzy, and so precious to him that instinctually he will defend them from danger. I personally still love rubbing them, tugging them, grabbing the sack and pushing down on them.
Yes, they are lovely danglies, and best of all, they usually smell wonderful too, if you enjoy the man’s overall scent. It’s too bad that they’re hidden behind his penis, because they can be just as fun to play with even if they aren’t as obviously happy with the attention.
Thanks, Secretive Slave, for telling us!
Thursday, June 23rd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
I know the lusts of the ErosBlog female readers haven’t been slaked with naked guy pictures lately, so here’s an attempt to make up for that. I’m not really qualified to judge male attractiveness, but these guys look pretty well put together:
From Usenet.
Friday, June 3rd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
If you can stop laughing long enough, these pictures of blow-up dolls in bondage may make you wonder whether the folks at Slave Sluts have enough to occupy their time:
I hope this doesn’t mean there’s a looming shortage of real live “slave sluts”!
Thanks to Bondage Blog for the link.
Wednesday, June 1st, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
After being away for a while, I finally got it through my stupid head that I won’t have something better to say here until I finish the R story. It wasn’t easy to do, and it isn’t very pretty, but here it is, behind the “more” link. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, the third part of the story includes links to the first two parts.
R and I spent Christmas on a skiing trip that was awesome and horrible. I liked learning how to ski, and even made it down the hill once or twice without falling on my ass. The mountains were beautiful, and while we were in public R was his attentive, charming self. He told me to pack for a sexy cold trip…..I thought he meant the cold would be outside. But it was inside too. He told me we’d be together…..except that he never slept with me. In his house, in all the hotels we stayed in, R never stayed with me in bed all night. At first, at his house, I thought it was to give me some privacy, but since he constantly walked into the room I used without knocking whenever he wanted, I don’t think it was for that. At the hotels, we stayed in the same room, but always in seperate beds. But I’m getting ahead of things already.
That first night, at R’s house, was very different from our fun at Thanksgiving. He was formal, like he was trying to decide if he should hire me for a job or something. R welcomed me warmly, but it didn’t seem very sincere, more like it was what he had been taught to do and say to a woman that would be staying with him. He didn’t seem to like it if I touched him first, I found out quickly. After dinner, which was focused mostly on eating and small talk about family and high school friends, he said that he was tired from working so much and that the next night he’d give me a proper welcome. I offered to rub his back, the way I used to, but he said no, and said I should probably sleep too as jetlag would catch up with me and make learning to ski in the mountains harder. He walked me to the room where I’d put my bags, which I thought was his bedroom, barely kissed me, said goodnight and walked down the hall to his room.
I wasn’t expecting a romantic candle light bath, or rose petals all over the bed, but after the hot sex we had at Thanksgiving, this was a real shock. He wasn’t even going to sleep with me! One of the things I hate about being single is not having a nice-smelling man to snuggle with. Here I was with a guy that used to make my knees weak, I thought I did the same to him, and he barely touched me all evening! I went to bed thinking What the fuck?!
The first time we had sex was the second day of the ski trip, up until then it was one lame-ass excuse after another. R was skiing with me down one of the bigger beginner runs, and when I fell for the jillionth time, he started laughing at me. He was close enough that I pulled him over too, and he fell on top of me. We were both laughing, then the next thing I knew he was kissing me, hard. A small clump of pine trees was close by, and he rolled us over into it, laughing and kissing me the whole time. There wasn’t much to hide behind, but there weren’t many other skiers. I undid my entire front down to the sexy thermal top I bought specially for the trip, but he stayed mostly dressed, just undoing enough to release his very hard, very hot cock and plow it into me. I don’t know and don’t care if anybody saw us, I was so glad to finally be getting fucked that I didn’t even think about it. Fast and furious and hot and cold…..I didn’t come, but it was still damn good.
That night at dinner R started to explain what he meant when he said he didn’t know if he could show me how he is now. The way he said it, I thought he was into rough sex, and since that’s not something I’ve done a lot of except fantasize about, I told him that I thought we could work up to some things. After I said that he relaxed, and was very sweet and more like the highschool boy I’d fallen for.
Remember, I didn’t tell R that I contribute to a sex blog. So as far as he knew, I was just some normal chick that was willing to try some kinky new things. Some were fun and really got me going, like these vibrating nipple clamps. Most of the time it seemed like he didn’t care if I would like something, and didn’t bother to even think about that. R didn’t seem to understand the need for lube with some toys, or going slow, so it ended up sometimes that his stuff hurt, it wasn’t sexy, and when we did have sex, it was like, just get it over with so I can go to sleep.
On our last night, after a very fun day just hanging out together, he decided to do a twat test. I needed to keep whatever he put in my pussy totally inside it, or he’d punish me however he wanted. The idea was he’d keep trying smaller things, but the first thing he put in me was so small and smooth that even clenching my tightest, it peeked out. I tried to tell R that it would be a good start for a teenage virgin, but not someone like me, but I got spanked for my “sauciness.” We both ended up frustrated and mad because his game wasn’t working. He said he was going to tie me up, and when I asked about a safe word, he said that he’d be able to tell if he was pushing me too hard and that stuff like that was for chickens. My questions made him madder, and he finally yelled that no slave of his was going to get away with talking to him like that.
That pushed me over the edge, because I never said I’d be his slave, and he never asked. I went to the room I was staying in, and R came after me, telling me that I was his for the entire trip and I’d better start behaving properly if I didn’t want to get seriously punished for my insolence. I didn’t want to do it, but I was so mad and so frustrated by his impossible demands and not having much sex that I started crying. R had been so sweet and affectionate whenever we were out in public anywhere, but when it was just the two of us alone all that vanished. I tried to tell R that if he had shown me just a little of that sweetness in his house, I’d probably be licking his shoes that very minute, but with his Jeckyll-Hyde thing going I didn’t know what to think, and I didn’t trust him to tie me up. He said he did care for me, and he knew that I just needed some good discipline to see that, and that after he gave it, I’d know I could trust him. I told him I didn’t work that way, I had to trust before ropes or cuffs came anywhere near me, and if he wasn’t okay with that then this was it. R didn’t seem to get anything I was saying, he didn’t seem to even understand the difference I saw in him going from public to private, so, since I was almost all packed anyway I grabbed my stuff and left. I told him not to bother calling me or returning my other stuff, and walked out.
He didn’t call or anything, until April. He had a business trip, he said, that required that the men have female companions with them. He told me I’d be perfect for the trip, that I’d love it, that he’d let me set the rules this time, if only I’d agree to go on the trip with him. He was so sweet and so persuasive that I almost said yes……but then I remembered how it was over the holidays, and how confused and awful I felt for alot of the time. I also started wondering exactly what this “business trip” was, and wondering if he had some kind of kinky thing worked out. So I said no, told him not to call me anymore, and hung up.
But his call made me start thinking about all we had done…..Thanksgiving, which was totally hot and fun…..Christmas and New Years’, which had some fun stuff but mostly was wierd and scary to me. Did I do something wrong to make it all so bad? Maybe I am more of a prude than I think…….but I don’t really think so. And now I don’t know if I’ll find someone else to try with….if I can trust a guy again. I don’t like being like that.
Friday, March 18th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Porn Publisher Rask can be funny as hell, and today he has a question for his readers:
When I go out, I often wear a leather Harley Davidson cap with a long brim. It keeps the sun out of my eyes and it keeps my hair from blowing into my mouth. And it advertises the fact that I’m a biker and ride a big Harley. When I was at Lowes last week, I found some cute little flashlights with clips on them. Perfect to attach to the brim of my cap. Now I can see in the dark, hands-free. When I wear the cap now, the slave gives me a Look. The vibe I’m getting from her is like, “I can’t sleep with a man who wears flashlights on his head.” Now my question is this: Doesn’t the machismo of wearing a Harley Davidson cap offset the geekiness of wearing flashlights on your head? I need to know, just in case I want to have sex again someday. For now, though, being able to see in the dark is gratifying enough.
A tough call, I’d say….
Friday, February 25th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Rask writes on his Diary of a Porn Publisher:
For Valentine’s Day, I bought some used tires for the slave’s Mustang on eBay. It has been suggested in the past that I am romantically-challenged, but I’m sure that this extravagant gesture will put those claims to rest.
I’m sure, I’m sure.
Friday, January 28th, 2005 -- by The Nymph
Okay, I’ve had enough of the Aphrodite and Bacchus pic war. It’s Nymph’s turn!
Actually, I wanted to show off one of the goodies I found at Eros Boutique so Bacchus will put it on my Valentine’s Day wish list. I *want* it!
Wednesday, January 12th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
OK, so it’s a little unfair to criticize a defense lawyer for putting his client’s actions in the best possible light. But it’s not unfair, I maintain, for us to laugh our asses off when his attempts to do so are ludicrous. Which seems appropriate when the defense lawyer for an Abu Ghraib torturer tries to justify piling naked prisoners in pyramids, asking:
“Don’t cheerleaders all over America form pyramids six to eight times a year. Is that torture?”
Obviously that’s a question that requires careful research.
I don’t personally know any of the cheerleaders who form naked pyramids six or eight times a year. Darn! So I can’t ask them if it’s torture. Still, on available evidence, the girls in this pyramid seem happy enough. And the skilled young ladies who model for Lightspeed University always seem to have a smile on their faces, even when it’s just about all they have on:
(From this gallery.)
Now all we need to do is find some cheerleaders who can tell us what it’s like to make a naked pyramid in a dank concrete room at gunpoint in front of jeering soldiers and slavering guard dogs. Oh, wait … that’s different.
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Thursday, September 2nd, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Sasha at The Eye devotes part of this week’s advice column to the difficulties of a young man who is missing the glans portion of his penis, and who accordingly has a very difficult time finding sex partners or having an orgasm, even while masturbating. I was a bit disappointed in Sasha’s suggestions, which consisted of one useful suggestion aimed at helping the man find people unlikely to be horrified by his condition, plus three paragraphs aimed at helping him deal with the emotional trauma of having important bits missing. I’m no sex advice columnist, but somehow it seems like what the man could use most is some reliable advice on coming when he wants to.
Not to be too blunt about this, but the poor boy should have asked Dan Savage. A straight guy who knows very much about this is either uncommonly well-read or unusually adventurous, but “the truth is out there“.
Retreating rapidly behind the veil of literary example, there’s a character in Neal Stephenson’s Baroque Cycle called “Half-Cocked Jack” (along with worse things) due to an unfortunate encounter with a fumble-fingered barber, a white-hot iron, and the French Pox. His good fortune it was to fall in with a young but very well-read harem slave-girl from Constantinople. When she observes his deficiency, she’s quick to point out that “certain arts have been taught to me from Books of India.” Later in the book, there’s a scene where she and Jack are lounging in a hot springs:
Eliza laughed gaily. “Fist? Jack, this is but two fingers. A fist would be more like — this!”
Jack felt his body being turned outside in — there was some thrashing and screaming that was cut short when his head accidentally submerged in the sulfurous water. Eliza got a grip on his hair and hauled his head back up into the cold air with her other hand.
“You’re sure this is how they do it in India?”
“Would you like to register … a complaint?”
“Aaugh! Never.”
“Remember, Jack: whenever serious and competant people need to get things done in the real world, all considerations of tradition and protocol fly out the window.”
There followed a long and mysterious procedure — tedious and yet somehow not.
“What’re you groping about for?” Jack muttered faintly. “My gall-bladder is just to the left.”
“I’m trying to locate a certain chakra — should be somewhere around here –”
“What’s a chakra?”
“You’ll know when I find it.”
Some time later, she did, and then the procedure took on greater intensity, to say the least. Suspended between Eliza’s two hands, like a scale in a market-place, Jack could feel his balance-point shifting as quantities of fluids were pumped between internal reservoirs, all in preparation for some Event. Finally, the crisis — Jack’s legs thrashed in the hot water as if his body were trying to flee, but he was staked, impaled. A bubble of numenous light, as if the sun were mistakenly attempting to rise inside his head. Some kind of Hindoo apocalypse played out. He died, went to Hell, ascended into Heaven, was reincarnated as various braying, screeching, and howling beasts, and repeated this cycle many times over. In the end he was reincarnated, just barely, as a Man. Not a very alert one.
“Did you get what you wanted?” she inquired. Very close to him.
Admittedly harem girls from Constantinople aren’t as easy to whistle up as they used to be, but why couldn’t Sasha (herself a serious and competant person) at least have pointed our half-cocked young man toward the purchase a prostate-massaging anal toy?
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Sunday, August 15th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
From Diary of A Porn Publisher, this made me laugh:
In the past, I have always eaten barbecued spareribs from the smooth belly of a naked slavegirl, using her thighs and breasts to wipe my messy hands. Tonight, for the first time, I ordered spareribs in a restaurant. I normally avoid eating any kind of finger foods in public because, well, I guess I’m too civilized. The ribs were delicious, though, and I gave them my full attention. When I finally did glance up from my plate, people were staring at me. I noted then that my hands were completely covered in barbecue sauce and gobbets of fat, encroaching up my wrists. I had to make do with napkins.
Monday, July 19th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
In the old email, I find this from Hakim (this is the entire missive):
i need a free girl to sleep with
Ya gotta wonder. What kind of free does he have in mind? Are we talking free speech or free beer here?
It’s puzzling. Is he saying that slavegirls just don’t do it for him? Or is he just anxious to explain that he won’t pay, after?
And I won’t even begin to worry about why Hakim saw fit to share this decidedly ambiguous need of his with me.
Monday, June 21st, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Mistress Matisse gets the most hilarious phone calls. The last one started like this:
“I’m calling about your ad, but I’m not a submissive. My name (dramatic pause) is Master Ryker Blackstar.”
Dollars to doughnuts, this is the same guy who wrote “Rules For My Slavegirls“.
Friday, June 18th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
For your patience, an extra reward. Sorry, Katy, but she’s not being nice to the penis in this Men In Pain shoot.
Saturday, May 8th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
You think Tarzan sat around serving Jane tea in his treehouse, all prim and proper and polite? Heck no, I’m betting it went more like this:
Thanks to Bondage Blog for the link to Water Bondage where this photo comes from.
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Friday, April 30th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
I have heard tales that some of the serious body modification guys have suffered foreign objects to be introduced under the skins of their penises, with the purpose and intent of creating small lumpy scars or bumps “for her pleasure”. Well, in the course of a long internet surfing life one eventually sees pictures of almost everything, and now I’ve been sent pictures of this. I cannot suffer the trauma alone, I must share:
As for me, I’d think the girls willing to try it would be way outnumbered by the ones who would shun it as diseased-looking. But perhaps I’ve merely led a sheltered life.
Monday, April 12th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Ok, now listen up, all you furries with a submissive chicken fetish: Burger King wants you to have it your way. Not news? No, really, it is.
Here’s the deal. There’s a flash website where a man (well, perhaps a man) in a rooster suit will do pretty much whatever you tell him. The Boing Boing crowd has a couple of posts that will help you get the most out of your slave chicken. Apparently, you can get him to do a startling variety of things.
What a strange and wondrous world we live in!
Tuesday, March 9th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Quiver has been looking for a dominant fellow on Alt.com. Herewith some sample emails she has received, otherwise known as the “don’t do this” list:
be a slave to my 10 in. let me slay u with my huge blk. Cock
can you send me photos??
Lets see if you can follow directions, and send me a dirty pic of yourself.
Kindof like Forced Entry. Lets play
I am really turned on by that shit, can I have a go at it?
Reply you will not be sorry
Does your play involved any gun play? Ever tried that during a scene? Guns are better, but knives are good to, I’ve got a spyderco from work that I use for play too.
I want to use you.
Eeep!
Oh yeah, and gentlemen? “NEVER send a pic of you fisting someone…”
Words to live by.
Saturday, January 24th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
A random text bite from the diary of a “fully-owned female slave”. Her Master has finally found a way to make politics entertaining:
Later, He had me pleasure Him orally while He watched the political show of the State of the Union speech. That was unexpected, as was the deepthroating expected of me whenever there was applause. May i just say the Man talked way way too long? my jaw aches tremendously and Master was devastatingly demanding for the whole hour with no intent of having me finish the job. i love very much to suck cock, and Master was making a variety of points with me, but this was the longest hardest blowjob of my life.
A novel method of forestalling political debate, if nothing else.
Wednesday, January 21st, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Although ErosBlog does not cover politics very much at all, I’ve long seen this sex blogging project as being my little contribution to a vital culture war. Because we are very sexual monkeys, control over sexual expression is one of the most important tools in the arsenal of the orcs who seek to govern and enslave us. (“Govern and enslave? Sorry, I repeat myself.”)
Daze and others have amply covered the case of Melissa Lincoln, the Nebraska lady who likes to get naked in public and enjoys making a buck when she does it. She’s been charged with public nudity, and faces actual jail time for it (although doubtless she’ll be offered a nice plea bargain that requires her to promise she’ll keep her pretty naked assets securely wrapped). After all, the point is to control sexual expression, remember? This isn’t about Melissa, it’s about reminding everyone that the orcs are watching and they will come for you if you don’t follow their rules.
Except that Melissa wants to fight. The liberty activists at the Liberty Round Table have been in touch with her, and it turns out that she doesn’t plan to knuckle under. She wants to fight this “all the way” and she doesn’t intend to plea bargain.
That’s a big ouchie, folks. A basic misdemeanor criminal defense starts at five grand, and that price assumes you’ll take any decent plea bargain. Appeals often cost thirty grand apiece, and you can need several.
The Knights of Nonaggression over at the Liberty Round Table have a list of what you can do to help, but the most obvious thing you can do is throw money. In Melissa’s case, the easiest way you can do that is to buy a membership at her web site. Sure, it’s commercial, but this is no “help me buy some fake boobs” bogus plea; the lady really does face jail time if she stands up for basic freedoms here. She will be under tremendous pressures to take a plea. As the LRT puts it:
For our part, we are not exhibitionists, but do believe that anything that de-mystifies sex, shows that good clean fun and healthy bodies are not ‘dirty’, is a very positive thing. There’s no end to the flood of misery produced by people’s twisted ideas about sex, love, and the human body, so we say: ‘Hurray for Melissa’s one woman war against benighted puritan attitudes!’ That Melissa’s site has a commercial side makes her work no less valuable — have not libertarians and objectivists always said that freedom is so valuable that there ought to be a way to promote it at a profit? We agree with Melissa; she has nothing to be ashamed of, not her body, not her pictures, not her profit.
…
It seems to me that there is no better way to show appreciation for an artist than to pay for her work; it has a better, cleaner feel than straight charity and allows her to be able to give some value in return for the help.
Indeed. And thanks to Don and Sunni at the Liberty Round Table for getting in touch with Melissa and publicizing her will to fight!
Monday, January 5th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Ok, people, you all know that the best parts of the Star Wars movies were the parts featuring Princess Leia as Jabba The Hut’s slave girl. In case you had forgotten, check out The Slave Leia Pictures at Leia’s Metal Bikini.
Thanks to Attu for the link.
Tuesday, December 23rd, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Sarah at Submissive Reflections has some pertinent observations on relationships, wrapped up in an ironic anecdote. There’s more than this long quote, so read it all.
Christine’s husband, Dan, arrived and he kissed her and she fended him off, complaining about her makeup, he told her she looked beautiful and she told him not to be so silly. She complained about him being late and that everyone had had to wait for him, even though we were all still waiting on Mac. Dan mumbled an apology and stood off to his wife’s side like a chastised child.
Mac walked in a good ten minutes later, greeting everyone noisily and asking what they were waiting for. He put his hands on my waist, kissed my lips and told me I looked delicious. I grinned up at Him and said thankyou. I was wearing the dress He had suggested, a short black dress. I had added stockings, high heels and hadn’t bothered with panties. Mac knew without me having to tell Him. He boomed out an apology for being late and grabbed my hand and led everyone to the table. He made sure I was sitting beside Him.
I watched as Dan trailed along behind his wife and as she told him where to sit. Menus arrived and while everyone was reading Christine announced loudly to Dan that he had better not order anything to fattening, he had to watch his weight. She continued through the meal to make fun of Dan’s receding hair line, tell everyone he had not gotten the recent promotion that he had applied for which is why they couldn’t afford a new car and generally put him down every chance she got. I felt so sad for him but he didn’t react to it at all.
Mac was His usual boisterous self. He had the whole table in tears laughing at stories about Christmas at His parent’s house, keeping everyone entertained. His hand kept sneaking under the table and up my skirt to feel how wet I was, which of course only made me wetter. My hand kept sneaking under the table to feel how hard He was, which of course only made Him stay hard. He kept leaning into my ear to whisper wicked things about where He wanted His cock and I kept whispering back about what I would do to His cock when it was there. W/we were keeping each other close to the edge of orgasm.
After dinner I excused myself to go to the bathroom and Christine came with me. She was touching up her makeup when I went to wash my hands and she told me how lucky I was to have Mac, as He was so male. It was all I could do to bite my lip so I didn’t tell her that maybe Dan would be more male if she stopped treating him like a child. I just smiled and went back to the table and kissed Mac’s cheek.
…
I wish I could say that Christine and Dan are the only couple I know like this, but they are not. I see it often enough for it to bother me. You don’t have to be submissive to show your partner respect. You don’t need to lower your eyes or be a sexual slave to accept the gift of their compliments graciously and show them that you care about them.
You could swap the genders (and discount Sarah’s submissive perspective, if it bothered you) and this would still be wisdom.
Thursday, December 18th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
I do so love a provocative blog entry title. Here’s another one of those old French postcard style images from the turn of the (previous) century:
The sad thing is, they look bored….
Tuesday, December 9th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Rask the Porn Publisher isn’t living quite the wild life we expect from people in the sex industry. Instead, he works. Plus he has a very dry sense of humor (I hope it’s humor). On Pearl Harbor day:
My ex-wife called today to see if I was coming to my daughters’ birthday party. I didn’t go. I worked. I selected pictures for nine more websites and wrote the copy for them. I did take time off long enough to fuck the slave. As usual, she walked around afterwards, saying “I got fucked today.” Wondering whether such a response is really warranted, I did a search on this blog to see when she got laid last. I guess she may have just cause to think of it as something special.
Sunday, November 30th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Thanks to the ever-watchful Daze, we are blessed with the link to this pasha’s ransom of belly dancers, slavegirls, and harem beauties: Bellydancers and Harem Girls — A Historical/Cheesecake Gallery. An astounding collection of lovelies like this:
Opa!
Wednesday, November 19th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Ever since the erstwhile Reverse Cowgirl packed up her digital tent in the night, scraped a pine branch over the digital ground to erase her website and all sign of her passing, and led her horse silently out of the sex blog camp like a cowhand who just learned he’d impregnated the Big Boss’s only daughter, I’ve missed her intelligent eye for the sexy-but-odd. Fortunately, the new Fleshbot is proving to have moments of link-choosing brilliance that remind me of her. Today they even have a bukkake link! Fleshbotties, are you sure you don’t have the Cowgirl locked in your closet and enslaved via the use of industrial strength remote control vibrating panties?
The link of the day, though, and the treasure that really reminded me of the inexplicably deleted Cowgirl blog, was their link to the art photo 76 Blowjobs. It’s awesome.
Saturday, May 31st, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a cute image of abject slavery, as envisioned in the absinthe-soaked photography salons of turn-of-the-century Paris:
This image was snagged from a passing Ebay postcard auction, where it was going for a sum that should have been large enough to ensure that the models were included in the deal.
Monday, May 5th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Todd McFarlane has a new line of figures coming out, including this twisted Dorothy as the bondage slave of the Munchkins. If ErosBlog had a wish list, this would be on it:
Twisted but awesome!
Thursday, April 10th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
A while back ErosBlog linked to, and ridiculed, an alleged list of Rules For My Slave Girls. Now SpankBoss has posted a far more realistic sounding list of rules he found floating around somewhere:
1. I will not hum the theme from Jeopardy while Master decides which implement to spank me with.
…
6. Master does NOT hog the bed.
7. I will not refer to Master’s kitty as “snake food.”
…
14. I will not chew my collar.
15. I will not giggle during paddlings.
…
20. I will not make shadow puppets in the candlelight while Master is tying me up.
21. I will not critique how Master ties me up.
…
23. I will not go out-of-state when borrowing Master’s car during lunch.
…
29. It is unlikely that Master pushed all the covers onto my side of the bed so he could shiver all night.
…
48. I will not hoot with laughter when Master accidentally whacks himself on the back of the head with the flogger.
Now that sounds like a happy, if kinky, relationship. The rest are mostly just as fun, and funny, so go read ’em.
Wednesday, February 5th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
This sort of thing might be able to convince even Bacchus that exercise can be fun.
It gets better. What are they doing, practicing Gorean slave girl postures?
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Sunday, January 26th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a fellow who seems perhaps to have read one too many Gor novels. Herewith, his list of “Rules for My Slave Girls“. All seventeen of them. (That would be seventeen rules; if this guy has seventeen slave girls, Bacchus is a Baptist.) A sample:
6. Slave girls sometimes disobey or are insolent and must be punished. This, of course, is the Master’s privilege and his duty, for if a slave is not corrected, she will not improve. Slave girls are punished if, when, and as I please. When I desire to punish a slave, I will tell her why she is to be punished and how. If instructed to bring a lash or paddle, she must do so quickly and obediently. Her hands must never touch it, or any weapon, so she must bring it in her teeth, and when she reaches me she must be on her hands and knees. I will then inform her which position to take, and they must obey instantly.
At the risk of offending pet owners and PETA activists, maybe this guy should just get a dog?
Thursday, November 28th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
This picture is offered up as a warning to women who feel that powered woodworking tools are a perfectly acceptable default gift for Father’s Day:
Seriously, guys who get these things at a time when they don’t have a burning desire to build a gazebo will just dream shit up!
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Friday, November 22nd, 2002 -- by Bacchus
There is a new Gor book out. By John Norman. Published in August, 2002. Available on Amazon. In hardcover, no less. All 717 pages of it.
It’s called Witness of Gor:
The Amazon review begins:
Deep within the cells of Treve, a glorious and mysterious city at the center of Gor’s struggle for supremacy, awakens a nameless slave girl who will witness events about which others will only dare to whisper.
This Gor phenomenon…mere words are inadequate. Slave girls. Yum, yes. Bad writing. Also yes. Ouch ouch ouch please make the pain stop it hurts to read this broken limestone gravel prose ouch. Yes. Ouch.
“Please, no, Master!” I wept. Then I felt the lash. I stumbled back in agony, turned about, and fell to the carpet. There the leather once more informed me of the displeasure of my master. I screamed, miserable. Then another blow like lightning was on my back and I sobbed at his feet, on my belly on the rug.
More slave girls. Has the slave girl concept been adequately reinforced? Gorean slave girls get whipped a lot, and either like it and “juice” for master, or don’t like it but “juice” anyway. Did bad writing get mentioned?
It goes without saying — nope, wait, it’s too late for that — that Gor is politically incorrect, and the National Organization of Women will take away your membership card if you admit to liking this sort of thing.
Oh yes, don’t forget the slave girls. They are generally pretty yummy. Also pretty much naked and in chains, or leather cuffs, or binding fiber, or whatever else Tarl Cabot and his fellow hulking brutes have handy for the restraint and entertainment of naked slave girls.
If you are a fan of the Gor books, you needed to know about the new book. If you don’t like them, you probably rolled your eyes and groaned when you saw this blog entry. If you never heard of Gor…well, you are either incredibly lucky or astoundingly unlucky, depending on the extent to which badly written (but much whipped and very juicy) slave girls float your boat.
Thursday, November 14th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
This is too cute. From the twisted perverts (Bacchus means this only in the nicest possible way) over at BDSM Cafe we have Beanies in Bondage. Once again, Bacchus is not making this up.
Folks, this is why you read ErosBlog. Admit it, you know it’s true. While those other sex blogs (and most of the other blogs in the blogosphere) were linking to the done-to-death Bondage Barbie story, Bacchus went out and slaved away over hot link lists until he could bring you a hogtied furry stuffed bear wearing a ring gag and and a blindfold. Why you would want to see this remains a mystery, but at least it’s different.
Monday, November 4th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Here is a Usenet classic you may have seen before:
THE COMPLETE GUIDE TO UNLAWFUL CARNAL KNOWLEDGE FOR FANTASY ROLE-PLAYING GAMES
This guide for the D&D crowd comes complete with lists like “Magic Items Your Mom Wouldn’t Approve of.” Bacchus could find uses for the Spectacles of Revealing, and the Wand of Elenora’s Embarrassment sounds rather fun also. The list of “Spells With Zip” includes goodies like Annihilator’s Penis of Power. If that’s a little too patriarchal for your taste, probably Kiss Of Slavery won’t cheer you up — you may want to get your hands on the Jackknife of Circumcision. Bacchus does not approve and is likely to retreat into his Marishar’s Miraculous Bath House, which might have been designed for him — note the command word, which Bacchus did not make up:
This one square inch marble block is carved in the appearance of a Roman-style villa with pillars at the front and erotic mosaics on the side and back walls. Once a day, the bathhouse can be invoked (command word Bacchus). It immediately grows in size until it is as large as a small house. It is identical to the statue, with high marble walls, and pillars at the front covering the entrance. The doorway is only large enough to allow one person at a time to pass through, and has a large brass door that can be bolted from the inside. Two large Iron Golems cast as Nubian slaves with scimitars guard the doorway. Whoever passes inside first is the master/mistress of the bath house, and all the creatures of the bath house will obey them. Inside the house is only one room, with two pools (hot and cold) and several marble slabs. gauzy silk curtains, cushions and tapestries decorate the place. Several swans (white if the master is good/neutral, black if evil) swim calmly on the cold pool. In the bath house are 2d6 beings of the same race and opposite gender, with 18 charisma and 18 comeliness. They are happy to please and have 20’s in any and all the new sexual proficiencies. If the master/mistress of the house wishes, the companions can be switched to any gender or species. Inside the bath house, it is always comfortably warm, and there is always food (as long as you like grapes and dates) and fresh water. Nothing from the bath house (golems, companions, cushions, water, food) can leave the bath house. If taken outside they vanish.
For the serious sex gaming grognard, there are detailed rules on the calculation of the duration of an in-game sex encounter:
After the initial rounds pass, the character must make a Constitution check for each round he/she wishes to continue. Modifiers to this check are from Table 1 and Table 2 And Table 3, plus cumulative modifier of -1. The character also needs to make a time to climax (TTC) check. A 1 on a 1d6 for males and a 1 on a 1d10 for women indicates such an occurrence. An additional TTC roll is made and a result of 1 indicates multiple orgasms (keep rolling while 1s come up).
Bacchus gives this link two thumbs (nay, Wands of Love even) up!
Wednesday, October 23rd, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Classic bondage porn from the days of the line printer! Hogtied slave girl rendered entirely in parentheses, asterisks, and the odd backslash! Real geek nostalgia!
UPDATE: You thought that was fun? OK, here’s a fetish girl wearing a gas mask and leather bondage harness. ASCII porn? Who knew?
Wednesday, October 16th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
In a shameless bid for publicity, a notorious environmental organization has released a 10-point guide to environmentally friendly sex. No, I am afraid I am not making this up. The tips range from the ludicrously obvious to drop-in-the-bucket pointlessness (from an environmental standpoint, anyway):
Tips include turning off the lights to conserve energy (‘if you want to see your partner then have sex during the day’), making sure your garden is pesticide-free for alfresco activities (‘would you really want to set your bare bottom on weedkiller?’) and banning lubricants such as petroleum jelly (‘Esso’s screwing the planet but you don’t have to.’)
It gets worse:
And if you and your partner indulge in any spanking or bondage then Greenpeace advocate ‘looking for timber and paddles certified by the only internationally recognised ecological forest certification organisation, the Forest Stewardship Council.’
Kinky sex for the politically correct! Bah, give me a good old fashioned made-in-the-USA paddle chainsawed from the heart of a clear-cut old-growth Tongass National Forest yellow cedar tree any day. Guaranteed to give the nymphs that old fashioned personal tingle, while providing high-wage jobs for hard-working American loggers!
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