Just Go With It

Last night I went to the pictures, as I usually do on a Saturday night, and saw a double feature of The Green Hornet and Just Go With It. The Green Hornet was the better of the two films, but Just Go With It was the inspiration for this post, because the little girl in it is an acting student who talks about the rules of improvisation, and the whole movie is about characters improvising within a made-up framework. So lets forget that it is a typically predictable Adam Sandler comedy (although based loosely on the classic play Cactus Flower.) SPOILER ALERT : He ends up turning down the hot blonde for Jennifer Aniston (pretty hot herself) in the end. (Is it too much to ask that one of these Hollywood romantic comedies go for something different and have all of the characters deciding to live together in a polyamorous relationship?) Still, it has plenty of genuine laughs, two hot chicks in bikinis and a guy picking up a coconut with his butt cheeks. So it's not all bad. The important thing is that it provides a peg on which to hang a post about how the rules of theatrical improvisation can be a huge help to the creative writer.

Super hot Brookyn Decker (although Jennifer Aniston also looked hot in a bikini)

The key rule of theatrical improvisation explained by the little girl in the film is that you have to accept anything which another person says. You mustn't block the improvisation by saying something like "That's not true" or "It wasn't like that." You have to just go with it. Of course this leads to ridiculous situations in the film, for instance when a character is asked what he does for a living. He starts off by saying that he ships sheep, and then, when asked for more details he comes up with a convoluted story about how he sells sheep over the internet with purchasers choosing the one they want from photographs. And everybody has to accept it and play along, which becomes embarrassing when he says that Jennifer Anniston's character bought a sheep from him because of some kink that involved shaving it.

I've had an interest in the theory of theatrical improvisation ever since the late eighties when a friend of mine took part in Theatre Sports while studying acting. We had a team and I was the coach. This was really just a way of getting a bit of the glory without getting out on the stage. I did agree to fill in for a missing team member on a particularly important night - perhaps it was a final. I was shitting myself back stage, but, luckily, someone turned up to take my place. I read the book which inspired Theatre Sports - Impro : Improvisation and the Theatre by Keith Johnstone - to help me with the coaching. I'm sure they would have done fine without my help, but what I read in that book would pay off for me many years later.

Theatre Sports, in Adelaide, hit its peak while my friend was competing. The grand final packed out a 1,200 seat theatre, making it the biggest Theatre Sports audience in the Southern Hemisphere (at least up until that time). At that point Geoffrey Rush was the host. He would run out onto the stage wearing a helmet and make jokes about the flipping of the coin to begin the competition being "the first public toss of the evening" and he'd throw lollies out into the audience to keep the level of hysteria high. It was all down hill from there. Now he's starring in Pirates of the Caribbean movies.

Geoffrey Rush as smut-writing legend - The Marquis de Sade

Keith Johnstone's book should be read by all writers. Ostensibly it is a guide for actors wanting to learn to improvise on stage, but it also contains penetrating insights on topics ranging from education to obscenity to the psychology of repression. And, most importantly for writers, it explains in simple terms exactly how to go about making up a story and creating interesting dialogue. It contains scores of mental exercises for setting free the imagination. It is the ultimate cure for writer's block. And all of the principles I learned from it I started to put into practice when I began writing erotic stories.

Me writing erotic stories

One thing I learned is that anything that enters my brain could end up being the seed for a story. It's all a case of opening one's mind to the potential which exists in every tiny event or overheard comment.

I could be shopping at the supermarket, and an ugly old lady in front of me complains about the price of cucumbers. So I might think to myself, "What if she was a hot young woman who wanted the cucumber to masturbate with. She's too stingy to buy one at such a high price, so she has no choice but to go home and use the pretext of borrowing a cup of salad dressing to seduce her hot neighbour and satisfy her pussy with his meat-based cucumber substitute." Instant erotic story.

Lisa from Girls Out West discovers that cucumbers are good for more than one thing. They are also edible.

There are two big obstacles to creativity - self-criticism and self-censorship.

I've often said that the one thing which enables me to be imaginative in my writing is that I write trash. If I were to try to write a serious detective novel, I would, I'm sure, be hampered by self-criticism. I would want each aspect of my story to be scrupulously well-researched and believable. But because I write deliberately ludicrous smut, I'm practically free from this problem. No idea is too ridiculous, no gag too belaboured and if I've borrowed most of the plot from a movie I watched on television last night, that's O.K., it's a parody. I think that maybe even serious writers can benefit by convincing themselves that quality doesn't matter. If Shakespeare had known that students would be studying his work in 2011 he probably would have suffered terminal writer's block.

We may have many reasons for implementing self-censorship. An idea may be too crazy, too obscene, too kinky or too personal in what it reveals about us. But the best way to develop one's creativity is to allow all ideas to be expressed. This doesn't mean that all ideas need to be used in the final product. But if your mind gets used to being listened to it will keep feeding you the ideas.

No self-censorship here and I like her choice of  canvas

Let's say you have a character who is marooned on a desert island. There is no one else there and this is an erotic story which requires some sexual activity. At first you think you are stuck. But then you come up with the idea of having your Robinson Crusoe do the dirty with a dolphin. This gets you out of your bind, but, if you publish it as an ebook you will probably get banned for life from Amazon. So, having avoided writer's block by refusing to censor the perversity of your imagination, you now need to revise. Easy, you make the dolphin a mermaid and it is now Amazon-friendly. The important thing is that you didn't get stuck. (Though your character might have. I'm not sure how big dolphin's vaginas are.)

Perhaps the most important thing to remember about improvisation is that you can't find out where a path leads unless you go down it. And this is why it is important not to be too fussy about our ideas. A pretty mediocre idea, if allowed to develop in the mind, can lead to a great one. You'll never know if you reject it as mediocre. And, since writing is a private business, you have nothing to lose by giving ideas the benefit of the doubt. You don't have to show anyone the writing that you don't think works.

Sometimes it is the lateral thinking you have to do when you feel you've painted yourself into a corner which leads to the most effective plot ideas. I can't think of a good dramatic example from my own work, so I'll use an example from the career of Stephen King instead.

I don't actually know Stephen King. And I've only read one of his novels. So I'm going to engage in a bit of speculation here. All authors are alike, so imagining my way into Stephen King's thought processes shouldn't be too hard.

Always a master of horror, with Gerald's Game King decided that he was going to try his hand at writing an erotic novel. It begins well with the heroine handcuffed to a bed by her horny husband. "Wow!" thinks King, "this kinky sex play is seriously boner-popping stuff. A guy could get so excited by this that he'd have a heart attack. Hey, why not, that'll be a dramatic plot twist. The reader's won't see that coming." The only problem is that, having killed off Gerald, and with his wife still cuffed to the bed in a deserted wilderness area, there wasn't much opportunity for erotic activity. With her hands cuffed she couldn't even masturbate. He could have had a big muscly woodsman just happen by, but that would be cheating. It was only the first few pages of what was to be his great erotic novel, and Stephen King had painted himself into a corner. What to do? And then inspiration struck. A change of genre. Make it a horror story about a woman slowly starving to death and trying to free herself with acts of self-mutilation while reminiscing about having been molested as a child. He could even have her visited at night by a mysterious serial killer.

And so it was that a change of direction arising from a need to get out of the corner he painted himself into in the first few pages became the great idea which made his novel a success. Of course it was just another horror novel, and not the steamy lust epic he'd been planning, but he could always attempt that on another day.

And this example is itself an example of the same thing. I decided to write about how a creative leap when you get stuck can lead to some of the best ideas, and I wanted an example. I couldn't think of a good one from my own work, and, no matter how I wracked my brains, I couldn't come up with another off-the-cuff tale of cucumber or dolphin fucking. So I made a lateral leap and came up with an idea which will probably lead to me being sued by Stephen King for implying that, while an excellent writer of horror tales, he sucks at erotica.

Stephen King has never been one to let the grass grow over  him  when it comes to his choice of genres

One of the best ways of practising improvisation skills is to take part in the Twitterotica writing challenges - Wank Wednesday and Fuck Me Friday. In spirit these are very like the games that make up Theatre Sports. Also a lot of fun are multi-author stories. I've been involved in some of these in the past and intend to post some of my own contributions to them. And, who knows, maybe we can get something along those lines going here. Let's just go with it.

Pin : Fuck Me Friday

Fuck Me Friday is organised by Aisling Weaver. Here is how she explains it :

Twitterotica themes have been hanging around for some time, with various writers tackling weekly challenges such as #wankwednesday and so on, and writing challenges far and wide are abundant. This is another one.

The goal is two-fold; for writers, a weekly challenge to keep the, err, juices flowing. For readers, you'll find all the stories linked off at the bottom of each week's prompt. Are you game? Will you try your hand at some on the fly writing? Will you expose your work to new readers, will you read along and find new authors? I do hope so.

So, welcome to the linky love edition of Fuck Me Friday. All you have to do is this :

Write a story with the prompt as your title. Today's will be : #Pin 

• Tweet it with both the prompt and hashtag #FuckMeFriday

• And lastly add it to the links at the bottom of this post. (Note, if you don't want to tweet it or don't have a blog, I invite you to post your story in the comments section. 

Pin

Hypochondria is a complex problem at the best of times, but especially so when the sufferer is a member of the medical profession.

Montague Periwinkle was a successful Harley Street physician, but his practice took a serious toll on his emotional wellbeing as he had a tendency to become persuaded that he suffered from the same conditions he found in his patients. A large portion of the fees he collected were spent on consultations with his fellow practitioners. This could often be quite embarrassing, especially on the occasion when he believed himself to be suffering from an infection of the ovaries.

If he had lived in our day he could have simply chilled out on a self-proscribed dosage of Valium. But our story takes place in 1926.

One of his colleagues suggested that he take up a quiet practice far from the stress of the big city and Montague agreed. So when he was offered a position as private physician to the family of Francis Stryker, owner of a Haitian sugar plantation, he accepted. He would have only six patients to attend to so the number of imaginary illnesses to which he might fall victim would be limited, and the time spent lazing on the tropical beaches would ease his hypertension and resulting angina. He was pretty sure that he did actually suffer from angina as his attacks of chest pains were a regular occurrence which seemed to have no correlation with the treatment of patients with heart problems.

His wife Gertrude was rather less enthusiastic about the move as Haiti was, as she put it, "full of darkies."

"We won't have to mix with them socially," he assured her, "and I hear that they make very good servants if beaten regularly."

However, once he actually arrived on the island, he found that he came to share his wife's distrust of its dark-skinned inhabitants. Their warm smiles and unfailing friendliness could only be a sign of sinister intent, he told himself.

And when, on the morning of his third Wednesday on the island, he returned from a walk on the beach to find a crudely made palm fibre doll laying on his bed with a pin stuck in its chest, his suspicions were confirmed. He clutched at his own chest, the angina burning like a red hot spike through his heart.

Even leaving aside the unscientific nature of such a belief, there was a logical inconsistency in the idea that the voodoo doll was the cause of the pain in his chest. He'd been suffering from angina for a full year before his arrival in Haiti. But logic had never been much of a defence against Montague's psychosomatic ailments.

"You'd better go see Mama Loa," Stryker advised. "Of course it is all just superstitious nonsense, but if one of my servants has a grudge against you you want to find out who it is, and only Mama Loa has the connections to find that out."

"Who's Mama Loa?" asked Montague.

"She's the local Voodoo Queen," Stryker explained. "Toby will take you to her."

A full moon shone in the tropical night as he followed the gaunt old black man through the cane fields to the small shed in which Mama Loa saw her constituents.

He wasn't prepared for what he saw when he arrived at the clearing in front of Mama Loa's shed. There she stood, her wild raven hair piled up like storm clouds around a face of breathtaking beauty. A raging fire burned behind her dark eyes and in her sinewy limbs and proud stance Montague could tell that she embodied the wild majesty of the untamed island in a way which made her position as Queen something inevitable. She was dressed only in two strips of cloth, one tied across her swelling bosom, the other acting as a make-shift skirt, tied above one coffee-coloured hip and hanging down halfway to her knee on the other.

"What brings you to me?" she asked, her eyes searing into his soul.

"I... that is... Stryker... He said you could help me," he stuttered.

"In what way?" she wanted to know.

"I found this in my room," Montague told her, holding up the doll.

"Poor workmanship," she commented, taking the doll from him, "but sufficient to do the job for which it was intended."

"Do you know who might have... put it there?" he asked.

"Someone who wants power over you," she informed him.

"You couldn't give me a name?" he queried.

"What I can do is to make you invulnerable to this kind of spell," she told him. "If you trust me enough to put yourself into my hands."

He didn't feel he had any choice.

So it was that he found himself lying on his back, arms and legs stretched out on the ground, while three drummers, huge muscular men stripped to the waist, beat out a savage rhythm that seemed to invade his very being, causing his heart to race and his mind to spin as if in the grip of some powerful drug. He couldn't have moved if he wanted to. He felt like a butterfly mounted on a display board, a pin stuck through its thorax.

And out into the moon-bathed clearing came Mama Loa, now completely naked, dancing like a thing possessed, sweat pouring down her body as she shook and twitched like a convict in the electric chair, her breasts swinging, her pelvis thrusting, her buttocks gyrating wildly. Montague had never witnessed anything so insane, so intoxicating, so cock-stiffening.

The next thing he knew, she was on top of him, her slippery wet breasts slapping his face, the musky smell of her armpits intoxicating him, her hair-covered pubic bone rubbing insistently against the swollen length of his engorged member. She reached for something behind his head and then he saw the light of the moon reflected in the blade of a massive knife which she lifted high above his face.

When the knife came down it was to cut away his shirt. Mama Loa seemed possessed of inhuman strength. Flash, flash went the knife and his bare flesh was exposed to the light of the moon. She undid his belt and pulled it off, and then began cutting away his trousers.

His cock throbbed with the same electricity that shook her naked body, the head slippery with pre-cum slipping out from inside his shorts. She threw away the knife and tore his remaining garment down over his legs. He was naked.

She continued to dance, but now it was with a quiet intensity that she twisted her body like a limbo dancer, deliberately swaying back and forth over his body, never touching but sometimes as close as a millimetre from his aching cock. It was unbearably tantalising. How he longed for her touch. How, even more, he longed to plant his prick deep inside her warm body steaming with sweat. All he could feel were the drops of perspiration that fell from her dark flesh and splashed like a soothing rain on the burning skin of his cock, running down its length and dripping over his balls.

Then her face was between his thighs, her pink tongue was running wetly up the underside of his prick as he strained his neck to look directly into her hypnotic eyes. And she swallowed it, her lips pulling back, her pearly white teeth glistening in the moonlight, making his heart thunder as, for a moment, I feared he would be a victim of cannibalism. But he had nothing to worry about. The wet furnace of her mouth made tender love to his stiffness as her hands massaged the flesh of his thighs.

His ears numb from the thunder of drums, Montague watched as Mama Loa surrendered his cock and stood over him once more, swaying and slapping her thighs. Then she spread her legs and squatted over his belly letting him see the creamy juices that poured from the pink pussy that was framed by the darkness of her thighs, labia and pubes. He felt her pussy juice drip onto his belly as she brought her firm sweaty buttocks down onto his stomach. She wiped up some of her essence on her slim fingers and pushed them forcefully between his lips. He tasted her and it was good.

She teased him by dragging her buttocks down over his thighs so that his stiff cock was forced to push deep between the cheeks of her ass, rubbing against her tightly puckered anus, before being released to slap forcefully against his stomach. Then she grabbed it in her hand, lifted herself and then slid her wet cunt down decisively over his lusting cock.

Up until now he had felt paralysed by Mama Loa's divinity, but now he knew she wanted him to respond. He grabbed her slippery wet butt cheeks and thrust his thighs up to meet her. Her eyes were rolling up in her head and his were riveted to her bouncing brown breasts and the droplets of sweat that flew off her stiff nipples.

She quivered to an orgasm that climaxed her dance like the crescendo of a symphony. And Montague felt a fountain of boiling jism rocket up from his balls and explode into the cunt of the Voodoo Queen.

It was at that very moment that Gertrude's rolling pin came down with a sickening crack on Montague's head.

"I leave you alone for a couple of hours," she screamed, "and what do I find. I find you copulating with a jungle bunny!" And then she marched off in a huff.

"If you like," said Mama Loa to Montague, "I could turn her into a zombie."

"A zombie?" queried Montague, rubbing his concussed bonce.

"She'd still have the lower brain functions required to cook, clean and give you a blow job,"she explained, "but without the upper brain function necessary for complaining, criticising or gossiping."

"I'll think about it," said Montague, snuggling up to the sexy Voodoo Queen. She smiled and kissed him on the top of his head. He notice that his heart felt kind of strange, but it didn't hurt any more. The warm excited feeling which possessed it was decidedly pleasant.

"Do you want me to put the doll back in its box?" asked one of the muscular drummers.

"It was you!" exclaimed Montague.

"We all have our fetishes," explained Mama Loa. "When you live on an island with a 95% black population and your fetish is for nervous white guys sometimes you have to resort to special weapons and tactics."

The End

Dusk : Fuck Me Friday

Fuck Me Friday is organised by Aisling Weaver. Here is how she explains it :

Twitterotica themes have been hanging around for some time, with various writers tackling weekly challenges such as #wankwednesday and so on, and writing challenges far and wide are abundant. This is another one.

The goal is two-fold; for writers, a weekly challenge to keep the, err, juices flowing. For readers, you'll find all the stories linked off at the bottom of each week's prompt. Are you game? Will you try your hand at some on the fly writing? Will you expose your work to new readers, will you read along and find new authors? I do hope so.

So, welcome to the linky love edition of Fuck Me Friday. All you have to do is this :

• Write a story with the prompt as your title. Today's will be : #Dusk

• Tweet it with both the prompt and hashtag #FuckMeFriday

And lastly add it to the links at the bottom of this post. (Note, if you don't want to tweet it or don't have a blog, I invite you to post your story in the comments section. 

Dusk

Dusk was falling. I'd been too slow. I'd taken too long. Would I get to my home before they did? Everything depended on it.

I was the last of my kind. The Omega Man. The last man on Earth.

But why am I tell you this? You must know. After all, I am legend.

Or perhaps you are living in the distant future. Perhaps to you the history of the end of the world as we knew it seems but an unreliable fairy story like those of Arthur and his knights.

It all began with the invention of Soylent Puce, the ultimate anti-depressant. It appeared to have no side-effects and to work instantly. People who had been miserable for years suddenly began dancing in the streets. And they were not the only ones to take the drug. Everyone had had their bad days, but not with a  bottle of S.P. at hand. It was the guaranteed pick-me-up.

Six months after it first appeared on the market, the nearly six billion people who had used it, were dead.

I missed the whole thing. I was away on an eight month fishing trip. By the time I came back, people were dropping like flies.

But I wasn't the only one who didn't take the drug. There was one sub-group in society that liked being depressed. Today the world belonged to me, and to the hordes of goth and emo girls who had no use for S.P.

They only came out at night. They hated the sunlight. The day was mine, the night theirs.

I put my foot down on the accelerator as the sun hit the horizon. The carcass thumped against the roof as I flew over the potholes. It had taken longer than usual for me to find a cow. Once again I wondered about abandoning the city in favour of a rural farm. At first the supermarkets had supplied all my food needs, but now everything was past its used by date.

My home had electricity though. If I moved I'd have to either find another place with solar panels or install them.

I was almost home now. I was going to make it.

Each night I barricaded myself in. I'd turn up my country music as loud as it would go to try to drown out the sound of the girls banging on my door and yelling out, "Neville Roberts! Neville Roberts! Come out! We want your cock!"

They smashed all of the windows and I'd had to board them up.

I pulled up into the driveway, and I was none too soon. In my rearview mirror I could see figures beginning to emerge from the deepening shadows. They were naked, as they always were in the warm weather. Black hair, black lipstick, brooding faces and tattoos of hearts wreathed in barbed wire, pentagrams and broken dolls.

The cow could wait until the morning. I hurried inside.

"Why won't you fuck us, you greedy bastard?" yelled one of the girls.

I was distracted. I'm sure you've done it before. But it was a mistake I couldn't afford. I left my keys in the door.

They had me where they wanted me, and so they bided their time. They waited for more of their kind to arrive.

Half an hour later I was settled in for the evening, swigging from a bottle of Jim Beam, puffing on a cheroot, singing along to Tammy Wynette singing Stand By Your Man while watching Jackass 3 with the sound down on BluRay. "They don't make movies like that anymore," I said wistfully as I watched Steve-O drinking the sweat rung out of the fat guy's jack strap.

At that moment the door burst open and in rushed a dozen naked goth chicks. Two of them grabbed my arms and hauled me out of my seat.

"Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty emos!" I cried.

"Don't think we take any pleasure in this, Roberts," sneered a girl with enough rings through her eyebrows to hang curtains from them. I recognised her as the nineteen-year-old daughter of one of my late bowling buddies. Like the rest of the girls she had very pale skin, but she wasn't as skinny as the others, her slim waste was offset by lovely full breasts with large pink nipples and a curvy set of hips. "We need you to impregnate us, so that the human race can have a future."

"No pleasure, hey," I replied, drily, observing that several of the girls behind her were licking their lips and fingering their wet pussies. "You better tell your companions they can't get pregnant from their fingers."

She turned around and addressed them sternly. "I told you we were not going to get any pleasure out of this. If we want pleasure we can get it by licking each others pussies. This is something we do more in sadness than in horniness. A year ago you would have rather died than had sex with a guy with such appalling dress sense," she pointed out, indicating my tropical shirt and baggy sweatpants. "Not to mention someone who listens to country music," she added, flipping off the sound system.

The other girls were unrepentant. "We'll soon have his clothes off, and you've put a stop to the music. That isn't what matters. We want to be fucked by a hot hard cock, and he's the only person left in the world who possesses one," pointed out a skinny girl named Erin, who had a crew cut and pointed studs in her bottom lip.

I realised that the tide had turned. Now I was the freak. Such things are merely a matter of numbers, and there is no minority smaller than one.

Now my life was over. I knew that never again would I be able to sit in my cosy domicile, chewing a rare steak, swigging some whisky, pulling on a cigar and checking out some seventies porn on the tube. But if this was going to be my final stand, there was no reason I shouldn't enjoy it.

"Well, you may take no pleasure in this, Serena," I informed the leader of this band of bare-assed desperadoes. "But I'm going to take great pleasure in sampling the delights you have laid out before me." With that I reached out and groped her soft plump breasts. As I did I felt a pair of hands behind me pull down my pants and my boxers, thus releasing my hard cock, which slapped up hard against my belly and then stood out quivering and dripping pre-cum onto the floor. In seconds they had me naked.

"Do what you must," insisted Serena, stoically, laying down on my bed and spreading her legs wide apart.

"O.K." I said, walking into the kitchen and coming back with a turkey baster and a glass jar. Then, looking down at her, I started stroking my cock and aiming it into the jar.

"What are you doing!?!" she cried.

"Well, you said you didn't want to take any pleasure in being impregnated, so I thought it would be best to do it artificially," I explained.

Serena's pale face turned a deep red as all the other girls laughed at her.

"She wants your big fat cock as much as the rest of us," pointed out a girl with a Louise Brooks haircut and multiple labia piercings, whose name I later learned was Circe.

Louise Brooks

"I think she deserves a spanking for being so hypocritical," I told them.

"Does seeing a bossy bitch get a bare-bottomed spanking from her cock-crazed cronies really spunk up your balls?" Circe whispered in my ear while wiping her cuntjuice-slippery fingers over my lips. "We need you to spunk lots to put us all in the pudding club, so whatever you want to see or do or have done to you just speak up."

"Oh, yeah," I smiled. "Seeing you give her a really pink bottom would definitely help fill this bazooka with baby juice," I told her, grabbing her slim fingers and wrapping them around my stiff cock as I reached down and squeezed the tender cheeks of her bum.

"We can all learn something from Mr. Roberts and his willingness to make a firm stand for future generations," said Erin, who was playing with herself.

"Hip! Hip! Hooray, for Mr. Roberts' firm stand," shouted the rest of the girls.

Meanwhile, two of them grabbed Serena and held her down over a chair while Circe began spanking her butt cheeks enthusiastically. "How dare you, you traitor!" screamed Serena, her face still bright red and her body quaking as she strove to restrain tears of utter humiliation.

Erin pushed me down onto the bed and slid her warm slippery pussy down over my rampant prick. The rest of the girls weren't going to just stand back and wait. The next thing I knew : there was a wide-open wet cunt writhing against my face ; someone was crouched beneath Erin licking my balls ; a girl was rubbing her pussy against each of my hands clearly indicating that they wanted me to finger them ; and wherever else there was room for a tongue or some fingers I was being licked or stroked.

"Rape! Rape!" I cried when I managed to get my mouth temporarily disengaged from pussy.

"I'm sorry," replied Erin. "We'd like to oblige, but I think we are already raping you as much as we can."

With one more thrust of my hips I gave her the hot spurts of cum she craved.

She hopped off and I felt another girl's warm mouth start gobbling on my now semi-flaccid cock.

"Off now," instructed Erin, pushing away the girl had been sitting on my face. "Neville needs to see what Circe's done to Serena's bottom, I think, if he's going to get his cock stiff again."

And, sure enough, the sight of Serena's bright red bottom and tear-stained face melted my heart and stiffened my cock.

"Have you learned your lesson, Serena?" I asked.

"Yes," she sighed. "I was just too embarrassed to admit that I want your cock so much that I don't really want to share it with the other girls. I just want to feel it throbbing inside me for days."

She came over and kissed me passionately. Then the girl who had been sucking my cock moved aside and she climbed on top of me, sliding my cock into her hot dripping pussy. She sank forward, and I relished the feel of her large breasts pressed against my chest. The other girls hung back now and gave us space. They were all lounging around the room masturbating as they watched us. This included Erin, who hadn't cum when she was fucking me. Everyone was turned on, and everyone wanted to cum, but the goal of impregnation had to take precedence over immediate satisfaction.

I managed to fuck seven of the girls that night, which isn't too bad. What got me erect again and again was that Serena whispered the filthiest and most flattering things in my ear as she let me fondle her tender warm butt cheeks. Anytime she cried, "Ouch!", my cock would twitch back towards stiffness.

It is strange that I am still capable of remembering that night with any kind of fondness. Because now I am heartily sick of sex. When it is all they will let you do day in and day out it becomes a crashing bore, not to mention a pain in the balls. And, since my health is a priority, I'm on a the same vegetarian diet as them. And no more booze or cigars. Except on Father's Day. There has to be some kind of reward when you are the father of 12,956 children.

The End

New E-Book : Transylvanian Roulette

Vampires are all the rage these days, though they are not always the kind of vampires I grew up watching on late night television. Back then vampires were characters in horror movies rather than serious prospects for romance. And none of them were wimpy enough to show signs of reluctance about drinking a maiden's blood and condemning her to the hell of living death.


Back in 2000 I wrote a vampire story called Transylvanian Roulette for a friend of mine who was a big fan of the Anita Blake series of novels by Laurell K. Hamilton. But it was more of a love letter to Bram Stoker and the Hammer horror films, such as Brides of Dracula and The Vampire Lovers, which I've always loved.


Of course, being one of my stories, it is also a parody, and it's pretty smutty.


I've now published it as an ebook at Smashwords. It'll go up on Amazon soon.


Here is the free sample :

"Before you kill me," said the old man, "let me tell you how I got this way."

Funny how vampires suddenly want to stop for a chat when you have a sharpened stake jabbed into their ribcage. What the hell, I thought, I might as well humour him.

The story he told me made me realise that this was going to be a case that Nicole would be interested in. Nicole is the supernatural affairs editor for "World's Most Dangerous Sex Acts" magazine, and we have worked together many a time.

Let me introduce myself, my name is Van Helsing, David Van Helsing. All right, so you've never heard of me, unless maybe your a reader of the previously mentioned magazine, but I bet you've heard of my old great grand-daddy, the great Professor Van Helsing. Well, I'm in the same line of work, killing vampires, and other supernatural creepy-crawlies. The only difference is I sometimes like to fuck them first. Call it a penchant, call it an eccentricity... All right, call it down right perverted if you like, but I like to get me a little monster pussy from time to time. Once I even sucked a Fuckubus, er, I mean, fucked a Succubus. Doesn't mean I'm soft on the critters. Hell, no. I always kill them afterwards. Not only does that rid the world of some mighty dangerous creatures, but it makes sure no monster kids turn up on my doorstep in ten years time calling me Daddy.

Many a time Nicole has come along with me on one of these adventures to record the event for posterity. I could write the story myself but who'd believe me. Nicole is my expert witness, and she takes photos. And, all right, sometimes she saves my ass when I get myself in too deep.

You could say she plays Dr. Watson to my Sherlock Holmes.

Of course Sherlock Holmes and Watson never fucked. Or at least if they did, Watson never wrote about it in the stories. Nicole and I, on the other hand, fuck like bunny rabbits whenever we are on a mission together. Danger will do that to you. Either that, or it'll make you piss your pants. It can go either way.

"It all happened about six months ago, when I was making my way home from the pub in the early hours of the morning," the old man explained. Of course he was speaking in Romanian, this being Transylvania and all, but I'm translating it here for your benefit. "I was making my way through the pass in the mountains when thunderclouds started piling up in the sky and I could tell that the downpour would occur any moment. I had to find shelter. The only place nearby was the old castle. I knew that some folks held it to be haunted, but not being the superstitious kind, I went up to the front door. I found it ajar. I knocked but there was no answer, so I entered hoping to at least keep the rain off, even if I couldn't find a bed for the night. I found the place deserted. Wherever I looked, upstairs and down, I saw not a soul. Eventually I decided that if the castle was not occupied there would be no harm in me sleeping in one of the beds. The linen smelt a little stale, but it would at least be warm. I found a small servants bedroom under the stairs and decided to use it. In case the owner of the castle should turn up unexpectedly I thought it would be best to be found in the servant's quarters.

"Getting undressed I crawled into the small bed. I slept only fitfully in this strange environment, and at some time after midnight I was awoken by the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside. They seemed to be coming closer.

"I pulled my head under the bedclothes and tried to pretend to be lump in the mattress.

"'Greetings, traveller," came a smooth seductive female voice from the doorway, indicating that my attempts at concealment had been unsuccessful. "I thought that I would just come up and see if there was anything I could do to make your stay a little more comfortable.'

"'Something about the way that she said 'come up' instead of 'come down' made me a little uneasy. The main bedrooms were upstairs. All that was down stairs was the cellar.

"When I finally got up the courage to stick my head out from under the blankets, I found that I was being addressed by one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She was tall and slim with snow white skin and ebony hair that fell freely to her waist. Her eyes were emerald green and held me with a look that made me want only to do her bidding, whatever that might be. She was dressed only in a gossamer thin night gown of antique design which being nearly transparent did nothing to conceal the rosy red nipples that tipped her milky breasts or the wild growth of jet-black pubic hair that decorated the area between her defiantly spread legs.

"As my eyes ran up and down her gorgeous body my cock stiffened and stood up beneath the bedclothes. She noticed this and her eyes focussed on the place where the blankets were rising circus-tent-style.

"'Show me your cock,' she ordered, letting me know that I was to be her love-slave.

"I threw back the covers and unveiled my manhood. I liked the way she smiled as she looked at it. What I didn't like was the thin trails of drool that were seeping from the edges of her mouth. There was something unnatural about this woman. But her hypnotic eyes and the snake-grace with which she moved her hips entranced me. As she strode towards me I could almost feel in advance the rough carress that her forest of pubes would give my upper thigh. Sure enough she lifted a long white gossamer-shrouded leg and straddled my left leg. I could feel her wetness trickling over my thigh and dampening the sheet below. A pale, deathly cold hand wrapped itself gently around the hot hardness of my stiff cock, and she bent slowly to take it in her mouth. It was when I felt her long wet tongue encircle my prick that I realised that she was not human. By then I didn't care.

"I have a rather large cock," the old man explained, starting to pull down his pants.

"That's O.K." I reassured him. "I'll believe you."

"Anyway, no woman could ever fit the whole of it in her mouth," he told me. "But this woman, or thing, made love to the whole of my cock. Not just that, but my balls as well. She didn't take it into her mouth. Her mouth came to it. She had a tongue like a snake's tongue, only thicker and wetter. It slithered out of her mouth and down in circles around my cock, dripping saliva as it went. When the whole of my cock was wrapped in her wet tongue and the tip of it was tickling my balls, she started to wank me off with it. It was the best blow-job I'd ever had. No human could give a blowjob like that.

"And she wasn't a human. She was a vampire. Once she had me in her spell, she made no attempt to hide her fangs. I could see the razor sharp ivory carressing the purple veins of my cock lovingly.

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