Blue : Fuck Me Friday

It’s another Fuck Me Friday. Here is how hostess Aisling Weaver describes it :

Welcome to another week of smut! Writing challenges can be found far and wide, and this one has just one goal – to inspire you to write!

We’ve been rolling around rather well here for a while, so I thought I’d mix it up a little.  Starting today, the prompts, while still being mostly random, are going to have some sort of tie between them for each month.  For instance, the rest of May will be colors, June will be sensations…essentially, the months will have a sort of theme to them.  This will allow those who enjoy working on a larger scale the option to do an overreaching arc of stories, if they like, while still offering up the differences that I’ve grown to enjoy in the offerings each week.

The result of all of this, I hope,  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, without further ado, let’s get this thing rolling!  To join in is as simply as this:

Write a story with the prompt as your title.  Today’s will be :

#Blue

Tweet it with both the prompt hashtag and the 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.

Blue

The answer came to Serena Moran out of the blue when she walked in on her flatmate Betty and found her sucking her boyfriend’s cock.

“Sorry,” she said, and was about to back out of the lounge room, where Betty was bending down stark naked with her pert pink bottom in the air and Matt’s stiff cock filling her mouth. Her fingers were between her thighs rubbing her slippery stiff clit.

“No need to apologise,” insisted Matt, with a cheeky smile and a twinkle in his eye, as he lay back with his muscular arms behind his head. “Come on in and watch if you like. You know you want to.”

“Yes,” agreed Betty, slipping Matt’s cock out of her mouth and stroking it sensuously with her right hand. “We wouldn’t be fucking in the lounge room if we didn’t like the idea of being watched. Doesn’t the sight of Matt’s burgeoning boner make you juicy in your panties?”

“Of course!” cried Serena.

“I thought so,” smiled Betty.

“No, not that,” Serena tried to explain. “I mean, yes, of course, seeing Matt like that gives me a happy little clit. But, more importantly, it gives me an idea about how to solve my cash flow problems and fund my next documentary.”

“How are you going to do that?” asked Betty impaling her pulsating pussy on Matt’s man meat, with a shivering moan which made her little belly jiggle.

“We’ll make a blue movie!” Serena announced triumphantly. “You and Matt wouldn’t mind being masturbation fodder for the masses, now would you?”

“Today the living room, tomorrow the world!” cried Betty, bouncing up and down joyously on Matt’s manhood.

Serena was a documentarian who specialised in films about artists. And there was something of the frustrated artist in her. Thus it was that she decided that her proposed porn directing career would take the form of a single conceptual artwork centred around the idea that her movies would be blue in more than one way. She would follow the porn cliche of parodying famous movies and television shows, but only ones which had something blue about them.


Of course she would have to begin modestly, as she had no money, but once her imagination was fired she imagined a glorious future which would lead up to her directing the world’s first 3D all CGI porn film. She would call it Pervitar for obvious reasons.

But for her first carnal creation she decided to go for something small but classic - a parody of Joseph Von Sternberg’s The Blue Angel. This would be cheap, but stylish, and would allow her to exploit Betty’s second talent - the fact that she could sing well enough to take part in Karaoke night at the local tavern. She might not sing as well as Marlene Dietrich, but, then, Marlene Dietrich couldn’t shoot ping pong balls out of her cunt.

It took a while to organise the costumes and a few props, but by the following Thursday evening Serena was bribing the night watchman at the local church hall to let them in for a midnight-to-dawn filming session. All they really needed was a stage and a dressing room and the hall had both.

“It’s kind of a depressing story,” pointed out a worried Betty, who had just watched the original film on DVD the night before.

“Don’t worry,” Serena assured her, “we won’t be sticking too closely to the Sternberg version. For a start, Matt’s not a pathetic fat middle-aged guy, and also we’re going to give the story a happy ending. We’re making a blue movie, but we don’t want to leave people feeling blue. Nobody wants to beat off to a movie that’s down-beat.”

“I don’t know the story,” pointed out Matt. “What’s my part?”

“You play the Professor,” Serena explained. “You’ve discovered that some of your students are fans of singer and live sex performer Lola, so you’ve come to the club to try to catch them out. But once you see Lola, you are lost. Cue a veritable Cabaret of copulation.”

“So this is my costume?” asked Matt, holding up an old-fashioned frock coat liberally coated with chalk dust.

“That’s right,” nodded Serena, “along with the baggy pants over there on the chair.”

Betty already had her costume on. She wore a pink silk top hat, a red bodice, pink high heels and purple stockings with suspenders attached to a suspender belt around her waist. The only difference between her costume and that of Marlene Dietrich is that she wasn’t wearing frilly white knickers. She wasn’t wearing any knickers at all.

“We’ll do your song first,” Serena explained. “You start with your leg up in the typical Dietrich pose, but as you sing you put your leg down and then spread your thighs apart so we can come in for a close up on your bare cunt.”

Betty looked at the lyric sheet once more.

“Are you sure about these lyrics?” she asked.


“O.K. So I’m no Bernie Taupin,” Serena responded defensively. “But you try fitting a feminist critique of porno movies to the tune of Falling in Love Again.”

“But they didn’t have porno movies back then,” Betty complained.

“Actually they did,” Serena pointed out. “But the lyrics are deliberately anachronistic. It’s an art movie thing. Think Ken Russell or Derek Jarman.”

“Think protentious twat, more like,” huffed Betty. She didn’t mind spreading her pussy lips for the camera, but she did have some dignity.

Serena plugged her I-Pod into the speaker system and the room filled with the sound of a lone pianist playing the melancholy song. Betty reluctantly began to sing the lyrics Serena had written :


Face full of cum again
It’s so de rigeur
Spunk all in my hair
Let’s change it


Porn’s always been the same
Laid the same old way
Every single day
Let’s change it


Men wack off to me like monkeys at the zoo
Let’s cast some hot guys, so girls can do it too


Arse full of cock again
Poking in my poo
When I need the loo
Let’s change it


Mouth full of meat again
I’m a vegan girl
Think I might just hurl
Let’s change it


Porn’s always been so lame
By the second take
All the cums are fake
Let’s change it


Men wack off to me like monkeys at the zoo
Let’s cast some hot guys, so girls can do it too.

“Cut!” cried Serena. “Perfect. Now on to the dressing room scene.”

Fifeen minutes later, Matt and Betty were in full swing acting out a scene they felt comfortable with.

“I came here as a teacher to save my students from the primrose path,” Matt declared in his best German accent. It wasn’t a good German accent, but it was his best. “But now it is I who am the student, and you, dearest Lola, are my teacher in the art of licentiosity.”

“I always wanted to be the teacher’s pet,” purred Betty, in a slow lazy voice which hung in the air like cigarette smoke. “Especially if he was into a little bestiality,” she added, stroking his stiff cock through the front of his trousers.

“What kind of pet do you want to be?” he asked, licentiously. “Shall I give my little puppy dog the bone? Or pamper my favourite pussy? Or maybe the beautiful little beaver wants a mouth full of wood.”

“Nobody has a pet beaver!” she scoffed. “Now before you get too excited, I want you to have a look at the new song I’ve been writing.” She handed him a lyric sheet.

“Not bad,” he replied reading it, “but how many times have I told you that clitoris is spelled with a C not a K?”

“We’re not in the class room now,” she sighed softly.

“Spelling is not just something which is important in the class room,” he pointed out. “The whole of our civilization depends on our ability to communicate and be understood. I think the only way to make you understand is to do to you what I do to the boys in my class when they don’t apply themselves to their lessons.”

With that he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her over his knee. Her bum was still bare.

“Don’t you dare spank me, you brute!” cried Betty, wriggling in just the right way to generate plenty of sexy bum wobble for Serena’s camera.

Matt began slapping her butt cheeks enthusiastically. She never let him spank her “in real life” so he was determined to make the most of the opportunity to turn her behind bright pink and feel the sexy heat of the injury he was inflicting radiated back from the silky skin to his sensitive palm.

Being spanked made Betty feel deeply humiliated. She loved it. When Matt tried to paddle her heinie at home she always told him to stop. She didn’t want him to think she was some kind of deviant. But now she was determined to soak up every sensation so she would be able to return to it later when masturbating.

Serena was glad she’d decided to use the tripod. That meant that she could point the camera with one hand and slide her other hand down inside her wet panties and play with herself.

The night watchman was glad he’d accepted the bribe and let these deviants in to make their art movie. These were the kind of people who wouldn’t object to the fact that he was standing in the wings with his cock out.

“I’m sorry, my love,” apologized Matt, gently stroking Betty’s sore bottom. “Can you forgive me for being such a schweinhund?”

“Only if you kiss it better,” she insisted, trying to maintain the smoky voice even though her clit was now quivering ecstatically like a tuning fork.

He stood her up and bent down to press his lips against her hot cheeks, raining down a shower of passionate kisses before parting them and beginning to lick his way down her crack towards the glistening wet lips of her pussy. She bent far forward and he stuck his tongue deep into her region of pleasure.

“Invade Poland! Invade Poland!” Betty cried. It was an improvisation, and one that Serena felt grossly cheapened the work of art she was going for. She was no Mel Brooks. But she was so caught up in her wanking that she couldn’t bring herself to yell, “Cut!”

Matt tore down his pants, pushed Betty over the couch and began slamming his cock hard into her sloppy pussy.

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” she cried, as Matt’s belly kept slapping against her spanked bottom.

“Do you want me to pull out for a money shot?” grunted Matt.

“No,” explained Serena, “this is feminist porn. No need for money shots.”

“I’ll give you a money shot!” cried the night watchman running in from the wings and shooting a huge stream of cum straight into the camera lense. At the same moment, Matt and Betty orgasmed loudly together and collapsed onto the sofa.

“I don’t know what we got there,” admitted Serena, scratching her head with pussy juice soaked fingers. “But I know it was unique.”

Half an hour later, they were wrapping up the film’s final scene.

“The Nazi’s are taking over,” said Betty. “Let’s go escape to a more egalitarian society.”

“Egalitarian?” queried Matt.

“Yes, a society were any woman, Jew or Gentile, can fuck her way to the top! Hollywood, here we come!” she cried.

“And... cut!” shouted Serena. “It’s a wrap.”

The film was a success. They set up a website from which they could sell it as an instant download, and soon it had a cult following as the worst porn movie ever made. Everyone wanted to see it.

“What’s next?” asked Betty.


“I was thinking of Blue Lagoon,” said Serena. “But we might have to work our way up to that. We haven’t got quite enough money for location work on a Pacific Island.”

“Might be some legal problems, too,” pointed out Matt. “Those kids were only about fifteen.”

“Easily fixed,” said Serena. “In our version they are so shy and repressed that they don’t discover sex until they are eighteen.”

“Porn about characters who are shy and repressed?” queried Betty.

“Sure,” pointed out Serena. “It’s super sexy when they finally do it. That’s the problem with most porn. It’s about studs and sex goddesses. So the sex doesn’t mean much. It’s like watching a Steven Seagal movie. That dude’s three times the size of all the bad guys. The outcome is a forgone conclusion. But shy characters... That way it’s a whole new adventure for them and we get to go along. And, anyway, everyone knows that shy and repressed characters are only like that because deep down they are total deviants.”

“We should get some more cast members for the next one though,” suggested Betty. “I’d love to be gangbanged by a whole bunch of guys.”

“Then you’ll love the project I’ve settled on,” said Serena. “You’ll be the only girl in the movie, and there will be lots of guys. I just hope you don’t mind all-over body make-up.”

“Nah, I’m easy,” Betty replied, stating the obvious. “What’s the title?”


“The Smurfs - An XXX Parody!” announced Serena triumphantly.

The End

Default : Wank Wednesday

It's Wank Wednesday again as hosted by Ruby Kiddell at The Erotic Notebook. Here is how she explains it :

Welcome to week twelve of Wank Wednesday, your weekly festival of smut. 

With so many great writers of smut and erotica on Twitter and the web I thought it would be a nice idea to get a smutty blog carnival going. For writers or would be writers a weekly prompt will get you writing and as a reader well you’ll be able to get your fix of sexy stories all in one go.

To join in all you need to do is write a story with the weekly prompt as a title. This week’s prompt is #Default. Then:

• Blog it – post it on your blog then come back here and add it to the link list.

• Tweet it – write it on twitter using the prompt hashtag and the #wankwednesday hashtag

• Add it – if you don’t want to blog or tweet it then please do add it as comment to my post

• WE it – if you are a member at Word Ejaculation you can submit with them too, just remember to link back to me here and to add your entry to the link list.

Please link back to this page in your post and please also do take the time to read and comment on the other contributors, we’ll all keep on writing but it is so much nicer to do so with feedback.

Thank you for writing and reading.

Default

“Shit!” exclaimed Nigel. “It seems to be irretrievably fucked up.”

He was playing a game of Actual Earth. It wasn’t going well. He’d been playing now for 4.54 billion years. The avatars - who called themselves “human beings” - were not playing well together. Many of them were excelling at accumulating powers, but then they would squander them by fighting with each other or misdirecting resources from where they could be used most effectively by the system to places where they did no good at all, mostly within their own vicinity.

He’d tried lots of different approaches. He’d tried the non-interventionist approach and he’d tried laying down the law with appropriate carrot vs. the stick promises and threats. But, though he had the advantage of being able to watch how the whole game was playing out, he didn’t know how to win it. The “human beings” were better at asking him for things and saying they were sorry when things went wrong than they were at actually taking advice. This was true. But he couldn’t blame the state of the game on them. After all he’d created them.

He was glad that some of them had given up believing that he existed. It’s a lot of pressure when people start calling you “God” (he’d never tried to tell them that his name was actually Nigel) and think you can magically sort out all of their problems for them. Within the game, the ones who had stopped believing in him were behaving just as unhelpfully as the rest, but, they were leaving him alone to concentrate on where to set off the next population-controlling natural disaster, and that he appreciated.

He was beginning to wonder if he could blame his lack of success on a system malfunction. He thought he’d message his friend Cedric and compare notes.

“How’s your planet going?” he asked.

“Quite well,” Cedric told him. “I’ve reached the level of Utopia Second Class.”

“Fuck!” cried Nigel. “How do you do it. My planet’s a mess and it just seems to be getting worse. I’m wondering if it is a fault in the program.”

“What platform are you using,” asked Cedric.

“Portholes,” said Nigel wearily.

“That could be your problem,” theorised Cedric. “I’ve always been a Banana man myself.”

The Portholes platform had been invented by a geeky looking octopod from Alpha Centauri. He was a genius. Everyone agreed on that point. But when you called tech support, it wasn’t him you spoke to. It was someone from out the other side of the Horseshoe Nebula who couldn’t do much more than suggest you turn your system off at the power point and then turn it back on again.

As Nigel looked down sadly at the tiny creatures scurrying across the face of the Earth he realised that there was another course of action open to him, but the very thought of it made him feel sick to his stomach. There had to be some other way. There had to be a solution to his problem that didn’t involve reading the instruction manual.

Brad Stone was one of those tiny creatures, though, at six foot two inches tall, he was not as tiny as most. He was a man who felt about his own life, much the same way Nigel felt about the world. That it was profoundly fucked.

"How can you do this to us?" asked the old man tearfully, as Brad handed him the paperwork and held the door of what had, up until two minutes ago, been the man's legal domicile open so that his assistant Meredith Grouse could enter and begin orchestrating the removal of all of the furniture.

"If you don't keep up your payments, you default on your mortgage," Brad explained, giving the man and his traumatised wife his warmest and most sympathetic smile.

Brad hated his job with a passion. He thought it was perhaps the worst job in the world. Very far from that of bank manager which had been his highest ambition. The only way he was able to sleep at night, after spending every day turning families out onto the street, was to remind himself that, if he didn't do this job, someone else would, and, maybe they wouldn't bring to the job his own sympathetic touch. He was sure that his warm and friendly personality made it easier for people to take the bad news. What never occurred to him was that the slightly goofy smile that was so endearing at parties carried a very different message when he was at work. A smile on the face of someone who is throwing you and your family out of your home is generally interpreted not as warm friendliness, but as heartless sadism.

Brad's home life was similarly bleak. His wife was a nag and his kids were brats. He was sure it was his fault. Lacking the will to stand up for himself, his only way of getting back at his wife for her nagging was to do as little as possible for her and that badly, and so she nagged him more. The kids, being good judges of character, had no respect for either of them, and had reverted to nature's perennial fallback strategy - unrestrained barbarism.

The one bright spot in his life was getting to spend his working day with Meredith. She was a very pretty brunette with a warm personality and a cheeky sense of humour. It was true that he suspected her bright and sunny disposition was evidence of some form of low level retardation. How else to explain that she seemed untroubled by the decline of western civilization, but practically had an orgasm over a new handbag, photos of a celebrity wedding or the chance to play with a new born puppy. But her enthusiasm for life rubbed off on him, and, when he was with her, nothing else seemed to matter.

Meredith felt similarly about working with Brad. He never realised that a good deal of her bright disposition at such times was because of his company. Her home life wasn't bad, but she was bored. Gareth, her husband of three years, was very good looking, and he was never unkind to her. But, when they were courting he had found many imaginative and exciting ways to show his love for her. Now she felt as if she was a task achieved, and he had turned his attention to climbing the corporate ladder. She tried to talk to him about all the things which excited her, and he smiled indulgently, but she could see that he thought of such things as the stuff of a childhood left far behind.

"We have nowhere to go," said the old woman. "What will we do when the sun goes down and it gets cold?"

"Have you ever read Eckart Tolle?" asked Brad with a smile. "Unleash the power of the now! Don't spoil it by worrying about the future. You never know if there will be a future. Live for now."

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do now," the old man informed him. "I'm going to kick you in the nuts!" And he did so.

But sometimes prophetic words can come even out of the mouths of fools. The old couple didn't need to worry about accommodation, because, in fact, there would be no future. Not this time around anyway.

"I don't like to admit defeat," said Nigel, "but I'm afraid I'm just going to have to restore the default settings and start again."

But before he did that he had a bright idea. He backed up a couple of the avatars to his flash drive.

"Maybe if I introduce a couple of individuals at an earlier part of the game who know just how badly it can turn out, they'll make better choices," he told himself. It was a long shot, but what did he have to lose.

Brad felt funny, and he didn't think it was just from the kick in the balls. Everything around him had become insubstantial and was wobbling like bad reception on an old television set.

"I don't feel real," Meredith pointed out, as she stood in front of him. But from his perspective she seemed to be the only thing which was real. Buildings were coming down like packs of cards and people were falling to the ground and disintegrating into dust.

Then an incredible languor came over Brad and he slipped gently to the ground as darkness swept over him.

When he came to he was lying naked under a Baobab Tree somewhere in Africa. A parcel of warthogs trotted past on their way to the local water hole.

"Oh, my!" cried Meredith. "I haven't got any clothes on!"

Brad turned around to see Meredith standing next to him with one hand over her breasts and the other over her pubic region.

"No you don't," agreed Brad, a broad leering smile spreading across his features as his cock stiffened.

"I'm not sure I like it," whimpered Meredith.

"I do," Brad told her. "I think it suits you."

"Yes, I can tell you like it, you dirty pig," she complained, although her lips were trying to twitch into a smile in spite of her protest of disapproval. "The least you could do is to cover up your sign of appreciation."

"I've got nothing to be ashamed of," he pointed out (and, indeed, he was pointing quite far out), as he stood up and walked towards her. "I don't know how we got here, but, in the absence of any clothing shops, I think we are going to have to get used to being nudists. Just try to think of it in terms of nude being the new black."

"Does my bum look big in nothing at all?" she asked, entering into the spirit of the game by turning around and wagging her beautifully round and fleshy bottom cheeks in his general direction.

"I think I'm inside of some kind of wet dream, and I hope I never wake up," he sighed, as he turned her around and hugged her to him, letting his hands slip down to fondle her warm soft buttocks.

"You know we are being very very naughty," she whispered in his ear. "We're both married."

"Not any more," he pointed out. "You remember what happened. I have a feeling our spouses are either dead or they haven't been born yet. I'm not sure which, and to tell you the truth, I don't care."

"Neither do I," she admitted.

"I've always wanted you," Brad confessed. "You were the only thing in my life that wasn't shit."

"Well," she said. "Now you've got me and nothing else."

"Perfect," he smiled.

Vesper from Girls Out West

"It does feel awfully rude just standing out here in the open with no clothes on," she told him. "Not to mention seeing my co-worker's willy standing up all stiff and dribbly like that. Stop poking me in the belly with it."

"Maybe I should poke you somewhere else with it," he chuckled evilly.

"You're a dirty, nasty man!" she scolded him as she gave his stiff cock a playful slap. "And I'm fast becoming a dirty, filthy girl as I think about what comes next."

"There's no one around but us dirtbags," he pointed out. "So we can do what we like. Let's see if we can shock the warthogs!"

"No society. No rules. Nobody to judge us," she sighed.

"That's right," he agreed. "We're free."

"Does that mean I can be a total slut if I want to be?" she giggled.

"Is slutdom possible with only one slutee?" he queried.

"Well, I'm sure as fuck going to give it a go," she squealed, pushing him down into the soft grass under the Baobab Tree and starting to lick his balls.

"Now I know I'm in Heaven," he moaned.

"Ever watch David Attenborough?" she asked. "Well here is the rare East African Cock Gobbler going about its daily business in the shade of a Bust-A-Nut Tree." And then she slipped her soft warm lips over the head of his cock and drooled saliva all down its length, using it as lubricant to slide her right hand up and down his prick as she flickered her tongue over the head.

"I would have never expected you to be such an expert cock sucker," he murmured ecstatically.

"I haven't actually had much practice," she explained, pulling her mouth up from off of his cock. "Gareth wasn't much of one to practice on. Always too busy for anything other than a quick in and out. But my cousin ran a sex shop, so I used to study all the pornos when I went to visit her."

"Study?" he queried. "Purely academic?"

"O.K. I whacked off to them too, if you must know!" she exclaimed, sticking out her tongue.

"Enough talking, more gobbling," he insisted, pushing her head back down.

Soon he felt the waves of pleasure shoot through his belly as his balls tightened and spurted a fountain of hot cum into Meredith's hungry mouth.

"Am I a slut now?" she asked, deliberately allowing the jism to dribble out of her mouth and down her chin.

"You're laying back there with your cunt exposed, a mouth full of cock juice, your boobs jiggling provocatively and your big fat arse getting all covered in dirt. Of course you're a slut," he told her.

"My big fat arse!" she cried, eye's blazing. "You take that back!"

"I'll take your big fat arse anyway you care to offer it," he chuckled. "And I want the job of washing the dirt off of it. Not to mention spanking the circulation back into it when it goes to sleep from sitting on the ground."

"It'll look plenty fat when I'm sitting on your face, I'll tell you that much!" she exclaimed heatedly.

"Promises! Promises!" he chuckled. "Now it's time for Sheena the Jungle Slut to lay back and let the Bushman lick her bush until she cums."

"I don't know," she said, looking suddenly serious. "I've never cum before, except from wanking. Gareth tried going down on me a couple of times, but he gave up. He said it took too long."

"We have nothing but time," pointed out Brad. "The Iron Age won't be along for at least another thousand years. There's really nothing to do to pass the time but fucking and sucking and cunt licking. Unless you'd rather throw stones at the wart hogs."

"You wouldn't hurt the poor widdle wart hogs?" she cooed. "It's a sacrifice, but if I must I will selflessly sacrifice up my cunt to be licked to save God's noble creatures from mean-spirited molestation."

And so she lay back in the grass with her legs spread wide while Brad buried his nose in her curly pubes and  licked and sucked on her stiff clit. Meanwhile he reached up and rolled her stiff pink nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

"What would your slut self do back in the old world if you could get away with anything?" he asked. And so, as he licked and sucked and finger-tweaked, Meredith elaborated all sorts of outrageous fantasies about sneaking into movie star's houses to molest them or getting gang banged by her favourite rock bands. By the time she was explaining her plans for the world's biggest outdoor masturbation festival called Wankstock, she was quivering and quaking and squirting her juices into Brad's mouth.

"You did it!" she cried.

"No," he insisted. "You did it. Now lets have a nap here in the shade. There'll be plenty of time when we wake up to gather some nuts and berries for dinner. And when night falls, if it is cold, we'll light a fire."

"We're going to be all right, aren't we?" Meredith smiled, cuddling up to him.

Nigel looked down at them and hoped she was right. So far they were doing fine. But this was the beginning, and the beginning was always good.

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

TwitUnErotica

Inspired by a book I once read called A Dark and Stormy Night : A Collection of the Worst Fiction Ever Written compiled by Scott Rice, for which authors competed to write the worst opening line for a novel, I thought I would do something similar using recent Wank Wednesday and Fuck Me Friday prompt words. The initiators of these writing challenges post these prompts on Twitter and various erotica authors write stories inspired by them, post them on their blogs and then link back to the host page and Twitter. The contributions have all been of a very high quality. So I thought it was time to lower the tone.

Tide

The angry red vaginal rash told Laura the laundrette attendant that it had been a mistake to use Tide washing liquid as an impromptu lubricant.

Tide Laundry Liquid

Rush


"Just relax. There's no rush," said the sex therapist. But, once again, Nigel came before he'd even got his pants down.


Bolt

"This will teach you to get fresh," said Dorothy, as she unscrewed the bolt that held on the Tin Man's penis.

The Tin Man

Wind

Mad Mick laughed hysterically as a gob of his spunk flew out of Filthy Philomena's cunt and hit the bedpost with a splat, blown there by the wild wind of one of her famous fanny farts.

Tilt

Niagaras of nauseating puke ran down over Pervy Pete's hair and face. He loved to stand underneath the Tilt-o-Whirl to look up girl's skirts, but his current predicament was one he had failed to foresee.

A Tilt-o-Whirl

Seat

Gladys wished that her husband would put down the toilet seat after he'd been in there having a wank.

Shield

Old Mrs. Grindle tried to shield the eyes of her niece from the sight of the flasher's tiny wizened penis and massive pendulous balls.

A Flasher

Dusk

"If Hollywood can do reboots then why shouldn't I?" asked Stephenie Meyer as she sat at her computer dressed only in a skimpy negligee and typed out the title of her new novel - D...U...S...K.

Skate

Noreen had hygiene problems. Nobody would go down on her because her pussy smelled like a three week old skate.

A Skate

Skate : Wank Wednesday

It's Wank Wednesday again as hosted by Ruby Kiddell at The Erotic Notebook. Here is how she explains it :

Welcome to week eleven of Wank Wednesday, your weekly festival of smut. 

With so many great writers of smut and erotica on Twitter and the web I thought it would be a nice idea to get a smutty blog carnival going. For writers or would be writers a weekly prompt will get you writing and as a reader well you’ll be able to get your fix of sexy stories all in one go.

To join in all you need to do is write a story with the weekly prompt as a title. This week’s prompt is #Skate. Then:

• Blog it – post it on your blog then come back here and add it to the link list.

• Tweet it – write it on twitter using the prompt hashtag and the #wankwednesday hashtag

• Add it – if you don’t want to blog or tweet it then please do add it as comment to my post

• WE it – if you are a member at Word Ejaculation you can submit with them too, just remember to link back to me here and to add your entry to the link list.

Please link back to this page in your post and please also do take the time to read and comment on the other contributors, we’ll all keep on writing but it is so much nicer to do so with feedback.

Thank you for writing and reading.

Skate

As he shot out into the centre of the Roll-Arena, the roar of the wheels of Alex's in-line skates were drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

It was Wednesday night and all around the world television audiences would be tuned in to RollerBonk. Around now the cameras would be zooming in on the banners that screamed Sex Is Violence.

Ever since Big Sister took power slogans were all the rage. Uniformity is Diversity. Obedience is Rebellion. Frustration is Fulfillment.

"Yeah," thought Alex bitterly, as he sped after the pink leotard-clad form of Samantha, "and A Pain in the Arse is a Throb of the Knob, I suppose!"

Alex was conflicted. As a sex offender (i.e. someone who had been caught masturbating) he knew that being allowed to compete in RollerBonk was better than languishing in jail. Competitors were the only members of society allowed to have sex. Procreation was achieved via artificial means. Citizens were rarely allowed to be alone and when they were they were monitored by video cameras. Big Sister was always watching. But he knew that he was being used as a tool of oppression and, as such, he was disgusted with himself.

"We'll do a spin twist trip at point 37 on the grid," Samantha had told him as they left the changing rooms. "I'll use a blood capsule and make it look like I've cracked my head on the boundary bar and been knocked unconscious. Then you flip me over, tear my leotard off as usual and take me from behind. It'll look more brutal that way," she added, with an almost imperceptible wink.

Samantha liked it doggy-style. She had to suppress signs of orgasm lest the audience realise that the rape was a sham, but Alex could feel her quiver, the wetness of her pussy and hear her quiet moans.

The message of RollerBonk was two-fold. Sex is a dangerously destructive force which needs to be repressed. And that men, when left to their own devices, are depraved brutes. As long as men and women were convinced of these things, Big Sister's dictatorship would be viewed as a source of comfort and protection in the face of threatening barbarism.

All around Alex the orchestrated mayhem was unfolding. A girl skated past him, her leotard hanging in rags to frame her bare bottom. A moustachioed man wearing only silver lame briefs was in hot pursuit. A blonde girl slammed into the barrier surrounding the arena, eliciting a united gasp from the crowd as a man rolled up behind her, bent down to tear out the crotch of her leotard with his teeth, pulled down his briefs to reveal a mighty erection and slid it roughly into her exposed pussy.

Alex had developed very warm feelings for Samantha. They couldn't converse, except to plan their act, but he spent much of his spare time dreaming that they were somewhere far away, frolicking in fields beneath the summer sun in a world in which they were free do make love as they pleased.

Suddenly a body slammed into his side. It was the man named Hugo, his eyes fixed on Samantha.

"She's mine, you cocksucker!" Alex yelled, swinging his fist at the man's chin. He missed by millimetres, slapping his thigh with his other hand to simulate flesh meeting flesh. Hugo bit down on his blood capsule and skated off wobbling erratically. The crowd let out a mighty cheer.

Alex's eyes alighted on Samantha, the movement of her body as she swayed from side to side with each sweep of her skates across the linoleum of the arena seemed to him the essence of everything true and glorious about the human animal. He knew that in her heart she loathed what they were doing as much as he. There was no doubt she enjoyed the sex. And he certainly did. But as he listened to the whooping and the catcalls from the crowd he knew they were creating something vile and ugly. The repression imposed by the regime had turned a natural desire for love and sexual pleasure into a kind of bloodlust not dissimilar to that which had once led to women being burned alive or stoned to death by those who lusted after them. The audience were forbidden from acting on their desires. They could only watch. But what they wanted to see was pain and degradation, and week by week their hunger for it increased.

Alex's feelings for Samantha were a defiance of this slide into monstrosity, but they were an invisible defiance. For the audience the show was real.

"No more!" he said to himself. If this went on he too would lose his humanity. "Better a human being in a cage, than a heartless thing in the arena."

He skated up behind Samantha, but instead of tripping her as they had agreed, he threw his arm around her waist and pulled her off into a graceful circling dancing across the arena. He looked into her eyes. What he saw there was abject terror.

"No!" she cried. This is what she was supposed to cry, but now she was not acting.

The crowd drew in a collective breath and waited to see what would happen. Normally the violence of the arena was quick and rough. If Alex was taking his time, perhaps he had some delicious new form of slow sadism to perform.

"You can't do this!" cried Samantha.

"I am doing this," he said with quiet forcefulness.

Tenderly he lay her back upon the linoleum. He ran his hand slowly down the side of her body. And then he leant forward and kissed her on the lips.

She was quaking in fear, and tears were streaming down her face.

"Pervert!!!!!" screamed someone from the crowd.

"It's O.K. They won't blame you," he assured her and he began gently fondling her breast through her leotard.

"It's you I'm worried about," she sobbed. "I love you so much."

"They may kill me," he replied, "but it would be worth it. I'm happier than I've ever been in my life."

"I-I-I couldn't live without you," she whimpered.

"We have to show them how it can be," he explained, pulling the straps of her leotard down over her shoulders and freeing her pale and perfect breasts with their pert pink nipples. He kissed them softly and then began to caress them lovingly with his wet tongue.

"I never knew it could be like this," she sighed.

"In our world, nobody remembers that it can be like this," he told her. "We are on a voyage into a whole new world." He pulled her leotard down over her belly and the auburn curls that decorated the pink slit which was now oozing creamy juice onto her spread thighs. He buried his face in the warmth of those thighs and began to slurp hungrily at the place from which a fiery orgasm soon radiated in waves throughout her defenceless body.

The ear-splitting scream of a siren tore through the night air.

"Attention ladies and gentleman!" came a crackling voice through a loud speaker. "We apologise for what you have just seen. Rest assured that punishment will be swift and painful for this shameful atrocity. At this time we feel that it is essential for us to turn to our compassionate leader Big Sister so that she can comfort us and put what we have seen into its proper context."

All of a sudden, on television sets all around the world, the image of the arena was replaced with that of a large women with her panties around her ankles and a huge vibrator burrowing away noisily in her vagina. Her unfocussed eyes were trying to look up inside her forehead, her tongue was hanging out and she was moaning softly. Then suddenly she looked straight at the viewers and said, "Oh, shit!"

"Errr, this is not the real Big Sister," she stammered, pulling down her skirt. "What you see on your screens is an impostor trying to bring me into disrepute." She paused. "So why is my voice coming out of her mouth, I hear you ask. A good question. A very good question. It's very astute of you to ask that question. And the answer to your astute question... that is the one about why my voice is coming out of this woman's mouth is..." Then she just stared blankly at them for what seemed an eternity, before saying, "Oh, fuck it! Do what you like!"

The End