Novel excerpt: Out of the closet 3

Amy, still in the broom closet, my cock still in her, said, again, “Idiot.” But her tone was affectionate. It was, apparently, cute to be a jealous dickhead. Conditions probably applied, but this time I was being allowed to get away with it.

She reached back and dislodged my cock from its immensely comfortable place. She bounced on her toes, getting her knickers back in place and her dress down to cover her ass. So I dropped the condom in the pail and put my cock back into my pants and zipped up. Amy straightened, grabbed at the shelf above us for balance, and turned to kiss me. There was a sound from above.

Bad advice, as always from these things. I’m here to tell you: you don’t need to have sex in a closet.

I kissed her. We kissed. She said, “You’re my idiot.” Something heavy wobbled on that shelf above our heads. I heard it fall on its side, then roll, then nothing more.

I pushed Amy against the back wall of the closet for safety, and tried to duck whatever was coming down.

My sudden movement pushed the closet door open, and I toppled, clutching Amy, and anything else I could grab hold of, trying to stop my fall. So my fall became our fall.

Suddenly we were on the gallery floor, in a confused pile with brooms and mops and coats and mobcaps, and Amy’s body and mine. And the rusted tin of paint thinner that had tried to brain me. I looked up, confused and aggrieved by life, and a second later light exploded.

Flawed, me. And floored.

Someone, no, several people, were taking photos. Amy was turned away, looking for her shoes.

So it was portrait of me, bewildered and resentful, with Amy’s hair and most of her legs visible. But I hadn’t thought about the media yet.

Instead I found I was staring up into the eyes of the gallery’s guest of honour, Rico, the Minister for the Arts. Rico was in the Lega Nord, and a fascist in the seldom-used literal sense of the word.

He looked down on us, aghast. He thought this was done deliberately to humiliate him. He shouted, “tu puttana!” He meant Amy was a whore. Sexual insults directed at women were always ready to hand.

It took a few seconds’ thought to come up with something for me. “Tu malvagio disgustoso! Morta cristo ebreo!” I was surprised. I didn’t think I looked especially Jewish. But I suppose anyone who made him angry gained honorary Jewish status.

Frankly, I’d rather fuck in Compton

So the cameras switched from me to Rico. He was still shouting at us. Although there was a moment when he paused, realizing that his bizarre antisemitism was going to be get him bad headlines. All the bad headlines.

Instead he shouted that we were foul, disgusting sexual degenerates, and how dare we fuck, fuck of all things, in this sacred place for the arts!

I looked up at him. Amy was still dazed by the fall. I shouted, “We weren’t fucking!” The lie absolute. I decided to go for the lie surreal. “This is art! Performance Art, you fucking moron

Novel excerpt: Out of the closet 2

In that broom closet, as I entered her, Amy said, “You.” I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but it wasn’t hostile. I pushed my cock further into her, thumbs still digging hard into that crease between her buttocks and thighs.

She said, “Idiot.” But it seemed that at moment she liked idiots. We began to move together, Amy’s ass beautifully firm in my hands and beautifully soft to the pressure of my cock.

We moved faster, and I felt her elbows slipping. She’d stopped holding her hands out.

Amy fell forward, her breasts and face pressed hard and helpless against the closet wall. She scrabbled at the closet wall for a grip, with nothing to grip. We fucked harder. 

It was pitch black in there, but I felt sure I knew her facial expression at every second, at every movement. I believed she knew the same about me.

I could feel her body tense, and that was no reason to stop or ask how she was. I pumped her, my stomach pressed against her ass.

In a while – my sense of time is never good in these moments – she said, “Nggggh. Fuck!” And, a few seconds later, “fuck me!”

I already was. I did. I smacked her bottom, as much of it as I could reach. It was a moving target. And again. And in a few more seconds Amy gasped for breath, and her body shook.

I wrapped my arms round her stomach, holding her tight against me. We came, more or less at the same time. It was hard to be quiet when we came, but we managed.

Eventually I released my grip on her stomach and raised my hands to hold her breasts. Amy tried to turn, to kiss me, but at that moment I wasn’t going to let her move. 

I smacked her bottom again. I said, “Yeah, girl. You are not to- Look, just no fucking fucking art critics.”

Novel excerpt: Out of the closet 1

So we were together, Amy saying thank god I’d rescued her from Mr Suave. I didn’t say how jealous I’d been, because that was discreditable. But jealousy and idiocy were still driving me. I walked her into the crowd, which had grown since the Minister’s speech, such being the power of free wine and food. And I pulled her towards me, and opened a door I’d noticed before, hoping it led to another room, possibly an unoccupied one.

Amy said, “Are you serious? The broom closet?”

I said, as if I’d known it was a broom closet, “Yes!” I spun, with my hands on Amy’s hips so that we both disappeared inside.

There was total blackness once I pulled the door closed. Then light; Amy had turned on the torch on her phone. She held it for me while I carefully moved mops and brooms, a metal pail with rollers to squeeze mops, and an upright vacuum cleaner to one end of the closet. “Put your damn hands on the wall, like your fucking friend,” I said.

There were things Amy could say to me about that, and I knew it, but she complied. She was being a good girl: that had mostly proven to be fun. I took her phone from her hand and slipped it into my jacket pocket.

We were back in total blackness. I pulled the little black cocktail dress up at the back and lifted it, Amy wriggling to help, and arching her back so her ass was poised for me.

I still had jealous anger driving me, and lust with it, though I’d started to realize I hadn’t broken up a romance between her and the critic; more heroically, if inadvertently, I’d rescued her. But that spurious sense of justified anger propelled me, and I smacked Amy’s right buttock and pulled her little knickers aside. I shook out a condom from my wallet, unzipped and put it on. I held her hips with all my strength, and pushed, cock hard and righteous, into her. Amy sighed. “Yeah.”

I slid my hands down to hold her lower buttocks, interested in the creased skin at the meeting of her buttocks and thighs. I said, “Creases.” Suddenly the word seemed to have intense sexual significance. And I sank into her, so our bodies met, my cock fully buried in wet, warm Amy. Ensconced.

 

[To be continued, after Sinful Sunday.]

Smutathon 8: Life is bleak till you’ve had beak (with face-sitting!)

Back in my room in the Do-Duck Inn the party was swinging. I lay on my back on the bed, feet on the floor. Daisy stood in front of me, my cock hard in her beak. She wasn’t really evolved to give good suction, but she could certainly flutter that beak thing, like I’d never been fluttered before. 

At the same time, Magica sat on my face, her thighs round my neck, her great webbed feet kicking happily at my shoulder blades. My tongue reached through the fringe of feathers and licked long and languorous at her sensitive little circle, her adorable cloaca. She gave a delicious little wriggle, and sub-quacked with every sweep of my tongue. 

I tongued her a little harder, her feathered ass my faceful, all of my vision and much of my sensation. Magica made a series of kvetching, quacking noises: she was getting close. “Go human! Work that hairy face!”

I knew that for a politically punctilious duck like Magica, using duck slang for ‘human’ was as good as talking dirty. I liked that I’d pushed her beyond her notions of decorum.

Then she surprised even me: “Yeah, Daddy, you’re my Daddy! I’m so your little duckling! Do me, Daddy! Your little ducking! Hard!”

“My naughty little ducking.” I did her, tongue working.

Daisy climbed up onto my lap then, and lowered her cloaca onto my cock, slowly working and waggling her way down, descending until my cock was firmly lodged in her warm Anatidaed body. She rocked back and forth, pushing the rim of her cloaca against my pelvic bone. 

“Ahhhh,” I said. If you can count that sort of thing as ‘saying’. My two ducks were so inexhaustible. Insatiable. But Magica raised her beak to point it at the ceiling, and quaked in utter joy and triumph. Her cloaca contracted spasmodically, and her thighs tightened on my neck. A faceful, I had, of orgasmic duck.  

A duck pervert: Fucking humans!

Daisy was only a few seconds behind, quacking jubilantly and beating on my lower rib cage with her feathered fists. She spread her wings and shook them while she rode me, then emitted a long, incoherent series of quacks at the ceiling, and fell forward, her beak resting on my navel. 

We relaxed together in a happy interspecies pile for maybe half an hour. When I’d softened and withdrawn from Daisy’s cloaca, I poured them each another glass of that fine Genu-wine Illinois Champagne. 

Daisy stroked my cock lightly, with her soft feathered wings. “You know, we have myths, great duck song-sagas, about nights like this.” 

“Yeah?” 

Magica slapped my face with her wing, but playfully, lightly. “A human who picks up a hot, sexy duck Will get his best ever beak job or fuck– ”

“I can’t argue with that,” I said, sweetly exhausted and comfortable, my two lovely duckettes lying on my body. 

Daisy took up the saga: “But she’ll get all a-quacker When he has her cloaca- “

“Then,” said Magica, “she’ll demand cunnilingus” [she spat then, ‘puh! puh! puh!,” as if expelling a mouthful of feathers] “Worse luck.”

 

Notes 

“Sex with Ducks”, sung by Garfunkel and Oates

Silly UK censorship law breached: Bestiality! Face-sitting! Age play!

Also, for further information on sex with ducks, which according to the Reverend Pat Robertson is the inevitable result of gay marriage, go here.

It’s a very important singing documentary.

Smutathon

Smutathon involves writers pumping out filth for a 12-hour marathon of smut. It’s to raise awareness, and money, for two great causes: Rape Crisis Centres, and Backlash, an organisation challenging the UK’s insane censorship regime.

What I’d like you lovely, lively people to do, please is go here, and support Smutathon with your donation!

Smutathon 6: Life is bleak till you’ve had beak

So I was staying at the Do-Duck Inn while I worked on the Black-Bellied Whistling Duck murder. I was out of ideas, and luck. I went down to the bar. 

The lights were as low as a duck hunter’s miserable soul, but I could make out the usual duck-bar decorations on the walls: the stuffed head of a pointer dog mounted on a wooden shield, some broken shotguns, decoys covered in duck shit, and a portrait of Daisy. 

Daisy Duck

And two chicks nursing drinks at the bar, in pink toledo tops and no pants. They had feet to die for, and their feathers went everywhere a duck dame’s feathers should. They were ducks full of sin, whose tail fathers wrote sexual cheques in the air that couldn’t always be cashed.

I walked up to stand between the pair of them. The one on my left, the blonde, looked up at me, her eyes wide and her sultry beak full of promise. Promises she didn’t always keep. She was an American White-Winged Scoter, and they don’t give trust, or deserve trust, easily.  

“Hey, it’s a human! What you doing in a duck-bar, hairyhead?”

I looked at her. “I was alone in my room, duckettes. I thought I’d come down to the bar and have a Fluffy Duck.” I looked at her companion on the right, an exotically sexy Andean Teal. “Or two.”

The chick on my right quacked appreciatively. She signalled the bartender. He came up drying his hands on a cloth you wouldn’t use to scrub a midden. “Human here, man wants a Inter-Species-Menage-A-Trois-In-A-Motel-Bedroom.”

The bartender, a Red-Crested Prochard, looked at me sourly. “Who the bloody hell doesn’t?” But he went off to mix my Menage.

“What’s your name, hairyhead?”

“Keats,” I said. “Like the poet. You?”

The blonde said, “I’m Daisy. And my friend here -”

Magica de Spell

“Magica de Spell,” said the Teal chick.

“Well, I’m mighty pleased to meet you.”

“So you should be, human,” said Daisy, though if she was Daisy I was George Gordon, Lord Byron. “Because we’re going to make you one lucky hairyhead, if you’ll just take a bottle of champagne, and two hot chicks back to your room.”

Magic quacked lightly. “You know, Daisy, ‘hairyhead’ is kind of pejorative. Just say ‘human’, ok?”

Daisy shrugged, giving me a glimpse of nippleless breasts. “I don’t mean it disrespectfully, h- human.” 

The bartender brought my Menage, and I took a swig. It was green, and tasted accordingly. “No disrespect taken, lovely Daisy. My head is hairy, what can I say? And I can screw you and you’ll blow your corks, but I don’t have a corkscrew cock. Not like Donald.” 

Daisy quacked, and put her three-fingered hand on my arm, eyes looking deeply into mine. “I like that you’re human. And you’ll love us ducks. Your life is just bleak, till you’ve had beak.”

And Magica put her hand on my shoulder too. She pecked me on the cheek, and breathed, “We’ll make your human knees go weak, and that weird cylindrical cock you got? We’ll make that thing as hard as teak.” 

If only ducks would learn to scan. Then they each pressed a thigh against mine. I downed my drink in one gulp. “Ladies, duckettes, let’s go. There seems to be an illegal party in my room. Just about to happen.”

I stood up, and a second later so did they. They came up to my waist. So, with a chick under each hand, I headed to my room, stopping only to buy a bottle of Genu-wine Illinois Champagne from the slot machine. 

[To be continued.]

 

Notes: 

Crazy UK censorship rule breached: bestiality. But we get nervier in the next episode!

Smutathon

Smutathon involves writers pumping out filth for a 12-hour marathon of smut. It’s to raise awareness, and money, for two great causes: Rape Crisis Centres, and Backlash, an organisation challenging the UK’s insane censorship regime.

What I’d like you lovely, lively people to do, please is go here, and support Smutathon with your donation.

Smutathon 4: The duck vagina monologue

Drakes, or male ducks, have a penis up to half a metre (about a yard) long. But it’s spiral-shaped. If you sharpened the business end of a drake’s penis, you could use it to open wine bottles.

Similarly, female ducks have evolved a long corkscrew shaped vagina. If the drake has a very bright coat, and is charming, and holds his girlfriend firmly but not too painfully with his beak on her shoulder, and doesn’t try to push her head underwater and drown her (which drakes sometimes do, the brutes), then he gets to slide his unfeasibly long cock inside his duck’s vagina, and then slide it round, and round, and round, and round. And then round some more, and so on.

It takes longer than the average bird fuck, and it seems like fun. Quite sensual. 

But there’s an interesting thing about the duck vagina. It’s a long spiral, but it comes equipped with side-alleys, pouches and dead ends. If a drake forces the duck (and not all drakes have the charm and manners of Cary Grant*) she can thwart him by wriggling very slightly, so that although she can’t stop him getting his end in, she can stop his cock getting anywhere near the duck equivalent of the cervix.

He won’t get such a good time, if she’s unwilling, and she won’t have his babies; his cock gets lost and astray, and never reaches the end. 

The picture shows two corkscrew things. The larger item on the left is a duck vagina. The item on the right is a drake penis. 

* When I say that drakes don’t act like Cary Grant, I mean that it’s been estimated that 40% of all duck copulations involve forced sex. Drakes, by and large, are rapists and rotters. But Donald, I’m pleased to say, is in stir, getting counselling.

 

Note:

Breach of UK’s half-witted censorship laws: restraint, physical abuse. 

 

Smutathon

Smutathon involves writers pumping out filth for a 12-hour marathon of smut. It’s to raise awareness, and money, for two great causes: Rape Crisis Centres, and Backlash, an organisation challenging the UK’s insane censorship regime.

What I’d like you lovely, lively people to do, please is go here, and support Smutathon with your donation.

 

Smutathon 2: Reasons not to work for News Corpse

Rupert wrested with his penis, which merely rested. Cialis, Viagra, the other bureau supplies for ageing men: they’d all long since lost their effect. Not even images of owning Sky could raise his heartbeat or his organ. “Ah, fuck it,” he murmured disgustedly.

But fuck it, or anything, was precisely what he couldn’t do. Even the spirit was weak.

He hated that time of the month, marked on the fridge calendar with a big red lipsticked heart. It was time for coitus with his married cohabitant. Damn the woman!

I’m sorry to let you down

But she’d threatened to leave him for Ted Turner if he continued to disappoint her. At least Teddy can still get it up, she’d said coldly. He remembered that eight decades ago, before his soul crinkled up and died, that could have hurt. 

He closed his eyes, imagining the Trump offspring spooning glistening, firm, proud, gold coins into their orifices. But this vision, too, failed to move him.

It failed, indeed, to move a single CC of blood into that damned flaccid snake, that deflated balloon, that powerless power cord in his hand.

And she was saying, “Well? I’m waiting,” in that damned tone of voice that reminded him she still had Turner on speed-dial. Did the bloody woman think that helped?

“Just a moment, old horse.” Rupert left the bedroom.

He called Withered Nethers, editor of the Daily Moloch. “Withered, Rupe. How’s that bloody piece on Corbyn going?” 

“I think you’ll like it. We’re accused him of running a weird sex thing at Glastonbury. Still dotting the tease and crossing the eyes on the text, but the headline’s going to be ‘Daddy School: Corbyn’s Sick Terrorist Sexathon.” 

“Terrorist? No, sounds great, mate. Anyway, cobber, I’ve got a bit of woman trouble. Can you get up here now?”

“Anything for you, Rupe.”

Minutes later Nethers was there. He knelt while Rupert fished his cold whitebait out of his trousers.

Nethers took an ice lolly stick, stretched his boss’s squishy marshmallow sausage for the Nobbly Bobbly spine’s length, and applied tape. There!

The mogul’s penis was straight and true, though no longer capable of leaning to the right. It pointed carpetwards, a pendulum that never swived nor swung. But as long as the tape held… 

A quick kiss, as of the Pope’s ring, and the job of a News Corp editor was done. Still on his knees, Nethers whacked his boss familiarly on the bum, as Man to Man. “You’re good to go, boss. Get in there!” 

“Thanks, Withered.” Rupert walked with swagger back to the bedroom. Still, doubts assailed him.

 

Note

Internet censorship is heavily promoted by Newscorp, who rightly see the internet as a threat both to their income and their shrivelled but still substantial political power. 

By the way, I do know that News Corp doesn’t actually own the Daily Mail. I just thought the image was cool, and this is Smutathon! I don’t have time to photoshop! 

UK censorship breach? Humiliation. 

Tell you what, though. I’ll try to make the next one actually sexy.

Smutathon

Smutathon involves writers pumping out filth for a 12-hour marathon of smut. It’s to raise awareness, and money, for two great causes: Rape Crisis Centres, and Backlash, an organisation challenging the UK’s insane censorship regime.

What I’d like you lovely, lively people to do, please is go here, and support Smutathon with your donation.

Smutathon 1: James Joyce written in duck! Ban this sick filth!

And at last he came to me, Donald himself with his sailor suit and his beak golden in the sun, and him peeling a switch and eyeing me like the old days, when he’d whip me long and thorough the blackguard and then ride me hard in the pond, oh rough, Donald, rough I’d say, feeling his beak on my neck all forceful, and he’d say Molly you’re never a dog, you white feathered slut my beauty my booty my Andalusian flower.

And he stepped towards me and I asked him with my eyes to ask me again, and he took me in his wings and pressed me down, and he kissed my down, and my breasts all smelling of pondweed and fish, I could feel his heart going like mad and yes, I said, yes I KWARK! KWARK! I will I said yes I will Yes KWARK.

Blue Mountains, 2017

 

 

Note on banned UK censorship categories:

Ducks are fully mature at, say, three years old. After that they become senior ducks, and die at 5-10 years. So this not only offers bestiality but underage bestiality!

Smutathon

Smutathon involves writers pumping out filth for a 12-hour marathon of smut. It’s to raise awareness, and money, for two great causes: Rape Crisis Centres, and Backlash, an organisation challenging the UK’s insane censorship regime.

What I’d like you lovely, lively people to do, please is go here, and support Smutathon with your donation.

Triumph and the fountains of Rome!

I’m keeping to four posts a week, at the moment. I looked back a couple of years, back in this blog, and found I was doing seven posts a week.

They tended to be shorter, because I’d write something, get carried away as I always do, and it would turn out longer than I’d expected. So I’d chop it into two or three parts, and run them on three successive days. 

But now I’m writing a novel, and I’m keeping at it because I want to finish it soon. There are five parts, and the final part is expected to be relatively short. I’m on Part 5 now, and I can smell the finish line. I feel triumphant!

I’d like to do more discussion pieces, think pieces, for this blog.

But at the moment I can’t think of anything but Rome and a rich Scots girl, who paints but seems only able to sell her art to men who fancy her, and how she breaks through to a wider audience. I can’t afford to do any thinking except about how to make that sexier and funnier.

I just wrote a scene (for Part 4) in which the hero fetches his beautiful but mildly drunk girlfriend out of Trevi Fountain. It adds absolutely nothing to the plot, I think, but it belongs in the book just the same. 

In honour of that scene, here are some photos of girls in Roman fountains.

The top two are from a news story that said Romans were “outraged” to  find pretty underdressed girls in a fountain. Bullshit, I have to say. Possibly a couple of lemon-sucking Romans somewhere went all crinkly-mouthed about it, but Romans in general are overwhelmingly pro-pretty girl.They even seem to like underdressed, wet girls. Go figure.

Don’t let the Murdoch press (or Dacre press in this instance) tell you otherwise. In fact, don’t let them tell you anything. 

Here’s one I prepared earlier.

Euph off: Bedewed with the pearly tribute of manhood

Letitia climbed onto the Royal Yacht, a glass of champagne in one white-gloved hand. It was a splendid occasion, and the rear admirals and all of royalty had turned out: Elizabeth the Virgin Queen, Elizabeth the less virginal Queen, and Boadicea.

Such respectable society, thought Letitia, popping a cocktail sausage between her lips. She noticed a dashing young Highland Guardsman, resplendent in his kilt, with just a hint of dirk showing in his hose. He was gazing at her with the puppyish eyes of love. At least, his feelings were clearly of great intensity.

She smiled at her gallant, and took a plate from one of the tables. “La, sir, may I offer you finger food? Or some other tit bit?”

He seemed overcome, but when she offered a cream pie, he coughed ferociously, face as red as the swollen underparts of a lady baboon in the more friendly part of her cycle. “Nay, madam, it is not food I seek from you, save only the fruit of love, the elixir, as it were, of your lightly forested Paphian grove.”

“Do what? My what?”

“Your dark delta of mystery. But first, madam, I dream of… Nay, I am unworthy.”

A cock between tits

“Sirrah, I’m sure ‘tis not so! How may I make your dream a happy reality?”

“Well, I would like to osculate the tenderest pinkest crowns of your firm, and proud, and, ah…”

“Avast!” cried the First Mate, at that moment.

“… womanly endowments.”

Letitia frowned. “You want what?”

“And ‘twould be an honour, ma’am, to oscillate those cupola’d hills of Cythera. So glorious a manual mammary memory! Mwah!”

“No, I’m still not getting it, sorry.”

The young man cleared his throat, his face still crimson, and tried again. “And interpose between the ripest, melon fruits of your feminine beauty my doughty staff of manhood. Oh god, yes.”

Letitia wished the man would speak English. Scots dialect was very charming, no doubt, but …“Doughty? You can’t mean ‘dirty’? Dotty? And what do you need staff for, anyway?”

“And run, in those bounteous hills of pleasure, the instinctual race of love. Oohhhh!”

“You can’t want to race me?”

“Nay. Madam, I would bedew these most voluptuous slopes with the pearly tribute of my love. Unff!”

“Come again?”

“Unfff!”

“But, cried Letitia, bewildered, “what are you saying?”

The Highland Guardsman’s dream, of doughty shafts and, let’s face it, rather yummy bounteous hills of pleasure

Desperately, he said, “Madam, I want to lick your cunt like an icecream. But first, I want to fondle your tits, which are incredibly hot, and kiss your nipples till they, and you, are wet as a two-child paddling pool. Which, believe me, is fucking wet. And then I want get my cock up in between those tits, and hump you till I come all over them. Perhaps we could get a room?”

The slap was heard in both Shoreditch and Brighton, though as Brighton was 47 miles away the sound did not arrive to puzzle them for another 10 minutes.

The young man’s face was now considerably redder on the right side than the left. He seemed puzzled.

“Why sir,” said Letitia coldly, “I quite fail to understand you.”