Wicked Wednesday: A bad President! (Trigger warning: Turn-offs!)

“Stormy! Stormy! I’ve got the hots for you, honey! The best hots! I know all the hots!” 

“Oh?” Miss Daniels looked up from her MAGAzine. “Sorry, I didn’t notice. Your tummy kind of hides that cute Mr Tadpole the way your jowls hide your neck. But…” She sighed, and held out her reader for Donald to press his firm proud, square-jawed credit card against it, with casual familiarity.

There was a pause. Stormy had learned not to move a muscle, Trump-ward, until the cash showed up in her account. At last, after a little electronic chirp, she put down her copy of Hustler and turned off Fucks News.   

(Not actually the real DT. More an artist’s impression.)

She put on a white latex glove and lifted the reality TV belly’s dewlap. “I see,” she said, with professional detachment, “these would be the flibbiity floppity hots, Donald?”

“Well, you know I’ve been a very bad property developer. I get harder when I’m punished, Mistress. I love it when you call me names.” 

“Racist. Incompetent. Narcissist. Lazy idiot. Creep. Rapist. Psychopath,” sighed Stormy. “Ok, I think what you want is a good spanking, isn’t it?” 

The future President brightened.

“I banned black tenants from all my apartments today! Was that bad, Mistress?”

Stormy waved her forefinger in circles, the get-on-with-it gesture. “Then I guess you’d best assume the position.” She moved an elegant thigh forward, and reached for her Hustler. 

Donald leaned forward, slowly, and bent, puffing audibly, so that one half of his belly hung over the right-hand side of Miss Daniel’s presented thigh, and the other half bulged over the left. “I’ve been the baddest. Like you would never believe. People come up and tell me, they say they’d never seen badness like mine. Some of them are even crying.” 

Stormy sighed again. She rolled the Hustler into a tight cylinder and secured it with a rubber band. “I bet,” she said. 

She began to spank her client vigorously.

Though she was trying to hit hard, the sound that filled the room was not the usual crisp spanking sound. It was more like a live gerbil striking a pillow full of custard. 

Stormy closed her eyes and thought about money. And long, hot showers.

Note: Marie at Wicked Wednesday invited us to write turn-offs, this week. I believe I’ve lived up to the assignment. 

A dream about Ents

Ents are walking, sentient trees, mentioned in Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings. They’re on the verge of extinction because they reproduce sexually, but the female Ents all went wandering thousands of years ago. The tribes of male and female Ents have lost contact. This is what became of them, in a dream I had the other day.  

The male Ents and the female Ents bump into each other in what I think is a mall in Luxembourg. They’re very excited.

Obviously getting wood isn’t a problem, but they move so slowly the humans didn’t realise they’re having sex.

So people just think it’s an arboretum, and that someone must have put it there, which is nice of whoever it was. People eat their lunches in the shade of the fucking Ents.

Unfortunately a news crew does an item on the mystery forest, and accidentally plays the footage on TV on Fast Forward.

Suddenly people realise the Luxembourg Mall forest is having sex, and are scandalised.

Think of the children, newspaper columnists cry! Having their eyes exposed to inappropriate behaviour, very slowly.

Religious leaders whip up a torch-bearing mob to drive out the Immigrant Mutant Trees, who are mocking decency and God.

Others come out to support the lovestruck Ents, who are just acting naturally, especially after such a long separation. So there’s a huge fight in the shade of the fucking Ents, which the Ents ignore, because they’re slowly getting busy.

But there’s a lot of Ent in the air, and many of the humans on both sides are pollinated.

Hybrid human/Ent life forms are born after abnormally long gestation periods. They never come to understand human sexual hang-ups (“we’re only flesh and sap”), and mostly have public sex and write abnormally long epic poems.

Many take human lovers.

The Tolkien Estate disowns them.

BDSM pterodactyls

After my first post, back on 1 March 2012, a reader wrote:

“Considering you are one of the few who know what Raquel Welch’s film was called when she was wearing that furry bikini, maybe you would know where one can get one – I need it to complete my wardrobe.

“I shall find me a strong dominant man to save me from being bogged down while swimming and from scene-stealing pterodactyls.”

I replied:

“I think only one fur bikini was made, so your best bet is to get the original.

“It’s probably displayed, minus La Welch, in some Planet Hollywood. So just point somewhere, shout “look out!”, break the glass and help yourself. There may be some slight unpleasantness if they don’t mistake you for a fireman, but running away from guard dogs is a good way to keep fit.

“I met a pterodactyl in a bar once. He said he’d just been in an all-pterodactyl production of Hamlet, except for Raquel Welch as Gertrude. The rest of the cast was totally wired, he said, but they’d thought she was a bit wooden.”


The rest of my blog has been pretty much like that, for the last seven years. No joke too stupid. 

But just for you, here’s what you get if you Google-image “bdsm pterodactyl”. 




Sinful Sunday: A terrifying transmogrification



One of the most dangerous things about being a European, particularly in the Celtic or Graeco-Roman traditions, is that one day you’ll be going about your business and then – wham! – you find yourself turning into a swan! 

We don’t hold with that nonsense in the Mountains. However, every so often swans transform into beautiful naked women. That seems like a better deal, to me. 

I managed to get a picture this swan right in the middle of its transmogrification. 

Hyenas that look like Donald Trump

This isn’t a political blog. And this isn’t an argument, just an expression of disgust. The trough-snuffling corruption, the ridiculous lying, the cruelty, the bullying, just piss me off.

I’m busy. I’ve got a book to finish, and the smell of the end in my nostrils. So I’m not going to write politics. But yeah: we have to stop voting hyenas into positions of power. It’s a really dumb thing to do. 

One last post on #cockygate

The patent Faleena Hopkins took out on the word “cocky”, as used in a book title, is now marked as “Cancellation pending”. 

I understand that Hopkins is now trying to find someone prepared to say that they love her “the Ball-Cocky Plumber” series, and they accidentally bought a book called something like “the Cocky Spaniel”, thinking it was one of hers. Without looking at the author’s name.

I think that’s going to be her argument against trademark cancellation. So for that and other reasons that I’m not going into here, trademark cancellation is a certainty. 

I’m pleased about this. I’m never likely to use the word “cocky” in a title or, except when I’m talking about #cockygate, in a sentence. But bullying does annoy me. 


Here’s Faleena Hopkins’s threatening letter to the romance writer Jamilla Jasper.

Hi Jamilla, 

My name is Faleena Hopkins, author of Cocker Brothers, the Cocky® Series. 

The Federal Trademark Commission has granted me the official registered trademark of the workmark “Cocky” in relation to romance books, no matter the font. 

Trademark Registration Number: 5447836

This is romance writer Jamilla Jasper. I know it’s irrelevant, but I think she’s quite good-looking. Update: It’s a stock photo, the rights licensed by 123RF. Oh well.

I am writing to you out of professional respect so that you may rename your book “Cocky Cowboy” which shares the same title as my book, and republish all the versions (ebook, paperback and audible) on Amazon to keep your ratings and money earned. 

My attorney at Morris Yom Entertainment Law has advised me that if I sue you, I will win all the monies you have earned on this title, plus lawyer fees will be paid by you as well.

I will do that – but I’d rather give you the option. 


Thank you,

Faleena Hopkins.

There’s real evocation of character in that letter. The mix of pious, I’m only doing this for your own good,  and the threatening, I will take all the money you earned on your book, would be good character-drawing, if she were a competent fiction writer.

In her fiction, she writes like this:

I toss the phone onto my dresser, I strip naked glancing to the mirror positioned across from my bed as I check out my body. […] I like my body looking this good, and that takes work– just like anything else worth having. 

Reflexively, my gaze flicks up next to where my favorite mirror is– the ceiling. 

As I pull boxer briefs down my thighs and my freed cock bounces out, I begrudgingly mutter to its sleepy head, “Been way too long since I’ve made use of you, buddy.” 

Leaping on my bed I stretch naked limbs over the goose down and enjoy my yawning muscles.

So, as a character, this guy likes run-on sentences, and he’s naked. He also seems a little narcissistic, so I don’t know why he doesn’t look at his ceiling mirror, only next to it. Astigmatism, possibly. 

But her threatening letters are definitely better writing than her books. I’m sure there’s some sort of living to be made from that fact.

Anyway, the actual cancellation of the “cocky” trademark may take weeks, because of the dazzling speed of bureaucracy, but the issue, it seems to me, is over and done with. Which is to be celebrated.  

 I’m off to exercise my yawning muscles. Guess they must be in my face, somewhere.

By the way, Jamilla Jaspers reacts to threats real well. Her  book, The Cocky Cowboy is now called, “The Cockiest Cowboy who Ever Cocked“. It’s on Amazon!  

Hail, pretty horrors, hail! Halloween and bdsm

I was never a fan of Halloween. Until this year. 

The first thing is that Halloween, in its current form, is pretty much an American thing. The country I come from isn’t very culturally similar to America, and people there just didn’t want it. Like a lot of non-Americans I first really became aware of it through the Halloween sequence in Spielberg’s film, ET.

So it’s something about kids dressing up in marketing outfits for various US franchises, and going door-to-door begging for sugar. So, I thought, it’s tacky and a bit greedy, And the voices of my parents, sounding in the back of my brain, told me that this was a dumb, kind of ugly festival. 

I had another objection. Halloween is probably (not certainly, but probably) the Celtic festival of Samhain, which took place at the same time in the year, and had a theme of death and the lost souls of the dead. In taking it over, Christians gave it a Christian veneer. In this case, it was a night of licence, for indulging the wicked flesh, before everybody goes to church in the morning and people are then supposed to reject the flesh and the devil, and return to Christian asceticism, anti-sex, anti-this world doctrines.

The “trick or treat” thing is focussed on mischief, rewards and punishments. So it turns to bdsm very easily

That idea, the wickedness of the human body and the natural world, is one of the things I most dislike about Christianity.   

But it’s been steadily losing its religious roots, both Celtic (believe me, ancient pagans mostly get a good press, but they really don’t deserve it) and Christian, and it’s steadily evolved into something much nicer.

Basically these days it’s a festival of geek, a cos-play extravaganza. And there are no threatened “tricks”. The slight blackmail element of the old festival has faded away.

So I got visited by a great horde of seven-year-old girls, a couple of moms standing a  carefully calculated distance away. They were all dressed as princesses, mostly Disney princesses but a few fairy princesses too, a sort of ballerina, and a couple of girls in home-made Wonder Women costumes. (So Yay to their moms!) They were far too charming to lecture about this dumb festival. I didn’t have anything prepared, so I gave them dried raisins and apricots, and chocolate.

So the transaction wasn’t, “Trick or treat”. It was, “don’t we look amazing? We dressed up for you adults, so pay us in sugar!”

The Halloween-bdsm links haven’t escaped the cartoonists

Later I went shopping for bread and milk and such, and there were Goth girls everywhere, and real estate saleswomen, shop assistants and a woman I always notice in the chemist all dressed up, as Goth girls and other fantasy costumes. Anything that brings out women in velvet corsets, black lippy and choker collars is ok with me. Plus there were witches, Wonder Women and an amazing Cat Girl or two.

Next year I’ll be in it. I’m going to find me a blind harpist, and dress as a bard, we’ll go door-to-door singing Welsh Death Ballads until they give us marijuana and ask us to go away. You have to be polite to a bard. We can immortalise you in poetry, and its up to us whether you look good or stupid.

Anyway, Halloween! Not Christian, not Pagan: it’s a festival of slightly kinky cosplay!

Novel excerpt: Out of the closet 3

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

This is an extract from a novel that was then unpublished. Now it’s publishing, and I have to remove free content from my site. 


In this episode from the novel, the pros and cons on having sex in the broom closet, during an art exhibition, are thoroughly explored.

Novel excerpt: Out of the closet 1

The novel this is from was unpublished when I put this post up.

Now it’s about to be published, so free segments from it have to be taken down.

This excerpt explores the perils of sex in a broom closet, especially in an art gallery during the opening of a new exhibition. It’s hot, and also comic.