Smutathon 2017: Where to find the contributors

Smutathon 2017 was on 2 July! In Smutathon writers on three continents wrote their hearts out for 12 hours each. The idea was to raise awareness and raise funds for two vital charities: Rape Crisis UK, and Backlash, an organisation established to challenge the UK’s draconian and bigoted censorships laws, and to provide legal assistance for producers of material who fall afoul of this law. 

The target was to raise £2,000. And – with a lot of generous help we met the target! The generous help came especially from one modest guy who doesn’t want a fuss made, though he deserves one.

But no doubt, and reasonably, you want to read and enjoy the literary filth that was produced in that 12-hour writathon. There’s a wide range, from hotly serious sexual writing to (intentionally) silly silly stuff.

 So this be the list: all the Smutathon pieces, and where to find them! 

Your links to all the yummy Smutathon pieces! 


Coffee and Kink: Homepage

Smuthathon writings!

Rope porn

Terrifying sexual laws you may not know about

Can the concept of foreplay just die in a fucking fire?

Review: Idee du Désir Orchid 1001 Nights Dildo


Daphne Nevada: Homepage

Daphne Nevada’s Smutathon links page

Note: This personal links page links to twelve (12!) brilliant pieces of Daphne Nevada Smutathon erotica!


Elliot Henry: Homepage

Smutathon 2017

The nice thing about summer is not wearing any clothes


Eve Ray: Homepage

Simply Clever

When EU citizens are not wanted


The Other Livvy: Homepage

The Other Livvy’s Smutathon Links Page!

Note: This personal links page links to fourteen (14!) pieces of brilliant The Other Livvy Smutathon erotica!


Jerusalem Mortimer: Homepage 

Smutathon posts

Smutathon begins (in Australia) in 50 minutes!

James Joyce written in duck!

Reasons not to work for News Corpse

The blowjob in the bath

The duck vagina monologue

The blowjob in the bath 2

Life is bleak till you’ve had beak

The blowjob in the bath 3

Life is bleak till you’ve had beak 2: With face-sitting!

G’night, all. For me, Smutathon is over


Scandarella: Homepage

Smutathon posts

Watch for me by Moonlight

Friendly fingers

There’s the rub

The Legend of Lyonesse



Smutathon posts 

[Note: These were written as Twitter DMs, because @TheWragger doesn’t have a blog.  But @TheWragger gave permission for people with blogs to post them, so I’ve hosted them on this blog. That way we have all the work written for Smutathon that I know of.]


Her spanking 

Exploring her fantasies 


Final note

If I’ve left out your Smuthathon contribution, I promise it was pure incompetence (mine) and not intentional. Send me your links and I’ll be proud to add them.

Smutathon Guest Post from The Wragger 3: Exploring her Fantasies

[Note: This was written for Smutathon by The Wragger. He doesn’t have a blog, so I’ve posted it here.] 

I wasn’t sure how she’d react to visiting the nude beach, so I kept it a secret until we got there. Pretty soon the game was out when right in front of us appeared two nude men sauntering up the path, their smiles engaging us. I was sure she couldn’t tell if they were smiling or not.

“Is this a nudey beach? “ she said , putting on her innocent voice.

“Yes, I heard of it on the net so thought we’d give it a try”. My response had that “so what” tone to it.

“Does that mean we have to take off all our clothes?” she enquired with all seriousness. The look in my eye was all the answer she needed. We lay on the towels, taking in the sun. Our relaxed nakedness was the outcome of trials of nervous embarrassment, coyly removing our clothes thinking wed bump into our old school teachers, then realising that noone had noticed. It felt natural, if slightly odd.

The sea breeze reached places it had never visited before and the feeling of us both enjoying it commenced a slow building of erotic tension. I saw her look up, her casual glances behind her sunglasses betraying the busyness of her eyes, taking in the other naked bodies around us. There was nothing remarkable about any of it yet the sight of naked flesh of both sexes and the open exhibitionism of their natural bodies turned the screw of the tension up another notch.

“Good morning” came the deep masculine voice from behind me. I tried to turn to see him but he was stood directly behind my head and I couldn’t see him. I did however see her reaction. One of shyness, slight awkwardness and yet her eyes were wide and focussed. I sat up and turned around with my “good morning “ still in my mouth and then I saw why she was dumbstruck.

He stood well over 2 metres tall and with a sculptd body not out of place in a museum of greek antiquities. But it was what hung between his legs that had caught her stare. It wasn’t just that his cock was long nor that its girth seemed unfeasible. It was the fact that he knew these things and the confidence it gave him to exhibit his superior masculinity directly to her. There’s no doubt his target had been achieved as she suddenly found her voice and engaged him in easy conversation for a few minutes before he went on his way.

Perhaps it was me who noticed that her head was just at the right height for his crotch.

The after dinner wine filled us with a glow that poured out into slow lovemaking back at the hotel that night. The warmth of the night mixed with our sun kissed bodies had filled us with that need for each other and I whispered to her as I entered her, telling her how much I was proud to be with her on that naked beach.

The mention of the beach seemed to trigger her neediness more, grinding herself onto me with more and more passion. “I’m glad you liked the beach baby” I whispered.

She was bucking harder against me now with whimper of “oh yes”

I grunted as I responded, “ I loved seeing you naked in public baby – you were so hot”.

She was now digging her nails in and fucking me hard, her breath unsteady in her reply “yes baby yes”.

I felt she was in her zone, feeding this sexual urge she suddenly had as I held onto to her tight and fucked her deeply. I took a chance at something I’d been meaning to ask her “Did you like that man lookin g at your naked body baby?”

She answered physically powering herself on to me, almost hyperventilating as her orgasm approached.”yes baby I did” she uttered. The idea of it made me fuck her more intensely and I asked the other question I wanted to ask all day “ Did you like the look of his big cock baby?”

She gripped me like a vice as her legs wrapped around me and she nearly screamed “ yes yes yes” as her mental fantasy with the man on the beach poured out of her mind into her orgasm, exploding on his thick cock not mine, and in his muscular masculine arms.

Smutathon Guest post from The Wragger 2: Her spanking

[Note: This was written for Smutathon by The Wragger. He doesn’t have a blog, so I’ve posted it here.] 

At no point did he ever wish her to know what was happening next. Every step had to be a surprise, a new experience. Each breath the start of an adventure which knew no end. He wanted to own her very being, ensure that she felt totally in his command, under his leadership and guidance. He wanted that more than hed ever wanted anything in his life before. And he always made sure he got what he wanted. He got it through application, attention to detail and utter dedication to his cause.

He tightened the cuffs around her wrists and secured them to her ankles, hogtied, face down , behind in the air, ready for what was to come. The necktie was secured around her eyes, blindfolding her and focussing her attentions on the sensations and not on the surroundings. The senses are what feed the imagination and our animal instincts use them to prepare our bodies for what we expect. By harnessing the power of those senses he knew he could intoxicate her mind with conflicting messages, cause the adrenalin to pump through her veins in a fight or flee mode, just as easily as he could calm her and arouse her with soft gentleness and caresses.

She said she wanted rules and routine, that they made her feel safe. He wanted to break her habits, renew her beliefs and make him central to all she did. Rules will come but first she needed to learn to tear down those old walls so the new ones could be erected. And those new walls would be built with his own bare hands. Her panties were tugged down, not gently, making her feel the rush of air and the sense of exposure to her most intimate areas.

Despite her adventurous nature he new that her strict early upbringing still left her feeling embarrassed and vulnerable when put in compromising situations. It was as if her fantasies were safe in her mind but when taken out in the public domain they resurrected her fears, her nightmares of the past come back to haunt her. It was then that she needed absolution the most, to purge her of her black desires and guilt from having them.

He was her high priest of the dark domain ready to deliver her welcome into the light. He liked to build up her senses , turn her imagination in a whirl, have her smell the leather of the crop, make her feel the fronds of the flogger on her skin- or indeed as he was about to do, heighten her humiliation by making her taste her own wetness which he had on his fingers after he had felt her between her legs.

She sucked on his fingers greedily as he whispered her degradation in her ears. He knew she would be wetter now. Letting her catch her breath he quickly gripped the back of the rigid ring of solid steel that collared her neck, tugging on it lightly knowing it made her breathing more difficult. He heard her rasping in air as she knew he liked to hold her like this as his ministrations began. He saw her toes curl in anticipation of the oncoming pain. He waited a few seconds her body now heaving as it sucked in air waiting for his strike.

Then he let go of the collar and she filled her lungs heavily and rapidly, almost hyperventilating giving her a heady rush. He knew her body was pumping adrenalin and endorphins, as it waited for the onslaught, focussing her nerves in the area she expected it so making her feel even more lightheaded. Yet he hadn’t even begun.

The first strike of his open hand on her exposed buttock left a broad red mark which her gasp and light cry acknowledged. He waited no more than a few seconds for her to get used to the pain searing through her before he started on a series of spanks to the same spot, deliberately to that area which was now glowing red. Having her repeat her humiliating confessions in time to the beats would deepen her submission as well as oxygenate the blood with quick shallow breaths further fuzzing her mind to any ability to conscious thought of what was happening anywhere other than right at this moment and right at this place of her punishment.

He would occasionally leave her side. He knew she couldn’t see him but would sense it. He wanted her to be wondering what he’d come back with. It could be seconds later or even a couple of minutes. He‘d sometimes gently stroke her hair or soothe her redness causing her heart rate to settle, or just as likely grip the collar again readying her for another strike. He quickly gripped one of her buttocks, squeezing to produce a mound of flesh in his fist and then rapidly spanked that spot hard several times, watching her squirm in discomfort trying to push away but failing. Her squeals and breathing were laboured.

Then more rest. He knew these highs and lows of activity would be having a thrilling effect on her and he absorbed all her bodily reactions to every thing he did and just as importantly to those things he didn’t do watching her body at all times for signs of her state of pleasure.

As her breathing began to settle again he gently stroked her bare skin massaging it sensually moving down between her legs till he felt her wetness as if it was seeping from her aroused slit. Her neediness and lust were literally oozing from her and he knew he’d take full advantage of her in this willing and defenceless state before they fell into each others’ arms with a deepened love, a trusted bond that grew stronger with each minute and with a destiny that was etched into their souls.

Smutathon Guest post from The Wragger 1: Waiting

[Note: This was written for Smutathon by The Wragger. He doesn’t have a blog, so I’ve posted it here.] 

His eyes are focussed, unwavering in their gaze, watching for the slightest sign, that indication of weakness and the perfect time to strike. To an onlooker, if there had been any, the scene would have seemed dark and oddly sinister.

Two people in the room starkly lit and in utter silence ,she on her knees, naked apart from the velvet collar around her throat, arms outstretched and hands crossed , head bowed and her long red hair covering her face, hiding the concentration in her eyes. He, stood over her, steady in his perfectly balanced pose, statue like steady, yet tense with latent energy like a cat about to pounce at its prey. He had told her of the pose he wanted, yet it wasn’t the pose he needed. The energy it takes to stand still seems incongruous but he knew that at the right time the body would ache and start its moan, building, slowly building, from a whisper to a scream.

That is when he’d make his move and his hand would swiftly deliver its reminder to her of his control. As he watched her he daren’t move. He didn’t want any of his own actions to influence hers. His breathing was soft and shallow, hiding the slightest flicker of his movement from her vision.

And so he watched her , eyes scanning her own breathing for irregular spasms, watching the sinews in her neck for that moment of tension that showed her straining against the tiredness of her raised arms. He strained to see the muscle tone in her arms and shoulders, trying to identify any contraction as the body involuntarily protected itself by tightening the fibres, letting blood flow through it.

His gaze caught that hollow of her breastbone just below the throat, where it glistened with perspiration when under duress, trying to identify moisture which would indicate that moment of surrender would come. He watched and waited, waited in silence , only one objective in mind, never blinking always scrutinising, unaware of time as time was immaterial. The only relevance in this room was to predict and know that precise moment when she thought she could no longer fulfil his command.

No thought was given to her state of mind, her own mindfulness, how she may dread that painful end to this dutiful task. He thought only of her body and the tiniest signal. He was totally absorbed in her. Even the strain he put his body through with his own motionless pose didn’t register. His was the mindset of the predator, where patience and determination sated the hunger and pain that grew inside. Nothing would prevent him from gorging his particular appetite from the burgeoning weakness that would undoubtedly unfold in front of him.

And at the first flutter of it, that is when the prey would be captured. The ambient noise dulled to nothing in his ears. His periphery vision was so narrow he could be in the darkest tunnel. He daren’t even acknowledge the fragrance she wore. Yet he had meticulously noted the shard of light that brightened the blaze of her red hair and focussed on the palms of her upturned hands, fingers curled as if she were pleading for alms. It was if the light reflected from the few square inches of her white palms also lit up the room, the e beam perfectly engineered onto that spot.

Suddenly he saw a tiny movement in her neck, a twitch , a weakening of the resolve. Surely this was it, all of his waiting was about to come to fruition and he’d deliver his reminder of his expertise to her. His hands gripped the long instrument he’d use fingers wrapped tight around it and thumb pressing down on the rim of it. He was ready to strike.

His eyes widened, waiting for the weakness to ripple through her body. Like watching the felling of a great tree. It began with almost impossible slow motion. Her neck started to bend,degree by tiny degree, her shoulder slumped almost imperceptibly but with utter certainty and then followed her upper arms softening and dropping.

And then all of a sudden all resistance was gone and her body slumped, shoulders falling into her torso head lolling forward and arms dropping lifeless. He had his moment. All this waiting and he had at last the opportunity to reminder her of the moment of her utter submission, the e moment of no going back the precise moment when her body gave in to him. He was more alive than he’d ever been: his brain was sharp and his senses alert like he was sensing electricity in the air and his hand sprang got life to do it what it had to capture her.

The shutter button on his thumb pressed and the camera took its one picture, preserving that moment of submission forever for them both.

Sinful Sunday: Discipline and drowning

She thought, while she could still think, that that second spanking was hurting more than anything else her Master had ever done. He’d held her tight while he rained down smacks on her bottom and thighs with that hairbrush. She remembered the pain, and the incredibly loud sound the wooded brush made when it impacted on her flesh. And she remembered his arm holding her waist, and his voice, telling her she was brave, and a good girl really.

She’d wailed, throughout. She couldn’t have managed words while it was happening, and anyway she dreaded what would happen if she complained or begged him to stop. It would start with him pausing, and saying, “Right: we start again,” and her new two minutes would begin, and the spanks would be even harder. She knew that, but disappointing him would be even worse. She wanted him to be proud of her. 

So she’d wailed and endured, and the heat burned into her skin and into her cunt. When he stopped he’d leaned down to kiss her bottom, and his lips felt so cool and so merciful. He murmured, “Now come for me, darling. Two minutes; you know you can, darling. And you will.” 

And she reached back under her belly and rocked while she stroked herself. The heat built in her cunt, and then the wave came back, fast and overwhelming, taking her and spinning her over and over, helpless. She imagined herself drowning, pulled under the water by this force. But she heard herself scream, the sound oddly distant, as if she was far away from herself. She was in an ocean and it was too much, too big: she screamed again, in fear and joy, and felt her body give.

She heard him saying she was his girl, and the best girl, a good girl, and he loved her. And she let herself rise back to the surface, where words and caresses mattered, and saw him looking at her. He looked so pleased and proud she laughed. But she still couldn’t access words. She lifted her free hand and fluttered her fingers at him.

He frowned, puzzled. Then his face cleared and he leaned down again, to kiss the back of her neck, then her ear. “Ah. Not drowning. Waving. Damn right. I love you.”



This photo was taken after that second spanking, seconds before her orgasm. It’s the last of the set, because after that there were better things to do than mess about with cameras. 

Click on the lips to see other Sinful Sunday entries!


Smutathon note: 

If you click on Home, or the words “Jerusalem Mortimer: Between the lines” at the top of the page, you’ll get my Smutathon contributions. Read them if you like: some of them make me laugh, even though I wrote them. It was an attempt to write as many banned content categories under UK’s cray-zee censorship laws as I could.

The bath scene is sexy rather than silly, so there’s that. Though if it had gone on for another episode, that bathroom would probably have been invaded by urinating ducks.

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!

G’night, all. For me, Smutathon is over

I’ve put in 13 hours, and written nearly 4,000 words, in 10 posts! 

I hope you enjoyed at least some of them, and if I made you smile, remember that a smile is precious, and go give all your worldly wealth to Smutathon

But it’s close to 2 in the morning here, and time for all filthhawks and smutmongers (your servant, I’m sure) to go to their cold, lonely beds, to dream about those
Antarctica girls who really should be here with me. 

Good night and Demogorgon bless you, every one!

(Give to Smutathon, supporting Rape Crisis and Backlash!) 


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

This is episode 2. Episode 1 is here.

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.” 


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.”



“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 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 7: The blowjob in the bath 3

Amy took her mouth off me eventually and looked up me, bright-eyed. “So, how do you feel?”

“Appreciated, I think. I feel- That was amazing, Amy girl. You’re pretty damn amazing.”

She looked happy. I made her turn around, and shampooed her hair and soaped her, giving special attention to her breasts, and cunt, as one does. Then I focused on stroking in and around her cunt until she splashed a lot more, and her breath was hard, and vocal. 

But she reached for my hand, and stopped me. “I want- I want something a little weird. A lot of people think it’s degrading. To me, at least. But I don’t. I think it’s kind of … It’s to do with really wanting you.”

“Um… You don’t have to be shy. Or ashamed. Who just took his belt to your bum?” 

“You sure did.” 

“Did I look like I was enjoying myself?” 

She smiled, and nodded. Something was still making her shy. 

“So I’m weird. So, seriously, I don’t judge. Tell me and the odds are I’m up for it.” 

She leaned back on me, and I wrapped my arms around her. We relaxed together. I held the glass for her so she could have another swallow of champagne without having to use her hands. 

“I want you to piss on me. Does that gross you out?” 

I was, in fact, surprised. I knew about water sports, but the fact that I’d never done it was a fairly reliable sign of a lack of interest. Or, because no one knows themselves completely, maybe it was just that no one had ever asked me before. I realised that even five or six seconds was too long. Amy was starting to look embarrassed. “No! Hell no, I don’t think that’s gross. Not at all.” 

“It’s a kind of acceptance of you. That everything that comes from you is good. I want to… I guess, celebrate you.” 

“I can see that. It makes sense.” I’d always thought that the people who thought Piss Christ was blasphemous, or anti-Christian, were simply stupid.

That image is kind of beautiful, and its meaning is that Christ, immersed in humanity, even in human urine, is still radiant. She wanted to be immersed in me. It was, in its way, one of the best compliments I’ve ever received. 

“What I mean is, though, I want you to piss on me.” 

I thought about logistics. 

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. 

The next episode is here.



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


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 5: The blowjob in the bath 2

Amy took another mouthful, the trouper, and resumed, lowering her mouthful of cold champagne down below water level and onto my cock. She sucked diligently, moving her lips up and down on the shaft. I put my hand on the back of her head, so she could feel I was controlling her, but lift her head and gasp in air if the needed to. 

I didn’t think the thing would be possible, but this was working. That sensation, of tension and urgency that seemed to start at the base of my spine, was there, and building. I was going to come unless I stopped her. I thought about pulling her off me, getting out of the bath and carrying her to bed, but this was too good to interrupt.

I brought my forearms down to the bottom of the bath so I could lift my body slightly. It meant most of my cock was out of the water, so she could breath, when she wasn’t taking me deeply and I wasn’t obstructing her trachea. Most of the time.

But in a while I put one hand on the back of her head again, holding a handful of her hair, and pushed her down a little deeper, taking my cock all the way. Her lips, sweetly pursed on my cock, touched my groin and stayed there. 

More water splashed. After nearly a minute I pulled her up, so she could breathe. She gasped in air, but without taking her mouth off me, and resumed sucking. Still, she put one hand on the base of my cock so she didn’t go so deep.

I focused my attention on the soft and firm feel of her thighs between my feet, the movements of her mouth, and the hollow of her cheeks as she sucked me. The sweetness and tension came closer, and I said, “Um, Amy, ah.”

I’d meant to warn her that I was about to come. But it was too late for that: a second later I’d started to gush, my head falling back and my body taut, while I made the noise that a lion makes, when beginning to eat an impala.

Amy made her own high-pitched nasal sounds. She sounded happy, though she hadn’t come. She swallowed once, hard, and kept her mouth on me, sucking and swallowing, then cleaning and kissing me, until I started to go soft.



Breach of UK’s stupid censorship law: Asphyxiation, again.


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.