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 3: The blowjob in the bath! 1

In the bath I lay back, arms resting on the sides while Amy knelt in front of me, took a mouthful of champagne, and lowered her body so she could close her mouth on my cock. That placed her nose and mouth some way under the water. 

Amy liked breath constriction, but I’d been reluctant to choke her with with my hand. So, being a clever girl, she’d found a way. And this was a stunt: she liked showing off. 

She kept her mouth tight so the cold champagne didn’t mix with the hot bath, and laved my cock with her tongue and sparkling liquid, slowly losing its chill.

When it was warm she swallowed. The sensation was far more intense than I’d expected.

I sat up abruptly, splashing water everywhere. “Holy fuck!”

Amy smiled triumphantly, and took another mouthful of champagne. This time she moved her mouth deeper, her head almost entirely underwater. I watched her floating hair and her rocking, bobbling ass, still looking well striped from that morning’s touch of the belt, while she sucked me.

This time she swallowed the champagne more slowly, head nodding, her lips sliding up and down my cock. She disappeared under the water again to take my cock deep into her throat. After nearly a minute there was another chaos of water, when she emerged suddenly into the air, choking and gasping.

 

Note:

Breach of UK’s demented censorship laws: Sexual asphyxiation. Also the reference to Amy getting the belt hard enough to leave stripes on her bottom: that reference is forbidden too. 

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.

Smutathon begins (in Australia) in 50 minutes!

Here we are. Just flexing the typing fingers.Welcome to Smutathon!

This man can do the C-major chord that opens Die Meistersinger, on piano. He can play the Hard Days Night chord on guitar. But let’s face it, he can’t type for shit. He hunts, he pecks, he writes utter crap.

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: for Rape Crisis Centres and the anti-censorship fightback!

The author, preparing for his twelve hour writing ordeal. Smut!

Smutathon is tomorrow!

It’s to raise money for two damn fine charities: Rape Crisis, and Backlash, which provides legal assistance for people being monitored under there UK’s demented censorship laws. 

As a non-Brit I’m supporting Backlash because the UK censorship laws are a thinly veiled pre-text for the government to filter their citizen’s access to the internet. That doesn’t just affect the UK (where about half this blog’s readership comes from) It affects all of us, as our governments will be watching the UK experiment. If they get away with it, then other governments will end internet freedom as well. 

So, as my contribution, I’m going to write for 12 hours on Saturday, pumping out as much sexual material as I can, of the kind many governments won’t like. =

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

Do it now! For freedom! And for, you know, erotic Art. 

 

Smutathon! For sexual freedom (including the right to say No!)

Smutathon – 1 July 2017! – is coming closer all the time! 

Smutathon is where a bunch of erotic writers around the globe get together, and type their keyboards out, creating lots of wicked but well-written smut. 

You sponsor us, so we know we have your wind behind our sails. The money goes to two absolutely essential charities,  Backlash UK – which provides pro-bono legal advice and campaigns for legal sexual freedom for consenting adults – and Rape Crisis England and Wales.

I’ve been thinking of what I’ll write.

I was going to finish the novel, but the closing pages of the book, as planned, contain no sex whatsoever. So instead I’m going to start a story I’ve been meaning to tell for a couple of years, about an incident in a bids club, late one night. Though that’d take more than 5,000 words, which is my target. So maybe I’ll think of a new, concentratedly sexy story, that fits 5,000 words like a glove. Drop in on 1 July to find out!

But you don’t have to wait to 1 July to visit to pledge or donate! Do it now! (Please.)

Sponsor me! For Smutathon! For Rape Crisis and Internet Freedom!

The Smutathon Writathon is on 1 July! So – please – get your donating fingers limbered up.

Smutathon is a group of erotica authors, sex bloggers, sex educators and friends who have decided to raise some money for organisations we believe in.

On 1 July, we’re going to have a joint, international session, each writer writing for a solid 12 hours, producing the best steamy writing they possibly can. We’ll share some of our writing on our blogs as we go, and we may even publish an e-book anthology at the end.

We’re splitting the money equally between two amazing organisations:

1) Backlash

For internet freedom, and freedom for kinksters to write and produce images!

Backlash campaigns for sexual freedom for consenting adults and provides legal support for sexual minorities who are unfairly targeted by outdated and nonsensical “obscenity” laws. Among other things, they have been responsible for getting the ridiculous ‘tiger porn case’ (look it up) struck down, and for campaigning to get amendments added to the Digital Economy Bill to make it less harmful to consenting adults engaging in safe and victimless fringe sexual practices.

2) Rape Crisis England & Wales
Rape Crisis is a feminist organisation that exists to promote the needs and rights of women and girls who have experienced sexual violence, to improve services to them and to work towards the elimination of sexual violence. Rape Crisis Centres are women-led and offer a range of support, advocacy, counselling and information, and also have separate services for male survivors.

Please support us in helping these two brilliant causes. Sexual freedom for consenting adults and freedom from sexual violence are human rights.

To donate, go here