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The Blowjob Reinterpreted in 5 Steps

Jenna Brett Ashley is a self-educated Sexologist and Rapid Results Couples Counselor who over the last five years has become a highly regarded Mentor and Counselor to the sexually shy but curious sector.

In her ebook “The Best Blow Job in Five Steps: the Art and Science of Mind-blowing Fellatio” you can gain expertise in five quick lessons and have the confidence to execute them in less than an hour.

 You will learn how to:

• Master the Five T’s to giving the Best Blowjob he’s ever had
• Overcome your anxiety
• Take control with total confidence
• Make your guy melt into a state of ecstasy from start to finish
• Practice a no fail method ahead of time
• Use a breathing technique for giving deeper oral
• Learn to activate the secret “It Switch ” all men have

Yes, she let me come on Saturday.

The whole thing was wonderful. Before we got down to business, she told me to undress and get into bed. I did, on my knees, burrowing my face into her, kneeling and demonstrating my willingness to submit. She ran her hand up my naked back and caressed my skin with her nails. I hadn’t been feeling super submissive up to that point, but the weight of the event was starting to dawn on me. I was going to have an orgasm. An orgasm I really wanted and was only going to get because she was allowing it to happen. I got under the covers and laid next to her, opening myself to more of her caressing.

She ran her hands all over me except on the aching part that wanted it the most. I shifted around trying to help her find what she was obviously avoiding.

“Please,” I whispered. “Please touch it.”

“There’s plenty of time for that,” she replied calmly. She’s always calm in bed. I get so turned on and fight for control and she stays cool and collected.

“I want it so bad.”

“I know.”

After a few moments, she finally found her cock. I gasped. Even though I had been unlocked for weeks and had plenty of opportunity to feel a hand on my erections, this was altogether different. This was her hand.

“How many times did you play with this while I left you unlocked?” She asked. I avoided her eyes. I hadn’t expected that. I felt guilty. “How many times?” she repeated. Not angrily, but firmly.

“I don’t know…” I said sheepishly. I felt like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“You don’t know,” she repeated.

“No, I don’t,” I said. Then, eventually, “Lots. More than I should have.”

“Uh huh.”

“You said I could that one time,” I said, gamely groping for an out.

She grabbed my nuts and squeezed. The pain was instant and severe. I gasped as her griped tightened and I felt one testicle slowly and uncomfortably grind against the other. She let go and I collapsed against her, panting. The pain throbbed dully and the cock was harder than before.

After a few moments of relief, she quickly grasped my testes in her hand again, squeezing even harder than before. The pain seared up and out of my groin and spread throughout my body. Her nails began to dig into the soft scrotum skin. I realized I was being punished for playing with her cock.

“I’m sorry,” I finally gasped and she released me.

I nuzzled into her and apologized again.

“You’re weak,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“I’ve been far too indulgent with you,” she said. “I’m going to lock you back up tomorrow. You need to focus more on me.”

“Yes, Belle Fille,” I whispered. Her attitude was unexpected, as was the intensity of her punishment. She had quickly driven me deeply into subspace.

A short while later, she allowed me to begin bringing her to orgasm. I pulled up her top and started suckling her nipples, feeling them stiffen in response. I brought my hand down between her legs and felt the glowing heat coming through the material of her pajama bottoms. I pulled them down and felt her slick wetness under my fingers.

“I want your tongue in my pussy,” she said bluntly. “I want you to eat me out.”

I moaned and quickly moved between her legs, planting my mouth on her wet snatch. I absolutely reveled in her juices, slurping them down as the soft folds of her flesh responded to my insistent tongue. I reached up and played with her nipple. Soon, she was breathing hard and gasping “oh, fuck” repeatedly. She came really hard and I laid my face against her wet heat, rhythmically grinding the hard cock pressing into the mattress.

After basking for a few minutes, she brought me back up and indicated it was time for me to go. I easily slid the cock into her pussy, loosely relaxed and supremely wet as it always is post-cunnilingus. I quickly got up to speed, wanting to enjoy the feeling of purposeful fucking but also wanting to feel the orgasm I knew I’d have. I held her head with one hand, the other on her hip, and kissed her face. I felt such love and affection for her. Felt so grateful to her. So connected to her.

All too soon, I felt the orgasm lock and load. I was still pumping, but beyond the point of no return. It started to well up inside me from great depths. I gasped, “This is yours,” and shot my load inside her. Again and again the cock flexed and more of my seed surged into her. I was grunting and gasping and just fucking coming like a feral pig. I had been so horny – wound up so tight in anticipation – and all of it was swirling away inside as the pent-up energy drained out with the orgasm like water down a drain.

Immediately afterward, I was spent. Totally spent. Exhaustion came over me like a heavy blanket. I felt contentment unlike any I’ve felt in quite a while. This was no half orgasm. There was no restraint on my part. It was my night and I came completely. In no time, I was out. Deeply asleep. Content.

Sometimes I am blessedly naïve about the world of porn. Friday’s date and my partner both seemed slightly bemused that I have had no knowledge of this video. The subject came up in regards to progression and diversity of limits as in:

“It’s not like the girls in 2 girls, 1 cup started there.”

I was naïve enough to ask what 2 girls, 1 cup is… if you don’t know Google it. I suggest reading the wiki entry on it, and no I didn’t watch it and YES that is very far outside of my limits.

As was explained to me the thrill for those fetishists is everything they are doing, is repelled by the body. The body is screaming ‘no! no! no!’ and it’s that visceral impulse that – for them – turns them on and screams ‘yes! yes! yes!’ I am holding firmly to the belief that there is not enough money in the world to convince non-fetishists to do that.

It does bring me to the troublesome topic about what does turn me on, get me going – what am I looking for? You may have noticed that I’m having some difficulty articulating these details, mostly because I think I have yet to discover many of them.

Reading this blog thus far will give an overview that I really enjoy sex, have a thing for anonymous sex, have a series of thoughts around forced fantasy, struggle with the meaning of submission and did I mention really like sex. Luckily for me Friday* did some pre-date reading in advance of our encounter.

Credit where credit is due, the man is good and knows what he is doing. Would I go back for more? Definitely – if he is interested.

He did not produce a large trunk of toys or implements and instead kept things basic; although, there was nothing ‘basic’ for me about the intensity of the experience.

I find myself yet again in a scenario where I know Friday is significantly more experienced than I am. Which, is something that I’m really coming to enjoy about this more thorough search process.

There was a movie. I think it had sharks. He was a gentleman and we did the talking thing first – in more detail than we could at the pub. My inability to articulate what it is that I’m looking for likely inhibited any deep insights, or maybe my lack of clear direction can be an insight in and of itself. Not sure how helpful that is.

Reflecting on the evening I’m not sure how much he planned and how much just flowed well. Stretching out on the couch he positioned himself so that he had full access to me, but I could not touch him very well. I didn’t think much of that until he had taken me into the bedroom and I realized that I hadn’t touched any part of him covered by clothing.

He played rough for me, what I’m guessing is mild-rough for him. Pushed me onto the bed (good height for a bed) face down. Direction was minimal, he told me to put my arms out straight in front of me. I felt a condom wrapper hit my back and he was getting undressed when there was that line that made me whimper:

“So you have no idea how big I am?”

It’s not exactly and unfamiliar theme with men. And, I’ve lost count of the amount of times a man has said it online. Fair to say that I take those comments with a large grain of salt (maybe a cup or two). That [implied] claim does however take on a completely different tenor when said immediately pre-penetration. A man who says that at that exact moment is either overly self-confident, or is not lying.

He was not lying, and high praises for a good long session of foreplay otherwise I’m reasonably sure I might have fainted. For those male egos out there, size does count for something, but it is not everything. You do need to know how to use it… maybe more so if you are well endowed.

Case in point: I have had encounters with two men who were of similar dimensions and it was difficult and a little painful both times. Neither session lasted long, and hand jobs were the feature du jour in both cases. Not the case with Friday.

I’m assuming he had more than a little fun dropping that surprise on me. I was likely more surprised at how well he ‘fit’ in me than he was. The theme for the rest of the night from my end was ‘no self control’… none what-so-ever. Any measure of physical self-control I had learned in London was completely out of the window. I could not control my screaming, staying on the bed, my arms, grabbing… no nothing. It was a lot of fun to loose that much self-control.

Another “thank you” owed to Friday, and this one is a little sensitive to admit for me since I consider myself to have had a reasonably high number of partners. I am not the easiest woman in the world to get to cum. Sometimes I deal with it myself and I consider it a good encounter if a partner can get me off on a first encounter. That being said the other line of the night that caught me by surprise was me saying:

“Oh fuck, was that the condom that broke or me.”

He pulled out… the condom was fine. You may be wondering how I could not know it was me. At that point he had brought me to climax more than a few times, and there is only one other person who has EVER gotten me to produce any significant amount of fluid. So, to have that happen on a first encounter was not expected and safe to say my reaction was at first “shit do I still have a plan B prescription at home.”

Then there are my own short comings. Namely oral at that size. Generally I think I’m pretty good with oral, but not having had the 2 girls, 1 cup discussion at this point I was seriously afraid I was going to vomit on him if I pushed to take anymore. On the one hand – yes I really like oral, yes I really like to be face fucked roughly – but it seems wrong to puke on a guy on the first date. Is there an etiquette guide for that?

We had decided earlier that restraints on a first encounter were not going to be used. Instead he held my hands behind my back taking me from behind again. At this point I was so over-sensitized that control was not happening. He did keep a hold of me though, and then called break.

I was a brat after break. He was trying to warm me up again with some slapping, pinching and teasing – it wasn’t working for me. Award for most tactless line of the evening:

“I like the rough sex, you’re good at the rough sex… very good, but I can get that anywhere.”

Okay well maybe ‘anywhere’ is an exaggeration. Definitely an exaggeration. I’ve had few partners who are as active and engaging on a ‘just sex’ level. But that is the difference, I think, between a search for sex hookups and BDSM. I have the sexual attention span of a gnat… “that was good… what’s next!?” I really need a psychological or creative engagement for my mind beyond the initial shock of sex with a stranger.

Luckily for me he decided not to kick my bratty ass out right then (totally warranted). The instruction: hands behind my head, keep them there – if I didn’t he was stopping right away and kicking me out. I bought it. I love games, he was also believable, and I’m sure he knew how much I wanted him to fuck me again.

I tried, I tried really really hard, and went longer than I thought I could, but eventually gave in. He played his hand and stopped right away. Busted.

I’m glad he’s a compassionate lay, he relented after a few seconds with the rationale that the game is to give me a task and then make it as difficult as possible to complete, the game is over when I fail the task – no pointing continuing beyond then. That and he had noticed my intolerance for denial play.

Next steps remain unknown. Proof that I would have a challenge with him was a not small amount of blood when I went to the bathroom to clean up – no pain though, so I am happy. I am definitely inexperienced next to him, which I like but a lot will depend on if he wants to pursue things with a partner as inexperienced as me. That and I was a brat, which I’m not always, but that’s always a factor. I’m keeping my fingers crossed none-the-less.

*I need some sort of non-identifiable naming convention for dates now. I think I’m going with Switch, London and Friday. The last of which is the least descriptive, but I’m thinking that due to proximity that’s a good thing.

My good friend Sexobsessed posted a topic that I feel we as men need to dabble more into – eating pussy. She mentioned some good hygiene factors about the pussy that most men didn’t know about. So regarding the good reasons why men should eat more, I just want to add my 2 cents to her wonderful discussion.

Fellas, first off you gotta embrace it. You gotta learn to enjoy the divine bliss of a woman. Start small, get familiar with the area first before diving straight in. Give the area a few soft kisses and when your comfortable slowly place ur tongue between the lips and give ur tongue a flicker. What’s the worst that could happen? And you’ll find out that you enjoy the pleasures of a woman.

Second, guys let’s look at it like this: we love receiving head and the same goes for woman. Oral sex is a two way street and woman can’t be ignored just because you may be scared of the unknown. Their “goodies” need to be appreciated with some good tongue action as well the small stroke of a tongue can provide lots of passion and enjoyment to a woman.

Third, if your a guy that’s lacking some…..ummmm….areas in size and/or sex, then a good oral game is going to be your new found strength that will get your more action until you up your game.

I’ve had quite a heavenly experience of using my tongue as a twister, its allowed me to reach new levels with a woman and provide great sexual excitement in the moment. So fellas learn to love licking a woman, it will guarantee lots more pussy in the future.

“So, what is ’sex’ for lesbians, anyway? I mean, neither of you have a dick, so it’s not like you can really fuck. You just haven’t been fucked by the right dick yet.”

You know, you’re right, guy who still high-fives and wears Ed Hardy shirts. Obviously we dykes can’t have “real” sex. “Real” sex requires use of your giant cock. You describe “sex” as the act of penetration. And even though I can penetrate a woman using other methods, and probably find her G-spot more quickly and efficiently than you can, I’m not having real sex with her. It’s ‘cause I can’t cum in her butt crack, isn’t it? Don’t be shy…you know that’s your jizz-catching area of choice…usually ‘cause you’re fucking her doggy-style…or you just have it in her asshole…I’m not insinuating you’re a closet homo or anything. Your protein shake is ready.

As stated by Jenny Schecter, in Showtime’s The L Word, “The primary sex act for women involves giving one’s partner the best and most mind-blowing orgasm.” With that said, “sex” could be anything from watching your partner fly solo with her vibrator, to fucking her with a strap-on. Penetration is usually encouraged, but not necessary. Some of us, however, get our rocks off simply by “topping” our lovers. We don’t necessarily want anything in return; we just want to make our ladies cum. Hard. And often.

So to answer your question, Broseph, pleasuring a woman with my mouth isn’t just “oral,” it’s sex. And penetrating her with my hand isn’t just “fingering” her, it’s sex. And using a dildo or strap-on with her isn’t “pretending to have a dick,” it’s sex. We’re not fucking each other because we haven’t met you yet, we’re fucking each other because we like to fuck women. It’s okay, honey…I’d be jealous of my black 9-inch too.

August 31, 2009

[To see the blog at Creative Loafing, click here.]

Dear reader, this absurd erotic parable was found in an attic chest.  It is obviously a translation but I cannot locate the original.  The hand written paper seems to date from the early to mid-eighteenth century and was translated by one Mary Wroth Piercepenny.  I have cleaned up the prose where necessary though some mistakes may remain.  The original was archly Victorian and antiquated in style.

Parable
A Suggestive Fable by Redbud

Our island is split into two parts, as far as I know.  I grew up only knowing one part, the part where there were only others like me: women. As a young girl I would watch those only a little older than I whisper among themselves and talk of what lay on the other half.  These were the ones who had never been there.  Some time during the year, one among them would go, and then another, and then another.

Most would not come back.  Some did.  Of those that did, they would not speak of what they had seen or what they had done or rather (as I was to learn later) what had been done to them.  I observed that, of those who returned, some would soon grow big with child whereas others did not.  Many of them seemed ashamed.  Only a very few were not.  When I would ask them what they saw, these women would only smile at me and say the others were being silly.  They patted my head and told me nobody made them go and nobody would make me go.  Indeed, some women did not go, saying they found everything they wanted in the women they were with.

This only made me all the more curious.  What a strange thing . . .   As a child, I had no desire to go to this other part of the island which elicited such strange reactions.  As I grew older, however, the secret seemed unbearable to me.  This became especially so when a friend with whom I had grown up went to this other part, making me promise I would tell no one.  She did not return for two days and the guilt of my knowledge was apparent to everyone.  I said nothing.

She returned on the evening of the second day.  When I asked her what she had seen she kissed me on my cheek, saying nothing.  The kiss was tender.  I resolved to spy on her that night.  Imagine my horror.  When I peered through the door of her hut I saw her moaning, her hands mysteriously between her legs.  Then, my friend who had always been so tall and willowy, so graceful and statuesque, climbed from her bedding to kneel like an animal on her hands and knees.  She placed her cheek on the earth, arched her back so that her nether regions were obscenely displayed, and continually moved her fingers between her legs until she shuddered and moaned, whereupon she remained in this wretched position, her hips convulsing until she finally exhaled and moaned.

I resolved to discover what had reduced my childhood friend to such an abject, subservient posture.  What could have been done to her to make her display herself so shamefully like an animal.  The next week, I too went out to discover this other part of the island.  I took my spear for protection.

I had walked through the jungle for most of the day and just when I thought I had walked this far in vain, I saw another hunter within a spear’s throw, but this hunter looked nothing like me or any of the women I had known.  There were others with the hunter, but it was this first hunter that captivated me.  The other hunters retreated, having seen me, seeming to suddenly defer to this hunter.  I could not guess at the reason.  This hunter’s chest lacked breasts, his shoulders were broader than my own, and he was taller.  I noted that he moved with less grace than me; perhaps not with less grace, but with a different kind of grace – less fluid but more powerful.  I was mesmerized by this creature so like and unlike me.  I was spellbound by his eyes and mouth and hands.

He put down his spear and I raised mine.  He approached me confidently. I kept my spear raised.  I confess that I was confused, and so I allowed him to approach too closely.  He brushed my spear aside and touched my face. Was this the hunter that so shamed everyone?  His hands moved to my neck and then my shoulders.  I made no move.  Then his hands moved slowly to my breasts.  I realized then that I was as new to him as he was to me. My breathing quickened.  I recalled that only a few women returned from this journey.  Why hadn’t he speared me?  Was I not what he was hunting?  His thumbs brushed lightly over my nipples, which stood at his touch, then down my stomach.  I inhaled sharply for no woman had touched me like this. His hands moved over my hips, so different from his own.  His fingers moved deftly and my loin cloth fell to the earth between my feet.

I stood naked but I was prepared to struggle violently.  The strange hunter stepped away.  He peered at me.  Curious.  Seemingly as enthralled as I was.  Confused.  His hands moved to his own loin cloth and he deftly undid them.  I gasped.  A great spear sprung erect from between his legs. I had been tricked!  I saw that he gazed fixedly where my own loin cloth had been.  Fear coursed through me.  I turned and ran.  These strange hunters carried their spears hidden!

I ran but this hunter, so like and unlike myself, was faster and more powerful.  He pursued me vigorously.  Strangely, my fear was also tinged with an excitement I didn’t understand.  I had never been pursued like this. Memories of my own hunting returned to me – the boars, birds and the swift and slender deer.  Was I like one of these deer to him?  I would elude him.

Yet my breaths became ragged and though he was winded too, he was faster. I stumbled and he stumbled after me.  The leaves and stems of the jungle lashed us both until I finally could bear no more.  It seemed that we had run twice around the island.  I collapsed onto my hands and knees, struggling to breathe, hoarse with breathing.  I had not eluded him.  Is this how the deer felt?

I heard the hunter approaching me from behind.  I tried to catch my breath and run again, but only stumbled once more onto my hands and knees. I was exhausted.  I glanced back at him and saw him approach me, taking his spear in one hand as it rose upward from between his legs, easily exceeded the length of his grip.  For the first time I tasted a kind of excitement I had never imagined.  I had always been the victor but, I was discovering, there was a different kind of excitement in defeat.  The blood rushed in my ears.

The hunter fell to his knees behind me.  He twined one hand in my hair. Let him slay me, I decided with a kind of dignity, knowing now what the exhausted animal must feel.  He had bested me but I would be worthy.  I felt him pull my head upward, baring my throat.  He pushed my knees apart, opening my soft underbelly.  I struggled but the hunter only pulled backward until I moaned, abased before him on my hands and knees.  I resigned myself to death.  It was then that I felt something hot brush my thighs and belly.  His spear!  I felt the length of it slide between my legs and the very top touch my belly button.  I jumped at the unexpected touch but the hunter held me, his hand still in my hair.

I next felt the tip drawn back and then placed against me, at the base of my belly, just between my legs.  He pushed.  I cried out!  The tip of his spear had pierced me at the base of my belly, between my thighs!  I could not breathe.  How could it be?  Where was this place where he could pierce into my body?  I felt no pain.  He partly withdrew and then drove his weapon upward again, mysteriously, further into the softness of my belly. I keened and began to struggle as I felt the spearhead somewhere inside me, the width of it stretching my thighs at its base.  He tugged my head backward and I realized how this forced me to arch and present my soft belly.  The pain of this spear, of this death, was a kind a had never felt before.  I gasped.  I had not understood that there was a kind of pleasure in death.  I felt him withdraw, then thrust his spear once more sharply upward, and I froze with a sharp intake of breath.  I was fully impaled on the hunter’s spear.  The tip felt as though it were buried in my breast.  Had his spear created this opening into my body?  Would the wound between my legs heal and close?

Again he withdrew and again he drove into my body . . .   again and again. My mouth opened as I felt the widening, exiting and widening between my thighs and the prodding deeply inside me (for what, I didn’t know).  I felt the strange pleasure of the animal who finally surrenders.  How strange, when one has always been the hunted, to be spitted by another’s spear!  Then it occurred to me that this was how an animal is spitted, the spear driven upward between its legs, into the softness of its core.  A sudden shame overcame me.  Let him spear me through my heart but not like this!  But again, my resolve to struggle came too late.  As though sensing my desire to flee, he drove himself deeply into my body and held me like this.

I suddenly was filled with shame.  I opened my legs wider wishing to hasten my death.  He withdrew, only to drive his spear more and more deeply into me until I cried out, shamefully with every thrust of his weapon.  Soon, my breasts heaved and I twisted under him as a boar in its death throes, having no dignity.  My back arched and twisted, my hips rose and fell with his, my breasts seemed to swell as he continued to pierce my belly.  I struggled but he held me firmly, thrusting his spear into me as though (if he only thrust into my body enough) he would finally spear the life in me, subduing me.  My nipples were afire and stood stiffly.  Though my will burned, my body suddenly trembled and began its own surrendering. How strange!  After so much prodding, he had found the place deep in my body, a place I had never knew of, and repeatedly impaled me there…  There…  And there again.

I breathed and I swallowed, I breathed and I swallowed.  My death approached.  I struggled but the more I struggled the more he thrust.  There.  Right there.  There.  He found it.  Over and over again, he speared it — my will.  He impaled it again and again.  I felt my will’s death throes rising upward through my belly, my spine, into my swelling breasts. My throat grew tighter and tighter.  I could not breathe.  My body grew stiff.  Then he thrust hard, as if he knew this last thrust would finally spear the trembling in my soft belly.  I cried out (or screamed), convulsing around the spear that pierced me from behind.  As if my body were making one last effort to expel this weapon, I could feel my opening clench, release, clench and release helplessly around the width of the spear.  But my body’s efforts were too feeble.  I spasmed as a dying animal–spitted–the spear in place.  My eyes rolled upward and my exhalation was a prolonged moan.  The hunter let go of my hair.  I collapsed, my cheek against the earth, defeated, his spear still embedded in my body.

At last I felt him withdraw.  I fell to the earth and turned onto my back.  I saw the hunter’s spear still erect.  He lowered himself above me and I felt it brush my thighs and belly.  He gazed at my breasts and belly, as one appraising his kill.  Then I saw him move stealthily, feeling him place his weapon carefully between my legs again.  His spear was large.  This time I could see his weapon entering me and was astonished that so large a weapon could be lodged between my thighs and so far inside me.  I groaned.  He raised himself, rearing back, then drove forward.  I cried out as I watched his weapon disappear into my belly again.

The girth drove my legs wider and I once more wondered at how easily he had penetrated me.  When would he cease?  He had won.  And yet he speared me just as a hunter will spear a bear again and again to be sure it is dead. I moaned with his thrusts, continually.  I could not surrender any more.  Then, to my confusion, a terribly pained look disturbed his gaze.  He thrust his spear deeply and sharply into me, holding himself there.  I twisted beneath him as his body stiffened.  Then he moaned, shook and convulsed as if the throes of death had taken him also- his weapon inside me convulsing.  How could this be?  He remained like this, his eyes closed, his convulsions slowly subsiding.  Finally, with one great exhalation, the hunter rolled aside and onto his back.

I could have escaped.  I lived.  Yet why did I not want to?  The same curiosity that had imperiled me by coming to this part of the island, now kept me at this hunter’s side, my hands above me and my legs fully open.  Had I wanted this?  I gazed at the darkening treetops above me.  I had not died.  Night had fallen and we were lit by the moonlight.  Finally, the hunter sat up.  I saw that the hunter’s spear was now soft and glistened with dew.  I marveled.  My hunter was strangely beautiful.  My legs remained apart for him.  I touched the place his spear had opened between my legs.  Wetness issued from there and I thought it must be blood but I saw none.  Instead, a clear and whitish fluid issued from my body.  Such a strange wound, I thought to my self.

Then I felt my will trembling like a fish deep in my belly.  Wounded.  But I strangely wanted him to spear it again.  I desired the throes of death again.  He gazed there, oddly pleasing me, only to quietly rise and leave me.  Was I no longer desirable?  What hunter would leave his quarry after such a struggle?  Perhaps he had done to me what he must have done to so many other women.  However, because I was not certain where I was, I closed my eyes to sleep.

In time, I heard footsteps and I quickly crouched, ready to defend myself.  It was my hunter.  He smiled at me, which disarmed me, and sat down across from me.  He laid down fronds for me to sleep on.  My hunter watched me, not with the same gaze with which he had first observed me (not with the wild stare of one who has spotted his prey) but like one who gazes at a flower.  But not like a flower, like someone who has caught something he has especially wanted before remembering.  He gazed at me like no one ever had.  He appraised every part of me: my hips, my breasts, my legs, my buttocks, the place between my legs, my lips and eyes.  There was nothing that he did not miss and again I found that I enjoyed his gaze.  I did not wish to lie down.  I too gazed at him, noticing all the differences between us.

When his gaze finally settled on that opening between my legs, I saw the spear affixed between his legs begin to harden.  I could not take my eyes from it.  It grew in girth and length until it stood up from his belly — impossibly large again.  My own breathing quickened.  I feared the size of it, but there was also something that wasn’t fear.  Still, I turned and lay down on my belly, facing away from him.  I suddenly did not wish to be impaled again.  I desired sleep and sleep quickly overtook me.

When I awoke, it was not morning.  I was still on my belly.  I felt his presence above me.  I dared not move.  It was then that I felt the heat of his body brush my buttocks.  I knew it was his weapon.  I felt it brush downward until the tip of it was at the backs of my thighs.  I must have opened my legs in my sleep, stirring the hunter’s spear.  I briefly marveled at how this opening between my legs so inflamed the hunter.  Then I felt the girth of his spear between my thighs.  I could not conceal my breath.  I felt the sudden urge to fly.  Yet he was faster and stronger than I.  Should I wrestle with him?  Then I felt the tip of his weapon against the opening he had already made.  Did he think the wound would heal if he did not pierce it again?  I dug my fingers into the soil and at that moment I felt his weapon open me.  This time he did not stop pushing his spear into me until the fullness and depth of the penetration forced me to cry out.

I felt him slowly withdraw.  Is this all that he would do?  Then he drove fully forward again.  I cried out again.  He kept himself thus, deeply inside me, without moving.  I clawed at the soil, twisted on the hardness that pierced me, unable to escape it.  The little fish, my will, trembled in my belly; then, as I struggled I myself drove it upon the end of his spear.  I froze.  But my hunter knew he had pierced that part of me and began thrusting in me again and again.  I twisted but what could I do? My will had been spitted on the end of his spear.  I cried out like a bird with each piercing.

The hunter’s efforts soon grew more determined.  I felt my breasts swell and my nipples harden against the rubbing leaves.  Why had nature made me this way?  – allowing such a hunter to pierce me again and again until I surrendered my will to him?  There.  There.  Where nothing had ever prodded before, the tip of him drove unerringly.  I twisted, clawed at the earth and writhed beneath him.  Images of animals in their death throes clouded my mind, speared and panting.  I gasped, confused, again desiring to be at the end of his spear.  I wished to escape and also wished he would quell me with one great thrust.

I arched my back, in my struggles, and it was then that his spear so fully pierced my soft belly that my body stiffened at once.  My mouth fell open.  I could not breathe.  The hunter held himself deeply in my upturned belly, his hands on my hips.  The fluttering in my belly had been speared through.  I felt the death throes spread at once through my loins and breasts.  I moaned and the convulsions deep in my belly spread to the whole of my body.  I opened my legs and belly to him, possessed by him, surrendering to him, once again.  He no longer needed to hold my hips, his piercing having done its work.

I remembered my friend, trembling on her hands and knees.  I groaned, my voice punctuated by his renewed thrusts.  At last, I felt him stiffen above me.  He gripped my hips and I felt his weapon convulsing.  We both cried out.  The pangs of death came upon me again, suddenly and unexpectedly.  When at last he rolled from me I reached down to that opening in which his weapon had been sheathed to again feel a thick heavy fluid flowing out of me.  What was this strange fluid that my body surrendered?  I brought the liquid to my lips and took it in my mouth.  It tasted of salt.  I saw that he gazed at me.

In the morning I was dirty, having been pinned to the earth both on my back and on my belly, the hunter having slain me twice.  I had only just stood when the hunter reappeared.  He held fruit and vegetables, offering them to me.  He smiled and again this disarmed me.  I sat and I ate.  As he gazed at me, what little fear remained began to dissipate.  The juices of the fruits ran down my neck and breasts.  He stared at my breasts and between my thighs.  Though his spear did not rise, my nipples rose and hardened.  He seemed to stare at me as one stares at a seashell that is especially beautiful.  I strangely desired his gaze now, relishing his gaze, having been frightened of it only yesterday.  No one had ever stared at me as this hunter did.  A moisture dampened my thighs and it was not from the juice of eating.  I struggled not to lie down upon the earth and open my legs to him, to let him see this dampness soaking my thighs, to let him see that I desired his gaze.

And yet, at once feeling possessed by his stare, a new feeling came over me.  I suddenly felt as if I were the possessor, for he could not take his eyes from me.  I stood and began walking to where I thought the ocean was. I needed to bathe.  I stopped sometimes to stretch, relishing the effect my body had upon the hunter, strangely excited by being the prey.  I saw that if I stooped sometimes, as if to pick up some distraction (bending over before him) so that the opening to my underbelly was revealed to him, his spear would rise and harden.  I remained so once, as if unable to find some pebble.  I saw my hunter’s spear harden and saw him approach me from behind, taking his spear in hand.  With an effort of will I stood, my nipples hard and my thighs moist.  I saw that this was a dangerous game!  Even as he fell under my spell, I too fell under his.  I almost did not stand.  I felt his hand on my back, as if to bend me over again, but I acted as though I had not felt him and walked ahead, for I knew he intended to spear me between my legs again.

At last we came to water.  I at once dove in.  The hunter smiled and sat at the edge of the water.  I swam and bathed myself and as I cleaned I saw his gaze fall again and again upon my breasts, belly, hips and legs.  His spear jutted from his belly and finally, as a panther that knows the time to strike, he strode toward me.  Only now I remembered what my mother once had always told me.  When faced by a wild animal, it is sometimes better not to run.  As the hunter walked toward me, his spear full and stiff, I walked toward him.  As he reached for me, I reached for him.  I took hold of his spear in both hands.  This surprised him.  His hands fell on my own but I did not let him go.  This was the first time I had felt him.

His spear felt heavy and hot.  I touched the tip and the hunter trembled. I moved my hand over the tip again and again he trembled.  Then I pulled on the skin with my other hand until it covered the tip of him.  The hunter groaned and my curiosity was aroused.  I took hold of the sack beneath his spear with my free hand and felt two nuts inside it.  I squeezed and the hunter flinched, unmistakably pained by what I had done. With my other hand, however, I caused him to moan as I slowly moved the skin of his spear back, revealing the tip again.  I squeezed his sack once again, if only to avenge his having impaled me twice already, and this seemed to subdue him.  I was the hunter again.

Still holding his spear, I pushed him backward until he sat in the shallow water leaning back on his hands.  I knelt down with him and I continued to pull and tug on his spear, exploring it, holding it, and squeezing it until a smooth and syrupy whiteness glistened from its tip.  The hunter groaned loudly and lay back in the water.  I lowered my lips to the tip of him, tasting him, and then knew that this was the fluid with flowed from my belly, which he wished to drive into me again.

My own nipples hardened at this thought and again I felt my own moisture wetting my thighs.  I was aroused.  I was the hunter again.  Against his will I was drawing this liquid from him!  I would force him to spill it!  I drew him into my mouth and this seemed to draw the greatest moans from him. I did this for some time until I saw his body stiffen and I recognized the onset of his death throes.  I did not cease but pushed and pulled at his spear, keeping my mouth around him.  I would draw this fluid from him as the panther draws blood from her victim’s neck.  He twisted and arched and moaned but I did not let him out of my mouth.  Finally he cried out and stiffened.  I still held him in my mouth until his death throes began.  Fluid burst from his spear.  It struck my face and breasts and it fell on his own belly in long white strings that issued forth with every spasm.  At last, seemingly exhausted, the hunter was still again.  I let go of his spear and watched a last weak spasm drop more of the whitish fluid on his belly.

It was then, I knew, that I would not return home.

I wished to be the hunter.

And I wished to be the hunted.

I knew I wanted to draw this death from him again.

I knew he wanted to drive his spear into my belly again.

I lay down next to him but I could not rest.  The place between my legs ached.  I myself desired his spear within me.  I would not let his fluid go to waste again.  It was mine.  It belonged to me.  I was restless.  I felt between my legs and felt a slickness and moisture such as I had never felt before.  I moaned.  I heard my hunter stir and I continued to touch myself, moaning again.  I knew what to do.  I opened my legs so that he could see my opening.  My legs were open to him, my body awaiting him, and it was then that I saw his weapon rise.  I slipped my own finger inside myself, in imitation of his spear, and saw that his weapon had become large and stiff again.  I had ensnared him — my prey.  If he thought to rise up, I was quicker.  I sat up and straddled his belly, my hands on his shoulders.

I held him there.  I slid on his belly, on the moisture between my thighs.  When I pushed backward, I felt his spear between my buttock.  We moaned together.  I did not wish him to spend his fluid unless it was in me. My hunter’s fluid belonged to me.  Gazing in his eyes, I lifted myself until the place between my thighs that led into my belly was over his spear. I lowered myself until I felt the tip of him touching me.  I saw that he groaned and that his eyes rolled upward.  I would take this liquid from him.  It was then that I knew he could not stop me.  I knew then what he must have felt in mastering me.

I lowered myself and took his instrument into my belly, trapping him there.  He twisted, groaning, and this aroused me greatly.  Just as there had been nowhere for me to go when he had impaled me, now there was no where for him to go.  I held the part of his body fully in my own and I would not let him go until he had surrendered his juices to me.

I soon found what motions elicited the greatest cries from him.  I moved up and down and slid back and forward.  The hunter began to pant and this only caused me to increase the speed with which I moved.  Yet soon my own cries were joining his.  In my haste to force from him his own death, I only drove his spear more deeply into my own belly!  My legs clenched and my breath caught as a spasm gripped me.  I had not expected this!  I stopped, but suddenly the hunter drove himself upward into me.  I gasped. The hunter took hold of my hips and drove upward again, the tip of him deep in my body.  I knew if I let him continue thus, he would pierce my own fluttering will first.

I knew what I must do.  I must force his surrender first.  I at once begin to move again.  He groaned and his hands moved to my breasts.  I had not expected this and did not understand why until he held and pinched my nipples.  I gasped and another spasm shook me deeply where the tip of his spear probed me.  Still, I struggled to draw his juices from him and forced him to groan and arch beneath me as I began to squeeze him with the muscles of my opening.  The hunter tugged at my nipples again.  My voice became one long moan punctuated by the thrusting and squeezing of my own body.  I began to feel my own surrendering as he speared my belly more and more deeply.  I would lose this struggle.

Desperate, I again squeezed that part of his body that was trapped in my own and ground myself upon him.  I fully surrendered my body, naked and gasping, in order to force his own surrendering.  I was trembling and began crying out as I felt my belly giving way.  Suddenly I saw the hunter stiffen and arch.  A long groan escaped him as he twisted beneath.  My own body stiffened.  I struggled to remain atop him, to take him, to hold off my own death throes.  My hunter spasmed violently and I felt the first burst of his juice fill me.  I began to move again to force the rest from him.  I had won, and yet that first burst of fluid had done its work.  The first convulsion overtook my own body, archly jolting my back and neck, just as more of the hunter’s juice burst into my belly.  We convulsed together, each crying out and each moaning as our bodies surrendered to each other.

At last, I collapsed atop him, his juices running down my thighs from that place wherein his spear was still lodged.  He belonged to me.  He was my hunter.

He did not penetrate me again that night, and yet he did finally pierce my heart.  His touch, his lips, his eyes, and most of all, his little kindnesses.  These are what pierced my heart.  When he kissed me, I knew he valued me more than any of his possessions.  And I knew I valued him above any of my own.  I was mesmerized by him just as when I first saw him.  His every movement enthralled me.  I watched him walk naked that night and knew that by the next day his juices would fill my belly.  I knew that I would cause his spear to harden, even perhaps against his will.  I only had to walk before him, to bend forward, or draw his gaze to my breasts.  I hunted him.  But my hunting was not like his.  He pursued his quarry.  I enticed my quarry to fall into my net.

When he slept with me that night, behind me, and pressed against my body, my thighs were slick with my desire to be pierced.  I began to turn and move my buttocks against him.  Finally, I felt his weapon harden against my buttocks and I heard him groan.  I placed his hand upon my breast and he squeezed and tugged at my nipples causing my back to arch and my legs to open.  My hunter thirsted for me as well.  His first thrust speared me to the depths of my belly.  I grunted and my own moan was joined by his.  His next thrusts followed quickly.  And then for the first time he touched me in that place where he speared me.  The unexpected touch caused me to inhale sharply.  I immediately recalled my dear friend, her fingers moving rapidly between her legs.  I recalled her own death throes and, remembering her, I was suddenly overtaken by my own convulsions.  I could utter nothing though my mouth was wide open.  I could do nothing.  My death throes rendered me helpless, nipples hard, back arched, legs opened like a pierced animal.  The hunter cried out and I could do nothing but to let his liquid pour into me.  Yes, his juice filled my belly before the next day.

After this I learned that our island was really split into three parts. I could not go back to my old home and neither could he.  We began our journey to our new home and for the first time we hunted together.  At first it seemed that we had forgotten how to hunt.  If I moved through the forest ahead of him, he could not take his eyes from me.  He watched my hips and my swaying breasts.  His spear would grow rigid and make his movements awkward.  The wetness that glistened on my thighs only made my own movements more languid.  I could not help but bend as though I meant to stalk my prey.  I could not help but reveal my opening as I walked ahead of him.  My breathing would become shallow knowing that I had become the prey. Once when we had reached a clearing, I saw my hunter pause to pee.  The site of his proud spear only aroused me further.  He saw that I gazed at him and he began to run his hand back and forth along its length.  I knew by his gaze that, before we had left the clearing, my belly would be filled and thighs dripping with his white juices.  In my shyness, I turned away from him and squatted because I also had to pee.  I heard him groan as I did so.

I did not expect that he would be aroused by this.  I had only begun to pee when my hunter stealthily approached me and took me by my hair.  I forced me quickly onto my hands and knees, still peeing, and with one thrust speared me to the depth of my belly.  I cried out loudly.  And in my confusion I could not stop peeing!  His thrusts were swift and deep, as if to show me that he could pierce my belly at any time, that this opening between my thighs was for him, and that my belly was to be filled by his juices at any moment.  I heard my hunter cry out, his own death throes consuming him.  Even as my pee emptied from me, my belly was being filled. Never did I feel more like the animals.  I gazed ahead, sightlessly, mouth agape.  He shook my body with his every death throe until he pulled my head back to drive his last fluid as deeply between my legs as his spear could be driven.  My own death throes overtook me suddenly and violently.  I could feel my opening clench, release and clench the immovable weapon that pierced it.  The last of my pee emptied from me in spurts, and the last of his spurts emptied into my belly.  I heard my hunter groan and let me go. My thighs were streaked with his juices and mine as they dribbled out of me. I remained subdued like this: my legs open, the entrance to my belly upward and presented to him.  And then he took me again and filled me again. Still, I stayed like this and he filled me a third time.

Sometimes, after we had coupled, his spear might still be rigid.  He would pee and the little fish in my belly would tremble, remembering our time in the clearing.  Once, knowing that it was his time, I crouched in front of him, gazing up at him.  His spear hardened seeing me before him. I took hold of his spear and, still gazing up at him, let go of my liquids.  After the patter of my urine ceased, his spear had grown impossibly rigid.  I pointed it over my shoulder and his own liquid streamed forth.  I held and aimed it, imagining what it must be like to have such a thing attached to ones body (later I would stand behind him and hold him while he emptied himself, imagining that I was like him).

When he had emptied himself, the last of his liquid fell on my shoulder and dripped over my back and breasts.  My hunter groaned.  I moved my hand around his spear, sliding the wonderfully soft skin slid back and forward. Now I wished to know if his white juice issued from the same place.  He touched my lips with his finger, brushing them lightly.  My lips parted and he pressed his finger inside.  I moaned, also aroused.  He removed his finger and his spear quickly replaced it, filling my mouth.  I had only tasted him once, in this manner, and I had wanted to see his juice issue again, but my hunter held me this time, not allowing his body to escape my lips.  He thrust his spear into my mouth and soon the juice of it burst onto my tongue.  Some of his issuance joined his liquids on my breasts and belly as some went into my belly.  He held me thus until his last spurt had shaken him.  I marveled that both liquids issued from the same place.

On some days, I taunted him with my breasts and hips and opening, desiring to increase his appetite and increase my own.  If he approached me, I might let his spear brush my buttocks.  I might let my nipples brush his lips.  I might even let him slip himself between my thighs, but I would move before he had pierced my belly.  On days like these, my hunter would strike quickly, without warning, vexed by the frustration of his desire.

If he were behind me, and if I forgetfully bent to walk under a low hanging branch, absently presenting my opening to him, he would swiftly thrust his spear through it and into my belly.  I often cry, like an alarmed bird, but he holds me strongly by my hips.  His takings are quick and deep, each eliciting a cry.  I relish the sounds of his panting and groaning.  I relish looking between my legs to see his need for me, his nuts swinging beneath his spear and between my thighs.  Our animal grunts and groans join the sounds of the forest until his great cry would fill my belly with his juice.

Because there was not always a place to bathe, I frequently walked with thighs streaked with our juices.  My opening was always moist, making our couplings frequent.  Sometimes I would walk behind him.  His spear was not always rigid but I knew when his thoughts would turn to me.  This delighted me.

It so happened one day that I was more distracted by him than he was by me.  I could not force my eyes from his buttocks, the line of his back, the squareness and size of his shoulders, his small nipples, his languid spear, sometimes thick without being rigid.  I wished to taste his skin, glistening with heat, the parts of leaves and branches.  I wanted to lick him clean and swallow his spear.

If I approached him, he swatted me away as though I were a biting fly.

Many long minutes of hunting game only inflamed me.  When my hunter finally readied himself, having spied a boar within reach of his spear, I once again could not take my eyes from the spear with which he hunted me. It was full and almost rigid.  I knelt before him and took it in my mouth. My hunter gasped, silently, but could do nothing unless he give notice to the boar.  His spear grew rigid in my mouth.  I heard him groan again, though it was only a whisper.  I felt his torso move as he prepared to slay the boar.  At that same moment I tasted him — a hard spurt that tickled the back of my throat.  Before I could taste the next, he had thrown his spear at the boar.  The spear which had been in my mouth danced in front of me like a little snake.  It spit its white liquid on my lips and open mouth, my breasts and belly.  I laughed but my hunter, who had never missed an animal he intended to kill, did not.

I jumped and ran, laughing.  My hunter pursued me.  I could not outrun him.  I knew I could not.  I threw myself to the ground, panting and breathless.  I cried out as though a bee had stung me.  My hunter had struck my buttocks with a narrow slip of a branch.  He struck again and again I cried out.  I did not wait for him to strike me a third time.  I clamored to my feet and ran again, fearing him for the first time since I had first met him.

But I could not run fast enough.  He struck my buttocks again, even as I ran.  I cried out and tried to outwit him.  I changed directions like the fox who never runs straight.  He struck my buttocks again and I stumbled, too breathless to run anymore.  Still, he did not stop.  He pleaded and begged him.  I twisted and turned on the ground.  I cried out.  I sniffled and tears streaked my cheeks.  Yet fear had a strange effect on me.  As with the first day his spear had penetrated me and slain me, I once again felt like the hunted animal.  I could feel the strange death faintly in my belly.  I wished him to know.

I twisted onto my belly and thrust up my buttocks.  Did I wish him to know that he had subdued me?  I offered my opening to him, dripping with my fear.  When he struck my buttocks again, I groaned and arched my back, only more obscenely offering my opening to him, spreading my arms to either side. Did I wish him to strike again?  He did.  The first faint spasm of death shook my belly.  He struck my buttocks again and my cry was deep and long.  I opened my legs, not fully on my knees and thrust my opening upward. Please.  I looked back at my hunter, my cheek against the ground. The anger that had frightened me was gone.  He gazed at me in a way I half recognized and half did not.  The branch hissed and struck my abject buttocks.  I groaned and rolled my eyes as another death spasm, strong this time, shook my belly and twisted my hips.  I could feel the place between my legs open as it never had before.  I knew that if he struck me again the death throes would begin.

Why did he wait?  Why else could I do to dissuade him?  Why did he not strike?  My hunter gazed at me.  My mouth was open now and every breath was a moan.  He drew back his arm.  I spread my legs widely and presented.  An arc of fluid jetted upward, out of me, of its own accord, pattering on the leaves behind me.  The branch hissed and the sting of it penetrated me as though it had penetrated my opening.  The first death throe tightened my belly until it snapped like a cord drawn too tightly.  I grunted as the death throes convulsed my belly, pulsing in my opening, causing my urine to escape in spurts.  My thighs dripped.  My knees scraped the earth as my legs were drawn together by each spasm.  I was only dimly aware of my hunter, kneeling behind me, between my legs, behind my upturned opening.  I was only dimly aware of the cords with which he bound my wrists to my ankles, like a slain animal.  I cried out when his weapon finally speared me.

My body pulsed around his penetration.  I was exhausted, but I was tied like an animal.  His thrusts were hard.  My breasts scraped against the earth, yet even this excited me.  I struggled against the cords, twisting, but my hunter’s strong thrusts never abated.  Even as I struggled to finally free myself, his spear pierced the depths of my belly again and again.  I squirmed and I cried out as my belly helplessly stiffened.  The next thrust finished what the last had promised.  I convulsed again.  The cords dug deeply into my wrists and ankles as my body helplessly contracted and released, contracted and released.

Finally, though my hunter’s thrusting did not stop, I heard him roar and felt his liquids pour into me.  I groaned, unable to move from my position. He stood, walked around me, arrogantly, lustfully.  He sat against a tree. He watched me as his fluids dripped from inside my body.  Even disposed like this, I felt a strange power over him.  I marveled at how my very shape compelled him to surrender his juices to me.  His spear hardened.  He moved behind me and took me again.  Again, surrendering to me what was rightfully mine.

He took me once more before he untied me.  He turned me over onto my back, my ankles still corded to my wrists, my thighs spread wide.  He stretched himself over me, between my legs, supporting himself on his hands. I wanted to lick the muscles of his arm.  In!  His spear pierced me again.  I could not take my gaze from his, nor could he take his gaze from mine when finally, the strange pleasure of our union overtook us.  My belly had been filled again and again.  Little did I know that from this day forward my belly would grow–my hunter’s seed finally lodged inside me.

Afterward, he licked the red indentations of the cord around my wrists and ankles.  He licked my thighs and kissed my belly.  He gently sucked my nipples into his mouth until they were proud and clean.  He touched me everywhere.  He kissed and licked my lips and my eyes, licking the salt from my cheeks.  He gently caressed my sex and mouthed it until I wished that he would strike me anew with the branch, again and again, just so that I could afterward be caressed, and sucked and cleaned like this.  On another day I would know his contrition.  I would understand when I had corded his wrists and ankles together; when his spear stood achingly from his belly; when I touched and kissed it but never drew forth its juices; when I too had lashed him with a slender branch.  I would know only after I had finally lowered myself on his rigid spear, granting him, finally, what his body desired, the aching opening to my own.

We reached that third part of the island where the men and women lived together.  I marveled at the other hunters like him, all different in shape and size and yet all strangely beautiful, so unlike the women who mingled with them.  I could not take my eyes from the coupling of others.

Some were private in their coupling while others were not.  I will not forget the day when my belly was well swollen.  Coreena, who was a woman I especially grew fond of, wished to place her ear at my belly.  I sat on a stump while she knelt on her hands and knees, placing her ear against my belly.  She smiled.  “There are two heartbeats inside you,” she said.  “I envy you.”

At that moment I saw that Coreena’s hunter also looked at my belly longingly.  I saw that his spear was growing rigid, larger than my own hunter’s spear.  He turned from my belly to look at Coreena’s buttocks and, surely, at her opening.  Before I thought to speak, he had knelt behind Coreena.  I saw her gasp and her eyebrows furrow as the large spear of her hunter slowly opened and penetrated her.  I knew what she felt.  I understood the anguish with which she gazed up at me.  I cradled her head in my arms, lovingly, as her cheek softly collided with my belly in time with the patient thrusts that gradually opened her belly.

Her breathing turned to moans.  My own opening began to drip.  A strange pity and desire churned in my belly.  I held my swollen breast and lowered the nipple into Coreena’s mouth.  She sucked.  Her hunter groaned and his thrusts, though no quicker, became stronger and pushed more deeply.  I knew what he meant for her belly.  He would not let any of his juice go anywhere but deeply between her legs.  She gazed up at me, her brow knotted with the anguish of penetration.  A spasm caused me to gasp, and then another.

I opened my mouth but no sound escaped.  I was convulsing.  Coreena’s gaze was also half-lidded with shock and surprise as she convulsed on the spear that spitted her.  I saw her hunter arch and throw back his head, crying out.  Though I could not see, I knew that he was streaming his white juices into her belly.  I hoped that her belly would swell with the spearing as mine had.  When she stood, she kissed me and it was the first time, though not the last, that I so deeply kissed another woman.

The next time, we would face each other as our hunter’s took us from behind.  We would share each other’s passions.  We would gaze at each others expressions and we would kiss.  But that is another story.

If only men spoke the same language as women, it would be paradise.

:Will Crimson
December 18 2009

Dec 16, 2009 A 20-YEAR-OLD man was charged in court on Wednesday with having sex with an underage girl and extorting $500 from her.

Xavier Toh Wei Kiat, 20, allegedly had consensual sex with the 15-year-old girl at his Sengkang home on six occasions in June last year and extorted from her on Aug 20.

He is also accused of getting the girl to perform oral sex on him at a toilet for the handicapped at HarbourFront between June and early July last year.

The ninth charge states that he was found to have had a 50cm-long wooden rod without lawful purpose along Pasir Ris Park on March 11 this year.

If convicted of the sex offences, he can be jailed for up to 10 years and/or fined on each charge. The maximum penalty for extortion is seven years and caning, and for possession of weapon, two years.

A pre-trial conference will be held on Jan 22.

He dared not, but he did

propose the bicurious encounter

approached the other man’s body

crouched down, below his waist

grabbed hold of the other’s

pulsating flesh

and opened wide

Men are biologically programmed to do one thing as often and as good as they can: to fertilize as many females, as often as realistically possible. This is because that is what their genetic encoding tells them to do. It is the result of the survival of the species and this is what male mammals do. In fact, that is the prime task of any male species. Evolutionary speaking, “sex for fun” is a relatively new gadget that has only been around for the last few thousand years of evolution. Ten minutes or so on the evolutionary clock. “Sex for mutual fun” – again in evolutionary terms – is something BRAND NEW, only discovered a few centuries ago.

Having a fulfilling sex life builds self-confidence, self-esteem and personal empowerment. Sadly, many people expect sex to always work ‘naturally’ and ‘magically’. It doesn’t. Not always. Almost everyone will experience some kind of sexual concern at one point; whether it be low arousal, lack of sexual desire, inability to orgasm, being too quick to orgasm, sexual pain and discomfort, worries about ageing, inhibition due to concerns about body image.

Life is valuable to both. Wether “life” is God-given or the result of a long evolutionary trail – as far as the importance of life is concerned – is actually only a secondary argument. Those into “abstinence” for religious reasons refuse to take part in this – apparently and without question important – process. They wave their option to procreate, so to speak. They have to, otherwise they quite often cannot be part of “the management”. This leads to an interesting philosophical question: “Can it be a requirement for your management to not use the God-given ability?”

Mutual Agreement with Sex Positions.

If there are certain positions which are uncomfortable or undesirable, then find alternative sex positions to engage in. This ensures an enjoyable and exciting experience for both.

Learn the rules!

If there are any questions regarding Christian rules that are bothering you or your partner, consult a Christian intimacy guide and discuss it together whether you want to allow certain positions or acts into your intimacy.

Oral sex.

Oral sex can be an incredibly exciting experience for both and a great way to spice things up tremendously. If there are any questions regarding the allowable nature of oral, research the differing views and come to a conclusion together.

Sex dominates and it does dominate strongly in healthy human beings. Apart from those who believe in committed relationship, people do search fervently for sex on the Net. Men and Women seek love as well, but then for finding love many complex factors govern the chemistry of romance. Hence, compatibility is a serious issue on which love dating depends. In case of sex relationship, compatibility is less of an issue and physical attraction and sex appeal of a person is enough to make the match.

Having sexual intercourse during pregnancy is safe under certain conditions. For one thing, a woman who is in her first trimester can have normal sex until such time that her uterus begins to grow and her body adjusts as well. Doctors or pregnancy health care experts would usually suggest alternative sex positions for couples to try once the woman enters her second to third trimesters to avoid any complications. But if the pregnant woman has complications that could risk her health as well as the baby’s life, then it is best to not engage in sex unless your doctor or specialist says it is okay.

Read About Celebrity Hairstyles Also Read About Lice Remedies and Dry Hair Treatment

The second book by Hitt titled Pleasure Ground — this is different from the Kozy Books Pleasure Ground.

‘Tis another one of Hitt’s backwoods novels, similar to Ellie’s Shack: it’s about poor white trash living in a shack near a lake, land that isn’t theirs, owned by an old fellow who died.  His daughter, Sandra, went out to Hollywood and appeared in a few movies.  She has returned with her older, 51-year-old husband (she’s 23), a TV producer who lost a lot of money in the quiz show scandals, to fix up the family house and sell the property — which means all the poor shack folk around the lake will have to leave.

The narrator is Eddie Miller, a 21-year-old who is 6′4″ like most Hitt heroes.  He lives in a shack with his no good drunk father named Crab, who blowshis monthly disability check on beer and booze, his wearied mother, and his bombshell sister, Gloria, 19, who sometimes makes money posing nude for an artist, like many Hitt women do.

Eddie makes money picking berries, like Ellie did in Ellie’s Shack, and fishing for eel and catfish at the lake.  He has a girlfriend, Cindy, who is bugging him for marriage and a baby; he eludes her because he has no desire for marriage, she’s just a girl to hang with, fish with, and fuck with.

He has his eyes set on the starlet Sandra, whom he meets at the lake, sunning in a red swimsuit. She hires him to paint the house for $1 an hour. He takes the job because he thinks, husband or not, he can get somewhere — “It’s not every day you get to make a girl whose been in the movies,” he muses.

The opening chapter has a fellow from the finance company looking for payment for a loan Eddie’s father is late on — similar to the opening of Sheba. Right off we know this family has some problems, like Hitt’s white trash families always do.

The third woman for Eddie — remember, the Hitt hero almost always juggles three gals — is Beth, Sandra’s secretary, a five foot tall hellion dwarfed by Eddie’s six-four frame.  One finds it a tad disappointing that Eddie does not care for oral love:

She clung to me, whispering things I didn’t understand, and her fingers hurt as she dug into my hair.  She tried to push my mouth down to her breasts and after she had done that she was as wild as they come.  She made an attempt to push my head lower and when I wouldn’t let her do that she said some men did.

“I’m not some men,” I reminded her. “I take my sex straight.” (p. 54)

Say what?!  Is this just backwoods hillbilly fear of the vagina, or was our pal Hitt a prude?  Surely Eddie would not say “no” to a blowjob, but it would be rude and selfish of him if he took it.  We’ll never know, because even that is more sexual detail than we usually get in a 1959 paperback (and I do wonder if it was added in my an editor).

As for Sandra, when he tries to kiss her one day in the car, she stops him and says they have to wait until the time is “right,” when she knows it means something.  But we know this dumb hick has to be getting the set-up: first Beth warms him up, and there’s the talk about Sandra’s husband being worth $200K in life insurance should be croak, double indemnity if an accident,  and how he drinks all day and is overweight and the doctor has warned him.  We have seen this patsy set-up in other Hitt books and even other noirs, much like Jerry M. Goff’s excellent Wanton Wench! And as it is with many men in these books, money is a greater seduction than the women who talk them into committing homicide:

Jesus, it was a lot of money, more than I coukld imagine. This was going to cost the insurance compay plenty [...]When I was done with him I could do anything [...] Four hundred thousand dollars.

No more poverty. No more wanting the things I couldn’t have. No more needing her and being able to own her, to strip her naked and take her body to me, giving her my love. No more being careful with her. I would be rolling in money and I’d give her a child as soon as I could. I would see her grow fat and I would love her because she grew that way. (p. 158)

Meanwhile, his sister is pregnant and the guy who did it refuses to marry her, saying someone else did it, like the “artist” she poses for; he has found some pictures of her for sale, in sets — similar, again, to Sin Doll, I’ll Call Every Monday, Campus Doll, Naked Model, Nude Doll, Party Girl, The Promoter, and many others where the picture racket is involved.

Mainly, Pleasure Ground is very similar to Two of a Kind, or maybe it’s the other way around, as Two of a Kind was published a year later. The patsy set-up and the truth about the evil vixens’ sexuality is the same — that’s right, he’s being set-up by a lesbian!

This is Hitt’s only title with Bedside Books, which paved the way for 60s-style sleaze.  They also, reportedly, had a bad habit of not paying writers, which may be why Hitt didn’t sell them any other books — or, perhaps, Hitt couldn’t sell this one to his usual 1959 markets, Beacon and Midwood, because it was too much like previous titles.

The elements here appear in plenty of Hitts: the younger woman marrying the older man thing, the nude model racket, the insurance scam and murder plot, the pregnant sister, etc.

On the Hitt Scale, a 7.5, points for good writing, minus for traveling the pleasure ground always stomped on.

At least one doctor says that stuff  doesn’t work.  But then your common sense surely  told you that anyway.  Where you gonna get the extra marbles to put in that

Too good to be true

Erectile Dysfunction

Just get a toad to byte Johnson

That’s gotta hurt

You were the only one it did not work on ;-}

Erectile Dysfunction, Viagra and God’s Will

By poetryman69

Psychology and Erectile dysfunction

Impotence and Erectile Dysfunction support group

As I suspected and as is borne out by the support group, the partners of men who are having problems should be aware than many men are still gaining significant pleasure and satisfaction via oral attentions.  If it’s done lovingly and patiently, it will often work.

A Partner’s role

Given the time and attention that a guy might need from his partner, it is important to broach these issues as early as possible in the relationship.  As important as sex can be to a man, if you never managed to get the subject discussed, it might be time to move on and find a partner who cares enough about you to know how important sex is to you.

Erectile Dysfunction, Viagra and God’s Will

I doubt that many if any orthodox churches agree with the forgoing.  But I found it helpful and encouraging.

Traveling Naked

Avoid a fat head

It is better to be drunk than wasted

How to Travel Naked

Still Sexy after all these years

Killing you softly

FUtus

GaGaWeen

Happy GaGaWeen!

Going GaGa!

GooGoo GaGa

Oct 31 is dress up like Lady GaGa day.  Halloween is canceled!

Happy GaGaWeen!

Twin Bedpans overlooking a septic tank

Still Sexy after all these years

Killing you softly

FUtus

GaGaWeen

Happy GaGaWeen!

Going GaGa!

GooGoo GaGa

Oct 31 is dress up like Lady GaGa day.  Halloween is cancelled!

Happy GaGaWeen!

Online Job Search

Government Work

Job Search

Job Search for the Older Worker

Where is Brad when I need him!?!

From Flickr