Contributor: Misty Rampart - - touch rub admire caress my neck my hair delve in with a lick then a rub then a pinch tongue my neck show me you love me kneel down my body on fire o my god mouth on nipple big-eyed wonder titty massage double boob grab a bite yes a bite tongue kissing just enjoying mouth I returning your favors stiff tongue against proud dark tit erect nipple burning slapping a strong woman I’m pretty strong too biting her tongue rubbing breasts together nipple war ha ha ooh o low reaching hand gliding over silk panties rub rub rub harder hotter slipping aside panties brave warm tongue your pussy on my tongue I envying you for all the tongue attention I give you if it could always only be like this thumb on clit hard motion pink red dark flesh free ample mine and yours a...

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Author: Misty Rampart

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - The Lusters, they have their fingers Upon the pulse of what is going on. They are always scanning the horizon For the next playmate to come along. They lick their lips at the shadows Preen the mind with erotic thought. There’s a burning desire within them To go seek out but also to be sought. The itch cannot be really scratched No, it can only be temporarily calmed. By some sticky, gargling of the senses That would make most people alarmed. They are farmers of the opposite sex They are gatherers of a human fruit. Wanton hunters and hustlers of flesh They dig and claw to reach the root. Disease is just an occupation hazard Rejection is a striking hammer blow. Look in the nymphomaniac dictionary You will not find a word meaning ‘No.’ For another climax of their senses They’ll head off back down into town. Hoping...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Joshua Dobson - - If, like myself, you happen to be a conno-sewer of freaky-lookin' perverts, then free STD testing day at the Department of Pub ic Health is not to be missed. Marvel at the popper burns pinkening the nostrils of a raincoat pervert with a wet tubercular cough. Gaze in lust at all the whore-flesh on display. Recoil in horror from the needle tracks, coat-hanger scars, and property of ______ tattoos. See the largest herpes sore in the state and watch it suppurate before your very eyes. Although the gawking to be found in the lobby is worth the price of admission alone, that's not the only reason I come here every other Wednesday. I come to get tested. I don't give a fuck whether I have a venereal disease or not, I just like getting jabbed with needles by moderately attractive nurses. My favorite part is when...

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Author: Joshua Dobson

Contributor: Laidyrusty - - He embraced her. Licking her. Tasting her. Tearing her. Spreading her. Open. Wet. Wanton. Her screams echoed. Useless. Empty school. Janitors' closet. He nuzzled. He fondled. He agonized. He lengthened. He sucked. Her breasts hardened. Involuntarily. She gasped. Then back. Forth. Back. He pounded. Fast. He beat her. Raw. He exploded. Releasing seeds. Too bad. A waste. Reaching. Throat clenched. She stared. Hollow. He ogled her. Legs kicked. Fingers lost. Fingers trying. Fingers digging. Useless. Linoleum. Lemon scented wax. Convulsions. Unseen tears. Last breaths released. Her soul saved? He rose. Zip. Click. Trousers damp. Belt clamped. Tight. Click. Flash. His keepsake. She lay. Perfect. Picture perfect. He left. Briskly. Keys jingling. "Lock it!" Poor janitor. He ran. He drove. Home. Safety. His dark...

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Author: Laidyrusty

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - There was a man up a tree; he was laying down upon a branch, about twenty foot up, with his arms and legs wrapped around the branch and his left cheek was pressed against the rough tree bark. “I’m never going down there again!” he whispered to himself as he turned his head around so that his right cheek was now pressed against the branch. He opened his eyes and cringed, for he could see the lights of the town which was situated a mile or two off to the left hand side. “You Bastards!” he half shouted at the lights. “You’re all a bunch of fucking wankers, walking around bumping into each other, sleeping with each other’s partners, beating each other’s children, eating each other’s food, prying loose each other’s secrets. I hate you all, you’re all as strange as aliens to me, even my own fucking family...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: R.L. Black - - I did it with my preacher. Who knew a holy man could be so smokin’ hot. My name is Eve. Yeah, I know— the garden, temptation, forbidden fruit. Maybe that’s all it was. The fact that I wasn’t supposed to have him made me want him even more. Or maybe it was his demeanor that turned me on. Humble and sweet. Pure and righteous. Perhaps I felt sorry for him. His wife was a bitter, dried up prune. She wore stuffy dresses, ugly glasses, kept her hair in a bun. No way he was gettin’ any from her. Could have been the whole taboo thing that sent shivers up my spine. The idea of gettin’ it on with a preacher, and one who was old enough to be my daddy. Hell, no. He was hot. That’s what it was. I wanted him for no other reason than that. What a mess I was. Sittin’ in the pew on Sundays, listenin’ to him preach,...

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Author: R.L. Black

Contributor: Levon Sandberg - - “The Cunning Linguist” or How I Met Your Mother The story so far: As you will recall, when my father, Alexander Stokely, died last year at the age of seventy-six I, Jeremiah, his only son, was responsible for disposing of his earthly effects. Clearing out the attic of the house he had shared with my late mother I found an old steamer trunk, and in the bottom of that trunk I came across a locked wooden box. The box was well crafted of high-quality, dark wood – ebony perhaps - with beautiful dovetailed joints. I assumed that it held something of great value and, unable to find the key and despite its beauty as an object in and of itself, I forced open the top, breaking the box in the process. Inside I found nothing of obvious commercial value, for it held three leather bound journals, a diary of my...

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Author: Levon Sandberg

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - “White Trash!”, they all shouted at me oh yeah, well that just suits me fine. You can shove your fucking morals all the choices that I make are mine. How can any of you be any better off when you are so bitter and unhappy? It must be jealousy you are showing because I’ve not let the system trap me? You are as useless as a broken glass you are as boring as the jobs you do. If they doubled up your stupid pay I still would not take it away from you. Your lovers they find fun elsewhere while you ferment within stupidity. life is a game that you are missing and you are too old to blame naivety. “White Trash!”, they all shouted at me as I passed them drinking my wine. While I just smiled back knowingly their girlfriends have all sucked mine. - - - Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories,...

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Phil Thomas Killman - - Her big bright eyes catch my attention from across the street. She's beautiful. Rays of the hot sun stream across her tan body. Every curve is formed with such sleek and sexy definition. I hurry inside and plant myself on my knees at the living room window. While I struggle to free my dick from my pants, I stare at her and imagine all the things I'd do to her. My eyes are fixated on her smooth body and I'm dreaming of how it would feel against me. Tugging on myself vigorously I think of having her from behind. As I orgasm, I form a seal around the tip of my cock with my free hand to catch the come. I wash my hands in the bathroom sink pressing the lemon scented soap into them deep, as if I am able to wash the shame of what I've just done down the drain along with my ejaculate. Not my shame, but societies'...

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Author: Phil Thomas Killman

Contributor: Paul Tristram - - I was living in a greasy 3 storey block of bedsits, on the middle floor facing the backyard, behind the Old Swansea Crown Courts, with its giant white clock pillar reaching up into the sky, a practical monument placed absurdly upon a building known for stopping time. I had no watch or clock so when in view it was the only time I knew what time it was, I would run down the stairs, open the front door just to see if it was pub o’clock yet? (The bars still shut between 3 and 7pm back then) They had sent me down at age 17 in that Crown Court, to the hardest Borstal in Britain, on the desolate grey, cold island of Portland off the Southern coast of England, so living directly opposite was a constant reminder and didn’t help my moods much and they were of a dark, neurotic persuasion without the need of influence. To...

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Author: Paul Tristram