Hey, remember when we took a look at Victor Lightworship’s beautiful bondage photography? Remember how you wanted to buy his book, “Strictly Bondage,” but it wasn’t in stores yet? Well now it is in stores! It’s big, long, sinister, and frankly, a lot more affordable than most coffee table books. (It’s also suitable for placement on whatever consensual human ottoman or nightstand you keep in your home!)

Mr. Lightworship himself let us post this dramatic slideshow of some of his favorite pics, and he also wants everybody to know that he’ll soon be hosting a “hardcore book release party in the next few weeks!” Is the book hardcore? Is the party hardccore? Both! Could the act of releasing the book be done in a hardcore manner? You’ll have to get the deets from Victor; he’ll let you know as soon as he’s ready.

In the meantime, groove upon the video above, revisit the kinky kinbaku pics he gave us before, and consider the importance of supporting independent photographers/Japanese rope bondage practitioners/visionaries of the dark and delicious

· Buy “Strictly Bondage” (amazon.com)
· Video by Victor Lightworship (lightworship.com)

An excerpt from Fleshbot Fiction‘s Shelly Watching.

“Do you know any hangover cures?” she groaned.

“The only one that ever works for me,” I said frankly, “is sex.” It’s a neurochemical quirk of mine; when I’m horribly hung over, I wake up horny. The distraction of fantasy and the brief endorphin hit is the only respite from the physical wretchedness and free-floating shame. This is the only time I allow certain depraved fantasies to drift through my mind uncensored. Pretty much anything but the dog is fair game. Whatever works. It’s a special occasion, a holiday from inhibitions.

“If I didn’t have company, I’d just masturbate,” I said.

“Hmm,” said Shelly, with a rueful, don’t-let-me-stop-you arching of her eyebrows. We laughed and passed it off, pretending, by mutual consent, that this idea was obviously out of the question, to spare us both embarrassment. We let it drop and considered some other alleged cures, all of them ineffective: aspirin and lots of water the night before, of course, which we’d forgotten; marijuana, which I didn’t have; spicy food, the thought of which made us feel ill; exercise, which, like, yeah right. There was, of course, the sure-fire Hair of the Dog, in the form of mimosas or Bloody Marys or early afternoon beers, but this inevitably led either to the dreaded 8 p.m. hangover or another late night of drinking and an even more catastrophic, cumulative hangover the next day. Ugh. If only there was something.

Finally Shelly said, “Well, why don’t you masturbate, and I’ll watch?” She said it in the most matter-of-fact, oh-for-Pete’s-sake, let’s-get-it-over-with-already manner. “It’ll make you feel better, and I’ve always wanted to watch a man come,” she explained. As though it all made perfect sense.

“You must’ve seen men come when you were having sex with them,” I protested. Why was I arguing? I was just buying time, I guess, absorbing that she’d gone ahead and boldly suggested this thing out loud.

“Yeah, but you can’t really concentrate and pay attention when you’re in the middle of sex; you’ve got so much going on yourself,” she said. It was as though it were just a matter of clinical curiosity. It could be anyone. Why not me? I’d be doing her a favor. A win/win! It was an absurd conversation–like most conversations between men and women preceding sex: all pretext. As I got over my initial reflex of shyness and actually considered it, I got a familiar sick giddy thrill in my stomach—the feeling you get when, as a kid, you jump off an embankment on a dare and go into free-fall for a second or two. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had this feeling, and it might be my favorite sensation: the realization that I’m really about to do some illicit, crazy thing I never thought I’d do.

“Okay,” I said, trembling. “I’ll do it.”

Read the rest of Fleshbot Fiction‘s Shelly Watching for only 99 cents! Find more hot erotic fiction at Fleshbot Fiction, and more hot photos at X-Art.

An excerpt from Fleshbot Fiction‘s My Girlfriend Jake.

Jake calls me at work one afternoon with a delicious new surprise.

“I’m wearing your panties,” he says, “the ones you left here. I’ve been wearing them all day.” A shiver shoots down my body, landing squarely in my pussy. I swivel my office chair around so no one can see me.

“Oh?” I reply trying to remain nonchalant, “Which ones?” All the busy office noises, ringing phones, the ca-chunk-ca-chunk of the photocopier, they all disappear as I imagine him; his dark curly hair, those intense blue-gray eyes, the little pout he gets when he’s horny.

“The pink and black ones, with the flowers,” he says, keeping his voice low.

“Did you wash them?” I cup my hands over the phone, whispering back.

“No, I’m wearing them how you left them,” his voice now deep and hoarse. I wore them while he fucked me, while he bent me over the bed and urgently shoved them aside. He fucked me so hard that the neighbors pounded on the adjoining wall. Jake slid the panties down my thighs, and stuffed them in my mouth to keep me quiet. I left those panties plenty dirty.

So many things flash through my mind: I picture the delicate flowered lingerie under his sturdy brown work pants. My panties rubbing up against the cock that dirtied them in the first place. His thick cock straining against the flimsy sheer material. I cross my legs tightly, wishing I was working at home that day.

“The guys here would absolutely kick my ass if they saw,” he says, “but I don’t care.”

The thrill of the forbidden keeps our sex life exciting. Neither of us is much for “normal” and we explore every kink that comes to mind.

“Dirty boy wearing my dirty panties,” I whisper into the phone. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Hanging up the phone, I tell one of my co-workers that I’m taking a quick break. I slip into the bathroom on the third floor, the one no one uses because it’s so out of the way — no one but me.

Locking the door, I lift my skirt and push my fingers deep inside myself.

I think about fucking him in the ass, I like threading the black leather straps around my thighs, buckling in tight, because it’s always going to be a bumpy ride. I like being on my knees behind him, looking down at the freckles that create a constellation across his shoulders, seeing the muscles twitch under his skin. I like that moment where the dildo breaches, that slight feeling of something forbidden giving way, and burying myself deep inside him.

When I fuck his ass, I like to pretend I’m his boyfriend. I’ll have him lie on his back, legs sprawled in the air, his hand frantically working his cock. Sometimes I’ll slick my hair back, roll up the sleeves on my t-shirt. When I’m his boyfriend, I don’t let him see my tits. I like the illusion that maybe we just met in a dark alley, that I’m taking him because I want him, and I always take what I want.

I also like being his helpless girl — oh my goodness gracious, how did I get tied to this bed anyway? Oh please, I’ve been so good, so bad, so everything you wanted me to be. I love when his strong, rough hand clenches against my mouth, or wraps around my neck, or yanks my hair so hard my eyes water, when his deep voice whispers in my ear for me to take it, to take whatever it is he’s giving me, because it’s going to get much, much worse, any moment now, and I can’t wait.

My fingers work quick and furiously; I’m still on the clock. It doesn’t take much longer to come, imagining everything I’m going to do to Jake this week.

Read the rest of Fleshbot Fiction‘s My Girlfriend Jake for only $1.99! Find more hot erotic fiction at Fleshbot Fiction–and more hot pegging action in “Tristan Taormino’s Expert Guide to Pegging.”

It’s definitely possible to get off while reading. All we’re saying is that it’s difficult, especially if there’s a two-handed method you’re fond of using on yourself. Why not save yourself the paper cuts and kick back on the couch? We’ve got the culture you need.

1. Morvern Callar: First up, a British movie based on a novel by the same name. “Morvern Callar” (Samantha Morton) is the woman, our main character, who wakes up on Christmas morning in Scotland and finds that her boyfriend has committed suicide. She then takes his unpublished manuscript, erases his name, adds her own, and send it off to publishers without reading it. After gingerly integrating herself back into society, Morvern draws the last bit of money from her boyfriend’s bank and takes her best friend, Lanna (Kathleen McDermott), on a Spanish getaway. There they meet a group of British expatriates, fall in with them, and find their friendship wearing thin. No, it’s not an uplifting movie, but it’s fascinating, and the book received some grand acclaims from critics. Plus, both Morvern and Hanna get naked: look for them at 9:00, 23:00, 36:00, 54:00, 1:01:00, and 1:04:00.

2. Royal Deceit: In some sense, this is based on Shakespeare’s “Hamlet,” but more accurately, this is based on the Danish source material that inspired “Hamlet,” the legend of Amleth written by Saxo Grammaticus in the 12th century. Imagine how smart you’ll look when you rep Saxo Grammaticus at your friends the next time someone makes a Hamlet joke (which is obviously all the time for you and your nerdy lit pals)! Anyway, you know the drill: ruler is killed by his brother, brother marries widow, ruler’s son vows revenge, must find the strength within himself to lead his people, struggles with it, handles his business. The ending is a lot different than Shakespeare’s, and we’re not going to spoil that for you, but let it be known that Helen Mirren is totes naked in this movie! Yes! Get your fill of flesh at 13:00, 25:00, and 27:00.

[At top: a brief bathtime scene from "Royal Deceit" (movies.netflix.com)]

An excerpt from Fleshbot Fiction‘s The Cage.

I‘m not ready to share him yet. These last two weeks are mine and I intend to milk him to the full. My desire for him is too big to allow anyone else in. But I find myself considering the future: a time when he and I have moved beyond the emotion and can fuck without fucking each other up. I imagine us sharing the pleasures of a nubile woman, someone we can nurture through the path of fetish, whose youthful energy will inspire new games. Double headed blow jobs, fisting daisy chains, orgasm races – a host of kinky ideas pour from me. I know my lover would willingly make them all come true. I know that I’m not ready to do so with him yet. The sex is easy: it’s the letting go that’s hard. My body says yes but my mind is educated enough to know I shouldn’t put myself through it.

For now, we have fourteen days together.

***

On day one, I learn that I love deep throating.

On day two, I realise that gagging makes me wet.

On day three, I discover that choking back my own vomit to keep his cock in my throat makes me spasm in bliss as the tears flow down my face. When I do it four times in a row, I feel pure: his sexual pleasure is all that matters. Pleasing my Master gives me the kind of gratification that I need right now.

We move through new fetishes at a rapid pace. The dark times from my past fade with every slap and pinch and gobbet of spittle that trickles down my cheek. When his piss rains down over my face, I feel honoured he is giving it to me. I know he doesn’t enjoy golden showers but my arousal turns him on: and his willingness to violate me in the ways that I need makes me love him more.

I tell him I am curious about branding. He laughs, tells me branding is serious, that I could never take the pain. It’s a lifelong commitment that is seared into your flesh. I consider the reality and agree I’m not ready for it – but I am still curious. One heated lighter later and I have a circular burn on my hip. Over coming days, it will add an extra thrill to every spanking, deliberate hands making sure I am reminded of my choice to embrace pain. I am grateful for every slap.

I feel calm for the first time: content, settled and fulfilled. The pain he inflicts bathes me, making me free to cry and scream and laugh and shout. Angry feelings burst through unexpected. I’ve never felt this before. I want to push my limits further for him, for me. I don’t want him to release me from pain. I want to become stronger by fighting through the worst he can offer. I recite the Litany Against Fear with every stroke of his cane and slap of his hand, facing the pain, embracing the pain, and coming through the other side shaking and crying, grateful and needy.

He tends to every need. Massage, chocolate, warm baths, affection – all are provided in abundance. The more he shames me, the more he tends me. I have never felt more loved. I have never felt more abused.

And for the first time in years, the ache is gone.

Read the rest of Fleshbot Fiction‘s The Cage for only ninety-nine cents! Find more hot erotic fiction at Fleshbot Fiction–and more hot photos at Sex and Submission.

An excerpt from Fleshbot Fiction‘s Kissing Pixels.

We spent a weekend together a few months ago when he was in town for business. A dumb meet cute in a bookstore Friday afternoon led to dinner, which slipped into drinks, which eased us up to his room like the start of either a softcore cable flick or a toothless romcom. I won’t be coy, though; we fucked all weekend. With teeth.

The weekend was a microcosm of a relationship, if you count him flying home as a breakup, which I kinda didn’t. The die was cast the first time I smelled him. He was leaning near me at the bookstore to ask me some bullshit question about the book I was looking at, and the warmth of his body emanated from the collar of his button-down shirt, and a few errant chest hairs made their way to freedom. I imperceptibly shuddered from the back of my neck down my spine. I wanted to put my nose directly into the soft fur under his arms.

Dinner progressed to awkward limb nudging — a knee here, a touch on the forearm there — but by dessert, I had a tipsy little smirk on my face that said it all.

We’d begun kissing wetly and wrestling with layers of clothes before the elevator doors even closed; by the time the doors opened on the 35th floor, the front of his neatly pressed woolen slacks were dotted with pre-come and his chin smelled like my cunt. I’d always wanted to fuck in an expensive hotel room on the company’s dime, especially a businessman who did unfathomably boring things in endless meetings before jetting off again in business class. He did something with finance and law, a deadly combination of things that I don’t and have no desire to truly understand.

He liked verbal foreplay as much as I did; I’d thrust and he’d parry and back again. Being incredibly smart was a turn-on, as was his ability to speak multiple languages. He’d accumulated tales of travels around Europe and Asia in his late teens and early twenties as it seemed most Europeans do; getting violently ill from food in Bangkok, swimming in the hot salt springs of Iceland, sneaking joints on the streets of Barcelona during an futile attempt to photograph every Gaudí in a day.

Yes, he had that accent, which is an almost egregiously obvious turn-on to any American woman, even New Yorkers who considers themselves far superior to such trivialities. But what really got me were his lips, which were almost grotesquely sexy. He’d smile and a canine would poke out, and it made me feel like a goddamn Victorian lady reaching for her smelling salts. I’d spent slow days at work looking up flights to London, subscribing and hastily unsubscribing to all the travel deal newsletters over the months since I’d first met him.

Every email from him made me smile in a sort of guilty way, knowing it was a little bump of the drug I craved — desire, the knowledge someone else out in the world was desiring me too, despite the long lonely nights of winter — but I’d think about his thin, finely pointed fingers typing out the words and had to go to the bathroom to jerk off before I could do anything else. We flirted but we didn’t get nasty, and we didn’t do more than email. No texting, no photos slyly snapped with our phones of a half-covered breast or graceful clavicle, and no video chatting. We were both busy with work, but our emails were nice to have. A tiny beacon that someone in the world might be jerking off and thinking of you is a luxury.

Once we were inside his hotel room that night, he looked at me with clear eyes and made sure I was on board. We quickly negotiated the situation — both recently tested for all STIs, no history of outbreaks or lesions, no current monogamous significant others, all that super sexy stuff — and as soon as we were both satisfied, he dropped to his knees and buried his head under my skirt between my legs again, breathing on the thin cotton of my boy shorts. It was still summer, and my body was wild and unruly. It was cool in the hotel room, but sweat poured off of us; I licked it off the side of his neck, and it tasted faintly of salt and scotch. I kissed my way up to his ear and gave the little spot near his hairline a tiny lick, breathed softly, and took his lobe swiftly into my mouth. His shivering sigh swelled in the air, and then it was hard to balance the soft and the sharp, teeth and nails versus tongue and eyelashes.

He was an incredible fuck. It was easy to tell that he loved women, in a real, honest way, that he probably had cool female friends that I would like, that he didn’t care if I’d shaved my legs or not, and that he’d probably had at least one older lover who taught him how to be eat pussy. He didn’t try to stay at a distance and lick my clit politely; he had his nose buried in me, his tongue fucking me, his fingers everywhere inside and out, teasing my ass and scratching me and rubbing himself on, well, whatever. If we were in the bath or on the floor, he’d rub his cock on my leg; in bed, on the comforter. Sometimes I sat on his face and sucked his cock until I couldn’t remember how to keep a rhythm going with my mouth and hands because his tongue was everywhere at once.

We didn’t leave all weekend, and we made a huge mess. He managed to leave the room service plates in the hallway to be picked up, but otherwise the room was a wasteland of bed sheets and towels where we’d gone in and out of the giant tub, or to soak up the gushes of fluid my body let loose when I came hard. Half-drunk glasses of wine, condom wrappers, the clothes I’d worn the day we’d met, half of which I’d never find again, and the occasional stain. On the carpet, even. He left a big tip for housekeeping.

Read the rest of Fleshbot Fiction‘s Kissing Pixels for only ninety-nine cents! Find more hot erotic fiction at Fleshbot Fiction–and more hot photos at X-Art.

Meet Victor Lightworship, a lifelong lover of black and white film, underground S&M parties, and kinbaku. One glance at his pictures and we were hooked on his vision, the precision and power in the way he binds his models, and the strange dark magic pervading his work. Test yourself: see if you can look and resist being hooked. (And then buy this guy’s book!)

Lightworship is a regular contributor to Hustler’s Taboo Magazine, and his work also often appears in Barely Legal, Leg Sex Magazine, and 18/eighteen, but his primary focus and passion is bondage photography–and it shows, too! Not only does he do most of the rigging for his models (Victor studies kinbaku under one of the best-known rope masters, and his friends have contributed some ropework as well), he also often appears as a menacing character in the photos. Yes, that bald gentleman with the glasses is Mr. Lightworship, and we must say that we admire his severe look; he’s somewhat like a sinister yet sexy accountant.

The gallery below comes to us directly from the photographer, and he notes that his editor specifically picked images in which he’s creeping on the girls. Which pics would he have chosen himself? We don’t know, but regardless, we think this is a great way to get to know him. Take the picture at the top of the page for example: Victor isn’t just inserting himself beside Akira Lane to show his dominance, he’s also cradling her in a harsh embrace that mimics the way a ballerino carries his floating partner across the stage.

If you like what you see, then you should keep an eye out for the release of Lightworship’s book, “Strictly Bondage,” set to drop this summer. In the meantime, check out the links below (especially his image-rich Tumblr) and browse the pics provided. You’ll probably recognize some of those stripped and bound babes, too!

· Victor Lightworship (lightworship.com)
· l i g h t w o r s h i p (lightworship.tumblr.com)
· @Lightworship (twitter.com)

[Show as slideshow]

While business as usual has long returned to many New Yorkers (including Fleshbot), there are scores of people without homes, food, or basic things. And winter is creeping up on us, and it is a cool mother over here!

Wherever you are in the world, you can do what you can to help by watching this edition of Clayton Cubitt ’s fucking amazing “Hysterical Literature” series, featuring Amanda reading from Shakespeare’s incomparable last play “The Tempest.” Go here to watch the whole thing, and click the Tip Jar to donate to Sandy Relief. It’s simple, it’s pleasurable, it’s altruistic, it involves a gorgeous woman and some psychedelic visuals and some goddamn iambic pentameter. So, you know, a typical Saturday afternoon for you.

Who says that kids are the only ones who like to connect the dots and color with in the lines? Certainly not us–why, just the other day, we passed an afternoon with a very lovely Dora the Explorer activity book. But for those who wish that their coloring books were a little more, ahem, adult…well, allow us to present the Eroticolor Sexual Activity Book.

With over 20 pages of fun–including tons of pages to color in, a crossword, a connect the dots, a word search, and an “orgy maze” that lets you choose where to “finish”–it’s a guaranteed good time…and the sexiest use we can think of for that box of crayons that’s been gathering dust on your desk.

· Buy the Eroticolor Sexual Activity Book (eroticoloractivitybook.com)

For the most part, it seems like the lovely and literate Teresa is holding it together in her Hysterical Literature video. A few tremors run through her body here and there, but she holds it together and trudges on through “Sexing the Cherry.” That is, until the end comes, and then Teresa comes, and then the book in her hand may as well be written in cuneiform.

We get giddy every time Clayton Cubitt releases one of these videos. We don’t know what we’re more excited to find out: what book is being read or how the reader responds to the stimulation. It’s hard to compare one to the other, and really, both facets are equally interesting. We also love what a wide range of reading we’re being exposed to! We’ve never read “Sexing the Cherry,” but Teresa chose a passage that’s so elegantly grotesque and visceral that we have to get the book! Right now, our top two problems in life are not getting laid enough and not reading enough books. What’s the solution? Blam: Hysterical Literature.

· Hysterical Literature: Session Five: Teresa (claytoncubitt.tumblr.com)
· See all past episodes of Hysterical Literature here

The Sootywell Project is a badass coffee table book from which all proceeds go to Beyond Blue, a depression and anxiety fighting non-profit in Australia. So what’s inside the book? A ton of people expressing, photographing, and discussing their inner most sexual desires and fantasies. Please, give it a moment or two of ogling.

The pictures are obviously drop dead sexy, but the models’ confessions and discussions of their desires are where the real thrills are at. “The photos show sides of me that are only revealed to a trusted partner,” says one; a woman who shows herself in shibari bondage asserts, “I am my most faithful friend, most knowledgeable lover, most forgiving carer. I love my body and my mind more than any other person has or will… I am my own perfect play partner. I am my own top and bottom. My own rigger. My own canvas.”

And there are so many, many more of these for your browsing pleasure on The Sootywell Project’s blog. We might just have to buy the book!

· The Sootywell Project (thesootywellproject.tumblr.com)
· Via Indie Nudes (indienudes.com)

Bye Bye, Miss American Pie is Mike Edison’s outrageous tale of an attractive female senator running for president who, much to her opponent’s delight, gets caught en flagrante with her illegal–but totally hot!–immigrant pool boy. She’s forced to go on television to apologize to the nation, but she has other ideas, and when she tells a stunned America, “I got mine, now get yours! You know you want it!” she inadvertently kindles a new American sexual revolution and launches the wildest campaign in history.

Take a look at a sneak peek from the book below, then head on over to Amazon to get the rest of the story!

The photo was a bit blurry, but it sure did look like Senator Barbra Bernstein, naked except for her ever tasteful earrings,

And she was straddling a good-looking young man of indeterminable ethnic background, also naked.
Her head reared back, like a tigress.

Her toes curled in carnal delight.

A bit of sun splashed off of her breasts.

She was in great shape for a woman her age. She looked good.

The headlines were a symphony of yellow journalism:

OH YES , WE HAVE A BANANA!

SENATOR BERNSTEIN’S SLEAZY SEX SHOCKER !

CAUGHT IN THE ACT WITH LATIN LOVE MACHINE!!
WHAM! BAM!! THANK YOU BABS !!!

Already the TV was bursting with the story. Every channel had picked it up. The Conservative News Network was howling for her to resign her candidacy for president immediately.

The Communist News Network was slightly more circumspect and featured a phalanx of pundits explaining how easily this could have been faked, but it didn’t stop them from showing the photo over and over again.

Rumors of Senator Bernstein’s live-in Latin Lover had been buzzing around Washington for some time. And it was no secret that her happy-go-lucky hippy hubby was dorking every starry-eyed slice of scissor-cake at the liberal University where he taught self-righteous Leftist garbage to malleable young marxists-in-training.

They would have made a helluva first family.

If anyone was going to get the dirt on Senator Bernstein’s Taco-Bell Valentino, Herman was the guy… he had put one of his top men on the job of getting the grime on Barbra, a dangerous psychopath who had once deposited a dead Hollywood starlet on the front lawn of a leftist South American dictator.

But he never thought they’d actually catch her getting her burrito stuffed en flagrante delito con salsa picante.

This was a gift from Heaven. Herman looked closely at the photo. She looked good, alright. Maybe too good—there was no way in hell a United States Senator could have tits like that.

* * *

“I don’t think we can ignore this any longer,” Letitia was telling Barbra.

The vultures were circling, the conservative carrion birds swarming into action. This is disgusting! they bellowed, calling for Congressional investigations, search warrants, tar and feathers, truth serums, and electric chairs. This is a disgrace! they howled, while demanding repeal of the 19th Amendment.

“She has broken two laws, God’s and Man’s,” screamed the governor of a large southern state, a man often considered to be his party’s most eloquent spokesman. “Ricky Ricardo may swing his dick like a baseball bat, but that don’t make him no American.”

“I don’t think we have to dignify this with more than a few words,” Letitia told Barbra. “Of course the woman in the photo is not you, and it is time to move on. Take the moral high road—‘we are appalled at the depths our opponents will take to win an election, but we are made of stronger stuff.’ We need ideas, a plan, some vision. You know what to say. Try not to sound too self-righteous.”

Senator Bernstein let out a slightly exasperated breath, as if she were about to explain something to a complete imbecile.

“It isn’t going to be that easy, Letitia. Let me ask you something,” she went on, solicitously, and now slightly warmer, with the love of a parent reassuring her emotionally challenged child. “Do you really think I would hire an illegal immigrant if he wasn’t good for something besides cleaning the pool?”

Letitia thought this over for a moment.

“So what are you saying? That you’ve got him mowing your lawn, too?”

Barbra offered one more exasperated breath. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

For a moment there was a great and uncomfortable silence between the two women.
Letitia felt dizzy. Something was terribly wrong.

The Senator was trying to tell her something, but Letitia’s brain was resisting. And then, as if someone had dropped an anvil out of a very tall building at the beginning of their conversation, but it was just now landing on her on the head, she got it.
“Jesus, Barbra…”

“Don’t Jesus me, Letitia. My husband’s been out poking every hippie freshman since the Dawning of the Age of Mutherfucking Aquarius, and I want mine. Lemme tell you, sister, Pedro’s got a cock like a jackhammer. He sticks that thing in me and I swear I can taste it in the back of my throat. You oughtta break yourself off a piece of that action.”

“Jesus, Barbra…”

“I said don’t Jesus me, Letitia.”

“Well, we have to do something, and fast or This campaign is over.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Letitia,” Barbra said. “Don’t be so uptight. I’ll go on TV tonight and fix everything.”

* * *

The country loved contrition.

They lived for true confessions.

Fess up. Own it! Plead for America’s forgiveness and they will give it. Praise God. Hallelujah. Boy Howdy!

Barbra took the podium and adjusted the microphone. She was very easy with it, her fingers adroitly moving the shiny tube closer to her mouth. The entire room let out a collective sigh.
“The problem with self righteous people,” she began, “is that they always want to rain on someone else’s parade. Haven’t we had enough of prudes running this country?”

It wasn’t Lincoln’s First Inaugural, nor Kennedy’s, for that matter, but it was loaded with pith and dramatic import. It didn’t quite hit the high notes of Martin Luther King’s “I Have Been to the Mountaintop” speech, but for some members of the American people, it still rang with the bell tones of liberation.

She went on to talk about the Pursuit of Happiness. She talked about Liberty, and Freedom from Tyranny at Home.

She looked straight into the camera, straight into the hearts and loins of America, and this is what she said: “I got mine, America, now get yours. You know you want it!”

And that night, more American s had sex than at any time since the end of World War II .
And they all went to work the next day happy, albeit a bit late.

The entire country seemed to glow. Every single economic indicator was up. The stock market was through the roof. Bosses were handing our raises like candy on Halloween. Women went off their diets. One supermodel was even seen tucking into a cheeseburger. Television news anchors were so happy when they reported the news that day, it seemed as if all of America’s problems had evaporated overnight. Terrorism? What terrorism?? Even the weather was going to be all sunshine. Not a cloud in sight!

And Senator Barbra Bernstein—Wham Bam Bernstein! You Know You Want It Bernstein! — was now, unquestionably, the most popular person in America.

Copyright Mike Edison 2012.

These Hysterical Literature videos have so much to offer: beautiful women, classic literary works, intimate set-ups, and, of course, intrusive orgasms. Now that the third one is here, we can start comparing and contrasting the videos and thereby divine the subtle differences that make each reading (and each climax) special.

Notice that this woman, Danielle, is reading from an iPad whereas the Stoya and Alicia both read from paper books. Does this make a difference, either to you or to Danielle? We don’t think the iPad affects the scene, except for when Danielle’s impending orgasm forces her to put the thing down: then her reflection can be seen in the glass. Do you think the brain responds to words on a screen differently than words on paper? What about climaxing in front of a screen?

There are so many things to explore here! Oh dear. It’s a good thing this video is only six minutes long because we’re going to watch Danielle over and over (and Stoya and Alicia and then Danielle again).

· Hysterical Literature: Session Three: Danielle (claytoncubitt.tumblr.com)

As her mind wandered down into the streets and the stories there, her eye caught a light in the building directly opposite. The building was as old as Marco and Julie’s, but while theirs had been converted into affordable apartments with cheap fixtures, the building opposite was one luxurious loft to a floor, inhabited by those bankers and lawyers on the opposite end of the tax bracket. Now she realized that the fifth-floor penthouse, with its plate-glass windows (and the roof garden above with its subtle lighting), was directly in their line of sight. The cavernous central room was brightly lit tonight, as was the adjacent bedroom that also looked out onto the street. In the main room an elegant couple was sitting at a large wooden table, apparently just having finished what Julie imagined had been a sumptuous dinner. Not omelets, in any case. A slim maid was clearing the dishes from the table as the woman leaned back in her chair and lit a cigarette. The man stood, came around the table, and placed a hand at the back of the woman’s neck to gently massage it. At this small show of intimacy, Julie realized that she was staring and was suddenly conscious that if she could see the couple so clearly, then surely they could see her too. She moved to hide herself behind the wall between the apartment’s two small windows, then felt doubly foolish for catching herself at being such a voyeur. That’s when the slim maid came out again and said something to the couple. “Will that be all, Mr. and Mrs. Something?” Julie murmured under her breath. And no – apparently that would not be all.

“Come over here, Marco,” Julie heard herself whisper just a minute later, her eyes wide with surprise. The maid had come out again as Mrs. Something had smoked and Mr. Something had rubbed her neck. She was pretty, the maid, with long black hair and pouty lips that made her look almost sullen. Tall but very thin in her uniform: black shoes, sheer black stockings, a crisp black skirt cut above the knee, and a white cotton shirt buttoned all the way up to her neck. The woman was smoking, her dark, golden hair sweeping down over her back. In profile her features looked sharp and haughty but very beautiful from Julie’s distance, and her pearl-colored dress was wrapped tightly around a slim, tanned body that the woman almost seemed to wield, rather than inhabit. Even the way she imperiously smoked her cigarette indicated that this woman was accustomed to getting absolutely anything she wanted. The man Julie assumed to be her husband rubbed her neck as if trying to soothe a wild tiger, as if aware of her danger but supremely confident of his capacity to tame it. He was tall, with a head of wild, dark hair flecked with gray, a blunt Roman nose, and a rich tan. His white shirt was open at the collar under a dark blue suit that accentuated a lithe, athletic body. Julie estimated that they were both about forty, impossibly wealthy, and utter strangers to the sort of worries that consumed her.

For one, they had a stylish maid (was she Latina?)…who had apparently done something wrong…who was now being ferociously upbraided by the man…whose hands had flown up to her mouth to stifle a scream…who was now being dragged over to the table by the man, her face pushed down to the wood by one of his strong hands as his other hand moved slowly up her long thighs to flap up her skirt over a surprisingly shapely ass…who now cried out and clamped shut her eyes as the man drew back and neatly spanked her with one sharp, quick flick of his palm…as the elegant woman sat watching everything while placidly smoking her cigarette.

“Come over here!” Julie whispered this time, as if she might be heard by the distant threesome. Through her thin robe she was distractedly clawing the flesh at her hip, although she did not feel it. Marco must have registered the shift in her voice and rose from the computer to join her at the window. First he impatiently looked down to the street, but when she gave no indication of what he was meant to be seeing, he followed her eyes out to the windows directly across. The woman had dashed out her cigarette in an ashtray and had risen to stand beside her presumed husband, who had snatched the maid’s white panties down to her knees and was leaving red patches across her twitching bottom with his palm. The maid did not attempt to resist. Her torso writhed on the dining table, her dark hair wildly spread over the polished wood, her succulent ass thrust out as if conscious of deserving the punishment…or as if she wanted to be hit, Julie thought to herself. She felt a hand grip her wrist. Marco was standing beside her, and she couldn’t remember how he had gotten there. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Do you see that?” she breathlessly responded, unwilling to pry her eyes from the scene. The man had leaned over to deeply kiss the woman in the pearl dress as his hand continued roughly fondling the gap between the maid’s legs. Then he removed the offending hand and used it to pry their kiss apart, offering his presumably moistened fingers to the woman’s mouth. She violently sucked at his index finger, as if inhaling the marrow from its bone, then roughly pushed him away and spanked the maid with a stroke of terrifying force. “Oh my god!” Julie cried in shock. “What should we do?”

Marco gripped her wrist tightly and pulled her away from the window. “What the hell are you doing?” he repeated once they were mostly hidden behind a solid wall. He did not look at her, however. His eyes remained fixed on the scene opposite as he clumsily tried to keep his and Julie’s bodies hidden. “I want to see!” she cried, struggling against his grip. Marco didn’t appear to have heard her. At least not until he said: “Turn off the lights.”

Julie scampered over to the switch and plunged them into darkness. Marco tentatively edged out towards the window again. He was being ridiculous, Julie decided, and so she returned to her spot with the clear view. The man had unzipped his pants as the woman in the pearl dress spanked the maid. Working his hand into his fly, he had pulled out a slab of cock that was hardening and stood straight out. As he watched the woman in the pearl dress efficiently hitting the writhing maid, he fondled himself. Then the woman leaned over and whispered something in the ear of the maid, who turned her head on the table to look at the woman and nodded numbly. The woman then kissed the maid tenderly on the cheek and helped her to stand. She took her in her arms and kissed her deeply, for an instant, before ripping the front of her shirt open with a violence that sent buttons pinging across the room – scattered specks of light from where Julie and Marco stood. The maid wore no bra. Her breasts were small but pert. Julie imagined that her nipples were so hard they ached.

“I guess she likes it,” Julie said incredulously. When Marco made no response, she looked over and saw that not only was he transfixed by the scene, but it had made him so hard that his cock was peeking out of his underwear. She noticed this, gulped, and said: “Show me your cock, Marco.” She couldn’t remember the last time she had been so excited. He glanced at her guiltily, as if she had just caught him looking at porn. Then he frowned and pulled his boxers up over the tip of his flesh.

“Fine,” Julie said coolly, unbolting her robe and flicking it from her shoulders so that it fell to the floor and left her naked before the window. She was swimmingly wet. She put a tentative finger to her pussy and felt the wetness there. Marco looked at her disapprovingly and broke off from the window to drag two folding chairs over to where they stood. He did it quickly, as if he didn’t want to miss a second of the movie.

The maid had taken the man’s cock deep into her mouth. He held her hair in his fist and pulled her even closer. The woman in the pearl dress had stripped to her underwear, in unison with Julie, to reveal an almost boyish body with narrow hips, small breasts (as tan as the rest of her) and long, sharp lines. Still in heels, she had lowered herself to her knees and was now on all fours behind the sucking maid. Like a dog, Julie thought disgustedly. The woman alternated between licking from behind at the joint of the maid’s spreading legs and drawing back to slap her crimson ass with what seemed like genuine fury. “It’s awful!” Julie cried. “Forcing her by the hair like that? And hitting?” She looked over at Marco for confirmation. Now sitting on the chair beside hers, he had lowered his underwear to his knees and was frantically stroking himself, as if in a trance. She felt a stronger wave of disgust rise up from her gut. This caused her to look down at herself, and she was astonished to discover that her fingers were dipping into her drenched cunt as frantically as Marco rubbed his cock. She was no less disgusted by this, but the feeling of disgust was no longer so important.

After that she didn’t give it another thought. Maybe these people shouldn’t be acting like this. Maybe she shouldn’t be watching the shocking things they were doing. Or maybe none of it mattered. She fondled her pussy with abandon, spreading her lips with one hand while stroking her clitoris with the other. When the woman crawled up next to the maid so that her mouth could share the taste of the man’s thrusting member, Julie actually felt her mouth water. The two women licked at it from either side – the maid looking terribly distraught, Julie noticed, but licking with even more abandon than the other woman. Soon she had again pulled up the maid to furiously manipulate her cunt while kissing her deeply. The maid swooned in either direction, as if she was drunk. Then she was forced down on the table again by the woman, her ass in the air. The man watched all of this as if he were a film director coldly observing the performance of a scene he’d written himself. When the sleek woman grabbed him by the cock and led him over to the maid’s offered ass, however, he followed without protest and rammed his cock so deeply into the maid’s bared gap that the poor girl banged the table with her fists. “Oh fucking fuck me, Marco!” Julie cried, one hand now pinching fiercely at a nipple.

Read the full story here. Republished with permission from The Sex Experiment. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo courtesy of Sex & Submission.

Who can forget the time that Stoya read us a book while being skillfully diddled with a Hitachi Magic Wand beneath the table? Nobody forgets something like that, and bless the gods, for Clayton Cubitt and company have more ladies to offer. Up next is the beautiful Alicia reading the poem “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman until the only word she can say is “Yes!”

We have to say, Alicia is a great reader, and you can tell that she has great respect for the body-obsessed and erotically expansive voice that Whitman put into “Song of Myself.” She starts off with a low, husky tone and then, well, you can see for yourself where she takes it. If Hitachi had been around in Whitman’s day, we guarantee that homeboy would’ve been name-dropping this magical massager in his work.

· Hysterical Literature: Session Two: Alicia (claytoncubitt.tumblr.com)

Here’s a fun fact: until a few months ago, Stoya had never used a Hitachi Magic Wand (commonly know as the Cadillac of vibrators). Indeed, it wasn’t until this very video that our sweet Supreme Commandress ever felt the hard pulse of the Hitachi up against her lovely labia…but, judging by her reaction, we’re pretty sure it wasn’t her last time.

It’s actually kind of fitting that Stoya’s first experience with the Hitachi happened in this sort of context (by which we mean, an art project in which only her upper body is visible while naughty things are happening downstairs)–as diehard Stoya fans will doubtless remember, her first porn video was actually a music video for This Empty Love, wherein Stoya received oral pleasure from a boyfriend while the camera focused on her face. It’s like she’s come full circle! (Pun most definitely intended.)

· Hysterical Literature: Session One: Stoya (claytoncubitt.tumblr.com)
· Read Stoya’s thoughts on the experience on Tumblr (stoya.tumblr.com)

How To Get Laid Without Getting Screwed — that’s the premise of The Girl’s Guide To Depravity. As a freshly minted single gal navigating the now foreign 20-something meat market, as much as a “handbook” isn’t really my thing, I decided to keep an open mind to the suggestions held within. And despite any initial misgivings (number one: author Heather Rutman touted as the “female Tucker Max”), I’d always fancied myself a bit depraved. And getting laid? Well, I certainly could use some of that right about now. So, I began the search for bookish tidbits that might actually benefit me in the pursuit of real, live boning.

And, though many of the “rules” venture into the realm of overkill for my taste (“If it doesn’t show off your legs or tits, it’s worthless”; “If he asks you to go Dutch, don’t even think about showing him your Brazilian”) I managed to narrow the collection down to five genuinely useful principles to keep in mind when getting mine.

The rule that initially struck my fancy is number seven: “The best way to get over a guy is to get under another guy.” It seems somewhat brash, but in the wake of a breakup can feel like an undesirable/insurmountable task. I had felt zero interest in dude-pursuing, or being pursued, as it happened, even for an easy lay. But the moment I ran into an attractive friend-of-a-friend, well, those presumed-dead feelings were resurrected. And, what do you know, the lady was right. Any lingering thoughts or feelings about ex-bf were quickly supplanted with the thrill of a new piece to slam (or, slampiece, as I like to say). Rutman mentions the psychological theory of transference as playing a role in this venture, but if it works, it works! I try not to venture too far into self-analysis when seeking out the bone zone.

A related rule in pursuing this end is, “Never underestimate the power of asking for what you want.” I’m often caught up in the game of playing coy or seeming too straightforward i.e. desperate, but Rutman makes a good point:

The odds of getting what you want from a man by asking are 1:1. The odds of getting what you want from a man by hoping he figures it out are 1:1,100.

With this thought in mind, when Saturday night(s) rolled around, instead of waffling over whether to reach out to said slampiece, I fired off the come-hither text. Now, here you can be as coy as you want so long as the message gets across. And, again, wouldn’t you know, 9 out of 10 times I found myself the recipient of a solid boning that very night. Maybe the piece would have reached out to me, maybe not, but at least I felt that I took destiny in my own hands and was rewarded.

Thirdly, and relatedly: “Depraved girls never apologize.” It’s sometimes reassuring to remember there’s no shame, no shame at all, in seeking what you want. I’ve spent far too long attempting to appease the perceived desires of others, often to my own detriment, which has resulted in much unnecessary melancholy and regret. If you act in self-interest, others may not always be happy, but at least you will be. This is an overgeneralization, yes, but at least when it comes to getting laid it’s all well and good to just brazenly do you.

Fourth, and also relatedly: “Settling is for quitters.” Discouragement happens. Especially following a long-term relationship one (and one’s friends) may have thought would lead to that fateful comfy-cozy settling down, hanging up the hat, throwing in the towel on the debauched days of subversive singledom. One may be tempted to latch onto the next desperate sad sack looking to call it a night. If that’s what one truly wants, then by all means, go for it. But there are certain souls among us (call it romantic naiveté) that just can’t be fully satisfied by comfort alone. And just when I thought my sense of desire was dead, I found a spark. As insignificant as it may be in the long term, it rekindled the feeling that I have many more heels to fall head over. Which is an encouraging thought for a waning hopeless romantic — a reminder not to get jaded just yet.

And finally (this is Fleshbot after all) I appreciated the “Don’t go to sleep horny” maxim. Chances are we likely won’t get to bang who, where, and when we want every time we want. Of the times that it didn’t work out, so be it, there’s always a vibrator close at hand (especially working at Fleshbot). And when the world has made it possible to get off well, maybe even better, than smashing parts with a partner, don’t hesitate to do so. Orgasms feel great. They’re enlivening and thrilling and reconnect you to yourself and your sexual nature. I think it’s physically impossible to cry and come at the same time (but don’t tell it to these guys), and in my opinion a masturbating girl is a happy girl.

So I suppose in general the rules that I found relatable were the ones stressing not to take myself too seriously, that it’s really okay to be selfish sometimes. Getting laid is, at its core, fun. And the circumstances surrounding it should be as well. Though complications do arise from time to time, what I gathered is that the Depraved Girl takes these with a grain of salt (or a hefty spirit of revenge, whichever works best). The bottom line is being in control, having a good time, and doing what you want without getting hurt. And as silly and self-helpy as one may feel referring to a handbook, remembering to keep yourself as your main priority is, as I see it, a very good thing.

So, kudos, Heather Rutman, for attempting to get ladies back in the driver’s seat. Though all those driver seats should still steer away from Tucker Max.

· The Girl’s Guide To Depravity (thegirlsguidetodepravity.com)
· Buy The Girl’s Guide To Depravity (amazon.com)

[Photo: Kimberly Kane, via Fuck Me In The Bathroom]

Jacob Hefner (no relation to Hugh) has done a ton globetrotting (no relation to Harlem), and he’s encountered many beautiful women on his travels. Rather than locking up the memories of these women in his head, he was kind enough to keep them in photo format and share them with the world in a book called “Beautiful Innocence.” Who’s in the mood for funbags al fresco?

We are. We always are. And yes, we’re a bit nervous about that one PYT spending TLC on the cheetah, but we’re sure everybody made it out of that scenario fine. As far as we know, that cheetah could’ve become Hefner’s faithful companion throughout his adventures. That’s all anyone needs in this world, right? A camera, a cheetah, and some frequent flyer miles; sounds like the life.

· Buy Beautiful Innocence” (amazon.com)
· See more pics at Egotastic (egotastic.com)

[Show as slideshow]

This excerpt is from Love & Kink – my newest book. It was my little attempt to describe how I actually do kinky things. The book is here on Amazon:

I left her bag in the bedroom and walked back to find her still standing in front of the door. I looked her up and down until she shivered. Finally I smiled.

“Take off your sweater,” I said, waiting until she had done it. “Now take off your shoes and socks before you step out of your jeans. And Maggie? Do it slowly. I know you want to get your mouth back on my cock, but be patient. It’s embarrassing when you rush.”

She glared at me, but as always, she followed my instructions perfectly. She folded her sweater and placed it on the table by the door. She kicked off her shoes, pulled off her socks, and unbuttoned her jeans so slowly I almost went to her. When they finally came off she was standing naked in front of me. Maggie only wore underthings when there was time to appreciate them.

“Go turn on the shower, get in, and wait for me with your arms against the wall. If I’m not there in five minutes get cleaned and come the bedroom. If I am there, stay silent until I’m all the way inside you. Go.”

I sat back on the bed as I heard her run the water, and I took my time undressing. There was no way in hell I wasn’t going to climb in and fuck her, but I didn’t want to let her know that. Okay, she probably knew it as well, but a little pretend never hurt anyone. Besides, the longer I made her wait, the quicker she’d come when I did fuck her. Maggie can come from sixteen different things, but anticipation is my favorite. Her mind works like mine does and she’ll think through every possibility as she waits. She’ll wonder, she’ll hope, and most of all, she’ll imagine me inside her in such detail that by the time I’m there she’ll be ready.

When I opened the shower curtain she was facing the wall, bent at exactly the right angle. I put a condom on before I opened the door, so within seconds of climbing in I was rubbing against her cunt and she was breathing sighs of relief. When I touched her clit she almost screamed, and when I slid inside her she let out a loud gasp.

“Oh fuck,” she moaned over and over again.

I took her hips in my hands, and I fucked her. The hot water poured down onto my back as I gripped her while she thrust against me. As her voice got louder I got rougher. When she started to scream I let my hand fall hard against her ass, leaving a warm red mark. I hit her three more times in a row, and after the last strike she was clenching around me as she came.

I pulled her to me as I pushed deeply inside her again, and my own orgasm ripped through my body. I struggled to stand–hell I struggled to see–as I came inside her, and both our bodies finally ended up against the cold tile wall of the shower. I wrapped my arms around her and held her as she trembled.

I kissed the water on her cheek and she touched my face.

[This post is a part of Fleshbot's Camille Crimson Week. See more from Guy New York here.]

Friend of Fleshbot Judy McGuire has a brand new book out, and it’s chock full of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll. Unfortunately, there was one list that the publisher deemed too hot to print–but lucky for you, we’ve got a copy of it right here. Take a gander at this list of lyrical love for fisting…and then go buy The Official Book of Sex, Drugs, and Rock ‘n’ Roll Lists and see what other awesomeness it has to offer.

1.) “Fist Me This Christmas,” The Wet Spots
This internationally acclaimed cabaret duo write elegant songs about inelegant topics. In this one they blend fisting and Christmas (Fistmas?) “Leave the gifts, just bring the Crisco/ Cause Christmas means fisting to me.”

2.) “FISTFUCK,” The Sexless
These hot BDSM Metal Japanese female doms do bondage and suspension on stage, while dressed in latex. They even have a horn player!

3.) “Fist Fuck,” Nine Inch Nails
The “Broken” EP is better known for containing the single “Happiness in Slavery,” but after it won a Grammy, Trent predicted that his tombstone would someday read “Said ‘Fist Fuck,’ Won a Grammy.”

4.) “I Like the Girls,” Tricky
Trip-hopping, occasional-Massive Attack-er Tricky’s story of bringing two pros home for the night included him watching, “See me laying for the queen all this fisting.”

5.) “Moral Distortion,” Agoraphobic Nosebleed
These drum machine grindcore vets describe “visions fisting young cunts” and “sabotaging humanity.”

Bonus Track:
Of Montreal
“Teenage Unicorn Fisting”
Sadly, not as erotic as the title might lead you to believe.

*Fisting: Occasionally called “fist-fucking”, “handballing,” or just plain “awesome”, fisting is a sexual act involving the insertion of the hand into the anus or vagina. The fister enters the orifice slowly with lubed fingers and thumb held straight and together, then balls the hand into a fist once fully inserted into the fistee. Safely enjoyed by many, fisting stimulates the prostate or g-spot and creates a sensation of “fullness” for the receiver.

Jiz Lee is a porn star known for an androgynous gender-bending appearance, copious female ejaculation, slinging large strap-on dildos, champion fisting, and frisky, sex-positive attitude about sex. The AVN-nominated-fucker first appeared in Shine Louise Houston’s The Crash Pad and has starred in both indie and crossover mainstream adult performances. Jiz was most recently honored as Feminist Porn Awards’ Boundary Breaker. A web geek and philanthropist, Jiz blogs and raises money for queer and kinky charities at jizlee.com.