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impatient and aware of the
audience reaction, to gently slide my hands between your legs and
touch your flower. It’s a beautiful creature, shy and
factory-fresh. I caress your womanhood gently, first with just the
one fist to give you time to become accustomed to the new
sensations, then with my more imaginative strokes. With the fingers
of one hand I carefully circle your clitoris without touching it. I
keep my other hand firmly on your hip to keep you motionless and
because I really like hips. I lightly touch your clit with just the
tip of my tongue as I gently, gently insert my left great toe into
your secret garden. I move my foot in small circles, paying special
attention to familiar sensitive areas, watching my footing, and
ignoring the shooting pains from my calf. Your moans are more
insistent now as you fight my hold and attempt to roll your hips to
bring your clit under my tongue. I playfully refuse to allow you
this release so soon, even to the point of removing my tongue
entirely and laying it on the countertop.
After hours of loving torture and a break
for lunch I throw your legs apart, breaking one in my haste, and
sink my throbbing, steel-hard pee-pee deep within your bikini zone.
We scream together, me in ecstasy, you in pain from your leg, as I
thrust harder and harder to get as far up your love canal as
possible and, incidentally, as far away from Hector as I can. I
stop abruptly, teasing you, and then ram my friendly weapon into
your yielding softness with such speed, vigor and manly power that
you nearly wake up. I retain full control of my silk salami, easily
changing speeds and motions for almost thirty seconds before
spurting helplessly around the room and collapsing in a snoring
heap (much like my enemy, the hideous shark).
The next morning, when you awaken to the
approaching sirens and realize my spunk has glued us (and Hector)
irrevocably to the floor mat, you squeeze your thighs lovingly
around me (eliciting small whimpers of despair from my sleeping,
drooling form) and think back over our wild night of passion. Then
you get me a beer.
And maybe, after bail is posted and we get
to know each other, we could, you know, maybe go out or something.
Write me.

     

-------------------------

Make Mine
Vanilla
     
    The following is an excerpt from
the nearly-exciting new book, “Make Mine Vanilla,” by Kurt
Hanrehan, coming out this fall from Missionary Press.
     
    Has sex gotten boring for you? Does
it seem like it's hardly worth it to test the eyehooks in the
ceiling anymore, or oil the harnesses, or schedule everyone for the
weekend orgy? Have you ever been licking your master's tire treads
clean and suddenly realized you'd rather watch TV? Does the thought
of your lover pissing on you from atop of the china cabinet just
not hold the thrill it used to? Do you ever find yourself staring
at your pierced labia and just wondering “why?”
Don't fret, little fuckaroo. You just need to limit
your sex life.
It's a common complaint these days. After years of
civil rights movements, increased sexual awareness, lessened social
stigmas, and an unavoidable all-absorbing flood of
ever-more-explicit sex in all forms of media, people were
encouraged to open up their drab sexual lives and embrace the
weird. Ropes, chains, diapers, groups of thirty at a time,
inserting chunks of lead through various organs, controlled
asphyxiation, phone sex, cybersex, tantric sex, furry sex, hot wax,
fetishes of all sorts, humiliation, four hour orgasms, and even
aggravated celibacy have all broken the taboo barrier and are all
now commonplace. And that's the problem. You're jaded. You have no
new sticky vistas, no shining sexual edge to seek. You pushed the
envelope and now it's gone. So what now? Take up gardening? Spend
time with the needy? Pay more attention to your family?
No! It's time for you to try the last unexplored
sexual lifestyle, with sexual techniques that have been passed down
for thousands of years. Vanilla sex.