Sultry Angel's site is down temporarily

Well, it's been a while!

I'm getting back into the swing of blogging soon, don't worry. My fingers are still functional, brain notwithstanding. Wozzat? ....Story writing? Eh? Did you say something...?

Meanwhile, you need to know that Sultry Angel's site (formerly known - or still known? - as Pleasures from the Pen) is currently experiencing gremlin riots, ghosts in some machines, and general vibrators-gone-wild calamity. Once the spasms have ended, and all the sweaty and slippery and sticky (and smelly) spots have been wiped up a bit, I'm sure our good Angel will be beaming out at us again from her usual perch upon that ninth cloud known as sultryangel.com.

Let's give her two days to recover, shall we?

Then everybody show up and make her day, OK? I'm making sure to bring some new batteries and lube, just in case.

Jamie Part 2 is now on my ASSTR site

Jamie and Brett face the consequences for their filthy fun at school.

And I came. Just thinking for that split second of the huge sheriff’s deputy leaned over Jamie’s nude body, her feet in the air around his ears, her blonde hair spilled all over the place while she lay there and let the man pound away. It was too much.

Click here to read Jamie's Sick Journey, Part 2, on my ASSTR site.

(If you need to catch up on Part 1 first, you can click here for JSJ 1.)

And Happy New Year (of the rat)!

New Story! Jamie's Sick Journey 2

I'm posting the second installment of the Jamie's Sick Journey serial tonight, at Pleasures from the Pen.

It is going to be posted there exclusively until the end of December.

After that, I'll possibly also post it on ASSM, my own site, and on SOL as well.

The reason I'm putting it only on PFTP for now is that I want you to visit the site. It is a new, growing site for erotica authors (especially of fetish and fringe smut), wherein the authors do a lot of discussion and supporting of one another's efforts. There is good, constructive criticism of works-in-progress, and there are also many high-quality, scorching hot stories that you haven't read anywhere else.

You won't find a bunch of adwords, banners flashing, or any of that other bullshit. Just a great site for erotica authors and readers - especially for those who like the crazier kinds of smut. I'm not making a dime off the site, nor does anyone else. But I like the place a lot, and I'd love to see it grow and thrive even more than it already has.

Plus, the hostess-webmistress, Sultry Angel, is possibly the nicest gal on the planet. Getting to know her is worth the free sign-up to join the forum! She's a very special lady.

If you're an aspiring smut writer, like me, then Pleasures from the Pen is definitely a forum you should join (remember: it's free). If you're a fan of erotica, then you'll love it, too, especially since you get to see the writing process at work... different drafts of stories, etc., and have a chance to put in your two-cents and maybe help to shape a nice, nasty tale.

Click here to read Jamie's Sick Journey, Part 2.

(If you need to catch up on Part 1 first, you can click here.)

Enjoy!

Of Scribblings, Sophomores, and Semen

I'm in a study caroll here at a southern liberal arts university, and this is what I see scrawled in pencil along the facing edge of the little bookshelf, exactly level with my eyes: "I jack off thinking about Emma Watson". Someone else's handwriting has fit in a little "Me Too", with an arrow pointing at Emma's name, just before the writer ran out of room at the bottom edge of the mahogany varnish.

It's a reserved caroll. Someone here at the school has their own locked two-shelf cabinet underneath; a small glass-paned door reveals the two deep shelves and a cluttered assortment of books, a three-ring binder, and several cheap paper pocket-folders. Only one book's title is visible, albeit partially. I can see "Enraged Reader" and that's it.

Yeah. Sounds about right. I'd be enraged sitting there, too, reading shit for class while Emma Watson frolics somewhere off in the sunny (?! Yes, it is my fantasy here.) hills of southern England. Possibly nude. Since she's obscenely rich now, I imagine she can afford naked outdoor traipsing whenever the whim strikes. Her estate probably sits on seventy-bazillion acres of perfect green motherland.

Anyway. This poor guy. Has to be a guy (more on that later). He either wrote it himself and keeps it there as a reminder of his post-collegiate aspirations (To do list: 1. Stalk Emma, 2. Die with Emma in my arms, or at least with Emma watching), or else he is not the scrawl's author and yet he is sympathetic; perhaps this guy's a poet and he sees the anonymous bit of pencilled confession as a paen to the Futility of Love. So of course it must remain, untainted, in its original agonized-euphoric state. (Is there a word for that? Only one I can think of that comes close is incest, but of course I doubt any of Emma's kin ever showed up here in these hallowed halls with revelatory pencil in hand.)

Perhaps he's not the scribbler and he's apathetic, instead. Maybe he's in school for the beer and the beer-soaked pussy. In that case he won't have much clue who Emma is. He won't have read about dear Harry's travails. He probably only saw one of the movies, and that was under duress, nine girlfriends back, after he'd just gotten his driver's license, his first pack of condoms, and a girl who had a certain reputation. How was he supposed to know she read those books? No hot girl on this earth would want to see that stupid fucking kids' movie, right, so what the hell was he doing there with her anyway? Bitch didn't even try for his crotch - just a little rub through the jeans now and then - not even once. And no making out until after. And that was only when he'd told her for the third time that he didn't want to talk about the movie. Fucking nerd girls should not have asses like that, right? How was he supposed to know? Last younger girl he'd ever asked out, that was for sure. He'd had no idea she was in all advanced classes. How was he supposed to know? He was in another grade! He'd just liked her tits in those tees she wore... God, and her ass!

So Mr. Apathetic would see "jack off" and get a kick out of that, similar to the way he sniggers whenever the word "duty" is spoken aloud. As for Emma, and as for the forlorn soul taking his romance to her in the only way he's capable, the apathetic caroll-dweller simply mocks. Stupid fucker, he thinks. Only thing jacking my dick is tight pussy. Or her ass. If she's really fine.

I'm hoping this guy - in whatever incarnation, be he the author of the original work or the caretaker of it - shows up. I want to point right at that pencilling and ask him, "Hey man, see that? Did you write that?" Those kind of moments don't come along much, so I'm taking full advantage if it does. I'm planning a variety of follow-up questions and responses for him, depending on how he reacts to my first query. Got a Photoshopped fake of a nude Emma online and I'm ready to click to at a moment's notice, not to mention some sweet doujinshi showing, among other things, little Hermione as a dickgirl. Here are a few examples (tamed for blog viewing) of what I mean....





Hey, the caroll's in a secluded little niche, way back in the stacks. Clicking to open those pictures won't be the worst acts ever committed in this little corner of academia, I'm sure.

Now I know some of you might be willing to argue that the pencil-wielding Emmaphile could very well be a female. While I'll never truly be the sexist pig that my upbringing should have produced, I will nevertheless attempt it here: 1. the handwriting isn't girlie enough, 2. "jack off" just isn't in the top three (or four or five) of the Girlie Euphemisms for Masturbation, and 3. Emma Watson? Nah, not for a girl. She'd be wrapped up in the fantasy of it. Instead of Emma's name I'd be looking at a scrawled out "Hermione Granger" - probably even with a little heart traced in graphite where the dot for the i should be (see, sexist! Hoo-ah!).

Second favorite declaration in the caroll, this one carved permanently into the table's edge: "I licks my own pussy." How could a contortionist get enough time away from the big top to attend college? And why haven't I seen porn of this yet? (But now I do have at least one more reason to live.) I've taken pictures of that one, too, but they're looking even shittier than the first, so I won't bother posting them. I include this one in the list for it's crazy subject matter, obviously, but also because the handwriting makes it conceivably female in origin. The lettering is just a lot neater than almost everything else around it. Not much to go with, but we quasi-sexists do as we must to prod on.

Third favorite, nearly totally scratched out (so I'm partially reconstructing here), is this one: "My Mommy Fucks Me". Obviously this should be numero uno, but again, I'm doing a little creative interpretation. All I can really make out is "My Momm- ---ks -e" and then there's another line of scratched-out something, but I'm not even sure it's related to that, so who knows? But what a nice little secret to share with fellow caroll-rats, eh? Mothercunt daydreams are guaranteed to keep a student up for long hours, at the very least. Perhaps I should bring back a UV light sometime and check this area out a little closer. There's probably masturbatory slooges left all over this place. Between Emma, auto-cunnilingus, and mother-fucking... God, I bet I'm sitting in one hell of a petri dish.

But there is one last. The tiny carving reads: "No hope at all. :(" If I can be sexist just a bit longer (yeah, baby, you know you like it longer), this was done by a female. Handwriting is to curving and precise, the frownie too perfect - and carved! - to be the work of a guy. Sorry. I hope the pic's clear enough for you to be able to tell that. And it does make me wonder - and it's perhaps the only one of these dozens of scrawls that does make me try to imagine - what is the story behind this? What was she going through? Was it a tough test she just couldn't cram for anymore? Was she too wrapped up in the notion of licking her own pussy when she got back home? Did she break up with somebody and then had futile second thoughts? Was her life that shitty? Did she have nothing to light up her day at all? What was her problem?

I'll never know, of course. But I don't need to, do I? What matters is that someone else was here. A lot of someones. A lot of stories. A lot of crap. Probably too much drama. Definitely too much politics, gay-bashing, and hate. The scrawls, on the whole, add up to a whole bunch of juvenile spew. Yet that's what's precious about them, for me.

Here in this small corner of academia there's the undeniable evidence of so many of the funny, crazy, stupid, sad, and unlikely states of human existence - especially of those crucial years of life when we get our first real taste of freedom, of true adulthood. The exhultation, the retardation, the fear - it's all right here to see. Makes me want to visit each caroll, one by one, for a few hours at a time... with a good flashlight, a better camera, and my notebook. What else is there to find? Who else is there to discover? What stories lie in wait, hastily pencilled, thoughtfully etched, for me to stumble across? These missives aren't accidents, after all. They were left for us to find. They were sent with some purpose. They were made with a hand and a brain and a heart. These aren't random worker bees who happened to leave behind their sweet honey. These are attempts to connect, to communicate, to advise, to brag, to complain, to share. And there are so many! So, so many.

But for now I'm getting out here, folks. I feel an overwhelming urge to wash my hands. Repeatedly.

I mean, ew.

Maybe I'll change clothes, too.

Surprise! New Story!

(In the interest of full disclosure, this post was first made on PFTP, but I'd like to share it here as well!)

I have a challenge for you...

Write something... the only rule is... "No rules"... No rereading... No considering the plot or characters or where or when or how... and definitely "NO EDITING OF ANY SORT".

Just write something... type it... and post it...

You can read it for the first time just like the rest of us.

There.  Now you have two challenges.

Consider mine a true no brainer.


Twisted Tristen, from the
NaNoWriMo thread at
Pleasures From the Pen.

---

OK, Tristen.  I did it.  And good grief, was that tough!  The urge to pause and look back - I had no idea how hard it would be to fight that off.  I also hadn't realized that it's been probably 15 years since I last "popped one off" like this.  But I've thought hard about it, and I think that's right. 


I used to do "one hour riffs" as I called them, where I set my alarm clock to go off in 60

 minutes, and I'd rattle away on my old Sears electric typewriter (and later my PS2) until that buzzer broke it up.  There were often themes or topics I'd commit myself ahead of time to writing about, but often the rapid pace of the hour limit sent me off into a wildly different area than I expected, and usually those pieces would come out as some of the strongest I did.


Anyway, in working on your challenge, I forced myself not to preconceive anything.  No consideration of plot and character, like you stipulated.  Not even beforehand.  And you know what?  It felt great!  I got much more into a first person voice than I'd managed to be in a long time, and I think I hit some good rhythms here and there with it.  I hope.


Two things I did, though, that sort of broke your rules: 


1.  I have already read it for the first time, prior to posting it - BUT, I only did that because I knew I wouldn't change anything; I wanted to honor your challenge as much as I possibly could.


2.  In my reading, I decided to add a couple ***** separators, just to break the story up into a few distinct sections, to orient the reader a little better in terms of the passage of a little bit of time.


But that was it!  Tough to stick to, those rules of yours, but I hope I rose to the challenge gallantly enough. 


The story is definitely raw, and I'm more than a little ambivalent about its overall quality;  but I did manage to write something more or less to a suitable end.  It took me longer than I thought it would, too, even though I tried typing "straight on through" until the end.  A couple times I caught myself pondering this or that, but only briefly.  I managed to keep plowing on ahead really rather well, I think. 


I hope it ends up being worth it!  I'm getting ready to read it again - for only the second time - as soon as I finish posting this link to it....


Here's my story: 
Heads, Aches by bluepervina

 

A Misguided Obsession

It all began with this little article I saw on ananova.com ...

Telephone sex script writer wins book award

A man who writes scripts for telephone sex operators has won a new national book award in Brazil.

Santiago Nazarian, 25, has won the first Conrado Wessel literature prize and will see his book "Oblivious" published. Nazarian told Estado de Sao Paulo newspaper that his former job was an influence on his book which features the words 'sperm' and 'penis' in the first paragraph.

Nazarian has also worked in a nightclub, where one floor was exclusive for couples who wanted to have sex, and has taken part in self-mutilation performances. He said: "I've always liked this kind of stuff, pain is not something that bothers me. I don't plan to stop writing the sex scripts, I write 15 per week. I don't intend to make a living out of writing books."

Story filed: 08:07 Friday 23rd May 2003

(Retrieved from http://www.ananova.com/news/story/sm_784131.html?menu=news.weirdworld.sexlife in 2003, but this link is now dead)

 

Click here to see a YouTube clip of this guy as he's being interviewed about his latest book - which I think translated means "Chewing Humans". Oh, and it's all in Portuguese, so if you can interpret, please feel free to let me know what the hell he's saying... and why he's saying it while sitting in a children's playground!

This Guy Is Was My Hero!

Seriously. After reading the above article on ananova.com several years ago, I had an epiphany. It sort of went like this:

Dude, move to fucking Brazil. "Real writers" can be porn writers! And porn writers can be "real writers"! And they win awards!


I'm not entirely joking.

Sadly, neither my wife nor my children could understand my sudden - and insufficiently explained - obsession with moving to South America. The best my wife could guess was that it had something to do with the MFX video clips that I kept "accidentally" leaving out for her to find on our computer desktop. Seriously, she was worried about me dreaming of scat games along the Amazon. During a semi-comical (not that she knew it was) tense marital moment one night, she actually asked me if I wanted to move to Brazil just so I could eat poop from all those hot asses that I saw on the computer all the time. With a straight face I managed to reply in the negative, telling her somewhat in earnest that all of those women were lesbians anyway, and that there was no chance of them inviting a man like me into their smelly little love nest.

Satisfied about the stability of my fetish/fidelity matrix for the moment (more on that, perhaps, another time), she shifted the questioning a bit. She still wanted to know why Brazil.... She knew it wasn't the weather (I hate the heat), knew it couldn't be the food (I could get that where we were living already), knew it wasn't to learn Portuguese or to help chop down the trees or even to have an excuse to wear a thong on a beach and get a thrill out of watching a bunch of scorching hot topless women wearing the exact same bathing suit bottom as me. No. None of that.

So... why...?

I clicked her on over to that article on ananova about Mr. Nazarian. She read it, read it again, and then looked me straight in the face. She wasn't impressed at all. "You're insane," she muttered, shaking her head. That was all she said. Then she slapped me - really fucking hard - right across my face. I was already bending over a little, watching her as she sat in front o of our bedroom's computer, so when the blow came I was completely overbalanced and fell to the floor. Next thing I know, she's on top of me. My nipples are in her unnervingly strong fingers, and she's squeezing, pulling up, up, up. Leave it to me to show her that article on a night I was relaxing around the house shirtless. Did I ever regret it.

"So," she said, arching an eyebrow, smirking at the tears already pouring out of my eyes, "here's what I think..." and she twisted my poor little nips! "...it's that this is your wimpy... little... way... of showing me that you're finally..." more fucking twisting and yanking me up by the tits, and I grabbed her by the wrists, but she'd locked on too good "...once and for all ready to admit that you really do want me start hurting you when we fuck." I'd have shaken my head in a violent No at that point, but she suddenly dropped my traumatized chest and grabbed my head in both hands, pulling my hair savagely into her fists. I swear I blacked out for a few seconds, just from the shock. It was like time skipped a tiny bit, or else slowed down and then sped way, way up. She lifted my head a few inches off the carpet and then clonked my skull back down. Once, twice. My ears began to ring, and I felt like I was floating a little.

Then she coughed, cleared her throat, and spit a huge loogie right onto the bridge of my nose. Another cough, and a new wad of mucal slime hit me square on the corner of my mouth, which was opened, of course, and panting for air. Despite her hold on my head and the fact that she was at that point straddling my chest (she's 5'11", exactly my own height, so I was fairly well-pinned), I clamped my mouth shut and tried to turn my head to avoid loogie number three. She was ready for that.

Her open hand slammed into my face again, and then again, and then again. I was stunned back to stillness, my face a burning wreck of her loogies and my tears and snot. And then my blood. My nose suddenly let loose with a thickening river that ran into my mouth and down my cheeks into my ears. She swiped gently at the blood and everything else that besotted my poor mug, and I thought she was feeling apologetic and was cleaning me up. But then both her hands were on my mouth, forcing her fingers past my lips and teeth, scraping off that pungent mix of fluids onto my tongue and gums.

She dug in all the way, as far as she could get, and of course my guts began to heave. Because she's so tall and strong, even my hands pulling at her forearms and pushing against her shoulders had no effect. She was going to make me do what she wanted me to do. Which of course was the whole point of her attack.

When I finally puked, she yanked her hands back and clamped them over my mouth, so that the nasty mix coming back up had to exit mostly through my sore and bleeding nose. The little that got out around her hands just went down my cheeks, same as the blood had done, and mostly got stuck in and around my ears.

After a few shuddering, retching convulsions, she finally let up on me. She wiped her hands off on my shirt, got to her feet, and stood for several minutes smiling down at the spectacle that I must have been. "You know I'm ready to give it to you, baby," she murmured, "whenever you're ready to take it." All I could do was watch her carefully and attempt to control my quivering esophagus.

Then she seemed to get bored watching me struggle back to being more than just a surprised, husband-shaped smear on our bedroom floor. "So, stud, you need to let me know if you're really serious this time," she said, sniffing at her hands. Wrinkling her nose, she grinned down at me. And then she kicked me sharply - just once - in the fleshy side of my hip.

"That's to remind you to stop talking about fucking Brazil. It's really annoying."

She calmly sauntered off to the kitchen, where I heard her washing her hands in the sink, then pouring herself some wine, and rearranging things in the fridge. When she came back in I was still on the floor, still trying to recover. I'd noticed a small spider web in the corner near the bathroom door, and I was trying to determine if the silky little trap was still occupied. It helped a lot to calm my breathing, I guess, because I was feeling almost totally back to normal.

She dropped an icy bottle of beer right on my crotch, then flipped the bottle opener at my head as she came by. "Thought you might like something to wash down that pride of yours, baby." Chuckling, she climbed up into our bed and flipped the TV over to American Idol, like it was just another Tuesday night.

In a weird way, though, it sort of was.

For the record: I had that bruise on my hip for two months, my nose is still a little crooked, and I never spoke a word about Brazil again.

(But I still leave those MFX clips out on the desktop every now and then. It never hurts to remind her just a little!)

K in the Kitchen

New Story: K in the Kitchen - if you're familiar with ASSM/TR story codes, they are as follows: ( FF, cyber, insertion, ws, sm, blood, fist, scat, voyeur, implied inc ). My tag line for this story on the site: "Two MILFs IM for fun with the BM."

For those of you who follow my work, you might be interested to know that this story marks the return of one of my more popular characters, Femdirty3, who up until this story had only been seen in my Mandy Makes a Move series. In K in the Kitchen Femdirty3 is still up to her usual cyberbitch tricks, this time controlling the erotic life of a rich, repressed housewife.

Important Note: Please make sure you understand the ASSM/TR story codes before you click into K in the Kitchen. I use the codes to let you know ahead of time what kind of erotic content you will find. If the codes are too squicky for you, then I suggest that you exercise your better judgment! And remember, it's erotica - and, in the case of my writing, that means graphic sexual content. Not just that, but my stories can usually be classified as fetish erotica, so if you're new to any of the aforementioned stuff, reader beware!

Please check my stories out, and don't forget to drop by my contact page and leave me some feedback. I'd love to know what you think of my work - be it good, bad, or ugly.

More stories are on the way soon....