Tired Girl by Aussiescribbler


Photo by Gorkem Demir

Tired girl, you give me a weary smile, speak my name with a husky voice
All pretence is beyond you, but about your loveliness you have no choice
Worker, student, mother – there are so many things to be
But it requires no effort to be what you are to me

Tired girl, slide into my arms, let me carry you to your warm and tender bed
I’ll undress you with a reign of healing kisses, my precious little sleepy head
Both naked beneath the covers, I’ll hold you in my arms
No treasure in all the earth like the sum of all your charms

Sweet little darling take your rest
Lay your head upon my chest
Pass through dreaming’s clouded gate
My hot desire will watch and wait
As the weightless body of your dreams
By shady woods and crystal streams
Rehearses the rampant acts of wet delight
With which we’ll fill our every future night

Posted in erotica, Poetry | Tagged , , | 3 Comments

Comparing Ourselves With Others by Joe Blow


Photo : Kyiv, Ukraine – October 08/2016. Outdoor CrossFit training, preparation for competition “Race Nation.” Autumn. The girl brings a log on her shoulder, performing strength exercises. Photographer : Valentyn Kaganovych https://www.123rf.com/profile_vkaganovich

It’s crazy to assess our worth by how others respond to us or what they say about us. In fact assessing our worth is crazy all together. But we all tend to do it.

We make comparisons without taking into account all the factors. A friend of mine was talking about bullying as the strong picking on the weak, and I asked him “What do you mean by strong? What do you mean by weak?”

If someone treats someone else badly it is often an expression of their own weakness, their own insecurity. And my friend might have thought of himself as “the weak” because he was vulnerable. But he is burdened with mental illness. Imagine two people attempting to run in a race. You might assume the one who won the race was the stronger, but what if the other was carrying a bag of concrete on her back? She didn’t get far in the race, but she had a go. To my mind that makes her damn strong, heroic even.

And that’s why it is crazy to compare ourselves with others on the basis of how our lives are going and how their lives are going.

Posted in Psychology | Tagged , , , , , | 5 Comments

Riot Girl by Aussiescribbler

10015522 - punk girl with a molotov cocktail.Illustration by Nejron

“Fuck the IMF!” screamed a female voice and almost simultaneously a flaming Molotov cocktail crashed into my riot shield, exploding into a multitude of fragments. Gunther, my trusty partner, whipped out his fire extinguisher and hosed down the fiery debris.

“They really mean business today,” he commented, surveying the crowd of several hundred rioters who were overturning cars, throwing bricks through shop windows and pelting us with anything that came to hand.

“Passionate about their beliefs,” I pointed out. “You have to give them credit for that. Respect for our safety and other people’s property perhaps not as high a priority for them as it should be, that I grant you, but spirited, that they are.”

The girl who threw the cocktail was coming at us full pelt now, head down like a charging rhino. She was a slim girl in skin-tight black jeans, a black wind-cheater and a black balaklava.

“Fascist cunt pigs!” she shrieked, kicking my shield so hard that I fell back into a crouching posture.

“O.K. That’s it!” I screamed. “It’s the tazer for you, you little shit!” Down she went, jerking and twitching uncontrollably. “Cuff her, Gunth.”

Three minutes later the three of us were back in our squad car.

“How did you know it was me?” chuckled Patty, when I pulled off her balaclava. Nobody recovers from a tazering as quickly as my Patty.

“Your unerring accuracy with a Molotov Cocktail is unique amongst that uncoordinated rabble,” I pointed out.

“You aren’t actually going to take me in, are you?” she asked.

“Of course not,” I replied. “They’d only keep you in jail overnight. I know how riots make you horny and I don’t want you getting hot and heavy with one of those ugly female prison guards.”

“They aren’t all ugly you know,” she smiled evilly. “Neither are all of the other inmates. Jail time has its fringe benefits.”

“Exactly the reason you are going to be under house arrest tonight. That way I can punish you properly for smashing the front window of Harrods with that brick,” I pointed out.

“Oh, you saw that,” she said, trying to look contrite and failing miserably.

“Yes, I saw that,” I replied. “And so will everyone who watches the BBC news tonight. I’m just lucky you were wearing a balaklava otherwise I would have to take you in.”

“And you are lucky that he has me wrapped around his little finger,” replied Gunther.

“He doesn’t dob me in for protecting my girlfriend from criminal charges, and I don’t dob him in for selling dope cookies at the local retirement home,” I explained.

I didn’t lock her in or cuff her to the bed. What if there were a fire? I knew she would be there when I got home.

“O.K. Little Miss Riot Girl,” I addressed her forcefully as I entered the apartment still dressed in my full uniform, “now I’m going to make you pay for your anti-social behaviour.”

“Oink! Oink! Oink! That’s all I heard, Mr. Piggy,” she responded insolently. She was dressed in her old fashioned prison stripe pajamas, laying back on the bed watching TV.

I threw my leg over her and began unbuttoning her pajama top.

“Dirty pig, just wants to see my tits,” she smiled wickedly, and then spat in my face.

“You little bitch!” I yelled, yanking down her bottoms to reveal a bald pussy and an A for anarchism symbol where her pubes had once been.

“Fuck this, Porky Pig!” she taunted, grabbing her crotch.

“Oh, I intend to, honey!” I sneared. “Just you wait. But first we have to go through proper prison induction procedure. Starting with de-lousing.” With that I picked up a container of talcum powder and started shaking it all over her naked body. The clouds of powder that rose from her breasts went up her nose and she started sneezing uncontrollably.

Then I dragged her to her feet and pulled her into the bathroom.

“We have to make sure you aren’t trying to bring any naughty substances in with you,” I explained as I bent her over and pulled her butt cheeks wide apart. By now she was no longer resisting. The softness of her warm bum cheeks in my hands caused my cock to become rock hard in my pants as I stared at her cute pink bumhole. “It looks all clear to the naked eye,” I decided, but just to be sure I stuck out my tongue and licked all around her hole. “One more test to be sure,” I added, sliding the middle finger of my right hand as far as it would go into the saliva-lubricated passage. “Just as I thought,” I concluded, “nothing up there.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “I think you gave up too easily. You’re cock is longer than your finger.”

“My cock doesn’t come into it, young lady,” I scolded her, slapping her hard on the ass.

“It would if you fucked my bottom with it,” she replied, turning around and poking her tongue out at me.

“Now I have to check you haven’t got anything secreted in your vaginal cavity,” I informed her. “Sit on the counter and spread yourself wide open.”

She did as she was told. Her pussy was sopping wet, her creamy juices dribbling down onto the counter.

“See, there’s nothing in here,” she told me, shoving two of her fingers as far as they would go into her juicy depths. She then started sliding them in and out and rubbing her stiff clit with her other hand.

“Masturbating is stictly forbidden!” I yelled. “Except after light’s out.”

“But I always feel like wanking my wet little pussy when I see a police officer in his uniform,” she pouted. “Especially one with a big truncheon like yours,” she added, stroking the front of my trousers.

“The next step is the shower,” I responded, trying to maintain some kind of discipline. I turned on the shower and shoved her under it.

“Ah, FUCK!!!!!!” she yelled. “It’s fuckin’ cold!!!”

“A cold shower is just what little sluts like you need,” I pointed out.

The next thing I knew she’d dragged me under the water with her.

“Ah, FUCK!!!!!!” I yelled. “It’s fuckin’ cold.”

“I told you so,” she replied, turning on some of the hot.

It wasn’t long before we were back on the bed. I’d had to take off my wet clothes, so now we were both naked. And the fact that my cock was doing its patent impersonation of Nelson’s Column didn’t exactly help me to maintain the dignity I’d had when my uniform was on. But I still had the upper hand. In fact my left hand was pushing into Patty’s back as my right hand spanked her bottom.

“Ouch! That hurts!” she cried.

“Of course it hurts, Little Miss Che Guevara!” I replied. “It wouldn’t be much of a deterrent if it didn’t.”

“Police brutality! Police brutality!” she cried.

Eventually, I got kind of tired though, and my hand got sore.

“You know what?” I whispered in her ear.

“What?” she sniffled, wiping a tear from her eye.

“I take bribes,” I admitted.

“What kind of bribes,” she wanted to know.

“Well, just the other day I caught a naughty girl who was throwing Molotov Cocktails and I let her go in return for a blow job,” I told her.

“You did?!?” she replied. “That’s very corrupt of you.”

“Yes,  I know,” I admitted. “I’m a very bad man.”

“I think you’re the one who belongs on the inside,” she informed me. “On the inside of my pussy.”

I licked the index finger of my left hand and slid it right up inside her warm clinging butthole as my cock entered her juicy wet cunt. I held her left bum cheek, still warm and tender from the spanking, in my right hand as I fucked her long and slow.

“Mmmmm. Pleasure me with your perfect prick, Porky Pig,” she sighed.

“Shut up or suffer more spankings you sedicious Socialist slut,” I whispered tenderly in her ear.

Eventually we came together in a paroxism of pleasure.

“So where are you rioting tomorrow?” I asked casually.

“Ah, now that’s for me to know and you to find out, isn’t it?” she replied, pinching my cheek playfully.

The End

Posted in erotica | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

The Oasis : A Parable by Joe Blow

There was once a people who lived happily at an oasis in the desert. There was plenty of food and water and the people were full of love for each other.

But one day a curse fell upon this tribe. It came with the wind which whispered in an ear here and an ear there a simple message : “You’re not good enough.”

No-one told anyone else about the voice that they heard. And each privately argued back against it. The more they fought this inner battle the less attention they had for each other, and so gradually the warmth of their love grew cold.

There seemed no local answer to their growing problem. And so, one by one, they were driven out into the desert in search of an answer. They were driven as a slave is driven with the crack of a whip across their back. And the name of that whip was You Are Not Good Enough.

Some lingered at the oasis, some set up camp at various distances from it, but those most cursed walked far out into the desert. Thirst, hunger and the blazing heat of the sun took their toll. Some grew weak, some went mad and some thrived by killing and stealing water and food.

Horror stories of life in the desert filtered back to the people at the oasis from those who had set up their tents along the way. Some of the tent dwellers would return to the oasis to replenish their supplies of food and water, but the further the tents were from the oasis, the shorter they would be of such supplies. So news would come often from the tents close by, but only occasionally would they hear from the outlying communities, and the stories were blood-curdling.

“We must help them,” the people of the oasis cried. So they gathered together supplies of food and water and maps of how to get back to the oasis. And they set out on an expedition to help those who needed these things the most.

But when they arrived at their destination, the desert dwellers – crazed by hunger and thirst and the blazing heat of the sun and embattled by constant fighting with each other – turned on their would be rescuers and killed and ate them.

“That didn’t go so well,” said those left at the oasis, when the news was relayed back to them by tent dwellers coming in for supplies. Then an idea occurred to one of them. “Why don’t some of you guys move back here. We can help you take out more supplies to those of you who decide to stay where you are. And then we can work together to get more supplies to the next lot of tents and maybe some of them would like to come back and help to get a steadier supply of food and water to those further out.

One day a man, not much more than a living skeleton, caked with blood, crawled up to an outlying tent. His plan was to steal some food and water, but he didn’t have the energy to do more than collapse. Hands reached out and picked him up and carried him into the shade. Cool water met his lips. The next day, when he opened his eyes, he knew that he must still be out in the heat of the sun, hallucinating as usual. Around him was a crowd of people, laughing and joking as they put up new tents and unpacked supplies. All of them were wearing garments emblazoned with the message “Everyone Is Good Enough”.

When his strength was restored, the desert dweller headed back out from whence he had come. He was carrying a message.

“It must have been a mirage,” they told him. But they couldn’t explain his state of health.

“They have enough food and water for us all,” he insisted. “And they can lead us back to the oasis.”

Some were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and came to the tent city. Others died in the desert. But soon the people of the oasis were as one once more and preparing a united effort to find more sources of food and water.

Posted in Psychology, Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

Blue : Fuck Me Friday

It’s another Fuck Me Friday. Here is how hostess Aisling Weaver describes it :

Welcome to another week of smut! Writing challenges can be found far and wide, and this one has just one goal – to inspire you to write!

We’ve been rolling around rather well here for a while, so I thought I’d mix it up a little.  Starting today, the prompts, while still being mostly random, are going to have some sort of tie between them for each month.  For instance, the rest of May will be colors, June will be sensations…essentially, the months will have a sort of theme to them.  This will allow those who enjoy working on a larger scale the option to do an overreaching arc of stories, if they like, while still offering up the differences that I’ve grown to enjoy in the offerings each week.

The result of all of this, I hope,  is two-fold; for writers, a weekly challenge to keep the, err, juices flowing.  For readers, you’ll find all the stories linked off at the bottom of each week’s prompt. Are you game?  Will you try your hand at some on the fly writing?  Will you expose your work to new readers, will you read along and find new authors?   I do hope so.

So, without further ado, let’s get this thing rolling!  To join in is as simply as this:

Write a story with the prompt as your title.  Today’s will be :


Tweet it with both the prompt hashtag and the hashtag #FuckMeFriday
And lastly add it to the links at the bottom of this post.(note, if you don’t want to tweet it or don’t have a blog, I invite you to post your story in the comments section.


The answer came to Serena Moran out of the blue when she walked in on her flatmate Betty and found her sucking her boyfriend’s cock.

“Sorry,” she said, and was about to back out of the lounge room, where Betty was bending down stark naked with her pert pink bottom in the air and Matt’s stiff cock filling her mouth. Her fingers were between her thighs rubbing her slippery stiff clit.

“No need to apologise,” insisted Matt, with a cheeky smile and a twinkle in his eye, as he lay back with his muscular arms behind his head. “Come on in and watch if you like. You know you want to.”

“Yes,” agreed Betty, slipping Matt’s cock out of her mouth and stroking it sensuously with her right hand. “We wouldn’t be fucking in the lounge room if we didn’t like the idea of being watched. Doesn’t the sight of Matt’s burgeoning boner make you juicy in your panties?”

“Of course!” cried Serena.

“I thought so,” smiled Betty.

“No, not that,” Serena tried to explain. “I mean, yes, of course, seeing Matt like that gives me a happy little clit. But, more importantly, it gives me an idea about how to solve my cash flow problems and fund my next documentary.”

“How are you going to do that?” asked Betty impaling her pulsating pussy on Matt’s man meat, with a shivering moan which make her little belly jiggle.

“We’ll make a blue movie!” Serena announced triumphantly. “You and Matt wouldn’t mind being masturbation fodder for the masses, now would you?”

“Today the living room, tomorrow the world!” cried Betty, bouncing up and down joyously on Matt’s manhood.

Serena was a documentarian who specialised in films about artists. And there was something of the frustrated artist in her. Thus it was that she decided that her proposed porn directing career would take the form of a single conceptual artwork centred around the idea that her movies would be blue in more than one way. She would follow the porn cliche of parodying famous movies and television shows, but only ones which had something blue about them.

Of course she would have to begin modestly, as she had no money, but once her imagination was fired she imagined a glorious future which would lead up to her directing the world’s first 3D all CGI porn film. She would call it Pervitar for obvious reasons.

But for her first carnal creation she decided to go for something small but classic – a parody of Joseph Von Sternberg’s The Blue Angel. This would be cheap, but stylish, and would allow her to exploit Betty’s second talent – the fact that she could sing well enough to take part in Karaoke night at the local tavern. She might not sing as well as Marlene Dietrich, but, then, Marlene Dietrich couldn’t shoot ping pong balls out of her cunt.

It took a while to organise the costumes and a few props, but by the following Thursday evening Serena was bribing the night watchman at the local church hall to let them in for a midnight-to-dawn filming session. All they really needed was a stage and a dressing room and the hall had both.

“It’s kind of a depressing story,” pointed out a worried Betty, who had just watched the original film on DVD the night before.

“Don’t worry,” Serena assured her, “we won’t be sticking too closely to the Sternberg version. For a start, Matt’s not a pathetic fat middle-aged guy, and also we’re going to give the story a happy ending. We’re making a blue movie, but we don’t want to leave people feeling blue. Nobody wants to beat off to movie that’s down-beat.”

“I don’t know the story,” pointed out Matt. “What’s my part?”

“You play the Professor,” Serena explained. “You’ve discovered that some of your students are fans of singer and live sex performer Lola, so you’ve come to the club to try to catch them out. But once you see Lola, you are lost. Cue a veritable Cabaret of copulation.”

“So this is my costume?” asked Matt, holding up an old fashioned frock coat liberally coated with chalk dust.

“That’s right,” nodded Serena, “along with the baggy pants over there on the chair.”

Betty already had her costume on. She wore a pink silk top hat, a red bodice, pink high heels and purple stockings with suspenders attached to a suspender belt around her waist. The only difference between her costume and that of Marlene Dietrich is that she wasn’t wearing frilly white knickers. She wasn’t wearing any knickers at all.

“We’ll do your song first,” Serena explained. “You start with your leg up in the typical Dietrich pose, but as you sing you put your leg down and then spread your thighs apart so we can come in for a close up on your bare cunt.”

Betty looked at the lyric sheet once more.

“Are you sure about these lyrics?” she asked.

“O.K. So I’m no Bernie Taupin,” Serena responded defensively. “But you try fitting a feminist critique of porno movies to the tune of Falling in Love Again.”

“But they didn’t have porno movies back then,” Betty complained.

“Actually they did,” Serena pointed out. “But the lyrics are deliberately anachronistic. It’s an art movie thing. Think Ken Russell or Derek Jarman.”

“Think protentious twat, more like,” huffed Betty. She didn’t mind spreading her pussy lips for the camera, but she did have some dignity.

Serena plugged her I-Pod into the speaker system and the room filled with the sound of a lone pianist playing the melancholy song. Betty reluctantly began to sing the lyrics Serena had written :

Face full of cum again

It’s so de rigeur

Spunk all in my hair

Let’s change it

Porn’s always been the same

Laid the same old way

Every single day

Let’s change it

Men wack off to me like monkeys at the zoo

Let’s cast some hot guys, so girls can do it too

Arse full of cock again

Poking in my poo

When I need the loo

Let’s change it

Mouth full of meat again

I’m a vegan girl

Think I might just hurl

Let’s change it

Porn’s always been so lame

By the second take

All the cums are fake

Let’s change it

Men wack off to me like monkeys at the zoo

Let’s cast some hot guys, so girls can do it too.

“Cut!” cried Serena. “Perfect. Now on to the dressing room scene.”

Fifeen minutes later, Matt and Betty were in full swing acting out a scene they felt comfortable with.

“I came here as a teacher to save my students from the primrose path,” Matt declared in his best German accent. It wasn’t a good German accent, but it was his best. “But now it is I who am the student, and you, dearest Lola, are my teacher in the art of licentiousity.”

“I always wanted to be the teacher’s pet,” purred Betty, in a slow lazy voice which hung in the air like cigarette smoke. “Especially if he was into a little bestiality,” she added, stroking his stiff cock through the front of his trousers.

“What kind of pet do you want to be?” he asked, licentiously. “Shall I give my little puppy dog the bone? Or pamper my favourite pussy? Or maybe the beautiful little beaver wants a mouth full of wood.”

“Nobody has a pet beaver!” she scoffed. “Now before you get too excited, I want you to have a look at the new song I’ve been writing.” She handed him a lyric sheet.

“Not bad,” he replied reading it, “but how many times have I told you that clitoris is spelled with a C not a K?”

“We’re not in the class room now,” she sighed softly.

“Spelling is not just something which is important in the class room,” he pointed out. “The whole of our civilization depends on our ability to communicate and be understood. I think the only way to make you understand is to do to you what I do to the boys in my class when they don’t apply themselves to their lessons.”

With that he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her over his knee. Her bum was still bare.

“Don’t you dare spank me, you brute!” cried Betty, wriggling in just the right way to generate plenty of sexy bum wobble for Serena’s camera.

Matt began slapping her butt cheeks enthusiastically. She never let him spank her “in real life” so he was determined to make the most of the opportunity to turn her behind bright pink and feel the sexy heat of the injury he was inflicting radiated back from the silky skin to his sensitive palm.

Being spanked made Betty feel deeply humiliated. She loved it. When Matt tried to paddle her heinie at home she always told him to stop. She didn’t want him to think she was some kind of deviant. But now she was determined to soak up every sensation so she would be able to return to it later when masturbating.

Serena was glad she’d decided to use the tripod. That meant that she could point the camera with one hand and slide her other hand down inside her wet panties and play with herself.

The night watchman was glad he’d accepted the bribe and let these deviants in to make their art movie. These were the kind of people who wouldn’t object to the fact that he was standing in the wings with his cock out.

“I’m sorry, my love,” apologized Matt, gently stroking Betty’s sore bottom. “Can you forgive me for being such a schweinhund?”

“Only if you kiss it better,” she insisted, trying to maintain the smoky voice even though her clit was now quivering ecstatically like a tuning fork.

He stood her up and bent down to press his lips against her hot cheeks, raining down a shower of passionate kisses before parting them and beginning to lick his way down her crack towards the glistening wet lips of her pussy. She bent far forward and he stuck his tongue deep into her region of pleasure.

“Invade Poland! Invade Poland!” Betty cried. It was an improvisation, and one that Serena felt grossly cheapened the work of art she was going for. She was no Mel Brooks. But she was so caught up in her wanking that she couldn’t bring herself to yell, “Cut!”

Matt tore down his pants, pushed Betty over the couch and began slamming his cock hard into her sloppy pussy.

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” she cried, as Matt’s belly kept slapping against her spanked bottom.

“Do you want me to pull out for a money shot?” grunted Matt.

“No,” explained Serena, “this is feminist porn. No need for money shots.”

“I’ll give you a money shot!” cried the night watchman running in from the wings and shooting a huge stream of cum straight into the camera lense. At the same moment, Matt and Betty orgasmed loudly together and collapsed onto the sofa.

“I don’t know what we got there,” admitted Serena, scratching her head with pussy juice soaked fingers. “But I know it was unique.”

Half an hour later, they were wrapping up the film’s final scene.

“The Nazi’s are taking over,” said Betty. “Let’s go escape to a more egalitarian society.”

“Egalitarian?” queried Matt.

“Yes, a society were any woman, Jew or Gentile, can fuck her way to the top! Hollywood, here we come!” she cried.

“And… cut!” shouted Serena. “It’s a wrap.”

The film was a success. They set up a website from which they could sell it as an instant download, and soon it had a cult following as the worst porn movie ever made. Everyone wanted to see it.

“What’s next?” asked Betty.

“I was thinking of Blue Lagoon,” said Serena. “But we might have to work our way up to that. We haven’t got quite enough money for location work on a Pacific Island.”

“Might be some legal problems, too,” pointed out Matt. “Those kids were only about fifteen.”

“Easily fixed,” said Serena. “In our version they are so shy and repressed that they don’t discover sex until they are eighteen.”

“Porn about characters who are shy and repressed?” queried Betty.

“Sure,” pointed out Serena. “It’s super sexy when they finally do it. That’s the problem with most porn. It’s about studs and sex goddesses. So the sex doesn’t mean much. It’s like watching a Steven Seagal movie. That dude’s three times the size of all the bad guys. The outcome is a forgone conclusion. But shy characters… That way it’s a whole new adventure for them and we get to go along. And, anyway, everyone knows that shy and repressed characters are only like that because deep down they are total deviants.”

“We should get some more cast members for the next one though,” suggested Betty. “I’d love to be gangbanged by a whole bunch of guys.”

“Then you’ll love the project I’ve settled on,” said Serena. “You’ll be the only girl in the movie, and there will be lots of guys. I just hope you don’t mind all-over body make-up.”

“Nah, I’m easy,” Betty replied, stating the obvious. “What’s the title?”

The Smurfs – An XXX Parody!” announced Serena triumphantly.

Posted in Uncategorized | 5 Comments

Life, The Universe & Chocolate Bunnies

Although the most important holiday for the Christian religion, celebrating its central figure’s alleged return from the grave, Easter derives its name from a pagan goddess named Éostre. The concept of a new beginning and life’s triumph over death are represented in the symbols of eggs and the notoriously fertile rabbit.
Whether one is a believer, or an unbeliever like myself, there is something to be celebrated at Easter time.
Some of my atheist friends act a little embarrassed by religious holidays and try to distance themselves, for instance renaming Christmas as Newtonmas (since December 25th was Isaac Newton’s birthday.) To me this has always seemed kind of silly. Christmas and Easter, while specifically Christian holidays, are also about the celebration of things which are not limited to one form of belief, but are, in fact, universal. Christmas is a celebration of love, community and generosity. And Easter is a celebration of life’s persistence and of fertility.
In recent times we’ve seen some terrible natural disasters as well as man-made conflicts troubling various parts of the world. The wonderful thing about life in general and humans in particular is that such things do not defeat us. In the wake of each disaster, the survivors reestablish their communities, homes are rebuilt, babies are born and life goes on. For me, this is what Easter celebrates. Death doesn’t win.
But also it celebrates fertility. This is not just biological fertility. If I wished fertility on you, many of you would probably scream, “No, that’s the last thing I need!” But fertility is not just about producing babies. It is about the fecundity of the soil in which we plant a seed, be that seed an idea, a monetary investment or a literal seed that we plant in our garden. To toast fertility is to wish that those seeds bare fruit. Unless they are vegetable seeds, in which case it would just be weird for them to bare fruit.
One need not believe in Heaven or Hell to believe that life is not limited to our physical bodies, finite as they are in time and space. Our deeds and our ideas sow seeds which can have a life of their own, bearing fruit in places we will never visit and also long after we cease to exist as individuals.
The internet is the perfect example of this. The inventors of Facebook, Twitter or Google could die tomorrow, but that which they created would continue to have a life of its own, providing a conduit for social interactions the outcome of which noone can possibly predict.
Recently I’ve been taking part in the Twitterotica challenges created by Ruby Kiddell and Aisling Weaver. Here is another example of seeds which bare fruit. A seed word is sown over Twitter and lands in the fertile minds of sundry degenerates who set to work to create some prime filth. Nobody could predict the fruity tales of debauchery they produce. These in turn are disseminated over the net where they themselves perhaps inspire much stiffness and wetness of generative organs. And what happens after that is anybody’s guess. But the point is that a simple idea in one person’s mind ended up effecting the lives of many in ways that they will never fully know.
So what can make us more fertile in this broader sense? Well, just as the fertility of a woman is unlikely to bare fruit if she doesn’t open her legs, so an open mind is most conducive to the success of productive endeavours of all kinds. And nothing stands in the way of such success like a closed mind. The most wonderful of creations are those which could never have been predicted. And the belief that we can predict the future closes us off to the seeds of such creations. Few of us would claim to be psychic, but we think we can predict the future when we say such things as : “I’ll never get that job promotion!” ; “No member of the opposite sex could find me attractive!” ; or “All my problems will be solved when I win the lottery!” It is welcoming the unknowability of the future with open arms and following ideas to see what they lead to, rather than presupposing that they are worthless, which allows us to make the most of life’s creative principle.
But let us also not forget that Easter is a time for perving at scantily clad girls in bunny ears and eating lots of chocolate!
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Tide : Wank Wednesday

Wank Wednesday is an erotic writing challenge started by Ruby Kiddell at the Erotic Notebook Blog. Here is how she explains it :
Welcome to Wank Wednesday, your weekly festival of smut.

With so many great writers of smut and erotica on Twitter and the web I thought it would be a nice idea to get a smutty blog carnival going. For writers or would be writers a weekly prompt will get you writing and as a reader well you’ll be able to get your fix of sexy stories all in one go.

To join in all you need to do is write a story with the weekly prompt as a title. This week’s prompt is #tide. Then:

  • Blog it – post it on your blog then come back here and add it to the link list.

  • Tweet it – write it on twitter using the prompt hashtag and the #wankwednesday hashtag

  • Add it – if you don’t want to blog or tweet it then please do add it as comment to my post

  • WE it – if you are a member at Word Ejaculation you can submit with them too, just remember to link back to me here and to add your entry to the link list.

Please link back to this page in your post and please also do take the time to read and comment on the other contributors, we’ll all keep on writing but it is so much nicer to do so with feedback.

Thank you for writing and reading.

Here is my contribution for today – Wednesday 6 April :


My stiff cock twitches as the stream of chocolate syrup hits the glans and runs tantalisingly down its length.
“Try not to move too much,” orders Celeste. The curvy redhead is dressed in a lacy purple teddy with matching stockings and suspenders. She is wearing no panties, her forest of auburn pubes catching the afternoon sunlight.

“I really can’t move all that much you know,” I inform her, struggling against the ropes with which she has bound my wrists and ankles to the chair.

“If you keep wagging your cock like that I’m going to end up wasting some of the syrup,” she complains.

I’m really not sure that Celeste and I are all that compatible sexually. I told her early on in our relationship that, when it comes to sex, I’m a meat and potatoes man. The next thing I knew she was shoving Tater Tots up my arse while wanking me off with a sirloin.

Celeste is an erotica author. A popular one. And I’ve become her main research victim. She likes to write from experience, so we have to act out all of her strange scenarios.

Of course, at the moment, with the tip of her tongue slowly sliding up my cock, gathering the sweet brown liquid as it goes, I don’t feel like divorcing her on the grounds of cruelty.

As she squats in front of me, I have just enough movement in the binding of my right foot to twist it and tickle her pussy with my big toe. “You keep your toe to yourself,” she scolds. “This is all about your pleasure.” With that she opens her mouth wide, slides it down over the top half of my chocolate-coated member and begins slurping and sucking away at it hungrily.

All about my pleasure indeed! She’s so full of shit. I know she likes chocolate even more than she likes sex. I tested her. I bought her a chocolate dildo for Christmas last year. And she ate it.
“I’d be able to enjoy the blow job more if these ropes weren’t biting into me,” I complained.
“But that’s an essential part of the project,” she insisted, with chocolate syrup dribbling from her lips and the end of her nose. “See!”
With that she turned and picked up her laptop, holding it where I could read her Twitter page.
There was a message saying “Wank Wednesday : Today’s prompt is #tide.
As well as being sexually voracious, Celeste is dyslexic.
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