Archive for March, 2009

Aussy

Tuesday, March 31st, 2009

“I hereby give myself over to chronic masturbation”, I announced to
myself. My words were chopped up in the ceiling fan and then fell dead in the
silent flat. Traveling alone to Cairns, Australia was exciting in one way. I
mean there is the barrier reef and islands and topless beaches. But in other
ways, such as at nine at night and being in a place where there were strict
blue laws, well it was not so exciting. But laying in bed and lubing my prick
with baby oil was giving me very little satisfaction. I felt restless. I had
to move.
That is why I ended up cruising the bars. One was sort of fun. I danced
with some women but nothing seemed to spark and the music and noise became too
much to bear. Finally I stumbled on the sidewalk of a storefront (oh yeah, I
guess I drank a few blue tinnies also) in which the window was blackened out.
It was about a block from the docks where the reef boats departed and it looked
deserted. There was an “ADULTS ONLY” sign on the painted black glass. I
decided to give it a shot. The inside was much cleaner and brighter than the
outside would have suggested. The walls were covered with racks which
contained soft porn magazines. Directly in front of me was a glass case which
contained various dildos and fake vaginas (one that even pulsated!). To the
right was a curtained entrance way which had a handwritten sign over top: FIVE
DOLLARS – ALL DAY. What really caught my eye was who was behind the counter.
I couldn’t believe that a woman who looked like that could work in such a
place. She appeared to be in her mid to late twenties, slender, with short
blonde hair. Contained in a loose string tie top were two perkie, firm looking
breasts. She was busy SEWING! of all things and every time she pulled the
thread there was a solid but definite tremor under her top. Her nipples stood
out as they rubbed against the fabric like the tips of two pinkie fingers.
“What does five dollars all day mean”, I interrupted her conversation and
pointed to the sign.
She looked up, her eyes were blue, and she smiled.
“Those are x-rated movies luv. They run all day. We’re not allowed to
have any of the hard stuff in print but it’s dinky di if we show movies.”
“O.K., I’ll take a ticket”, I said.
I handed her a fiver and she touched my hand for a moment.
“We usually don’t get young ones in here”, she said as she continued to
smile at me.
Out of fear I broke the contact but I still wished to bask in her
presence.
“Is that sewing your doing?” I asked.
“Ah Yeah. We have a live sex show coming up soon and I’m making the
costumes. It’s one week from now. You really ought to come if you are in
town.” She answered.
“Ah! That’s no good,” I say, “I’ll be flying back to Alice at the end of
the week.”
“That’s too bad, luv,” she said as she went back to her sewing.
Walking through the curtain was like walking through the entrance of a
cave. The room was dimly lit. Chairs and sofas were arranged in front of a
large screen television. Some men were sitting and drinking beers they had
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Anal Sex Circus

Thursday, March 26th, 2009

Unlike so many of the bawdy houses of Amsterdam, the building bore no
signs. In fact, as I stood in front of the chipped, black door marked
#12, I almost thought it was all a practical joke. What did I know
about the strange Hazraj, the turk who, in drunken friendliness at the
hotel bar, had insisted, “A whore’s a whore all over the world. You
don’t need to visit Amsterdam for that. But…the Anal Sex Circus!
There is not another anywhere.”

I rang the bell. Was this really the place — or was he having a
joke at the expense of a white British tourist? When the door slowly
opened, I realized that he was indeed a friend! Stepping into the
interior of the townhouse, it was a though I had stepped through tent
flaps and into the most opulent carnival ever.

There was actual sawdust on the floor. The air smelled of beer and
popcorn. The big main room had concession stands where they were
selling popcorn — delicately laced with hashish – and white cotton
candy, also drugged. Beer and liquor were being sold by men in straw
hats, red vests, and white striped shirts.

Garish rotary lights whirled a dizzy array of greens and reds into the
air. Semi-nude women — black, Asian, and white — escorted the
various men as they ate, drank, and laughed uproariously. In
different languages, a barker in a derby hat shouted at the back of
the room, “Hurry, hurry. Step right up! Come, Come, Come to the Anal
Sex Circus!”

If the mad Turk Hazraj had not been so explicit in his description of
the place, I don’t know what my reaction to this bizarre spectacle
might have been. A beautiful Eurasian girl glided up to me. I
ordered a cafe pousse at the bar. In American money, it cost me about
$20. I was going to order one more for my “hostess” but reconsidered:
“You wouldn’t drink, would you? Just water one of these plants with
it.” I slipped here $20 cash instead. “Let’s call it a contribution
to the continuing survival of horticulture.”

She dutifully explained the “play” at the Anal Sex Circus. After I
finished the drink, I walked back to the back of the room where a man,
dressed in imitation of an American carnival barker, guarded the
entrance to the upstairs rooms. I bought two tickets ($100 each)
which entitled me to see three “shows” of my choice. The tickets were
actually more like plastic credit cards.

With insane calliope music blaring down the corridors of this two-
story townhouse turned madhouse, I made my way upstairs. In the old
carnival midways, you’d walk along seeing the posters for the midgets
and fire eaters and freaks. You’d pay to go into the tent to actually
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Alma

Friday, March 20th, 2009

I was in the window seat of a Piedmont 737, taxiing out at
Washington National that morning. My destination was New Orleans
with a change of planes in Atlanta. As we passed the transient
ramp in front of Butler Aviation, I saw my old airplane. It had
been repainted, but bore the same numbers along each side of the
fuselage. The sight of it brought back a memory from the 1960’s
that marked the highlight of my brief career in commercial
aviation.

Officially, the airplane’s registration number — and radio call
sign — was N-5558B. But to my two partners and me — and to
the tower crew at her home airport in Opa Locka, Florida —
Beech Travelair N-5558B was “Triple Nickel 8-Ball.” She was a
outside business venture of three lawyers — my two partners and
me — who shared a criminal-law practice in Miami, and a love of
flying. Sherlock — the name my father, an Arthur Conan Doyle
fan, gave me — earned the law firm some early publicity, and we
were doing well enough to afford to buy Triple Nickel 8-Ball. Our
aviation business involved flying bags of bank checks from Miami
International Airport to Atlanta Hartsfield Airport where they
were taken by van to the Federal Reserve Depository for
processing. The income was predictable; but the flying wasn’t –
particularly in the summer when the Florida thunderstorms topped
out at about 40,000 feet.

What we admitted, to everyone but the I.R.S., was that our money-
losing business was just an excuse to fly and hang around the
airport’s Fixed Base Operation trading lies with the other pilots
and would-be pilots that inhabited the pilots’ lounge.

There was a flying school there — a collection of Cessna 150’s,
young instructors with their eyes set on the airlines, and
students from the local area. Late afternoon usually found a
fair sprinkling of women in the pilots’ lounge; some of them
students, but mostly the girl-friends of the students and
instructors. They all knew about our operation, and with
suitable hints, could wrangle a ride in Triple-Nickel-8-Ball on
our Miami-Atlanta-Miami trip when we wanted the company.

A few weeks before, the female “regulars” in the lounge had
jokingly announced formation of a local chapter of the “mile-
high” club — and that subject had replaced discussion of
instrument-approaches and engine overhaul prices. As I
understood it, the rules were simple: sex above 5280 feet,
unaided by co- (or auto) pilot. The novelty of the topic wore off
after a while; but one day a female student showed up with a
small pendant hanging from her neck on a gold chain: a set of
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Airscrew or How I joined the Six Mile High Club

Monday, March 16th, 2009

As a frequent jetsetter, I have for long fantasised about this exclusive club,
which in reality probably has few authentic members who have genuinely screwed
their way through the stratosphere. How can you manage to have-it-away on
board a crowded airliner? Well recently I succeeded – and how! This amazing
experience happened on the top deck of a BA 747 heading out of New York for
Heathrow, with a beautiful girl I had never met before.

I had had a hectic day getting my work completed before flying out, got to the
airport late, and consequently was glad to have got through the airport hassle
and slump into my Club Class seat. The top deck of the 747 has a small cabin
which some airlines use for first class passengers, but many including BA, use
for Business Class; there are only 20 or 30 seats, which gives you the feeling
of being in a small, but spacious airliner. The top deck is reached via a
spiral staircase and you travel cut off from the masses on the main deck below.
This flight, luckily, was fairly empty so I was fortunate that through the
lottery of seat allocations, Karen, as she turned out to be named, took up the
aisle seat corresponding to my window seat and nobody else got seated either
between us or in the row on the other side of the aisle.

Karen was petite and blonde, about 25 I guessed, (rightly as it turned out),
and clearly well formed in all the important places. She had remarkably light
blue eyes and was obviously in some form of business, as she had a small patent
leather brief case and when she took her coat off she was smartly dressed in a
grey skirt and white blouse – which showed her firm, well-shaped figure to good
effect. I found out later that she was Swedish, a junior salesperson for an
internationally known cosmetics company, who at short notice had been given a
lucky break to substitute for her boss on a business trip to the USA. Her smart
but plain business-woman’s dress looked sexy on her. Her firm breasts thrust
out firmly through her white silk blouse as she arched her back to remove her
coat and hand it to the stewardess. Black lacy stockings showed her well
shaped legs to advantage. But she also radiated something sensual which
aroused the first slight stirrings in my crotch. I realised I was feeling quite
horney and in the mood for conquest, but not in my wildest dreams did I guess
what delights were to follow!

Karen looked nervous and fidgeted when she sat down; she very readily started
chatting. I needn’t bore you with the contents of our chat, except that I soon
persuaded her to move next to me from her aisle seat, so we could talk easier.
She was obviously a bit scared of flying. It transpired this was only her
second long distance flight. Soon after take-off we hit some unusually bumpy
weather; the seat belt signs came on and Karen wrung her hands and looked
scared. Naturally I put my arm around her shoulders to comfort her and she
leant her soft, perfumed blond hair against my shoulder and visibly relaxed.
The 747 flew out of the turbulence but I was glad to find she showed no sign of
wanting me to take my arm away. The meal on a tray came and went and I felt
really strong stirrings in my pants when she snuggled back against me, until
recently a complete stranger. The stewardess brought the drinks trolley and I
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscell8preludetxt

Thursday, March 12th, 2009

Archive-author: Byron Elbows
Archive-title: 8-preludes to stories

1. Honey drips slowly from the edge of the jar. Emma takes the knife and
catches the falling stream, feeding it back into the jar’s mouth. I have
watched her do this, not this exact thing, but this sort of thing, for almost
an hour now. Either the honey falling, or the wind through the screen door
blowing papers onto the floor, or else the newspaper catches when she tries
to fold it back on itself. She fascinates me, in a humiliating sort of way.
I could watch her for another hour, unseen.

2. She gets up now.
From my bedroom window, I can’t quite see her face when she stands up,
and just like on the tabloid shows where they replace the faces with a
featureless blue disk, I expect her or her body to betray some terrible
secret. Maybe she suffers from scoliosis, or psoriasis, or possibly some
horribly disfiguring congenital defect that now and then allows her navel
to grow as large as a football.
I wait, watching for the telltale swelling in her abdomen. Surprisingly,
it never happens. No, her body remains perfect, just like yesterday.

3. “Where’s my Pepsi!?!” she cries to no one in particular, staring into
her refrigerator. “All I wanted was a Pepsi \ldots” Well, I have to
laugh at that. Just what I’d thought about all day. But when I looked in
the cabinet, all I had was syrup of ipecac. Revolting, but hardly sufficient
for the job.

4. She walks over to the sliding glass door, opens it just wide enough to
slip her slim body through, then closes it. I can see her dress now, a sort
of twopiece summer outfit, leaving her midriff bare. God, I want that
midriff. She can have the rest of her body, but I’ll take this perfect,
smooth—
Was that—? No, she just took a deep breath, that’s all.

5. She lies down on the lawn chair, reclining nearly all the way back, with
a Pepsi in her hand (she found one after all). Emma, Emma, Emma. I repeat
her name like Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, whose name I see in front of me as the
answer to a Trivial Pursuit question. I shake my head, annoyed, and the
mantra returns. You may have the alpha and the omega, but in between, there
always lives Emma, sweet Emma, a pretty little Greek figure in the middle of
all that Roman nonsense.
Still wondering? I only took Greek to decipher the sorority house names.
Imagine my disappointment when all the letter combinations appeared random,
rather than producing lurid, lascivious names, such as \ldots But I digress.

6. Emma sucks Pepsi through a straw. Sounds vaguely like some sort of
childhood insult. Your mother rides a vacuum cleaner. Your father has a
nose like a rubber hose. Emma seems mostly unconcerned about this.

7. She puts down the empty can on the cement patio with a hollow clank,
and closes her eyes. They do not like the sun, after all. I scratch my
legs.
I want to fall on her. Fall on her, like a Georgian flower, unfolding,
pressing petal to petal, surrounded only by the echoing sound of soft
waterfilled fibers. In my mind’s eye, the Pepsi takes on ambrosial
proportions, linking me with a divine nature. I see all the things I should
not ever see: every unicorn that ever ran, my hands held by someone on the
street, bells I never heard ring, and besides, the reverent smile of a little
boy and a blue blue sky.

8. I shake off my reverie to find her gone. I let out a hmph. The orchid
has fallen into the pond to meet its reflection with open arms, only to see it
disappear as it sinks slowly beneath the water. Shh! and goodbye.

(c) 26 Apr 1993

Archive-name Miscell77reasontxt

Monday, March 9th, 2009

Archive-author:
Archive-title: 77 Reasons Why Animals are Better than Humans

1. You can throw the critter off your bed and they come right back
when you call em.

2. You don’t have to appologize if you cum in less than 3 hours.

3. They come in more colors than just black white red and yellow.

4. They consider cum a delicacy.

5. They don’t argue with you.

6. They don’t buy shit from the avon lady.

7. They think a herd of critters is better than just one.

8. You won’t catch any terrible diseases if he screws the bitch on the corner.

9. They already HAVE fur coats.

10. The don’t mind sleeping in the wet spot.

11. Animals don’t write e-mail flames.

12. Animals don’t divorce you and take half of your life.

14. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. A man’s best friend is his dog.

15. Animals can’t talk.

16. Animals can’t spell “mysogynist”.

17. Animals don’t drive.

18. Animals aren’t offended by the words “bitch” and “pussy”.

19. Animals don’t tell lies.

20. Animals will forgive you for being human.

21. An animal, when it’s horny, will let you know.

22. Animals don’t know what lawyers are.

23. Animals don’t call you a chauvanist pig when you hold the door for them.

…End of the part1. To be continued..

Getting Lucky Once in a While

Friday, March 6th, 2009

Atlanta has always been a fun town for me, but this trip had been
even better. I had ordered a custom Jeep from an Atlanta
customizer. Having a big-wheel four wheel drive vehicle had been
a dream for a long time and the time had finally arrived.

We signed the papers late in the evening, so after tooling around
town for a while, I had rented a motel room, planning to get an
early start back to Alabama. I overslept and after breakfast and
checking out of the motel, I didn’t get on the road until after
eight.

I quickly noticed a benefit to the large wheels I had not
anticipated. It put me way above the rest of the traffic and I
had a great view. But the view was even better from time to time
as I would pass cars and look down to see lovely legs through the
window. Occasionally, I would even catch a glimpse of frilly
panties peeking out.

I put the Jeep’s cruise control on 73 mph after I got out of the
metro area. I figured that there would be fools going a lot
faster that would get the unwanted attention from those Georgia
Patrol cars that seemed to lurk everywhere on the interstate. Up
ahead, I noticed a red convertible with long blond hair flying in
the wind. My speed was a little faster than hers so I slowly
crept up on her. As I closed in, I heard the sound of her stereo
system blasting over the wind noise. The music must have covered
the sound of the Jeep, because there was no reaction as I drew
along side the lady.

To my delight, the lovely lady seemed to have other things on her
mind. Her skirt was pulled up and her hand was busy frigging her
pussy inside her panties, keeping time with the beat of the
music. It looked like she was having a ball as she cruised. I
had a hard time concentrating on the road and watching the
display at the same time. I hoped she wouldn’t notice me for a
while so I could keep watching.

Finally, she reached for something on the seat beside her and saw
me. Her only reaction was to lower her sunglasses to get a
better look at me. She must have liked what she saw, because
she reached back into her panties, glancing up at me with a
smile.

We were well into a long deserted stretch of highway and I saw
her check her mirror for other cars. Seeing none, the blond
reached down and unbuttoned the four buttons keeping her short
skirt closed. The sides fell back to reveal her bikini panties,
…End of the part1. To be continued..