Archive for the ‘cum eating movie’ Category

Archive-name Miscellguidedogtxt

Wednesday, September 9th, 2009

Archive-author: Nevyn
Archive-title: Guide to Sex with Dogs

A few people have chatted to me via private mail, asking
for advice on having sex with animals. I would like to put
down a few pointers for novices. Let’s concentrate on dogs for
this article, as they are the animal of my preference, and
also I think they are the animal most furries will readily have
access to. I will try to explain any jargon I use, but only
briefly, as I don’t wish this to be a technical discourse. If
you need clarification on terms used here, comment to me on
Alt.Sex.Bestiality or check a good ‘Encyclopaedia of Dogs’. I
am also only going to refer to animals that have not been de-
sexed (in the case of males, having their testes surgically
removed. In the case of females, having ovaries removed). I
can’t bear the thought of any animals of mine missing out on
sexual pleasure. Even so, I know in any city dog populations
are too high, and hundreds of dogs are destroyed daily. There
are good arguments for de-sexing, but a responsible owner
should be able to keep an entire animal without accidental
litters (and still keep the animal sexually satisfied!)
Also note that when I refer to dogs, I mean any breed
Labrador or larger. In my mind, anything smaller than a
Labrador isn’t really a dog. If I refer to a ‘Giant Breed’, I
am talking in the category of English Mastiff, Great Dane, St.
Bernard, Irish Wolfhound, Newfoundland, etc. These are REAL
dogs.
The first rule that leaps to my mind is this:- the
animal MUST BE CONSENTING!! If the animal is enjoying the
experience of having sex with you, the sex is so much more
fulfilling. If the animal is not enjoying it, you are
committing rape. If you have to force the animal into
anything, stop. I hope most of us would agree that we are
animal lovers, sharing sex with our animal partners as a gift
of pleasure. Any other attitude toward your animal partner
makes you a loathsome, slimy reptile, unworthy of the status of
a toad. So there.

Let’s start with bitches.
Bitches become sexually mature (depending on the size of
the breed) at around 8-18 months. The larger the breed, in
general, the later they will have their first heat (Oestrous,
the bitch becomes fertile after a 5-7 day period of menstrual
bleeding. Male dogs become insanely attracted to her scent,
and will chew/dig through anything to get at her. This lasts
for around 7 days, followed by another 5-7 days of menstrual
bleeding. After that the bitch is no longer fertile. Her next
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Biker

Thursday, April 23rd, 2009

It is a sunny warm day, a perfect day for a bike ride. The sun is just coming
up, the sky is a wonderful golden blue color, and the birds are singing. I
hear a motorcycle pull up in front, and I open the door to find you standing
there, smiling, arms out for a hug. We stand hugging and kissing for a couple
of minutes, and then reluctently pull apart. You notice that I am wearing
leather pants and a leather halter sort-of top, and comment “Going leather on
me huh?”. I smile and tell you that the pants were especially made for me and
have a special feature that I will show you, later.

We get on the bike and go off to breakfast where you ask me what sort of
special feature my pants have. I smile, and tell you that I will show you when
we get to the parking lot. We quickly finish breakfast, and go to the bike. I
tell you to stand beside the bike while I climb on so you can see the special
feature of my pants. As I straddle the bike, you can see that the pants have
no crotch to speak of and that my cunt is completely visable to you. You also
notice that I have shaved all my hair off and you comment about that.

“That way I have nothing at all between me and the bike and I get all those
wonderful vibrations”. You reach over to run one finger along my cunt and I
sigh, wanting more, yet knowing that we are in a public place. “You know, you
can reach back at the stop lights to touch me” I whisper “and just wait until
you see what the back of this top looks like…….”

You climb on the bike, and we take off. At the next couple of stop lights, you
reach back to touch my cunt, but it is a difficult to keep the bike upright
with just one hand when I am squirming around. At the next light, I reach down
with my gloved hand and put a finger into my pussy and then place that finger
into your mouth. The light changes and I hear you moan “Let’s find somewhere
quiet so we can be alone”.

Up into the mountains we go, away from all the people, into the trees, the
warmth. We spot a small dirt road that leads into the trees, away from the
main road, and decide to try it. The ride is bumpy for a few yards, and then
smooths out and twists around into the trees to a clearing by a brook. We get
off the bike, you spread a blanket on the ground, and we sit down. “Now show
me this top”. I unzipper my jacket and you realize that the top I am wearing
looks like it is held on by magic. As I remove the jacket you can see that it
is just a piece of soft glove leather in front with a couple of pieces of
leather thong holding it on in back….one piece around my neck and another
piece across my upper back under my arms. The lower bottom of the front isn’t
really held down and gets blown gently by the breeze.

“This outfit, you look so good in it, and it looks so accessable too”.

I smile, “I have been waiting so long to be with you again, that anything else
I thought about wearing just didn’t seem right” You lift up the top and start
carressing my breasts while you lay me down with your kisses. Your thigh is
between my legs, brushing against my cunt. My hands start wandering along your
back, on your ass, around your hips. You start kissing and licking your way
down my neck, under the top, to my nipples. I moan as you take each on into
your mouth to suck on it. I am rubbing my cunt on your leg, “More” I whisper
“Please, more”.

You move down my stomach, your mouth following your hands, you spread open my
legs to reveal my cunt to your tongue and fingers. The combination of my
juices and the leather smells wonderful and it makes you even hotter. You
start licking my cunt slowly putting a gloved finger in my pussy. I push
againist your face, wanting still more. The faster I push, the harder you lick
and the further you put your finger in me. In my head I feel like a thousand
fireworks are going off as I cum. You stop licking me and move up so I can
reach your pants. I sit up slightly, undo your belt and remove your pants.
Your cocks wants out so bad, it looks like it is going to burst through your
underwear. Rubbing your cock through your shorts, I kneel beside you, kiss you
on the mouth, and begin to lick your neck, your ears (love your ears, your very
sensitive ears) down your chest as I unbutton your shirt, -and then removing
your shorts, to your cock. Ah, the wonderful taste of your cock as it enters
my mouth for the first time. Licking up and down the shaft, taking the head in
my mouth licking around the head, then putting all of it into my mouth still
licking it. My hands fondle your balls and your ass.

Your hands are on my head, stroking my hair. I want your cock in my pussy. I
start licking my way up your chest, still fondleing your cock and balls. When
I get to your ears, I whisper “Put your cock into me now, I want to feel it
inside of me”. Pushing me onto my back, you slowly enter me. You feel my
leather pants around your thighs, the almost satin feeling of them, and then
the feeling of being inside of me, the moist, tight, warmth. We start moving
together, slowly at first, but we can’t wait any longer. Faster, harder we
move, your mouth on my tits, sucking them making me hotter and wetter. You
feel me starting to cum, and push further into me. Screaming we both cum
feeling like it will never end, not wanting it to end. Finally we lie quietly,
in each others arms. We pull the blanket over us and fall into a quiet sleep.

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..

Archive-name Miscellzangaratxt

Saturday, February 28th, 2009

Archive-author:
Archive-title: Zangara’s (Kibo) Elegy

Here is the long awaited story involving Kibo. As previously
discussed, I would have Kibo’s permission to use his name if he existed.
Also, if he existed he would have asked me to cross-post this to the
groups which I cross-posted to.

There is a quiz (Multiple choice) at the end. Please post results
to as many groups as you want.

Zangara’s Elegy

“‘He was a bloody tyrant and we brought him down. And I will not
have history think I did it for a bag of gold or in some kind of rabid
fit!`”
I looked curiously at this disheveled individual who was ranting
what I perceived to be nonsense. I turned to my guide, and hopefully
future employer. “What is he talking about?”
“Oh, he’s no one. He thinks he’s John Wilkes Booth, that’s all,”
came the reply. I looked closer at my guide. I hadn’t really studied
him up to this point. Suddenly however I knew that he posed me no
threat, and so I wished to know more about him.
“‘Tell them how the Union can never recover from that vulgar, high
and mighty niggerlover, Never–!`”
I began going over what I knew about my guide. His name was Dr.
Charles Guiteau, and he was the director of the mental ward of the
University of Massachusetts Medical Center. I knew nothing about his
credentials, but that was not where my curiosity lay. I was interested
in his character, and since it was profession to know other peoples
thoughts, I was able to delve into his inner self even as he showed me
the building.
“Kibo, would you like to join us?” Dr. Guiteau asked the mental
patient. “This is Dr. Sam Byck, and I’m showing him around the
building.”
“My name is not Kibo, it is Johnny Booth. Sure, I’ll come along.
‘Someone slew the tyrant, just as Brutus slew the tyrant`”
“We don’t know his real name, so for a while we were calling him
Johnny. Then the doctor who was handling his case decided it was better
to call him something else. I’m not sure where the name Kibo came from
though,” Dr. Guiteau rambled on. “By the way, if you come on Kibo will
be one of your patients. Dr. Czolgosz, the man who left for Buffalo,
was his doctor.”
I had been half listening to this exchange until Dr. Guiteau’s
last sentence. Suddenly my interest in this specimen was piqued. There
had to be some way of using him to my purposes. “I would be interested
in seeing his file,” I replied, confident that my speech had not skipped
a beat.
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Beach Fantasy

Sunday, January 20th, 2008

It is early morning, and you are the only one on the already-warm
sand of the beach. Low surf rolls in from the horizon, and
seabirds wheel in the sky overhead. Shaking out your towel and
stretching it out on the ground, you quickly peel off your shorts
and T-shirt, to reveal the sexy yellow bikini beneath. Its tiny
swatches of fabric do little to conceal your full, thrusting
breasts, or the firm shapely mounds of your buttocks. You run
your fingers lightly over your taut skin for a moment, then lie
down to let the sun’s warmth fall on you. After a few moments,
you decide to expose yourself completely to the brilliant blue
sky, sliding the skimpy panties down off your long silky legs,
and pulling off the bra to let your breasts bob freely, the
nipples hardening in the gentle breeze. Opening a bottle of
coconut-scented oil, you massage it over your body, making sure
that your pretty white tits and delicate shaven pussy get a thick
coating of the slippery protective cream. Your body glowing in
the sun, you lie back and are lulled to sleep by the crashing
waves, squawking birds, and pleasurable warmth.

The sound of footsteps crunching in the sand awakens you. Shading
your eyes against the sun’s glare, you see a man approaching. I
walk up from the water, still wet from my morning swim, long legs
carrying me quickly up the shore. Rather than grab for your
clothing, you recline on your elbows, thrusting out your breasts,
and part your legs slightly so that the pink slot dividing your
hairless pubic mound is clearly visible. As I near your resting
place, my steps slow to a standstill, and I drop to my knees
beside you. My eyes roam all over your naked body, and you can
see the squirming in my shorts where a cock is quickly growing. A
moment later the crimson cap of my penis pushes up through the
waistband of my swimsuit, still visibly swelling. Chuckling
throatily, you slide a hand across your smooth stomach to where
the bottle of oil is lying in the sand, and toss it over to me.
Then you roll over pillowing your head on your crossed arms,
presenting me with a wonderful view of your glorious ass.

You hear the bottle cap snap off, then feel the warm liquid as it
drips onto your gracefully curved shoulders, running down your
spine to the top of your buttocks. After a moment’s delay, you
feel my legs straddling you, and the hardness of my cock against
your back. I am gripping it by the base with one hand, using it
to spread the slick coating of oil over your skin. Stroking it
over you, I steadily move lower until I am sliding it over the
soft hills of your ass, and the sweet valley inbetween. Your
pussy is becoming inflamed, and you can feel it becoming wet with
an oil of its own. I continue to slide farther down, until I am
rubbing myself against the back of your smooth calves. Rolling
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscellfucktxt

Friday, October 26th, 2007

Archive-author:
Archive-title: Fuck You

Perhaps one of the most interesting and colorful words in the
English language today is the word “Fuck”. It is one magical word which
just by it’s sound can describe pain, pleasure, hate, and love. Fuck, like
most words in the English language, takes it’s name from another language,
the German word “Friklon” which means “WHOOPEE”.

In language, fuck falls into many grammatical categories. It can
be used as a verb, both transitive (John fucked Mary) and intransitive
(Mary was fucked by John), or as a passive verb (Mary doesn’t really give
a fuck). It can be used as an adjective (Mary is fuckin’ beautiful). As
you can see, there are not too many words with the versatility of “Fuck”.

Besides it’s sexual connections, this lovely word can be used to
describe many situations as follows:

Fraud…………….I got fucked by my insurance agents
Trouble………………………I guess I’m fucked now
Dismay………………………………..Oh! Fuck it
Agression…………………………………Fuck You
Passive……………………………………Fuck me
Confusion…………………………….What the fuck
Difficulty……I don’t understand this fucking business
Despair……………………………….Fucked again
Philosophical………………………Who gives a fuck
Incompetence…………………………He’s fucked up
Laziness……………………………He’s a fuck off
Displeasure………What the fuck’s going on around here
Rebellion……………………………Fuck the world

It can be used in descriptive anatomy: He’s really a fucking ass-hole.
It can be used to tell time: It’s fucking’ Five-thirty.
It can be used in business: How did I get this fucking job?
It can be used as a prediction: Oh well, I’ll be fucked.
It can be maternal: Mother-fucker!
It can be nautical: Fuck the Admiral!
It can be political: Fuck the President!
It can open the door to wonderful relationships: Lets fuck, baby.
It can be used to enhance the meaning of a word: Fuckin’ beautiful.

The mind fairly bogies at the many creative forms for this most
functional word. How can anyone be offended when you say “Fuck”? Use it
in your daily speech. It adds to your prestige.

-Tell someone today, “FUCK YOU”

Archive-name Miscellerosia07txt

Wednesday, October 3rd, 2007

Archive-author: David P. Thomas
Archive-title: Erosian Theory and Practice

Erosian Theory Developed

My theory came into being from a multitude of experiences
and also from inner feelings which differed tremendously
from standard practice ideas concerning sex. I’ll take
this time to break down a few of these myths concerning
sex in general, and in relation to how Erosian Theory
deals with the same situation.

I. Sex is for people in love, primarily married people.
Men get away with sex because it is condoned for them but
women shouldn’t or they’ll be cheap.

Sex is for every one old enough to deal with and handle
the responsibility of sex. Sex is for married and
unmarried people. Sex is for women as well as men. Sex is
for everyone. It is GOOD, RIGHT, NORMAL, HEALTHY, for
everyone, at anytime or place when consenting adults are
involved. I think the keyword here is consenting adults.
As long as both (or more ) parties are in agreement as to
the nature of their act, there is nothing morally, legally
or ethically wrong with any sexual act.

II. Sex should be between one man and one woman only.

Once again, the keyword here is consenting adults.
Personal tastes, and the backward thinking of certain
cultures have forced us into the molds that we live in
today. Between two consenting women, or two consenting
men, any relationship desired is correct. It is their own
PERSONAL TASTES which defines their sexuality, and not
that of a televangelist or county commissioner. As long as
both parties enjoy and consent to an act, and it doesn’t
infringe upon another’s rights, who is to criticize. Also
who is to say that the act of sex should be limited to two
people. Many times there are parties of three, four, five
or more consenting adults who desire to share each others
sexuality. Where is the harm in this, if the above
guidelines are applied?

III. The act of sex should consist of vaginal/penile
intercourse, with foreplay consisting of hand to genital
or in some circles mouth to genital contact. Anything
other than this is really unusual or sick.

…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscellcarpentrtxt

Tuesday, September 4th, 2007

Archive-author: Neil Bernstein
Archive-title: John the Carpenter’s Tale

(c) Neil Bernstein 1993

One Sunday, driving Dolores’ truck back from a provisioning
trip, Pete stopped along the riverbank to watch a crew of panting
scullers labor their way against the current. Their slender craft
slipped around chunks of floating ice smoothly as a ballbearing
sliding down a greased track. Got all the time they need to do
that, he thought bitterly. Men who could go home to adoring wives
and get up the next morning to go to work.
In Lombard’s General Store he met old John buying feed for his
three geldings. The man’s belly nearly split his overalls as he
carried the sacks out to his car. Pete hid a chuckle.
“You come back for coffee now,” John bellowed.
Pete could see no reason to refuse him. He followed John’s
rusty truck up a series of gravel paths, shook hands with his
pretty wife. John eased himself into a great armchair. He bade
her serve them their coffee and an endless succession of snacks:
toast, honey, ham sandwiches, spiced drumsticks, maple candies,
pear cobbler…
When she was done serving she settled back on a kitchen stool
and nursed her baby. Pete watched her play with the suckling,
bouncing him gently on her knee. He knew, feeling the certainty
only the superstitious know, that it could not be John’s child.
John had been a carpenter for twenty years. One morning he
found the work too exerting and gave it up violently, pitching his
toolbox through the window of the house he was building. He tried
a variety of jobs after that, settling on delivering the Weekly
Argus. He sat long hours alone at the head of his kitchen table,
playing solitaire late into the night, gaining ten pounds a year.
He always left a half-finished puzzle set up in the living room.
Pete remembered the last time he’d been out to John’s house.
A selectman was giving Grandpa Goosehair some problems, badmouthing
him in town meeting. The old man wanted Pete to see if John could
dig up any incriminating tax information. John looked over
everyone’s tax forms, considered it his neighborly duty. He got so
he could do the arithmetic so quickly that everyone brought him
their crumpled forms: farmers who could only read with a certain
pair of spectacles they’d lost years and years ago, folks who could
read Latin but couldn’t be bothered with figures.
Pete’d got himself lost on nameless gravel tracks and had
arrived very late. The ex-carpenter’s wife had just finished
showering and now stood before a full-length mirror. Her hips were
swathed in fine linen, her arms left half-bare by a silk-finished
nightgown. She braided her hair and rubbed fine powder and oil
into her tremulous neck. John knelt on the parlor floor, his
…End of the part1. To be continued..