Friday, 27 February 2015
It was the first notorious killing of the twentieth century. July 1910 Britain was gripped by the progress of a huge man hunt. It was on a scale that hadn’t been seen since Jack the Ripper.
The fugitive was Doctor Hawley Harvey Crippen and he was wanted for the murder and mutilation of his wife Cora. Together with his mistress, Ethel le Neve, Doctor Crippen had fled from London. Handbills had been printed and pasted everywhere and distributed to police around the world. Everyone was talking about this case.
The Home Secretary, a certain Winston Churchill had organised a reward of £250, worth £20,000 in today’s money for their capture.
So where was Doctor Crippen and his lover Ethel le Neve? In fact they had already left the country and were holed up in a hotel in Belgium. They had plans to leave for North America.
Henry Kendal was the captain of a steam ship heading across the Atlantic to Canada. But two of his passengers had aroused his suspicions. The SS Montrose had only been at sea for one day when Captain Kendal noticed a father and son behaving strangely on deck. He thought it was very odd that they squeezed each other’s hands immoderately, as he put it, and that they would sometimes disappear behind the lifeboats. The two of them were travelling as Mr and Master Robinson.
What happened next was just like a detective novel, with the Captain playing the part of Sherlock Holmes. Captain Kendal decided to carry out an experiment to try and confirm his suspicions that he had Doctor Crippen on board. He took a newspaper photograph of Doctor Crippen and using chalk he whitened out the Doctor’s moustache and then blackened out the frames of his spectacles and it was a photo fit. Without his moustache and spectacles the mysterious Mr Robinson was clearly Doctor Crippen.
Captain Kendal had access to a pioneering piece of technology that would speed up the process of twentieth century crime investigation. It was the Marconi wireless, but the transmitter only had a range of 150 miles. When Captain Kendal made his breakthrough he was already 130 miles from the nearest receiver; he had 20 miles left to get the message out. Rushing along the lower deck to the wireless room he handed the wireless operator the message that would electrify the world.
“Have strong suspicions that Crippen the London cellar murderer and accomplice are amongst the passengers. Accomplice dressed as a boy but with voice manners and build undoubtedly a girl.”
But would the message get through in time?
So what exactly were the events that had led up to this extraordinary situation?
Doctor Crippen, an American, who dabbled in cheap patent medicines and dentistry had been living what seemed a pretty conventional life in a North London villa. His wife, Cora, was a would be music hall artiste. But the marriage was troubled and Crippen had begun an affair with his young secretary, Ethel le Neve. On the 19th January 1910, Crippen visited a chemist to purchase five grains of hydro bromide of hyosin; an enormous dosage of a deadly poison. He signed the poison book like he was supposed to, with the words “for homeopathic purposes.”
On the 31st January, the Crippens held a little party at home. Later, Crippen would claim that it had been followed by a terrible quarrel between him and his wife. Cora had said that she was leaving him the very next day. Whatever really happened that night the guests at that party were the last people to see Cora Crippen alive. To explain Cora’s absence Crippen claimed that she had gone back to America and then he later said that she had died out there. Very suspicious Cora’s friends now paid a visit to New Scotland Yard. The case was taken up by Detective Chief Inspector Walter Dew, a veteran of the Ripper murders. He was a member of the Yard’s newly formed “murder squad”. Its members prided themselves on their prowess and their skills in disguises – however unconvincing. Chief Inspector Dew searched Crippen’s house for evidence but found nothing. But he wasn’t quite satisfied. He went back three days later for another look and discovered that Crippen had disappeared. “My quarry has gone,” he said.
Crippen’s house, where a block of flats now stands held a strange attraction for Dew. “That sinister cellar,” he wrote, “draws me to it.” His sergeant began to work away at the brick floor, then to remove the earth beneath. There was a nauseating stench and Dew and his men had to rush out to the garden for fresh air. Fortifying themselves with brandy, they returned to the cellar and soon made a grim discovery. There, in a shallow grave, lay a limbless headless torso. What kind of person could have done this? Surely not gentle Doctor Crippen?
The story caused a frenzy of excitement, with lurid headlines in the popular press. Inspector Dew was now under enormous pressure to catch the killer.
And then, that sensational telegram arrived from the mid-Atlantic.
Chief Inspector Dew now hatched an ingenious plan – he had to take a faster ship to overtake the Montrose before it reached Canada and to arrest Crippen on board. And the press were hard on his heels. Word had leaked out about what was happening on the SS Montrose. Newspaper readers could follow Dew’s pursuit as he closed in on his suspects at the rate of three and a half miles an hour.
This story has it all. As well as a gruesome murder, there is an illicit romance and a chase across the Atlantic. And best of all, the suspects didn’t have a clue that the police were onto them, although every newspaper reader in Britain did. Doctor Crippen had become the most famous murderer in the world.
Dew attempted to evade the journalists by disguising himself as a harbour pilot in order to board the Montrose. But it was no good. Reporters were there to capture the moment when Dew finally greeted his suspect with the words; “Good morning Doctor Crippen.” Can you imagine an actor and director lingering over that line – the pace, the dramatic pause?
Press photographers caught everything that happened next. The crowds waiting at Liverpool docks. Dew escorting Crippen off the boat. The anticipation outside Bow Streets magistrate’s court for the committal of Crippen and Le Neve.
The press had made the couple into a highly marketable commodity. This was a very modern murder.
Bizarre offers now began to come in. If they were acquitted Crippen would get £1000 a week for a twenty week tour. le Neve would receive £200 a week for a performance including a musical sketch entitled “Caught by Wireless.”
On the 18th of October the trial of Doctor Crippen began at the Old Bailey. This was going to be a huge spectacle. Four thousand people applied for tickets, the court had to issue special half day passes so that double the normal numbers could get in. In the words of the Daily Mail’s reporter;
“…the crowds begged, pleaded and argued for seats in the public gallery.”
Inside there was even more chaos. There was a rowdy atmosphere, like a music hall. People were shouting ‘blue tickets that way, red tickets up here.”
The trial ended on Saturday the 22nd of October. The jury only took twenty seven minutes to find Crippen guilty of wilful murder. He was sentenced to death.
In his evidence on oath, Crippen said that his wife had often threatened to leave him and had picked a quarrel with him over his behaviour while they were having friends round for dinner. Recounting the last time he saw her, he said:
She abused me, and said some very strong things; she said that if I could not be a gentleman she had had enough of it and could not stand it any longer and she was going to leave. That was similar to her former threats, but she said besides something she had not said before; she said that after she had gone it would be necessary for me to cover up any scandal there might be by her leaving me, and I might do it in the very best way I could. I came back the next day at my usual time, which would be about half-past seven or eight o'clock, and found that the house was vacant.
The trial ended on Saturday the 22nd of October. The jury only too twenty seven minutes to find Crippen guilty of wilful murder. He was sentenced to death.
The jury took just 27 minutes to reject Crippen's explanations for his wife's disappearance and convict him of murder.
Crippen was executed on 23 November 1910, less than four months after his arrest. His last request was to have a photo of Ethel Le Neve in his top pocket when he was hanged. He was buried in the cemetery at Pentonville prison.
Ethel le Neve, at a separate trial was acquitted and she lost no time in selling her side of the story. A publicity shot shows her in her infamous disguise as a boy. But her fame was short lived. It was Crippen himself that would be imortalised. Even during his trial sculptors at Madame Taussaud’s had been preparing a wax figure based on those snatched court photographs. Within days of the passing of Crippen’s death sentence Taussaud’s unveiled their new addition to the chamber of horrors. Crippen was on display to the public before he’d even met the hangman.
And over one hundred years later he is still on show.
In the 1912 catalogue to the Chamber of Horrors he takes his place amongst the greats. His fellow doctor, William Palmer the poisoner. And opposite the 19th century murderess, Maria Manning. They have a description of their crimes in the catalogue. Doctor Crippen has none. Everyone knows who he is; what he did.
And a contemporary journalist described this place, the Chamber of Horrors as “the holiest of holies.” These were the people everyone wanted to see. What does that say about the Edwardians?
Indeed; what does it say about all of us? Public hangings are no more; but I bet people would go to see them if they were. I recall watching the Crime channel (I’m addicted to it. It’s my version of a seat in the public gallery at the Old Bailey) there were crowds outside the jail where they’d got Ted Bundy. They cheered when it was announced that his death sentence had been carried out.
It seems that a lurid fascination with murderers and death did not die with the Edwardians.
You can read statements taken by the police and transcripts from the trial here;
TV viewers of BBC 4 will recognise that I have plundered parts of “A Very British Murder” presented by Lucy Worsley. The rest of the post has been put together using sources from the web.
Friday, 20 February 2015
It’s two in the morning. In the opening scene of Edward Albee’s WHO’ AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF, George and Martha stumble home tipsy, from a party. They bicker, in the way drunks do about things that don’t really matter. They laugh; stupidly.
The loud snap of a door latch. Action!
Martha; “What a dump!” The play begins.
Yes, it's 2am and Dionysus is on the prowl. Dionysus is alive and well this night in New England in the 20th century. His red gaze falls on his two old disciples, George and Martha. The beast has been unleashed; he wakes from his long slumber, and snarls. George and Martha will act out Dionysus’ ritual and sacrifice. They will scream and go mad. They will paw and claw at each other. They will do real damage. The ritual will end in death, just as it did every year centuries ago, in Eleusis.
Dionysus is the Greek god of fertility, wine, and ecstasy. A complex deity Dionysus played two very different roles in Greek mythology. As the god of fertility he was closely linked with crops, the harvest, and the changing of the seasons. As the god of wine and ecstasy he was associated with drunkenness, madness, and unrestrained sexuality. His nature included a productive, life-giving side and a bestial, destructive side.
The audience know immediately, that George and Martha have acted out this orgy of violent, verbal bloodletting before. How we know; well, no-one tells us, it’s just a gut feeling. The humiliating word games they play; “Get the Guest.” The stories that they tell suggest that this obscene rite has been performed before. George and Martha are in the grip of a repetition compulsion. Just as Hades and Persephone act out their ritual of death and re-birth so do George and Martha. The Dionysian mysteries were repeated annually; the sacrifice, the ritual tearing of human flesh to please the god ensured healthy crops and fertility for the coming year.
George and Martha are part of this eternal conflict. Their game is cyclical and they play it through to its bitter conclusion. Only then can they achieve sanity, sanctity and restore order.
Two guests arrive and they are immediately drawn into George and Martha’s ugly little scenario.
I watched the film of WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF, this week. I didn’t want to; I knew I was in for a rough ride. I’ve seen the stage play and seen the film. Both left me shattered. The film stars Richard Burton as George and Elizabeth Taylor as Martha. George Segal is Scott and Sandy Dennis is Honey. The film is made in black and white which works well; the stark images helping to convey the creeping, sinister feeling that everything is slipping out of control. Usually, I would prefer to watch a stage play over a film, but the close up camera work lingering on facial expressions adds to the tension. I feel as if I’ve watched a violation, something profane. Something I should have stopped but was helpless to do anything.
There’s a hopeless, helpless slippage going on that things are not what they seem.
This is psychological terrorism.
At one point, Martha says to George. “Truth and illusion. You don’t know the difference.” George responds; “No, but we carry on as if we do; the illusion can be as true as we want it to be.”
While Martha is showing Honey where the bathroom is, George tests Nick's verbal sparring skills, but the young man is no match for his host. Realizing that he and his wife are becoming embroiled in the middle of marital warfare he suggests they depart, but George cajoles him into staying.
Upon returning to the living room alone, Honey innocently mentions to George she was unaware he and Martha had a son on the verge of celebrating his sixteenth birthday.
Martha has broken the rules by talking about their son, and will be, must be punished.
But at this stage of the play, it is Martha who is controlling the action. George seems like an amateur compared to Martha’s bitter vitriol.
Martha reappears in a new outfit - sleek fitting slacks and a revealing blouse - and when her husband makes a snide remark about the ensemble, she begins to demean his abilities as a teacher, then escalates her seduction of Nick complimenting him on the body he has
developed as quarterback and a state boxing champion, while criticizing George's paunch.
Honey again raises the subject of George and Martha's son prompting the couple to engage in a conversation which Martha quickly tries to end without success.
To counterattack George's relentless comments about the boy she tells their guests her husband is unsure the child is his own. They argue about the colour of the boy's eyes until George threatens to expose the truth about the boy. Martha is furious and accuses him of being a failure, whose youthful idealistic plans for the future slowly deteriorated as he came to realize he wasn't aggressive enough to follow in his father-in-law's footsteps leaving her stuck with a flop. Inebriated and upset by Martha's behaviour, Honey rushes from the room.
Honey’s comical hysterical exits and entrances provide the audience with a much needed relaxation of tension. We are already feeling battered; we need to breathe before the next round of screeching, screaming annihilation. It’s a relief to be allowed to laugh; it’s only when we laugh at Honey’s antics, we realise how our jaws have been set in a grimace of horror, like Munch’s SCREAM.
Honey is the Greek Chorus, commenting inanely, sometimes profoundly on the action. Sometimes she simply repeats the last word of the dialogue. Sandy Dennis’ wonderful comic timing, and physical comedy, releases us from the tension for just a beat, or two.
Honey wants to dance; she loves to dance. “I dance like the wind,” she tells us, while skipping and waving a silk shawl. Her dance is reminiscent of a Dionysian orgy.
“Following the torches as they dipped and swayed in the darkness, they climbed mountain paths with head thrown back and eyes glazed, dancing to the beat of the drum which stirred their blood. In this state of ekstasis or enthusiasmos, they abandoned themselves, dancing wildly and shouting 'Euoi!' [the god's name] and at that moment of intense rapture became identified with the god himself. They became filled with his spirit and acquired divine powers.” (WIKI)
The play is overshadowed by children, or the lack of them. Honey has had an “hysterical pregnancy.” “She goes up, she goes down.” One of the first questions George asks of Scott is whether he and Honey have children. George tells a story about a boy, blonde haired and beautiful. He shot his mother and killed his father in a road accident. He’d swerved to avoid a porcupine. The story has a peculiar resonance with what George says to Martha about their own son.
Martha; “our son is coming home tomorrow, for his 16th birthday.” George tells her that their son is dead. He drove into a tree, trying to avoid a porcupine on the road. Martha bursts into an hysterical rage. George has killed their son. He has no right.
But George has taken control of the action. He was in control all along; the audience and Martha just didn’t realise it.
Martha asks George, where is the telegram notifying them of the death of their son? George says he’s eaten it. He hasn’t; there was no telegram. Honey colludes with George. She tells Martha, “He did eat it, I watched him.” George’s statement is a blatant, bitter parody of the Eucharist. Transubstantiation; the participant consumes the wafer, the body of Christ. The disciple consumes the Divine and becomes the Divine.
Was any of this true? Was there a son? Was a boy, killed? We don’t know, and that really is unsettling. We know that the telegram is a lie; what else is a lie?
There’s a strange feeling of calm as George begins to pray. The final act is entitled “Exorcism.” Is this an exorcism or a requiem? A prayer for reconciliation? Is it a funeral mass? While George is reciting the prayer, Martha talks. The two voices speaking simultaneously, produce a rhythmic, calming, lulling effect. Order is slowly being restored.
George; Kyrie Eleison. (Lord have mercy.)
George; Christe Eleison. (Christ have mercy.)
George; Kyrie Eleison. (Lord have mercy.)
Honey; Amen. (So be it.) Honey, as the Chorus, speaks the final word of the prayer ending Dionysus’ revels. The games are over.
Kyrie Eleison is Greek, and is a part of many liturgical rites in Eastern and Western Christianity.
Scott and Honey leave, almost unnoticed. George and Martha relax. The actors take their curtain call. The credits roll to Alex North’s tranquil music. George and Martha prepare to go to bed.
Friday, 13 February 2015
‘Good pussy bad pussy. I knew something had awakened in me, something I’d never experienced before. A force, a power, a drive, an energy. Call it good pussy, call it bad pussy, call it whatever you will, but a life force had been awakened in me and I couldn’t put it (her) back to sleep again. Right or wrong, she was awake! She was alive! And she wanted more.’
In this fascinating tale of forbidden sex and guilty pleasures, readers can follow the beautiful and naive Rachel in her dangerous attempt to be free, follow her heart and satisfy her pussy – all at the same time!
From Amsterdam to the French Riviera to New York City… from her blond lover Stefan, to the aristocratic Albert, and mad doctor Howard, Rachel tastes the forbidden fruit – and likes it. That is until life takes a very surprising turn! And yet another…
Tim Spencer interviews A. Aimee about her book “Good Pussy Bad Pussy – Rachel’s Tale”
Tim Spencer Question:
In your book, Rachel has to leave her husband to experience the orgasmic bliss she is seeking. Was her leaving him driven by a conscious need that she had for this experience? Did she understand what was really happening with her? And, if it's possible, how do you see such experiences of orgasmic bliss influencing other aspects of people's lives.
A. Aimee Answer:
In my understanding, orgasm – the big O that we are all seeking – is truly a portal to ecstasy, a state of timeless awareness and the death of the ego, which is so blissful. And that I believe is why we’re all so desperately seeking this experience. That’s my understanding of it. Orgasm, or the great surrender, is such an amazing experience because finally we let go and give up everything. Everything! In other words, in that state of blissful surrender we even give up thinking and worrying about everything and anything that’s bothering us. At least for a few moments! So at least for a few moments, we truly lose our minds! And then, oh great glory and wonder, we are finally fully present in our lives in this now moment. No wonder we find it so extraordinary!
So I wanted to write a book about a woman who experiences this blissful surrender at great depths. And I also wanted to write about a woman who finds these states of orgasmic bliss outside of our so-called “normal” couple relationships (marriage) and in situations that are often quite beyond what we think is acceptable. In my story, Rachel is often shocked and surprised when she discovers that her body can respond in one way even if her mind was screaming something else. Hence the title – Good Pussy Bad Pussy.
Tim Spencer Question:
Through all the events that happened in Rachel's life in this story, is it logical to conclude that Rachel found that living a life that cannot be sustained emotionally is unfulfilling? What do you think it takes for a woman today to live an emotionally fulfilling life?
A. Aimee Answer:
Yes, in the end, Rachel was not willing to put up with a mediocre life that was emotionally unfulfilling. She was ready to live “outside the box” so to speak even if she couldn’t always find her way or see the consequences of her actions. At least she was willing to give it a try and go after a deeper level of satisfaction – even if it had unexpected karmic consequences for her. So yes, I think all of us – both women and men – are seeking a deeper emotional fulfilment than most of us are experiencing.
Tim Spencer Question:
Do you think that ultimately Rachel learned, through all her experiences and relationships in the book, that what she was really looking for was someone she could love and be with? Or, if there was more to it, what was it?
A. Aimee Answer:
Rachel wasn’t so hung up on the idea of marriage and couple relationships – rather she was seeking true intimacy – however that would reveal itself in her life. Seeking this demands real courage, as she found out. And honesty.
Tim Spencer Question:
Finally, was it all of the experiences that she had and the people she experienced in the book the reason she came to choose a career in psychology? What did she come to "see" that made her want to help others in this way?
A. Aimee Answer:
Traumatic experiences such as Rachel had often make us question our beliefs and spark a desire to go deeper and understand more. This was definitely the case with Rachel. And I continue to explore this and the other themes in the next Good Pussy Bad Pussy book.
Tim Spencer Question:
Wait, one more final question... is there a second book in the works for Good Pussy Bad Pussy? Do you have an expected release date?
A. Aimee Answer:
Yes I’ve just finished another Good Pussy Bad Pussy book. The title of the new book is “Good Pussy Bad Pussy in Captivity”! It will be released in the fall of 2015. You can look forward to a deeper exploration of these themes, lots more drama and adventure, and yes, lots more hot sex!
Good Pussy Bad Pussy is getting fantastic reviews!
The book is getting great reviews all around including so many 5 Star reviews on Amazon and Goodreads such as:
Good Pussy Bad Pussy is a “great freaking book! 5 Stars” says blogger and book reviewer @ReneeGiraldy on her blog. Read more here:
“Good Pussy Bad Pussy is one of those pieces of work once read, never forgotten. 5 Stars” says Darla Hogan on Amazon. And he continues: “An uncomfortable story but one that needs to be told, and read.” Read more here;
“There’s enough craze and kink, tears and thrill, romance and repentance to make Good Pussy Bad Pussy a perfect gift.” Doris Dawn, sex blogger on her blog and on Goodreads:
“Good Pussy Bad Pussy is brave, wonderfully done, it hooks me in and grabs my interest from the start,” writes blogger and book reviewer Sylvia Storm. Read more here:
For more see: www.goodpussybadpussy.com
Or contact the author at: email@example.com
The book is available on Amazon and from other sellers as a printed book, Kindle and ebook.
Interview posted on Tim Spencer’s Web site here:
Tim Spencer’s narration of the start of “Good Pussy Bad Pussy” here:
Good Pussy Bad Pussy trailer by Tim Spencer, here.
Links for A. Aimee
“Good Pussy Bad Pussy” purchase links:
Amazon com: Amazon Kindle: Amazon.co.uk:
Friday, 6 February 2015
I wonder how many of you know my friend Oatmeal Girl? I’m using the word ‘know’ reservedly – as far as it is possible to know someone in this, rather desolate at times, cyber landscape. I’ve never met Oatmeal Girl – we only really became aware of each other when we both had stories published in 2010, in Logical Lust’s ‘Best S&M III’.
I know that she follows my blog – silently – very, very occasionally leaving me an astute, thoughtful comment…I know from those comments that I am communicating with a refined intellect…a lover of words, finding the right word…the perfect word following the perfect word.
But most of what I know about Oatmeal Girl comes from her blog – ‘Submission and Metaphor’. From her intriguing poems and poetic prose I learn that she is a submissive woman in a compelling relationship. Oatmeal Girl speaks exquisitely of how she willingly relinquishes control bowing humbly to the man whom she loves and adores, her Master. She refers to him as ‘the Sadist,’ sometimes as ‘the Fiend. The Sadist knows what is best for her – the tasks he sets her are acts born of love, just as Oatmeal Girl’s dedication to the tasks are a demonstration of her love and devotion for him.
Yes, they love -- but let’s not be shy about this daunting, haunting relationship -- Oatmeal Girl tells of butt plugs, caning, chains, collars, floggings, masochism, masturbation, orgasm denial and spankings. These are the things that inform their love for one another. It must be an exhausting relationship at times and not just for the submissive who time after time submits to the ordeal. The Dominant has to plan, organise, take care of his submissive and take care of himself – keep himself physically fit, emotionally fit too.
At this point it seems appropriate to give Oatmeal Girl the opportunity to read what I’m saying about her, so I forwarded my ramblings to her. Here is her response – as you will read – in some ways I am right – in others I fall way off the mark.
“What intrigues me is the impression you have of the relationship from the glimpses I've given into some of my emotional reactions to it. What you (and many others) mainly see at this point - because that's what it seems I've been describing - is the love part of it. Which is only part of the foundation of the relationship. As the fiend reminds me periodically - and as I know deep down inside - the CORE of the relationship, which we must never stray from, is that he really IS my Master. I really do belong to him. Oh, not in some sort of slave registry thing. But in a very real internal sense. He really does see into my soul, he knows me, he freed me, his dominance isn't based on tearing me down but on building me up and teaching me to treasure myself the way he treasures me. We don't just "draw heavily on S&M." The power exchange is the foundation for it all. And it was only after years of training, with catastrophes along the way, that the BDSM side of it was solid enough that it became safe for him to connect with me - at times - as a lover and as a friend.
Which is obviously something I haven't made clear enough on the blog.
It is certainly fine for you to speak about us as you have, based on what you have gleaned from my writing. And, in fact, now it really is a love relationship. Now and then, speaking to him, I'll refer to "all the different ways we are together", referring to my being his mistress, his pet, his submissive, his slave, and his own little girl. But eventually that makes him uneasy, and he'll repeat that if we lost sight of the core, we will lose our way and get into trouble.
And he's right.
BDSM isn't something we just DO.
It is not a game.
This is what we are.
Deep inside, in truth, this is what we are.
But there's nothing you've written that reveals anything that should not be revealed. So that's fine.
Where you call him my "Dominant Master" I would just say he's my Master.
What you say about planning and organizing is absolutely true. He does work things out in a very detailed way before each visit and has a long-range plan as well."
Recently, a fellow tweeter told me that the stories that I write are disgraceful. Apparently, I write of sex without love; I write of pain, degradation and cruelty – She hasn’t actually read any of my stories, she just somehow ‘knows’ what they’re like. If I could be bothered to have a dialogue with her, which I cannot do because she has blocked me on all social media, I would argue that my stories are about people who are very much in love – they just happen to have ‘kinks’ and it is how those kinks inform their relationship -- that is what I find interesting.
And that is why I am intrigued by Oatmeal Girl – despite the S&M, her poems and poetic prose are a dedication of her love for the ‘Sadist’, the man she adores – the man who adores her. She is in an all-consuming love affair with the Sadist – without him, she is nothing – without him she would shrivel and die, like the autumn leaves on my magnolia tree -- exquisitely scarlet when they fall, only to turn muddy brown, found in the spring, as thin and fragile as finest tissue paper in their skeletal remains.
You can visit Oatmeal Girl’s blog “Submission and Metaphor” here.
Follow Oatmeal Girl on Twitter. @oatmeal_girl
Friday, 30 January 2015
Download Part Two for FREE from Smashwords (http://ow.ly/HYZ2E). Use coupon code WN77F at checkout. Be sure to act soon, the coupon expires on February 2! If you download it for free and enjoy what you read, please write a review with your favorite retailer.
Find Part Two Online
*Coming soon to more locations!
Paranormal Erotica/Dubious Consent
Part Two of Christina Harding's Underneath the Gargoyle paranormal erotic series: What happens to Trisha in the catacombs?
Also in the Series
*Underneath the Gargoyle: A Prologue (http://ow.ly/HYZ8Y)
*Underneath the Gargoyle: Part One (http://ow.ly/HYZbs)
*You can subscribe to Christina’s mailing list (http://ow.ly/HYY4i) for updates on her newest releases.
Advance Praise for Underneath the Gargoyle: Part Two
"The first installment in this series is what got me started on reviewing with Christina, and my only complaint was that it ended much too abruptly. This was certainly one of those stories that cries out for a sequel, and Christina has finally delivered.
The story picks up right where we left off, with naughty Catholic schoolgirl Trisha carried off into the catacombs. Her boyfriend Kyle and best friend Olivia are searching for her, though it’s not clear she even wants to be rescued: A new series of stone creatures is keeping her very busy. What will they find when they finally locate her?
Go pick this one up, you won’t regret it." ~5* review by Michael Dalton
"I do love the update to your story." ~First Pass Editor
"Would it be improper of me to admit that I enjoyed this?" ~Second Pass Editor
And here’s a real treat for you…I asked Christina for a juicy paragraph from her new book as a taster. She’s done you proud…here’s the little known prologue to Underneath the Gargoyle. Enjoy!
Underneath the Gargoyle: A Prologue
By Christina Harding
Copyright © 2014 Christina Harding. All rights reserved. Individuals pictured are models and are used for illustrative purposes only.
Marissa stares up at the gargoyles at the top of the church and frowns. She fumbles with her polaroid camera, frames one of the gargoyles in the viewfinder using the zoom function to get a close-up, and snaps a picture, her fingers going numb in the frigid cold air. I wish I had my textbook on gothic churches with me, Marissa thinks as she stands in front of the church, waving the polaroid and waiting for it to develop. Her eyes widen with excitement as she remembers she did, in fact, bring the text.
Still waiting for the photo to develop, Marissa sits down on the steps of the church, despite the fact that they have iced over, and flips through the pages until she finds what she’s looking for. There is an entire chapter devoted to this church with detailed photographs of its features, including the gargoyles. She finds a photo of her gargoyle, the one who looks like a dragon. He is sitting in a crouching position, as usual, and he is baring his teeth as if he’s about to exhale a ferocious flame of fire.
The polaroid of this same gargoyle is starting to come into focus, but his teeth aren’t bared. He’s crouching, but he’s staring almost peacefully off into the distance. Her heart racing, Marissa slips the photo into the text as a bookmark, and stands up to get another look at the gargoyle.
His teeth are bared again like in the textbook, but not like the polaroid she took just moments ago. What the heck? Marissa thinks. Trembling, she looks down at her polaroid again. How could this be possible? The gargoyle must have moved while I was flipping through my textbook! she thinks. She takes another photo of the dragon-like gargoyle, now baring his teeth, and then sets off, hustling to the university with a skip in her step.
“Professor John!” Marissa calls out to her thesis advisor, knocking on the door to his office. He opens the door.
“Marissa!” he says, sounding surprised. “Come on in!” he opens the door wide, and Marissa slips through. His office is warm and welcoming with a fire sparkling in the fireplace.
“I have found some solid evidence to support my theory of cryptozoology.” she announces, excited and still breathless from running.
Professor John closes the door to his office and sits down at his desk, waving for her to sit down too. “What have you found?” He sounds eager.
“The gargoyle on top of the church,” she pulls out her two photographs, “I caught him moving today.” Marissa hands her photos to the Professor.
He adjusts his reading glasses and gives the polaroids a long look. “When did you take these pictures?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes ago. I came straight here. I took the photos only about a minute or two apart,” Marissa rushes to explain.
“You realize the implications of this are huge?” Professor John says, placing the pictures on his desk. “This could be a major breakthrough in the study of cryptozoology.” Marissa’s heart swells with excitement, but the professor continues, “You know, not everyone is going to believe the authenticity of these photos. To date, every picture of a cryptid has been debunked. How are you going to prove that your photos are genuine and that they were taken only within minutes of each other? Who’s to say they weren’t taken years apart and that the gargoyle was not modified?”
Marissa finds herself flushing; she was not expecting such a skeptical reaction. Stammering for a response, she asks, “Do you believe me?”
“I think, a girl such as yourself, should not sully her hands in such matters.”
Shocked, Marissa is speechless.
Noticing her vulnerability, Professor John continues, “It must have been hard to get here so quickly.” He looks pointedly at Marissa’s stretching belly. “When are you due?”
Marissa rubs her growing bump, finding her voice again, “In thirty-five days.”
“As it seems, a child out of wedlock will cast shadow on your moral integrity. You are going to need someone to support your claim, someone with credibility.”
“As my thesis advisor, can’t you…?” Marissa begins to ask.
“Oh yes, that would seem like the obvious choice, wouldn’t it?” Rising from his seat, Professor John rounds his desk and approaches Marissa, “That would require extra effort on my part. And so, I would expect extra from you in return.”
Hoping she’s hearing him correctly, Marissa eagerly responds, “Oh thank you, Professor! I would be happy to do whatever it takes!”
Professor John reaches up and brushes the hair on the side of her cheek. “I was hoping you would say that.” His hand traces down her neck and starts circling her breast.
Marissa tries to back up, but has nowhere to go. She tries to protest, “I love Matthew Cohen.”
“Even though he won’t marry you? He has left you for any man to take.” Professor John reaches up with his other hand and starts caressing both of her breasts.
“Matthew’s status with the church requires certain obligations.” Marissa futilely explains. She tries to squirm away from the Professor.
“None of this. Lay down on my desk now,” the Professor commands.
“No, and get your hands off me!” Marissa insists. She stands up and attempts to brush by the Professor, but he blocks her way.
“If you’re not going to play nicely, I can just get rid of your evidence,” the professor says, grabbing the polaroids off of his desk and holding them over the fire.
“No! Don’t!!” Marissa exclaims, lying down on the desk. “Please….”
“I knew you would come around.” Much to her surprise, the Professor grabs the elastic waist band of her maternity clothes and pulls them down exposing her to the office. Marissa tries to clench her legs together in a last attempt for modesty, but even as she does so, she feels her pussy start to tingle with expectancy.
The Professor pries her legs open and props them on his shoulders, one on each. Marissa feels the heat of the fire directly on her most private space as it starts to drip. Out of obligation, Marissa cries out, “Please don’t. I love Matthew!” even though her body is yearning for more.
Ignoring her pleas, the Professor zips down his fly and pulls out his swollen cock through the front of his boxers. Even though the skin around his potbelly is loose with middle age, his rod is still firm and hard, ready to enter this flesh which is thirty years younger than himself. Professor John caresses Marissa’s youthful labia with the head of his dick, following the folds around her cunt. Marissa tingles as a rush of blood to her pussy makes her fully engorged. She moans.
The professor is still fully dressed in his suit, his pants hiked up around his waist. Just his pink, swollen dick is unveiled, poking out of his boxers from a mass of curly pubic hair. Meanwhile, Marissa is completely exposed from the waist down, and her shirt is starting to ride up over her swollen belly.
Smearing his pre-cum across her labia, the Professor observes, “I wonder how much you really love him. You seem to be enjoying yourself quite a bit.” He poises the tip of his cock right at the opening of her throbbing hole, entering her with just the head, wavering on the brink of her crevice.
“Oh please…” Marissa starts whimpering. But as she says it, she realizes she’s not asking him to stop, but actually begging for more.
“Now tell me, what are you planning on naming your child?”
Marissa tries to focus, “If it’s a boy, we want to name him Kyle.”
The Professor enters her completely. Marissa’s vagina seizes with surprise, but releases with pleasure. She feels a gush of wet escape her pussy. “Kyle is a solid name,” the Professor tells her.
He draws slowly out of her, but then thrusts in again, quickly. Marissa shouts, “Oh, Professor John!” Her body shakes with pleasure, droplets of sweat forming on her pregnant belly.
Her baby has increased the pressure inside of her, making her tighter than she was as a virgin. Her toes curl as she revels in the exquisite sensation. She’s more sensitive than she’s ever been before. Maybe it’s the change in my hormones? she asks herself. Marissa can feel Professor John’s every movement as his aged, but rigid, cock rocks inside of her. “You are so tight,” he moans.
The Professor cups his hands around her belly and feels her baby kick. “Your child knows you aren’t being faithful to its father.”
Marissa feels the baby kick too, and tingling excitement ripples across her abdomen. She looks up at the professor and sees his face contort in pleasure, his bifocals sitting askew.
The professor reaches down and starts stroking Marissa’s clit. Her legs twitch involuntarily, and her body shudders. Marissa grabs the edge of the desk and pulls herself towards her superior so that he can drive more deeply into her. The Professor grabs around Marissa’s legs with his free hands and bucks harder into his student.
All of a sudden Marissa, feels her orgasm coming. “I’m almost there!” She rolls her head back, “Don’t stop!!” The professor obliges, continuing to pump into her and rubbing furiously on her clit.
Marissa and Professor John reach climax at the same moment. She twists and contorts as the pain of a contraction mixed with the releasing pleasure of an orgasm emanates across her body. John clutches her legs to his chest as he shoots deep within her expectant body. He lets out a grunt of pleasure.
There is a knock at the door.
Abruptly both teacher and student are both brought back to the present. Before they have a chance to respond, the door opens and they hear, “Is everything okay Professor?” Then a head pokes through the door.
It is Matthew.
His eyes go round as he takes in the scene in front of him.
Marissa stumbles up as best as she can with her baby bump. “Matthew, this is not what it looks like!”
Matthew’s face gets dark. “I saw he was inside of you. I know what happened here; there’s no need to say anymore.”
“No, Matthew!” Marissa insists, but Matthew has snapped the door shut. Tears start to stream down her face.
“Like I said, he’s left you available for anyone to take. And, there’s no need to lie; we both know you enjoyed it,” the Professor tells her, zipping up his pants. He casually picks up her polaroids on his way out of the office and tosses them into the fire. “Also, the cryptozoology of the gargoyles – that needs to remain a secret.”
If you liked Christina Harding’s free story, then you may enjoy the rest of her UNDERNEATH THE GARGOYLE series as well. A PROLOGUE is also available for FREE download from Smashwords.
Christina Harding is a pseudonym. She is a guest blogger for Romance at Random of Random House and the author of Underneath the Gargoyle, a paranormal erotic series. She also blogs at www.christinahardingerotica.blogspot.com and tweets @tinaerotica. Christina is happily married and enjoys reading sexy stories with her husband.
Friday, 23 January 2015
Directed and written by Liliana Cavani, the controversial film “The Night Porter,” “Il Portiere di Notte”, was released in 1974. The film features Dirk Bogarde, as Max, a discreet, unassuming night porter in an exclusive Viennese hôtel and Charlotte Rampling, Lucia, as the figure from his past, who continues to haunt Max.
The year is 1957. Max tends to the hôtel guest’s needs; everything to providing a glass of cold water, to a bed-warming gigolo. Through a series of flashbacks, we learn that during the dark years of World War II, Max was an S.S. officer at a Nazi concentration camp where Lucia was a beautiful, young prisoner. Lucia, became Max's sexual slave, a position that she apparently relished.
The moment where the two recognise each other in the lobby of the hôtel is compelling. Both remember. The flashbacks tell of the chilling photographs Max took of Lucia, while pretending to be a physician. Through the flashbacks appropriate to Lucia, the viewer learns of episodes of rape, sodomy, and torture. Lucia is afraid. The viewer soon realises that it is not Max that she is afraid of, but the primal, carnal power of their relationship.
Max was not simply Lucia’s tormentor. He was her protector. It is a scenario which we see rewritten in our own contemporary erotica. “The Night Porter” is a pertinent template for any “Daddy’s Little Girl”, tale; it whispers and awakens forbidden fantasies. It allows us the space to relish the darker side of desire.
Charlotte Rampling, for her part, insisted that she knew nothing about sadomasochism before embarking on the film. 'The girl had to be an innocent, both fearful, and tempted by the mysteries of unknown pleasures,' she said.
If the scene in the hôtel lobby is compelling, the scene at the opera is electric. Max is seated a few rows behind Lucia and her husband. A sensation causes Lucia to turn. She meets Max’s eyes. She turns away, then turns again. He is still there, willing her to hold his gaze. She turns away, then looks again. Max is gone.
Lucia stays in Vienna after her husband travels on. She wants to see Max, and they find themselves caught up in a renewal of their former sadomasochistic relationship. But Max is to be tried for his war crimes. His former S.S. comrades have been carefully destroying documents and "filing away" witnesses to clear all their names, and while Max tries to keep Lucia's existence a secret from them, they eventually find out about her. They consider her a threat, and they urge Max to turn her over to them. He quits his job, and he and Lucia hide out in his apartment, while his former friends keep watch, waiting for the opportunity to strike.
Filmmaker Liliana Cavani visited a Nazi concentration camp after WW II and interviewed a woman who had been involved in a sadomasochistic relationship with a guard. She then made her story the basis for this powerfully, compelling film.
Liliana Cavani certainly gives her audience a strange and unforgettable picture that questions deeply the psyches of torturers and the tortured, “The Night Porter” presents its psychoanalytically provocative material without exploitation. On another level it deals with the psychological condition known as Stockholm Syndrome
where the victim develops an empathy with his or her abuser.
In an iconic scene, Lucia sings a Marlene Dietrich song to the concentration camp guards while wearing pieces of an SS uniform, and Max "rewards" her with the severed head of a male inmate who had been bullying the other inmates. Max has previously described his relationship with Lucia as “Biblical,” but he cannot remember the story in the Bible that draws him. Then he remembers. It is the story of Salome. King Herod presents Salome with the severed head of John the Baptist as a reward for her display of erotic dance.
In responses to “The Night Porter”, Liliana Cavani was both celebrated for her courage in dealing with the theme of sexual transgression and, simultaneously, castigated for the controversial manner in which she presented that transgression: within the context of a Nazi Holocaust narrative. The film has been accused of mere sensationalism: film critic Roger Ebert calls it "as nasty as it is lubricious, a despicable attempt to titillate us by exploiting memories of persecution and suffering.” Given the film's dark and disturbing themes and a somewhat ambiguous moral clarification at the end, “The Night Porter”, has tended to divide audiences. It is, however, the film for which Liliana Cavani is best known.
I was transfixed by Liliana Cavani’s film when I first saw it, many years ago. I was transfixed again when I watched it yesterday. “The Night Porter” tells of terrible things, and the Holocaust tells a tale of the worst that human beings can ever be. Would Max and Lucia have entered into this distorted, warped love affair -- and it is most certainly, definitely a true love affair, without the Holocaust? Well, of course we don’t know. Would our world today be the same had the Holocaust never happened? Again, we don’t know. The Holocaust is our shame as human beings. We need to be reminded, we need the mirror to be held up to our dirty faces, and if this can be only achieved through a film such as “The Night Porter,” well that’s fine with me.
“The bulk of the Nazi war crime trials took place right after 1945. Basically, from 1945 to 1949, there were parallel Allied tribunals and German courts. The German courts largely dealt with crimes committed against German citizens; the Allied courts dealt with all others, which meant the majority of Nazi crimes. These proceedings petered out by the end of the 1940s and early 1950s largely because West German society suppressed the past and preferred not to talk about it. Nazi crimes hardly found mention in public discourse in the early 1950s.
Thus the Ulm trial in 1958 marked the reopening of criminal proceedings against Nazi criminals. It was seen as a sign that the West German judicial system was taking the Nazi past more seriously. But the most striking thing about the Ulm trial was that it made clear that Nazi atrocities were not just committed within the Third Reich but largely in Eastern Europe.”
Friday, 16 January 2015
After the startling, yet most welcomed success of my memoir “First Tango in Paris” (which after only two months became an Amazon #1 Bestseller) I decamped to Southern Spain armed with a car boot full of my diaries and collected pictures and scribbling’s, to research and compose its ‘Conclusion’.
It was during the early stages of this process when Antonia, whom many of you will recall from “First Tango”, paid an unexpected visit. It was supposed to have been a quick five-day catch-up, which wholly unintentionally turned into a fourteen-day adventure like no other, culminating in a very intense erotic evening of pure decadence and debauchery held in the Marbella villa of Antonia’s ´Master`. Breaking boundaries and pushing limits was the theme.
In the period before she arrived, I personally experienced as you’d expect a number of highly erotic interludes of my own, several occurring at a rather fun beach close to the house I was renting, all of which are explicitly documented in the book.
The following accurately recaps what transpired during this brief but fun filled period: A period I feel that I was justifiably ‘Distracted’.
Warning: Not for the Shy or Feint of Heart
Chapter Two: The Beach “Au Naturel”
Thursday arrived, yet another sunny warm day was predicted, and having popped to a sports shop in the local shopping mall a few miles away and buying a really swish ruck sac with pockets everywhere, chosen with great care, or rather closer to the truth, getting swayed by the pretty coloured one, which conveniently had a compartment that would comfortably take a freezer brick and a bottle of white wine; I was prepared!
Having packed a few beach essentials along with two plastic wine glasses that I’d found in one of the cupboards along with a bottle opener, I was ready for my first little sortie. Having talked the previous evening to Paul on Skype and telling him my plans he told me in his own inimitable way to go explore, have fun but above all enjoy.
Promptly at midday there was a knock on the door and Rubens stood there smiling, explaining that to save walking we’d be going in his jeep, and to pop the ruck sac in the back with what looked like his own very “comprehensive” beach equipment.
Absolutely true to his word we were only on the main coast road for a few hundred meters until he turned off on to a well-worn track heading towards the beach. It was definitely an ‘off road’ experience, all dusty and very bumpy, but we arrived at a spot virtually on the beach, where there were already a few cars and 4x4’s parked up on a bit of scorched land, which was obviously a popular parking spot and could accommodate about a dozen or so vehicles.
Either side there were large Palm tree growing areas, which ran right up to the edge of the sand and stretched as far as you could see left and right. We quickly unloaded his jeep and I followed him to what he said was his preferred spot.
Having pitched up he very swiftly erected a small half tent, which served three main purposes, namely, a privacy area, a wind break if it got breezy and a cool shaded area to keep the wine and nibbles that he’d also brought along.
We both quickly took our clothes off, both pretending not to be looking and checking one another out, and placed them out of the way inside the tent. Immediately we both decided it would be rude to not open the wine and make a toast to the day ahead. Also it would give me a good opportunity to take in the scene around me, while he explained the very clear etiquette expected at this particular beach.
Relaxing with a nice glass of wine I had a good view of the entire beach, quickly noting that there was a good mixture of couples and singles enjoying the weather and ambience, whilst having plenty of space to themselves. I could see what Rubens meant when he’d said that it could get a bit overwhelming at weekends, especially during the main holiday months of July and August.
It was an idyllic spot, which had a very definite frisson of electricity running just under the surface, which gave it a bit of an edge and a very exciting hedonistic ambiance.
Over the course of a few glasses of wine I noticed a few people disappearing into the palmed area, which left nothing to my very vivid imagination. I soon came clean with Rubens, explaining to him the purpose of my stay in Almayate and the success of my first book; this had him intrigued. I knew as soon as he was back at his “casa” he’d be downloading and reading it.
When I mentioned to him that I’d noted the comings and goings behind the beach, he explained that it was known as a ‘play area’, where people who felt the urge could go and play alone or in groups, basically a fun area where anything goes. He explained it was very safe and great fun, but that you were fair game if you wandered inside. This coupled with the wine and being naked was having its normal arousing effect on me. Rubens was very different from the type of man that I’d normally enjoy a one on one with, however, there was something about him that was very sexually inviting.
I could tell he was really enjoying the whole situation and he was most definitely getting turned on explaining the extracurricular beach activities. He was most undeniably not the shy type and he was getting a real thrill knowing that I was openly admiring, what was by now was a most impressive erection. His body was well defined which he explained was due to long walks and frequent mountain climbs in the close by Sierra Nevada mountain range, close to Granada.
It wasn’t long till the conversation got very flirty and daring, which was just heightening the tension and the feeling of the ‘will we, wont we’ scenario. Thankfully when things started to play out in earnest there was nothing as obvious as offering to rub sun cream in my shoulders, he just on occasion and fleetingly teased my already erect nipples with a small feather from a Spanish Imperial Eagle that he’d found in the mountains on a recent trek and had kept in his ruck sac. It was a sublime and was making me very wet and ready for whatever was on the menu, which even to me was a new and wildly exciting scenario. He asked me if I was up for a dare, and taking my grinning face as a positive “yes”, he suggested that I wandered in to the palmed area through the well beaten pathway nearest to us and he’d do the same from the top end and we’d meet in the middle, and discuss what if anything we’d encountered along the way. I had the distinct feeling he’d played out this scene on more than one previous occasion, so I felt secure knowing that I was in a safe pair of hands so to speak, and said “I’m game if you are?” Upon which he scooped up any valuables and quickly went and locked them in the secure box in the back of the jeep, giving me time to compose myself and freshen up ready for the woods.
It was very exhilarating walking slowly towards the entrance, naked with a warm sun on my back and an intense heat radiating from my vagina. I soon noticed that a young guy had set up his towel and beach brolly very close to the ingress in the palms, and was watching me intently as I nervously approached, just as I was about to enter he smiled and nodded giving me an encouraging wink.
Not knowing my way, or what to expect I entered very slowly and cautiously at first, my senses were on full alert, which added to my sexual anticipation. The wine as always gave me a high degree of bravado and the overall feeling of being naked and not knowing what lay ahead was intensely liberating. I slowly followed the path and within a few minutes I passed an elderly couple that were walking back towards the exit with grins and knowing smiles, which encouraged me to continue. Seconds later I saw out the corner of my eye some movement, which as I got a bit closer turned out to be a middle-aged man enjoying himself, gently stroking his cock while smiling my way. Being the generous natured person that I am I stopped, and made eye contact and returned the smile whilst gently playing with my nipples. My reaction encouraged him to really stroke himself in a more lewd and exhibitionistic fashion, I could feel I was rapidly approaching a long overdue orgasm. I raised my leg against a palm and slowly exposed myself to him, I quickly started to spread my labia and play with my clitoris, which had an immediate effect on him, as he let out an audible groan and increased his pace. After a few moments he gasped and ejaculated a torrent of semen, the spectacle of which made me gush heavily over the trunk of the palm tree. After a few moments he wandered off, not before smiling and saying “gracias”. A great start to this little interlude at the beach, I was now well and truly in the zone and ready for some serious playtime.
Having no idea how far in I’d gone every step was like a mini adventure, always alert, always watching for movement. From the way the pathways crisscrossed and meandered in all directions it was very evident that it was a hugely popular area. I could only imagine how busy it got at the weekends. The thought of being naked in there as the sun went down and things became even wilder and above all more anonymous was raising my levels of excitement to new levels.
After a few more minutes wandering I heard a rustling as I rounded a corner, and there standing with a big grin and an even bigger erection was Rubens. It didn’t seem appropriate to say anything; we just leapt on one another and began to kiss, slowly, wetly and very erotically, all the time his erect penis was throbbing against my hipbone. He pulled me gently into a small area and immediately knelt down and slowly ran his tongue up and down each thigh, teasing me, making me groan in anticipation, as I knew that very shortly his deft tongue would find and explore my wet and very eager pussy. Indeed it didn’t take long, and removing my hands from his shoulders I seductively opened myself up for him. I was rapidly reaching that point of no holding back as he nibbled my clitoris and gently chewed on my engorged labia. I suddenly felt hugely dominant, and with one hand holding his hair I began to grind myself over his mouth, rubbing my wetness over his face until with a huge spasm pulsating through my body I gushed violently into his mouth. It was such a forceful and voluminous orgasm he struggled to cope, gagging as he tried to drink it all in. It was a wonderful feeling as he licked the remnants of liquid from my thighs, praising me on the power of my ejaculation.
It was only natural to reverse roles, so I slowly lowered myself, kissing and licking his chest on the way down to my prize. For a good length of time I used my tongue on him, running it all over his penis and gently taking each of his testicles in my mouth in turn, whilst all the while maintaining full eye contact. Suddenly his eyes gestured to me to discreetly look to the side, where standing riveted to the spot was the young man from the entrance, his large erect penis firmly throbbing, as he proudly stroked it. Clearly enjoying showing its size to me.
This was such a huge turn on for me that I just leant back on my haunches and offered Rubens my mouth to use, while firmly maintaining eye contact with the young man. This seemed to really appeal to Rubens, as he relished fucking my mouth and rubbing his erection over my lips and gently cock slapping my cheeks. It was having a similar effect on our watcher, who was now intently staring into my eyes and simultaneously increasing his ministrations to his rather splendid endowment. After several minutes I began to feel Rubens penis start to twitch and jerk as he forcefully began to ejaculate a vast stream of semen into my eager mouth, this was the catalyst for the watcher, who himself began to enjoy his own volcanic orgasm. Rubens orgasm didn’t die down for a good few moments, during which time each jet of his hot semen got progressively less until he was completely spent.
As we wandered off it was at this time that I mischievously winked at the young watcher, as he stood, still riveted to the spot, but now smiling and nodding a courteous thank you.
We made our way together this time back to our pitch and relaxed with a well-deserved glass of wine, and the promise of more to come another day, as it was fast approaching food time and my prearranged Skype catch up with Paul to discuss the updates on the house. Upon leaving our watcher waved, I waved back as I had a small inkling that I would bump into him at some stage during my time here.
One thing I also did that evening after checking in with Paul was to have a peek at the area on ‘Google Maps’. I would urge any of you interested in visiting this area and the beach in particular that you have a look. Just search ‘Almayate Playa’ and locate the wooded area between the Almanat camping site and the Rio Velez, you will have an amazing birds eye view of the play area, and can see very clearly the well-trodden paths between the trees. I was thankful that the Google satellite wasn’t overhead taking snaps whilst I was in there!
Distracted, is available at Amazon UK and Amazon US