Review of Fanny Hill by Cleland

Review of Fanny Hill by Cleland

But she never beat anyone to death?

Aside from this wonderful French addition I just spotted, the covers for Fanny Hill are all so ridiculously boring.

Indexed (well, not Pius IV, but whatever)

Banned smut is my favorite fashion of smut. If your work has been blacklisted, then I am a fan. Of course, Fanny Hill: Memoirs Of A Woman of Pleasure is redolent in this charge. The work has been abused by parochial souls, dragged through puritan circumspect, called out and sinned against by one moral majority after another. Mr. J. Cleland knew something of the Orient, but, alas, this makes no appearance in this novel. Maybe I do wish to critique the writer. I shall do so but for, let us hope, the right reasons—none of which have anything to do with that ugly puritanism that has for so long shortened the sights of Occidental fuckery.

I have enjoyed this novel very much. I only read it last week. Though I’ve known about, known of, this story for some time, I only downloaded it on my Kindle recently.

The plot is one of “corruption.” A beautiful theme if done correctly, corruption means here that some young female thing falls from stupid innocence to gutter-sucking puss-buggery. The hit-and-love dimension of my perfect soul is much angered that the teenage girl character, our Fanny, never learns the joy in blood-wet sex. Despite Fanny’s first encounters of the flesh being sapphist (and here Cleland does well), the silly tart never rams her forearm up anyone’s bunghole. The feminist in me cannot do without a binge of anal-boy rape. To shame, Cleland, to shame.

No Sex in Your Violence (yes, yes, and I've gotta machine head as well)

To an honest appraisal I conduct this swath of tilted letters. Damn the French, damn de Sade, from whom I've stolen my name. You’ve soured my brain to anything but what I want most now these days. No joy, let alone ecstasy, is really permissible without physical or mental, that is, all physiological really, destruction...

The language itself is a treat; I can easily grant this. So much smut today is smut because it is shit. It is smut for the wrong reasons. It doesn’t even attempt perversion. Big, overzealous, perfidious, pestiferous diction is what I love. And, on occasion, Cleland’s “machines” (what a wonderful moniker for a ribald penis, no?) are wordsmith-worthy. At the very least, having composed this in the 18th century means that, by default, the language is already scrumptious—the English language. Nothing about this pornography in prose of Cleland has anything even remotely American about it.

Highly Recommended

Oh, and I did mention the Orient above because the writer spent some time on the subcontinent. This was when Mumbai was Bombay and colonialism was still profitable.

In conclusion, I recommend that you consume Fanny Hill when wearing your dress, the summer dress that flaps about in the wind and is easily turned up. I did rub myself. This is smut, English smut. A minx in mind is a minx in heart is a minx in thought and dreams and soul and spirit. Yes, ignore my sad sadist reservations.

Fanny Hill is a treat and one that is to be enjoyed for the ages.

Love always, -V. de S.

Galactic Butt Plug 1

The Galactic Butt Plug, Part 1

This is a glimpse of the first installment of The Galactic Butt Plug story, part of the Erotic Sci-Fi Tales of Yore series.

Fèn was an incorrigible fucktard of the first galactic degree. When Musi died soon after Fèn’s fifteenth birthday, the man-child Fèn hardly noticed. He did notice, however, that during his mother’s period of mourning, she tended to shower less.

Fèn confronted his mother one afternoon, “Do you never bathe now, mother? Should you rather stink like a space weasel of Himfeltalt than perchance occasionally flower my nostrils with some pleasant scent of star-kissed soap?”

Fèn’s mother admitted that she was a wreck these days and did not have the energy to do things like keep up her physical appearance.

“Then let thy son led thee a soapy hand,” said Fèn, pushing his mother toward the washroom.

Fèn’s mother resisted at first. But Fèn convinced her that now that father was as dead as a space worm, Fèn was the male humanoid of the house. By all rights that are accorded to the eldest male of any household in this quadrant of the Xizân Empire and by their faith in Lord Rahh and His Excellent and Infinite Black Hole at the center of their universe, Fèn’s word was law.

The widow of Musi allowed her son to peel back her space robes. Being a poor family, she only worn rags; these were tossed into a corner meanly.

Fèn’s eyes rested on his mother’s unctuous breasts. He made a silent prayer to Lord Rahh and then turned his mother around to gaze on her backside. Her figure was slender for the most part, with only hints of having once given humanoid childbirth. Fèn wished to fondle her ass cheeks but held himself back. He of course knew every curve of his mother’s figure well, having spied on her innumerable times. But with her completely nude in front of him now and within fondling distance was a completely new experience for the virgin Fèn. How he had dreamt of caressing her every fold of skin in days past.

Fèn could feel a small erection rising under his space robes. He nudged closer to his mother and placed his tenting, turgid, though still covered, cock on her back. Did she know that this was her only son’s penis now digging into her backside? The thought made Fèn wild with excitement.

Fèn pushed his mother into the shower capsule and turned on the water jets.

The teenage humanoid boy wondered to himself if he should disrobe and join her. He looked down at his hard-on. Fèn felt like he would explode. He had to do something to release the building sensation. Fèn wanted to attack his bathing mother, now soapy and slippery and wet and ever-so inviting, standing there in the shower capsule, hair full of shampoo, eyes closed to her son’s perversion, hands kneading a month’s worth of dirt out of her lovely body!

Fèn could contain himself no further. Right as he opened the... [...continue here...]

May our slits drip, our cocks swell, and our anuses billow!

Love from afar, 

-V de S

Review of Satanskin by Havoc

Review of Satanskin by Havoc

We’ve all heard of some authors being described as “a writer’s writer.” James Havoc, a pen name, deserves some type of title like “an erotic’s erotic” or “a sadist’s sadist” or, perhaps less eloquently, an “erotic writer’s erotic writer.” The twenty-one short stories found within Satanskin are brimming with vampiric, cum-filled, literary, child-brain-rape insanity. Don’t feel perturbed if you have to grab your OED more than once.

I would like to party with Mr. Havoc. Though, like me, he’s probably pretty boring in real life. I heard through the grapevine that he moved to Bangkok, Thailand. There is a BDSM scene there. 

What wonderfully colorful prose this stud writer can compose though! I’ve never read anything that is so sexually vivid. Let me quote some of this tasty smut. From my favorite chapter/story on Devil’s Gold:

“In dreams, Gillespie wanders sodden, hermaphrodite corridors, halls that resonate with the melancholy of outcast animal kings. He conjures forth and preens an eight mouthed ululating penis, unleashes tulpas from the folds of his scrotum, drag cold reluctant somatic formations from occult slits. Cephalopods. He caresses his breasts on a throne of bones, while eunuchs swing in the void.”

Do you enjoy whisky?

This is how best to consume Havoc’s prose. Allow yourself only to open this terrible terrible book later in the evening, not after midnight, but sometime before. Turn off all the lights except one, something shaded and halogen; avoid the candles cuz those are kitsch as hell. Have a bottle of single-malt Scotch whisky (should be $100 over or not worth it) on the table next to you. Savor your first drink for some minutes and then pour a second. Open Havoc’s bestial monograph to a start of a new chapter. Now enjoy. If you need music salting the air sweetly behind you, consider something on vinyl and of the chamber, the more piano the better. Your hand will soon be reaching toward your flowery vagina: Drip, drip, drip, after awkwardly yummy drip. Restrain yourself to only one chapter an evening.

And, indeed, this is the point—the orgasmic tip of it all. I do classify this as a piece of erotica. Why? Because anything that makes me wish to rub my clit is erotic, if not erotica, for me. Not unlike the great de Sade, Havoc will having you thinking and rethinking the ethics of your enjoyment of such tales. But of course this is what makes it all so riveting. The cerebral must be violated in the same way as all the usual orifices for a true libertine aficionado. 

Yes, read Havoc's Satanskin. Come home to me Mr. Havoc. I have a bed waiting for you in Kansas!

The Infinity Linga 3

The Infinity Linga, Part 3

This is an except from the third installment in this story in the Erotic Sci-Fi Tales of Yore series.

Emperor Zaphine was struck with an intense desire by what Eirissi had told him. Like many people of neon green Lü blood, the Emperor had never visited Himfeltalt’s solar systems. The erection under the Emperor’s space robes began to pitch a tent. Unable to hold back the mounting lust agitated by the sonorous pussy fart melodies of the Murmuring Yoni, Emperor Zaphine brandished his imperial cock from underneath his robes for the young Eirissi to see. The royal space penis stood mightily in the cool morning air of planet Yüfji in his hosts’ garden.

Eirissi, too, became mesmerized by the scene unfolding in front of her.

But before Eirissi could maneuver herself nearer the Emperor, so that he may do with her as his imperial prerogative may have wished, the Emperor shot a load of sticky, Lü cum across the garden. The quif music was so intoxicating that Emperor Zaphine needed no hand upon his erection to make it explode in joyful lust.

Eirissi whipped away some of the royal cum that had spattered her person. She apologized for not being quicker to take care of the Emperor needs as an acolyte of Lord Rahh. She asked if the Emperor wished to relax, for he looked dangerously drained of energy now.

“My daughter,” replied Emperor Zaphine, “my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Infinity Linga as well.”

Eirissi brought the Emperor to the brim of the fountain and let him splash his hands in the Golden Water.

After tasting some of the Golden Water, Emperor Zaphine commented, “As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Murmuring Yoni.”

“Sir,” replied Eirissi, “it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin is one entire space marble, so that the Golden Water cannot come in at the sides or underneath. But what your majesty will think most wonderful is that all this Golden Water proceeded but from one small flask, emptied into this basin, which increased to the quantity you see, by a property peculiar to itself, and formed this yellow fountain.”

“Well,” said the Emperor, going from the fountain, “this is enough for one time. I promise myself the pleasure to come and visit it often and shower myself with Golden Water; but now let us go and see the Infinity Linga.”

As they moved toward the shrine to Lord Rahh, the Emperor perceived a prodigious number of space purÿms, galactic tãlmitters, black-hole čozhchevites, and interstellar lœwquaks flying about the altar. He asked why so many rare space birds seemed keen to visit her garden.

“The reason, sir,” answered Erissi, “is because they come from all parts to accompany the song of the Infinity Linga, which your majesty may see on the altar to Lord Rahh we are approaching; and if you attend, you will perceive that his notes are sweeter than those of any of the other space birds, even sweeter than the majestic pussy farts of the Murmuring Yoni, which just caused his imperial highness to ejaculate on my face.”

Now in front of Lord Rahh’s shrine, the Infinity Linga stopped his singing, causing all the other space birds to stop as well.

Eirissi said, “The Emperor is welcome; Lord Rahh prosper him and prolong his life!”

Emperor bowed and then sat into front of the shrine to Lord Rahh, upon which the Infinity Linga sat, gazing down with his single one eye upon the couple.

“Infinity Linga, greatest and most ribald of all the cocks of the Triangulum Galaxy, I thank you, and am overjoyed to find in you the sultan and king of these space birds, this Golden Water, and those enchanting quif-making Murmuring Yoni.”

The special lunch prepared for the Emperor was then brought out to the garden in from of the altar so that he may enjoy his meal in front of the Infinity Linga

As soon as Emperor Zaphine saw the dish of sausages, he could tell that they had been cooked by a professional. They looked highly appetizing. The Emperor reached out his hand and took one. When he cut it open, however, he was surprised to see white cum spilling out onto his plate where he expected to find neon-green blood of the normal space blutwurst.

“What novelty is this?” said the Emperor; “and with what design were these sausages stuffed thus with pearly white cum, since cum are not to be eaten without first sucking someone off?”

... [read more]

Love and love and lusting buggery!

-Virginia de Sade