Friday, 30 October 2009


The Halloween party was in full swing when Sarah arrived. She was late; deliberately so. She wanted to tease James; worry him, just a little. Make him think he’d been stood up. She had felt sure that he would already be here. But she couldn’t see him in the crowed club. So many people, dancing, laughing, shouting, close in to one another, to make themselves heard over the loud music. She noticed several zombies in the crowd, and two or three Draculas. One guy had made a supreme effort and was turned out as a convincing Michael Jackson in ‘Thriller’. There were the usual witches and wizards; French maids and gypsies. Characters from Frankenstein and the Adams Family and a hell of a lot of noisy improvisation.

A fog machine pumped out puffs of smoke into the darkness. Black fabric decorated with shimmering, silver spiders’ webs, covered the walls. Bright orange Jack o’Lanterns stood on every available surface. Nooks and crannies were lit with flickering, coloured lights; red, blue, green, gold. A black, Siamese cat, with eyes like green gemstones sat aloof on the bar. The pounding music held no distraction for him.

She loved Halloween. Better than Christmas, or Easter or even her birthday. The festival was just starting to take off in this country and she missed the joyous, hectic way it was celebrated in the States; in San Francisco. Most of the parties she’d been to there, had degenerated into frenetic orgies by the end of the evening. She wondered how this party would turn out, with the restrained Brits.

The door swung closed behind her. She drew herself up into her fashion model pose, one graceful hand on her hip, one knee slightly bent, holding the position a few seconds longer than necessary. Sure enough, heads turned to look at her, as she knew they would. She dazzled her sensational smile at them, and made eye contact as she swerved her practiced, brilliant gaze over the crowd. The attention turned her on; it would be an interesting night.

She looked stunning. She’s made a real effort with her ‘bad fairy’ costume. She was wearing over the elbow, black lace gloves. She’d laced herself in to a tight leather corset, that pushed her large breasts up, and out. Small black wings were sewn into the back. A black garter belt clipped onto her stockings. She fluffed out her tiny black netting skirt, and shook her long blonde waves. Nonchalantly, she adjusted the netting veil that hung seductively over her darkened eyes. Her pale skin glowed with a powdered, pearly luminescence. She didn’t need a looking glass, to know she looked perfect, as she strode confidently in her killer heels and black fishnets into the throng.

Count Dracula halted her, sliding in behind her, slipping his white hands, with bloodied fingernails beneath her arms, cupping her breasts. His thumbs brushed her nipples, through the soft leather corset. She laughed delightedly, feeling a frisson of sexual excitement and leaned into him, feeling his hot breath on her neck. She was tempted to snuggle up to the Count, but she’d finally caught sight of James, in his ‘Phantom of the Opera,’ costume. The white mask covering half of his face.

She frowned, perplexed. She knew he’d seen her, but he turned away, back to the bar. She wanted his attention and disengaging herself from the Count, she slipped up to him. Her arms slid around his waist. The music got louder and she felt, rather than heard, him chuckle, as he pushed her hands down, letting her feel his erection.

She giggled. She and James hadn’t had sex yet. They’d been quite restrained, knowing that when it did happen, it would be explosive. They’d talked about it a lot and she’d confessed her secret to him. That she loved doing wicked things in public. Was he going to grant her wish tonight?

She stroked his erection through his black denims and tugged at the zip. She wanted his cock. She could feel her breasts tingling. Her nipples were always the first part of her body to be aroused, and they’d already had the attentions of Count Dracula. Her womb muscles contracted with need. Her arousal surged through her. She felt warm cunt juices gushing, trickling over her inner thighs. She excitedly pulled his hard cock from his pants. She wanted to see it.

She stroked it, coiling her fingers around its girth. She ran her thumb over the bulbous head, smearing his pre-come. She pumped his cock slowly; she wanted to taste him. The music thumped, people danced and screamed and shrieked with nervous laughter, as a faux flash of lightening and claps of thunder echoed around the club. Sarah licked her lips in anticipation.

She sank to the floor kneeling at James’ feet. She painted her lips with the tip of his cock, smearing it with her bright red lipstick. She took him in her mouth, relishing it, swirling her tongue around its thickness. He tasted savoury; salty. She inhaled his male scent. His fingers cupped her head as he rammed into her throat; his pelvis thrusting as he fucked her face. She swallowed and gagged, she hadn’t been ready for such a rough invasion, but she breathed her way through it. Sarah prided herself on her skills at sucking cock and she swallowed him whole. She glanced up. The white mask covered half of his face, but she saw one side of his mouth curve in a grin. She would have grinned back, it seemed only polite, but her mouth was stuffed with cock. She was aware of people pointing and laughing, but that just added to the excitement; the thrill of the moment, as she performed. Her fuck juices surged again. She needed to come.

When he jetted into her throat, she swallowed every drop of his seed down into her belly. She never wasted spunk. It was nectar to her. She licked the remaining few drops from his softening cock and ran her tongue over her lips. She struggled to her feet and looked around her. A few of the female partygoers turned from her in disgust. But her lewd display had obviously sparked something off. She could see Frankenstein, fucking a delicate fairy, doggie style over the other side of the club. A witch performed cunnilingus on Cinderella. A gipsy dragged an elf into one of the alcoves. A zombie, with a bloodied face, waved a fairy godmother’s panties over his head. A high court judge, fingered a French maid, while another, on her knees, sucked his cock.

Sarah turned from James, she wanted to find the bathrooms, to adjust her make up, but he held onto her, trapping her between his hard body and the bar; he kissed her, pushing his tongue into her mouth, tasting his cock.

“Your turn,” he whispered in her ear.

She looked at him, quizzically.

He slipped his hands into her arm pits and lifted her high in the air. She looked down at him, laughing, as he placed her on a small table, steadying her as she tottered on her high heels. She realised that the music had been turned down low. She looked around; the whole room was watching her. She loved it; she threw her head back, shaking her long, tumbling curls, laughing.

“Come on,” he said. “Show the nice ladies and gentleman what you can do.”

The music changed to a classic striptease; she started to dance.

Someone cheered as she wriggled enticingly to the rhythm. She slowly pulled open the top laces of her corset and her large breasts all but burst out. Then her gloves came off slowly, finger by finger. She threw, first one then the other into the crowd. The zombies and vampires around her shouted out and whistled. She unclipped the tiny net skirt and then lace by lace, very slowly, always keeping the rhythm of the dance, she unfastened the laces on her corset, throwing it to the floor. She shook out her breasts, caressed them and held them out to her audience. They banged on the table wanting more. Feet stamped and there was cheering. A fat zombie got close and opened his mouth, waggling his tongue. She hung her breasts over his face and let him suckle her. A vampire joined him and sucked and bit on the other nipple.

Sarah felt glorious. She raised her arms above her head, and danced. She grinned down at James. He laughed his approval. He hooked his fingers through the laces of her thong panties and pulled them down over her hips. She stepped daintily out of them, squealing with delight. She was completely naked, except for the garter belt, her stockings, heels and the little net veil.

She finished her dance in a frenzy; pelvic thrusts, gyrating to the stripper music. James shoved three fingers into her dripping cunt, as she danced, rubbing his thumb on her clit. She came in seconds, but she wanted more.

James helped her down from the table, holding her close and shoved his fingers in her mouth, making her lick them clean. She bent over the table, her arse in the air. She looked around at him. She felt wild; beyond control.

“Come on,” she shouted. “If you can’t, someone else will.”

But James already had his cock out; his jeans pulled down over his ass. He didn’t want her from behind, he turned her to face him, lifting her high. She wrapped her legs around him, opening up her cunt. She shrieked in triumph as he slowly, lowered her wide hole onto his cock, filling her completely.

Laughing, they rutted. So did everyone else in the room. The sensory overload was contagious. The atmosphere was filled with the pungent odour of sex juices.

Sarah could feel her orgasm approaching and she opened her eyes wide, screaming as she came; James took longer, then he grunted, spurting his spunk into her.

Her eyes were fixed on the entrance. Fixed on the late comer. Just before he put on his ‘Phantom of the Opera’ mask, she saw his face. His dark eyes met hers, and registered knowing. She saw the high cheekbones; recognised the shadowed, craggy jaw.

It was James. Her James. The James she was supposed to meet here. Then who…?

Friday, 23 October 2009


After posting the stuff about Aubrey Beardsley’s pornographic drawings, last weekend, I got to thinking about the Victorians, and what a funny lot they were. Their opposed attitudes to children, are glaringly obvious to us, in the 21st century. But apart from a handful of social reformers, the polar opposites seem to have passed them by. Victorian Art and Literature, portray dear, pretty, little innocents, gathered around Mama and Papa’s knee; not seeing the stifled, starving little nobodies, working the coal mines, or sweeping chimneys.

If we’re looking at polar opposites, it’s not too huge a leap to look at Victorian ideals of family life and domesticity, compared with the commercialisation of subversive pornography, who’s sole purpose was the encouragement of illicit sexual arousal. The irony has a clarity that cannot be missed. Fidelity and chastity, and their polar opposite; debauchery and depravity.

So was this abundance of pornography, a result of a morally severe society? A golden age of repression? I don’t know. All I can say here is, that it was there, and it was available. Pornography, for men in Victorian England flourished. An official statistic of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, indicates that by 1834, 3 years before the start of Victoria’s reign, there were 57 porn shops on one street in London alone.

Perhaps too much sanitization isn’t healthy? Perhaps it brings out a secretive behaviour, which results in delighting in the obscene? Perhaps the more we get, the more we want, as in the extreme stuff that’s available on the Web? Perhaps I’ve picked up on a topic that is far more complex, than I can deal with here? A lot of questions; a lot of ‘perhaps’.

I think that there’s a delicious naughtiness about the porn the Victorians liked to look at. Yes, it’s sleazy; but to my mind there’s a sort of childlike innocence, a naivety that’s been lost, in the hard core pictures and photos that you can find anywhere on the Web today. It’s fun, it’s joyous; it’s a celebration of the forbidden.

Sunday, 18 October 2009


In February 1893, Wilde's scandalous play Salome was published in its original French version. An illustration inspired by the drama (reproduced in Joseph Pennell's article, "A New Illustrator: Aubrey Beardsley," in the inaugural issue of The Studio) was admired by Wilde and Beardsley was commissioned 50 guineas to Illustrate the English edition. This assignment was the beginning of celebrity but also of an uneasy, and at times unpleasant, friendship with Wilde, which officially ended when Wilde was tried and convicted of sodomy in 1895.

beardsley1.jpg (21681 bytes)Beardsley's fame was established for all time when the first volume The Yellow Book appeared in April 1894. This famous quarterly of art and literature, for which Beardsley served as art editor and the American expatriate Henry Harland as literary editor, brought the artist's work to a larger public. It was Beardsley's stark black-and-white drawings, title-pages, and covers which, combined with the writings of the so-called "decadents," a unique format, and publisher John Lane's remarkable marketing strategies, made the journal an overnight sensation. Although well received by much of the public, The Yellow Book was attacked by critics as indecent and obscene. So strong was the perceived link between Beardsley, Wilde, and The Yellow Book that Beardsley was dismissed in April 1895 from his post as art editor following Wilde's arrest, even though Wilde had in fact never contributed to the magazine.

Saturday, 17 October 2009


I met my new friend, Neve Black in blog land, and I asked if I could read any of her work. She
sent me her short story SKINNY MAN. I began reading straightaway! I do love a dirty story! But immediately, I was surprised and curious. Where the hell was Neve going with this? I’d sort of been expecting the archetypal romantic hero; this is erotic fiction, right? The place we go to when we dream our dark erotic dreams on those hot nights.

Neve wastes no time in putting me right. This hero is repulsive. She tells me in her opening paragraph about the new neighbour’s pot belly and that he’s lost most of his teeth. The few teeth he has left, are dirty and stained from years of smoking and drinking cup after cup of black coffee. He’s scruffy and not the sort of scruffy that is appealing. Okay, perhaps it is on a guy of 23, but not on a balding unkempt man of late middle age.

The nature of the genre ‘erotica’ is that at some point in the story this guy and the narrator are going to have sex and I, as the reader, am going to be turned on. That is why we read erotica, isn’t it? But I carry on reading, because as I said, I was curious. And this is the best and most surprising bit; I was entertained.

Neve’s narrator tells us his;
“…legs and arms reminded me of an old brown, grasshopper that had lost its vibrant green lustre.”

Tall, dark and handsome he is not. Well, he’s tall, but there the comparison ends. You just know that this guy cares little about personal hygiene and that he probably smells.

His name is Carl, and he is determined to engage his neighbour, Janine, in conversation every time she puts in an appearance in her garden. Janine is Carl’s opposite in every way you can think of. She’s a professional woman, well groomed, physically fit and her teeth gleam!
She doesn’t really want to talk to Carl, but she wants to be nice and so she’s friendly. She can’t possibly be attracted to awful Carl, but you know she is when she’s wondering about the size of his cock.

The sex, when it happens is explosive, all the more so because Janine is so far above Carl socially, well, it doesn’t seem possible.

I loved this story. I love the way Janine puts aside her prejudices, to have sex with a man she feels wildly attracted to. I love Carl too. The skinny man. He may lack social niceties, he may be dirty, he may talk like a character from Deliverance, but he knows how to fuck.

Neve Black writes in a gentle, lyrical way. There’s a tempo and a rhythm that lures you into the story. She writes about sex, yes, but she’s writing about so much more. There’s a beautiful depth here that is quite enchanting. You know those nature films, where they slow the film right down, so you can watch a bud, unfold into a flower? That’s what Neve’s writing makes me think of. Those languid moments, where special things have happened. You’re not sure how or why, but you cherish it just the same.

Skinny Man is currently a free read at Oysters and Chocolate.

Saturday, 10 October 2009


TOPPING FROM BELOW, by Laura Reese, is not for the fainthearted. I started reading it with trepidation; the book at arms’ length. I had a good idea where it was going -- and I didn’t know if I’d be able to handle it. I’d written a feature for my blog, on bestiality in literature. Why was it so taboo; it’s in classical art and literature, so why are editors and publishers so fearful of going anywhere near it?

So there I was, with the real thing in my hand -- and I was scared. I’d been quite brave in my essay -- at least, I thought I had. I’d had a lot of intelligent response; one in particular from Neve Black, who’d recommended TOPPING FROM BELOW to me. What was there to be afraid of?

I knew the book contained the real act: yes, bestiality. Neve had told me. So with chilly uncertainty nipping at my fingertips, I opened the book and started to read.

I’m tempted to describe this book as a ‘decline and fall,’ story. But it isn’t really that, because there is no fall. There’s no retribution, because the narrator doesn’t recognise that she’s done anything wrong. No sin has been committed. By the end of the book, she understands that something has been drawn out of her, that should have remained hidden.

Nora knows who killed her sister, Franny. She knows without a doubt. The culprit has been questioned, but no charges have been made.

Nora is determined to prove his guilt and have him brought to justice; it is how she goes about this, that elevates TOPPING FROM BELOW, from dark pornography, to a powerful, beautifully crafted story.

Nora’s suspect is a charismatic sadomasochist. Franny, her murdered sister, had fallen under his spell and Nora sets about taking Franny’s place. She learns of Franny’s degradation and humiliation and learns how Franny embraced one perversion after another, just to please the man she believed loved her. The difference between the two sisters, is that Franny’s actions filled her with self loathing. Nora accepts each perversion as a new way of life.

In her closing chapter, Nora, the narrator, tells us;

“M awakened in me passions I didn’t know existed…”

But she is reconciled within herself. Nora continues;

“A year ago I would’ve said there was a clear line separating the good from the evil. I would’ve said that evilness belonged in the netherworld and that evil men existed beyond the peripheries of decency. Now I’m not so sure. I believe that there is a dark side that belongs to us all, lying beneath the surface of our humanity, twisted extreme and savage in some of us, less severe in others, but always present and always at struggle with the civilised soul…”

There are dark places in our hearts; those secret doors that are best left closed.

I’m glad I read Laura Reese’s book and I am so glad that Neve Black recommended it to me. As I said TOPPING FROM BELOW, isn’t for the fainthearted. It’s challenging and confrontational -- but it’s also a damn good story I definitely recommend it, and I shall certainly be reading it again.

Published in 1995, TOPPING FROM BELOW, now appears to be out of print. At least, I couldn’t get it directly from Amazon’s warehouse. They had a list of sellers, and I had my book delivered easily. Faster, in fact than Amazon’s usual mailing.

Thursday, 8 October 2009

Night Art -erotic scandalous picnic with nude from Manet

The wonderful M.Christian in the UK!

Adult eBook Shop

Here's some great news for all my fans - both of them - living in the UK: the great folks at the British-based Adult eBook Shop has a page featuring a lot of my new books, including my very recently released Rude Mechanicals collection!


I SO love this new world of publishing! Remember how I mentioned that Rude Mechanicals, my new erotica collection from Renaissance E Books was going to be published soon? Well, 'soon' is right now! Below is the description, and here is the link to buy it.

Bondage, science fiction, fetishism, real realities and virtual realities collide in this unique collection by one of the most popular authors of erotica - ever!

"M. Christian's stories squat at the intersection of Primal Urges Avenue and Hi-Tech Parkway ... feral-eyed, half-naked ... Truly an author for our post-everything 21st century."
- Paul Di Filippo, author of the Steampunk Trilogy.

Two unforgettable novellas highlight Rude Mechanicals: In "Hot Definition," the story of a future just around our corner, Neko experiences the ultimate domination from the woman who is her master; and in "Speaking Parts," the second novella, two lovers, one with a camera-shutter eye, come together in a scorching, obsessive, edgy relationship that will take them both to the limits of sexuality and beyond. Plus four provocative, physically explicit short stories of sex and technosex.

"M. Christian writes like dream!"
- Paula Guran, DarkEcho

Sunday, 4 October 2009

A Personal Paragraph on the Gay Icon exhibition at the National portrait Gallery London


What to write here? Let’s begin shall we as I feel the need to be pedantic, on the definition found in many dictionaries of the word icon as icon has become to mean all manner of nonsense! ‘Icon a sacred image on a wooden panel’ I will stick with that and shan’t mention the references to computers!

Sandy Totsvig, sorry I can’t spell is a Danish Comedienne who appears a lot on day time telly and radio. I do find her very amusing and she does make me laugh and somehow she was able to have or instigate an exhibition of so called gay icons at the above mentioned museum. As a gay guy who feels labels are for clothes not for people I have to say I found the exhibition a bit odd, not at all stuffed full of icons.

Maybe I am being a bit harsh or am I missing the point? Many of the subjects portrayed are hugely important in their own right but they are not icons! In fact many of the most important figures socially are utterly obscure and about as far away from icon status as the planet Neptune! Icon here is a modern interpretation of the word and here it used far too loosely.

Billy Gene King, great woman, great inspiration. Elton John marvellous musician now slightly eccentric but not an icon, Alan Turing who saved million of lives by helping to end the second world war early, but who killed himself because he couldn’t live in a world that hated queers is NOT an Icon; he bloody well should be but he ain’t! How odd that he (and how empty this is ) has received an apology from the prime minister for the appalling manner in which he was treated.

Interestingly, and as an aside as if to illustrate a point, the Apple Mac logo or Icon, an apple with a bite out of it is said to be a reference to Turing. He killed himself by taking a bite out of poisoned apple. That symbol is iconic as everyone is likely to know what that means, show someone a picture of Turing and they won’t have a clue!

Don’t get me wrong, I welcome anything that celebrates diversity in all its forms but this exhibition, in a small side room of The National Gallery was disappointing, I did learn that some football manager was gay and said to myself well I never guessed that one. One of my favourite folks was illustrated in a photo portrait and that was Peter Tatchell. I think he is fab but even he as great to me as he is, is not an Icon!! I should point out that I am an atheist in case anyone thinks I am some kind of rabid Christian. Not sure what my rant has to do with fetish but Tom of Finland I think did get a mention but interestingly no mention (I think) of Robert Mapplethorpe.

Anyway rant over!

Many thanks to the Viscount Andrew for this piece. At least you went to see it, sweetheart. Not like some I could mention -- who have an opinion, but glean their knowledge from the newspapers!!