Nerve’s Bad Erotica Contest: The Winners

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Well, the people have spoken. You have also throbbed, pulsed and dripped. Copiously. Out of 500 entries for our first Bad Erotica Contest, we have breathlessly plucked these, the finalists in the Original Erotica and Found Erotica categories. The Grand Prize winner in the Original category is $500 wealthier. The others will receive a number of riches, including free Nerve Premium memberships and an advance copy of our new book, The Big Bang: Nerve’s Guide to the New Sexual Universe. (Pssst! Why not order your own copy today?)

Special thanks to our Celebrity Guest Judge, Steve Almond. He’s a frequent Nerve contributor and author of the story collection My Life in Heavy Metal. Please click here to read Steve’s twelve-step plan for writing sex scenes that are actually good.




by “Bill”

She woke with the taste of his turgid penis on her lips. Even though he was gone, his juices and manhood lingered in her mind and on her cloying lips like Vaseline. The events of the previous night came racing back to her, clogging her mind with visions of ecstasy.
    She had never known a man like Julio before. When he came and boldly sat next to her, the musky scent of his manliness turned her from tigress to gentle kitten. She belonged to him before his supple buttocks pressed aggressively against the tattered faux-leather covering of the barstool.
    After sitting nursing his drink for what seemed like a hundred eternities to her already soaked vaginal cavity, he leaned toward her to speak. Her massive, sentimental breasts heaved in sexual anticipation. His breath, a combination of lust and malt liquor, intoxicated her nearly as much as his words.


“My name is Julio, Julio Gottstein,” he said, his smoldering eyes aflame in the victory he would soon celebrate. “And soon, I shall have you.”
    Her heart pattered and swayed with passion as his rough hand took hers, and led her from the bar to her sparse, yet highly sexual studio apartment upstairs. Her eyes, clouded in lust, could see nothing but his strong, opulent frame — though he was easily four inches shorter than her, he seemed monumental in all aspects of his being.
    Once inside, he wasted no time in taking what was rightfully his, pulling her close for a long, moist and humid kiss. Their tongues intertwined like snakes slithering in a dance of forbidden love. His well-trained hands ripped open her T-shirt and smoothly undid her bra with only minor help from her. Her pendulous breasts swayed in anticipation as his toothless mouth gummed her large, perpetually hard nipples to a near exploding peak. She leaned her head back in submission, allowing this perfect man to claim what was his.
    She could not remember how or when this skillful man removed her girdle, panties and Levis, but soon she was naked before him. His powerful hands and majestic seven fingers pushed on her shoulders. She did not resist. Could not resist. She went to her knees and was face-to-face with his glistening, moist cockhead. His instrument of devastation was so hard and rigid, it made her flush with the need to consume it. It was as if his cock glowed with ethereal goodness.
    The first taste of his glans was like honey to a ravenous bear to her, filling her with its sweet, slick nectar. She gave him all she could. She was his bitch, his whore, his conquest. She took his entire love muscle in her mouth, something she had never done before. That was her gift to him. With his dong of desire nearly touching the back of her throat, she suckled him to a hardness that would make a sixteen-year-old athletic boy weep tears of envy.
    His climax came quickly and furiously, his sex sauce sliding down her throat like slimy alien invaders, guiding down her highly sexual esophagus to her creamy stomach. His authoritative hands pushed her away, and pushed his sanguine monster of mating back in to his torn khakis.
    His mission complete and desire sated, he stepped back, and in the cocksure way that was his alone, threw a crumpled, sex-stained $10 bill at her quivering, kneeling frame. He left her room and her life, the victor who had claimed his spoils. And he left her with memories of lust she could never quench.





Getting the “A”
by Josephine Ferorelli, David Holzman, and Dan

“Excuse me, do you have office hours now? I want to talk about my grade,” said Randy Mason, as he towered over his professor.
    Brooke Coldwell held her own with an imposing stance and angular profile, replying, “Yes, come in — and shut the door.” Thinking of Randy’s awful paper, Brooke sighed. He was one of those helmeted athletes recruited for physical prowess who thought they could waltz through college. But Brooke’s Women’s Studies 101 required long, hard work.
    “Randy, your paper clearly demonstrates your blindness to the significance of phallic imagery.”
    Randy blushed. Unlike Randy, Brooke wasn’t so blind to phallic imagery; she noticed his surging thunderbolt in his football pants. He had clearly come straight from practice. “Professor,” he whined, “I really need to pass this class to keep playing ball with the guys.”
    “Are guys the only ones you play ball with?” Brooke asked with a throaty chuckle as she grabbed his manhood. Surprised, Randy said, “I like this game plan, why don’t you bend over and say ‘hut’.”
    “I think you have the wrong idea, Tiger,” Brooke replied. “I’m the one going long. You’re going to have to take one for the team — all ten, hard inches of it.” Brooke reached into her desk drawer and pulled out the biggest strap-on Randy had ever seen. Randy looked dumbfounded.
    “You see, Randy, you have to give a little ‘A’ to get an ‘A’,” Brooke mused.”Strap it on over my pants.”
    Randy obeyed, thinking that he was about to learn more from a teacher than ever before. Brooke ripped off Randy’s mesh jersey. His abs were undulating hills, with heavy underbrush around his navel. She then fumbled with the laces at his crotch, as if they were ribbons on a long-awaited present. Randy’s sex marmot yearned to escape. Taking a breath, Professor Coldwell composed herself and deftly undid the laces. Randy’s pants fell to his ankles. Not able to resist, she pulled his jockstrap down around his thighs. Her nostrils were greeted with the musky scent of his sex and youth. His mancock was long and impressive, but no match for his teacher’s silicone masterpiece. Though his hardness yearned to be stroked, that wasn’t in the lesson plan. Brooke pulled the jock strap back up and spun him around. With his pants around his ankles, Randy lost balance and fell forward, exposing his hole, palms slapping down on the desk. Positioning herself, Brooke pushed in a few inches with her silicone rod, but Randy’s greedy asshole wanted more. He let out a high-pitched sigh as Brooke continued forward, hitting his prostate. Waves of pleasure coursed through his body. Randy thought he had all he could take, but realized that she hadn’t even begun to fuck him. As she rammed in the last two inches, Randy felt enormous pain and pleasure. Professor Coldwell cruelly snapped the elastic bands on his ass cheeks and began thrusting into him with unrelenting vehemence.
    “Are you going to study harder now?” panted Brooke. Randy could only grunt through gritted teeth as she shoved into him. He couldn’t take any more. Muscles clenching involuntarily, he let out a cry as an ocean of cum shot forth from his tortured tool, volley after volley drenching his jockstrap. As quickly as she had entered, Brooke withdrew. His juice escaped from his jock, creating rivulets down his thigh that dripped onto his already soiled football tights.
    Randy began, ” . . . about that ‘A’? I . . . “
    Brooke cut him off. “I don’t know. Come back next week, and I’ll see what I can do.”





by Lavie Tidhar

Her ass was like the African continent, dark and so far unexplored, yet Donovan knew it would not be long before he penetrated the heart of darkness.
    He twirled his large, bushy moustache, his eyes examining Marija’s body like a plumber searching for holes. She had phoned his firm at nine o’clock in the morning, explaining in her soft accent that her heating was broken, her need for an experienced man to fix it. “I need you to make me hot,” Marija said, and Donovan was out of the office and into his car mere seconds after the call had ended.
    Now, as he watched the jelly-like movement of her large breasts underneath the flimsy kimono, like murray eels squirming under aquatic sand, he knew he had made the right decision. She was so unlike Diana.
    Diana was a high-strung bitch, and although Donovan knew he was the right dog-fancier to lash her into submission, there was something about Marija that made him ache where it mattered. It was cold in Marija’s small flat, and her nipples, he noted in approval, were like torpedoes ready to fire.
    “Damn the torpedoes!” he muttered under his moustache, feeling his erection blooming like a desert flower, a red and prickly cactus of above-average proportions.
    Donovan started. "Please."
    “You like cups?”
    Donovan swallowed, his eyes on her bosom, raging like giant waves in the ocean. He wanted to surf those breasts to oblivion. "Very much."
    “Good.” Marija’s innocent smile filled the room. She bent down, reaching for a little cupboard and extracting from it a small cup. Her kimono rode up to her thighs and Donovan watched in fascination at the G-string that passed through the crevice of her bottom like a cruise-liner along the equator. He could almost see dolphins swimming through the milkiness of her skin.
    Unable to hold himself anymore, Donovan reached for her.
    “Oh!” Marija’s surprised yelp contained pleasure. “Would you like to see my ass?” she asked cheekily.
    Donovan grunted. As he quickly opened his zip and rolled down his trousers Marija’s eyes opened wide. His erection was like a towering monument to the Unknown Soldier, a Tower of Babel that seeded confusion wherever it was exposed.
    “It’s huge!” Marija said, paying him lip service.
    His wiry hands grasped desperately at her continental breasts, his breath coming hoarse and urgent, like a sailor onboard ship first spotting a sea-cow.
    “Oh, Marija!” he panted.
    “Oh, Donovan!” They were like randy rabbits, not the kind Beatrix Potter wrote about but the other kind, the ones that shagged all day and used carrots in completely new and novel ways.
    “Take me, you beast!” she cried, and Donovan felt the pressure building in his monumental member like oil underneath the Arabian Peninsula, aching to get out and power cars.
    “You are the battery and I am the engine!” he cried.
    Marija smiled up at him dreamily as she panted, “You are the wooden horse and I am Troy!” Donovan’s movements were like the raging sea, fluid and salty and not smelling too good.
    For a while neither spoke as Donovan plugged away at Marija’s exposed interface like a techie wading through complicated jargon.
    “Oh Donovan!” she cried at last, and he could feel her trembling like a volcano about to erupt and bury a village alive.
    “Oh Marija!”
    They lay on the floor, spent like empty bullet cartridges.
    Then a silhouette appeared in the doorway, and Donovan started.
    “Oh, don’t worry!” Marija said. “It’s only my friend Candace!”
    “I do hope you don’t mind if she joins us . . . ”





Baby Cowboy
by Pumpkin Jones

He was barely legal, and I was barely sober.
    I was perched at the corner bar, eyeing my bartender’s firm, muscular buttocks as he leaned way over to refill my tumbler with ice. It was a scotch-on-the-rocks night. I had been stood up by Dirk for the last time. I took deep breaths, and the heaving of my nipples against my tight cashmere sweater rendered them as erect as Dirk’s rod used to get when he licked the perspiration from my armpit. Jake the bartender handed me a double. I swung around to look for a one-night stand to ease my aching pussycat. She was meowing loudly. Only the vocal stylings of Styx over the speakers could drown out my body’s yearnings.
    He was wearing cowboy boots and Wayfarer sunglasses, but I only had eyes for that cucumber he was packing in his Gap relaxed-fit jeans. He strutted over to the bar and ordered a buttery nipple. I gasped audibly, and he looked at me and flashed a gleaming smile.
    "I like my biscuits and my nipples buttered real good," he said to me.
    The rivulet of sweat was heading south between my size 40DD bosom, straight toward my button of love.
    Jake the bartender looked at him and broke our spell.
    "Let’s see your ID."
    "I left it in my Bronco," the stranger said, without batting an eye.
    "You don’t look 21."
    "But you sure look like an asshole," he shot back.
    "Oh, Jake, get him the drink," I pleaded.
    "You know the rules, Suzy."
    Baby Cowboy turned to me. "Let’s get outta here."
    We walked out together, my heart racing.
    We crawled into the Bronco. He narrowed his lustful eyes as he studied me from shoulder to hip. My face flushed. My thighs trembled.
    "I might not be twenty-one, but I’m old enough to do some things." He grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me hard, then slid his hand down my cashmere.
    "Nice sweater, Suzy," he said.
    He ripped it down to my navel.
    I fumbled with his belt while he freed my puppies from their underwire kennels. I unzipped his jeans, and the big boy stood up and saluted me. I bent over and gave him a tongue bath. My skirt was hiked up to my pirate tattoo. He destroyed my thong with one strong hand. I climbed onto his love saddle, mounted my cowboy and he told me to ride him hard.
    He held one big silicone-free breast in each hand and kissed them while he plunged deeper and deeper inside me. I was impaled on his love rod. The windshield was fogged up. The SUV was rocking. I leaned back against the dashboard and grabbed at the radio dial. Three tries, then I found the oldies station. I hadn’t heard the extended version of "Freebird" for years, but he stuffed my love muffin while singing with Skynyrd. His geyser shot all over my shoulders before the commercial break. I squealed with delight and rubbed his cum across my tits and belly.
    Gravel flew as he roared off into the night. I stood there with my torn sweater smoking a cigarette in the darkness. I licked his cactus juice from my sticky fingers. That young cowboy sure knew how to ride across my range.





by “Jan”

My dearest Cock,

    You are far away so I say aloud, “Your cock,” and it is as if you are suddenly and imaginatively inside my body; as if you never left. My pussy agrees that this mantra keeps passion fresh with longing for the in’s and out’s, delving and pressing. I adore how you fuck me seriously, slowly, poundingly silly. Like body odor, your rock-hardness goes away following a shower but only for a relatively short while. And that’s just the way I like it: Musky. Dirty.
    “Your cock. Your cock.” I shall never tire of saying, “Your cock,” for speaking it closes the back of my throat tightly around your turgid flame like a cunt clutching and releasing, snapping closely around lengths and breadths in quick embraces. “Cock.” Like that.
    I beg you: let me take you in my mouth and down the throat willingly, deeply past the gag, watching all the while your face as you grimace with the great effort of ultimate pleasure foregone for the larger pleasure of waiting for the next impulse and the next to let go finally blasting through the back of my head, gray matter and cum spewing everywhere messy and wet. For you I learned to love the pressing of your hand on my head with its, “Deeper, damnit.”
    Your cock’s silk heat against any inches of my skin quivers me with terminal velocity; calls to my pussy ’til it answers forming a 220-volt arc of necessity toward the compliment of your lust.
    Because vision is the entrance to your need I hold my labia and thighs apart for your eye’s embrace as you undress and am chilled with vulnerability and anticipation.
    Your cock is my hero of heat and hunger.
    There is no cock like your precious never-ending cock that magically fills me from lips to heart and back, breaking the laws of physics every time you enter, sometimes so deep you touch the edge of my brain pan — yes — the miracle of your cock. As you slide away I cry out, for you make me greedy for fullness.
    Your cock mixes the doughy sweet of my vaginal cave until I am homogenous, limpid goop and at your mercy though I never want or ask for mercy. I ask only that you always take all you want of any and every part of me, for I am, in the moments you take what you need, surrendered utterly and yours to do with as you wish, the only limit your imagination. Thankfully you are exceptionally clever.
    You are gone and I miss you – my own magic bassoon upon which I play the urgent notes of love. So come to me directly — my cock, my friend — with all due speed, and at your earliest convenience. When I see you I will say, “Hel-looo! Fuck me, darling,” and hold you close between my breasts at my heart and huskily croon, “Fuck my tits this very minute you bastard,” licking your head on the up-thrusts with alternating tender and ruthless desire.

Your Cunt





Perfect Storm
by Laura Dunne

The wind whipped her long raven hair into her face as she wrestled porch furniture into the house and pulled hurricane shutters into place. She was one of the last to leave the hospital where she worked as a surgical nurse, staying late to assist in the evacuation of patients. Traffic crawled through town with evacuees trying to reach the interstate, so she was late preparing for the storm. She was newly divorced, new to the area, new to the job, and had no intention of leaving. She’d worked too hard for this place, and if the wind and water were going to take it; she would go with it.
    The sky was threatening, wind gusting loudly, and she worried about electric lines snapping around her as she worked, when her neighbor came into the yard, carrying her trashcans to the garage. His house next door was on stilts, a snug bachelor haven. He was a published writer and soccer player who, by his own admission, craved solitude. She had met him briefly. They worked together silently, battening down anything that the impending 120-mile-per-hour gusts could move.
    “Look, I know this area,” he said, pointing to the water level, already rising from the river. “This house probably won’t be under water, but mine has stood through a few bad ones. It was designed with hurricanes in mind. Why don’t you close up and come with me?”
     “Oh, I’ll be fine here, thanks,” she answered, as a large palm frond broke away and sailed in her direction. He pulled her away just before impact, pulled her to him, looking deep into her azure eyes. She was breathing rapidly, damp from working in the Florida pre-storm heat and pressure, frightened by the missiles flying through the air, and weak at the knees by the intent in his eyes.
     His body protected her from the wind as they stood locked in each others’ eyes. He held her tightly to him and said, “Please, come with me. Don’t stay here by yourself.” She felt his strength beneath his soft cotton shirt, and wanted to be held there forever in that wild wind. “Let’s go.”
     The stilt house was, as promised, a safe haven, and when they reached it he started the shower, led her to the bathroom, and undressed her, caressing every ounce of her supple female flesh, licking the salty skin on her neck, down her back, the rise of her perfect ass. She gasped as his tongue traveled the crack, his broad shoulder pushing her leg up as his tongue found her center. He kissed and bit down the inside of both her thighs, leaving stinging circles that drove her wild. When he finally stood, she wrapped one leg around him. He pulled her up, wrapping the other around his waist, and maneuvered her onto the bathroom countertop. Totally open to him, wanting his heat thrust into her, she begged him, “Please, don’t tease me. Don’t stop. Please.”
     Her throat was tight, cheeks crimson, rivulets of sweat ran between her breasts, heaving with her quick, hard breathing. She moaned as he slid one finger into her, feeling her as hot and wet as August. “No!” she said when he took it out, “Yesss, oh, yesss . . . ” as he pushed past her swollen lips into a canal as slippery as it was tight. He put his finger into her mouth as he kissed her; she bit down with perfect pearly teeth. They rocked against the counter, coming together, their level-five encounter obliterating and dwarfing the building level-three hurricane.





Papa H.
by Chia-Pei Chang

He was an older man, but not yet an old man. Though he loved the sea, it was the girls who came to this coastal town that he loved more. They touched his large callused hands in awe. They saw fairy tales in his blue eyes. They found escape from their lives in his body.
    Today it was Anna, a lithe young lass who shyly shrugged off her sundress for him. He reclined on the sheets. They were yellow with age, but he did not care.
    “Don’t you like me?” she asked.
    “I love you.”
    “Will you make love to me?”
    “You don’t want that.”
    “No.” She straddled his body and ran cool fingers through the coarse hair of his chest. “I want you to fuck me.” Her breasts were firm. Round like melons. Perky. He bent to suckle at her breasts. Her skin was young to his chapped lips. Nipples taut and erect. Her hands found his hair, pulling at the long strands of salt and pepper. His right hand cupped her back; his left found the firmness of her ass. Penis swelling. Swelling and throbbing. She murmured wet into his ear, “Suck my tits, Papa.”
    He sucked tightly against her nipple. She sighed approval. He scraped teeth against her, and she gasped delight. His cock was insistent now, like the pulse of never-ending tide against the reef. He lifted her up and laid her back against the IKEA bed. Legs spread wide eagerly. Tresses splayed as starfish against his pillow. Outside, the church bell tolled, for whom he did not know.
    He eased his stiff lovemember into her pussy slowly. Silk and satin inside. She wrapped slender legs about his waist, lifted her hips up towards him, engulfed his cock. “Oh, yeah, Papa, fuck me hard.”
    He fucked her hard.
    He gripped the pillowcase from Bed, Bath, and Beyond as he pumped his cock deep in and out of her cunt. Pump deep and pump fast to delay the cumming. He gritted teeth and sweated in the humid night. She moaned. She dug long polished fingernails into the back of his neck. It hurt. He pulled out, leaving her gasping out of rhythm. He pulled her fingers from his neck, flipped her over. Flipped her over for the round peach of an ass. The gentle heart that was her butt.
    He spanked that ass and she squealed. He found her pussylips with the tip of his cock, teased her clit. She threw her hair back to gaze at him. Lust as she licked her lips. Then he fucked that bitch doggy-style like she had never been fucked before. Held her by her hips and drove his whale of a cock into her until his balls slapped at her cunt. The plastic bottles of Evian rattled off the endtable. He felt cum rising through his testicles. Though the window, the sun was also rising.
    But the door had been left open. Jackson, the faithful hound dog came nudging through the door. Jackson needed to be walked. He was an old dog. He needed to piss. But his master did not come. Jackson climbed the bed with old hound legs. He licked at his master’s butt. Licked his long wet tongue, smelling of marlin, along the hairy ass that would not keep still.
    “Go away, Jackson!”
    “Omigod, Papa, omigod!”
    “Oh, I’m fucking cumming!”
    She came. He came. He came with the dog licking his balls.
And never again did Jackson set paw in his master’s clean, well-lit place again. Let the hound sleep outside. Let him sleep outside.





(Winners in no particular order.)

From “Lynne Gets a Taste of Heaven,” by Anonymous. From a website dedicated to erotic fan fiction based on the TV show Alf.

Found by Matthew Tobey

Alf . . . continued to stroke Herbert . . .
    . . . Alf bucked and a jet of jism burst from Herbert’s eye and . . . into the chip dip . . .
    “Alf! Oh God, Alf. You shouldn’t see me like this. But, I can’t . . . I can’t stop. This feels so good!”
    “You ate the chip dip, didn’t you Lynne?”
    “. . . that stuff is highly addictive to human females!”
    “Lynne, meet Herbert . . . ”
    There . . . was that delicious flavour from the chip dip!
    She pushed Alf back on the bed and started fucking her face up and down Herbert. . .
    “Give it to me Alf . . . Shoot all your hot spunk down my throat!”
    Alf’s cum shot from Herbert, splattering against the roof of Lynne’s mouth . . .
    She drank thirstily.
    “You mean I’ll have to suck . . . your cock, every six hours for the rest of my life?”
    “My girlfriend Gloria on Melmack enjoyed this shape best. She was into ass . . . ”
    “There is a way . . . that you only need a dose of Melmackian love cream once every twenty-four hours . . . ”
    “Instead of taking the cure down your throat, you take it up your vagina.”
    “Well, why the hell not! After all, Herbert is kind of cute . . . ”
    Alf knelt and then ran his thick tongue along Lynne’s pussy slit.
    “Oh, Alf! That feels so funny!”
    Alf’s snout ground into Lynne’s clit as his tongue snaked into her twat.
     . . . Herbert’s six inches sank deep into the teen temptress’ hot quim . . .
    “Make it bigger, Alf! Fill me with your cock!”
    “Pump it faster, Alf! I’m . . . I’m cumming!”
    . . . his rich thick alien cream sprayed out of Herbert, coating the walls of the teen tart’s pussy. He jetted syruppy jism deep into her twat.






From “Quartet” by Heiner Mueller, published in Hamletmachine, edited by Carl Weber, 1984.

Found by Chris Tong

Two French aristocrats are role-playing. The priest is talking the virgin into giving him a blowjob.

“Let me be your priest, who is more a father than the priest who opens the gates of paradise for all of God’s children. The key is in my hand, the signpost, the heavenly tool, the fiery sword. The matter is urgent: before the niece becomes the aunt the lesson has to be learned. On your knees, wretch. I know the dreams which walk through your sleep. Repent and I shall change your punishment to grace. Don’t be afraid for your innocence. There are many dwellings in God’s mansion. You only need to open those amazing lips and the dove of our Lord will come flying and pour forth the Holy Spirit. It trembles with readiness, look. What is life without its daily death. You talk with angel’s tongues. The school of the convent. The language of Mother Superior. Man should not spit out the gifts of God. To those who give it shall be given to them. What falls you should erect again . . . Your hand, Madame. This is the resurrection . . . He loves only ONE virgin, the world can do with one Saviour. Do you believe this eager body has been given to you so you can go to school alone, hidden from the eyes of the world . . . If you want to know where God dwells trust the twitching of your thighs, the trembling of your knees. A tiny membrane shouldn’t prevent us from becoming one body. THE PAIN IS SHORT BUT THE JOY IS ETERNAL . . . Paradise has three gates. He who rejects the third one insults the master-builder of the Trinity. THERE IS SPACE E’EN IN THE SMALLEST COTTAGE.”






From Wifey by Judy Blume (Penguin Putnam, 1978).

Found by Lindsay Godard

    “Gordon! Are you crazy?”
    “Yes, but I know what I want. Please, Sandy, please let me.” He was tugging at her bikini top, pushing down her pants.
    “Look, I can’t. I haven’t got my diaphragm in.”
    He jumped up. “I’ll get you one. What size?”
    She started to laugh. “Gordon, this is insane.”
    “What size?”
    “Eighty. . . but I can’t. . . really. . . “
    He opened a cabinet and pulled out a box. “Eighty, eighty, here’s one.” He ran to the door and locked it, ran back to her, and said, “I can make my cock dance inside of you. Just wait, you’re going to love it.”   He kneeled in front of her and pulled down her bikini pants. “I’ll put this in for you, what kind of jelly do you like?”
    “I don’t use jelly.”
    “You use foam?”
    “No, nothing.”
    “You don’t use anything with your diaphragm?”
    “You have to use something. You could get pregnant without it.”
    “So far I haven’t. Look Gordy, we can’t . . . somebody . . . “
    “It’s all right.”
    She had never been attracted to Gordon, but now he kneeled in front of her, his penis fat and inviting, sticking straight out from his black bush. As he inserted his diaphragm he whispered, “So beautiful . . . sweetest pussy . . . “And then he put his face between her legs and sniffed her cunt, actually put his nose into it and kissed it. She found herself not just aroused, but actually wanting him very much.
     He rolled her over and entered her from behind, one hand squeezing her right breast, the other holding her pussy. It felt good. Very good.
     “Your fucking sister won’t let me do it this way. Says it’s for animals, but we are animals, aren’t we, Sandy.”






From Philosophy In The Bedroom by Marquis de Sade, as translated by Dr. Paul J. Gillette (Holloway House Publishing, 1966).

Found by Zabrena Zellers

Horseman: Oh no you don’t. I’ll tolerate no more resistance. [Punches her in the mouth] Spread your legs, you little bitch; I’m going to drive this cock right up to your Adam’s apple.
     Eugenie: . . . Oh, Horseman, I love you so much! Hitting me is what did it! Now I want so badly to be fucked by you that I’ll gladly brave your monstrous prick. Behold the citadel, darling: begin your siege!
     Horseman: Then spread those thighs, my twitch! Spread them wide!. . . Here we go, now-
     Eugenie: Aiiiiiieeeeeeee!
     Horseman: Dolamanc√©! Saint-Ange! Grab a leg each, my friends! Hold them apart! She must be split like a melon!
     Eugenie: Gently, Horseman. Gently.
     Horseman: Fuck, I say You expect gentleness from a stiff dick? Inconceivable. . . . Now, then! I penetrate! Ahhhh!
     Eugenie: Aiiiieeeeee! Aiiiieeeee!, my friends! I’m dying of pain. . . .Horseman, I’ll scream if you persist. . .
     Horseman: Scream, my chit. Scream till you’ve emptied your lungs.
     Eugenie: Aiiiiiieeeeeeeee!!!!
     Horseman: Scream, cunt I say fuck-cunt!. . . Behold Dolmance: I’ve half the distance covered.
     Eugenie: Aiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!
     Horseman: Ho Ho-fuck! I touch bottom! By God’s gronch, I’ve rent the maidenhead! Look at the blood issue forth!
     Eugenie: Come, my lion! Tear me to ribbons; I feel the pleasure now! Fuck, I say! Fuck me, Horseman! Fuck-horse!
     Horseman: Oh beautiful fuck-girl
     Eugenie and Horseman: Fuck! Oh-fuck! Ahhhhhhhh, FUCK!!! (The position is dissolved.)
     Dolmance: Now then, while the gate is still open, let’s bring on Augustin and give her a taste of what — no offense, Horseman — a real prick is like.
     Eugenie: How’s that, sir? You’d have me fucked with that monstrosity?! While my hymenal blood still flows?! I’ll die for sure!





From the Dungeons & Dragons Book of Sex. Apparently not a joke.

Found by Matthew Woodring

There comes a time in an adventurer’s life when he/she wants to engage in the act of sex. Unfortunately, most RPG rule books avoid the subject for obvious reasons. A player rolls dice from pottery to dancing, so why not sex.

At first glance, it may seem that a character can have sex for quite a long time. This is true for player characters. They have superior attributes and thus can perform better (that’s why they’re great adventurers). However, an average character would have attributes between 9-12. Using the below rules, an average character (10 or 11 in all attributes) could go a minimum of 10 or 11 minutes (rounds) and might be able to go an additional 10 or 11 minutes if very, very lucky (dice deities willing, but don’t bet on it).

The following is the steps to go through to see if a character can continue having sex:

1) A character can initially last a minimum of rounds equal to his/her Constitution with certain modifiers. Table 1 lists modifiers to Constitution by dexterity (remember: it’s how you use it). Table 2 lists modifiers to Constitution by strength (gotta be able to keep up). Table 3 lists modifiers to Constitution by the partner’s Charisma (charismatic partners really enhance sex, even if their Attractiveness isn’t high). If he/she wishes to continue, then he/she must make Constitution checks (Step 2).

2) The character also needs to make a time to climax (TTC) check. A 1 on a 1d6 for males and a 1 on a 1d10 for women indicates such an occurrence. An additional TTC roll is made and a result of 1 indicates multiple orgasms (keep rolling while 1s come up). Of course, males could have trouble continuing after this, but the player can make such decisions.