Monday, January 24, 2005

Man Of Smut

READ A DIRTY EXCERPT FROM
60s SUPERMAN EDITOR'S NOVEL


lois_lane_073
Connoisseurs of the Superman comics edited in the '60s by Mort Weisinger find inexhaustible humor and horror in his ambivalent--even hostile--treatment of love and sex (see Hembeck). But his, er, thrust went even deeper in a 1970 novel of the beauty pageant trade, The Contest, as you'll see in this filthy excerpt (courtesy of SUPERFRANKENSTEIN operative AGENT DOUBLE-4). It starts a little slowly, then gets crazy as you wanna be:
All at once, light spilled weakly around him from behind; he whirled to find Hazel standing in the doorway he had left. She leaned against the jamb, her outlined form surrounded by an aureole, beckoning him with a forefinger. He walked her shadow, as on a dark path to her.

Her face was drawn. She seemed utterly spent. She told him softly, "There was someone outside in the yard. He was trying to look in through one of the windows. The watchman chased him, but he got away."

Roger said, "Maybe it was just a house prowl, a burglar."

"No. A burglar would avoid a lighted place."

"What do you think?"

She shook her head. "I can't think. Maybe somebody knew I was coming here. Maybe I was followed." She paused. "Or maybe you're the one being followed."

"Impossible," he said with emphasis. "Why would anyone want to spy on me?"

Reflexly he reached out to touch her, to comfort her, taking her hand. It was their first physical contact in all the time they had been together. A voluptuous current sparked across the tactile synapse, and they shivered in the power of their commitment. It transcended all thought and reason, all denial, all defenses.

He kissed her hand and put her palm to his face and pulled her to him. She yielded to his arms, to his caress of her cheeks, her temples. He took her nape and tilted her head back and they kissed tenderly, barely brushing lips, tasting each other, their tongues gently explorative. How acutely he remembered her fragrance. Their mouths were locked, sucking breath from each other. His hands traced her spine and embraced the twin moons of her hind, pressing her to him, her lissome warmth curved to his loins. Eyes closed, he swam in a sea of gold, the gold of the bay water in sunlight the first time he had seen her, the gold in the mirror where he had found her again.

He swept her up in his arms and carried her deeper into the storeroom, to a low platform heaped with coffin pads, and slowly laid her down.

"Not here, not now," she whispered, holding on to his arms.

"Yes, baby."
CONTINUED IN COMMENTS. FOR ADULT LIBERTINES ONLY. BY CLICKING ON THE COMMENTS LINK YOU CERTIFY THAT YOU ARE A MATURE, OPEN-MINDED BLUE STATE AESTHETE OVER 40.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

Unopposed, he raised her dress, peeled away her pale lacy underpants. In the nebular light he drank in the wealth of her body, its planes and dips and hollows, its smooth glades and cambers. With a shudder, he shook off his coat and knelt beside her, in this prayerful posture kissing her belly's flexuous sweep from the navel to the finespun pubic floss,
where, descending, his tongue fluttered and she groaned.

And now, rampant, his swollen penis out, he climbed on top of her and her thighs parted under him. God, what a lucky cock, he thought enviously, the only part of his body to be able fully to savor her bounty.

Despite all his efforts to hold on to awareness, he was lost, he ceased to be. His vision blurred to mist, his hearing recorded only the blood pounding in his head as heart and balls pumped away together. Nothing was left of him but a quaking rump attached to a massive iron instrument, a divine rod, whose imperious movements it followed. Somewhere on earth there was one perfect cunt for every cock, and they spent their lives hunting for each other—this one was his. Arching to meet his ferocious plunging, she whimpered and moaned, brimful of him. When finally he shot into her, in as far as he could go, she thrust up her groin and found somehow a last fraction of an inch of him to engorge.

With a gasp, he slowly collapsed on her, head to head, his lips to her face, breathing in hoarse gulps. After a while, when he grew quiet, he heard her say in his ear, "That's what I call being fucked."

"Yes, baby," he whispered.

A minute passed. She stirred under him. He was still in her. Her upper torso was moving, jerking spasmodically. Tears fell on him. She was sobbing, clutching him to her.

"What is it, baby?" he asked in pain. "What's the matter?"

She shook her head and more tears wet his face. "I wish I were white," she said.

rev. billy bob gisher ©2005 said...

you guys are either oversexed or undersexed, coin toss.