Arab Slave Auction
The auction is going well. Bidders are enthusiastic:
From a Dofantasy comic, I think, but I’m not sure which one.
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The auction is going well. Bidders are enthusiastic:
From a Dofantasy comic, I think, but I’m not sure which one.
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In the 1940s pulp story that this graphic once illustrated, I assume our dashing cowgirl was rescuing these hapless cowboys. But it’s more fun to assume she’s got them right where she wants them:
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I’m afraid this little blonde wisp of a thing has no chance of shifting that cart, so my guess is, she’s about to get her first tit-whipping:
The photo is Modèle by Ellen von Unwerth, as seen in the book Revenge.
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Scratch a kinky person and you’ll probably find an alien cock fantasy lurking in there somewhere. Unless that’s just me? No, it’s not just me. I’m hardly the only person to have seen a grainy VHS bootleg of Urotsukidoji: Legend of the Overfiend during my sexually-impressionable youth.
Moreover, once your kink-brain has fully absorbed the fantasy-fuel magic of unstoppable tentacle dicks, it swiftly becomes impossible to look at any physically-imposing sci-fi alien without wondering “How’s he/she/it hanging? What’s it got in the crotch? What can they do with that swinging ovipositor?”
Fortunately for all of us, we live in a world of rules. If Rule 34 assures us that there is porn of a thing, then Rule 34(b) must certainly be “if there is porn of it, there’s also a sex toy of it.” And that’s where Alien Dildo comes crashing through the wall like the Kool-Aid man. You want it large, knobbly, ridged, and a color that only a bug-eyed monster’s horny mom could love? They gotchu, man, they gotchu:
What’s kinky about all of this? Well, duh…
But if you must insist on unpacking, it all boils down to consent. Except perhaps in certain soft-and-cuddly BDSM scifi romances peddled in the darker corners of the internet ebook stores, aliens are notoriously bad at consent. From the first cold metallic anal probing with no lube by horny Greys to the last cute little human pet being sold in the slave auctions of Rigel 11, an alien dicking usually comes with a healthy side salad of “this alien not only didn’t ask, zhe didn’t even acknowledge us as the type of critter one ought to ask before slipping us a big dose of their slippery proboscis.” It’s at once the ultimate objectification and the safest possible (because aliens don’t exist!) non-consent fantasy.
Another hotness factor in the endless galaxy of “dicked by aliens” fantasies is that, you know, those horny fuckers didn’t evolve to fuck humans. Driving their turgid alien dicks into warm Earthling holes is literally the universal signifier for “Those dudes are some seriously oversexed perverts!” When you play that game of exploratory xenobiology, you lose the assurance that Tab A will actually fit into Slot B. I mean, you can try, but will it fit?
Sometimes the physical scale just isn’t compatible. Remember Jabba and Leia? It was never clear quite what a Hutt could do with a human slavegirl. But in other cases, the alien dick may not fit, but that doesn’t mean that the leashed human girl-pet purchased on Rigel 11 can’t be forced to pleasure that fat hog anyway:
Image credits, top to bottom: Snake-headed tentacle dicks artwork is by Meguro Fukuzo. The alien butt-sexing art is by Aka6. The alien cock so large, our girl needs a henchwoman just to try and help her handle it? That’s by MBK155. And the literal bug-eyed-monster with the sticky schlong that’s never going to fit inside his leashed pet human is by Ecoas.
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When Trina Michaels learned she was being transferred to “a more secure facility” she didn’t realize it was a small bank of cells in the basement of the warden’s own house. It turns out he has some very particular notions about rehabilitation:
From a shoot for Sex And Submission, which is part of Kink Prime these days.
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Prolific author and pornographer Irv O. Neil recently did a project with superstar femdom artist Sardax in which they reimagined John Willie’s Sweet Gwendoline as a dominatrix called Adorable Gwen.
Irv’s post about the project includes these reflections on the fateful day he discovered John Willie:
I can remember what I was doing on the day John Alexander Scott Coutts, aka John Willie, died — August 5, 1962 — but only by default. Marilyn Monroe’s death had hit the Chicago papers on Sunday morning August 5 (she’d died late the night before) and it was a big event, even for a kid like myself who didn’t know much about her other than she was a super-famous and beautiful movie star. I can’t recall now if I’d even seen any of her films yet at that point–maybe I’d seen The Seven Year Itch on tv, but I can’t be sure; but her dying so young, and presumably by suicide, was so shocking I can remember where I was when I heard it: standing in the bathroom, listening to the news on a transistor radio. I called out to my mother, who was in the kitchen, “Ma, Marilyn Monroe died!” Why would someone so famous and beautiful kill herself? One of the great mysteries of life was thus first introduced into my consciousness.
John Willie died at 59 in England on that same Sunday, but I wasn’t to discover him for approximately another eleven years. By 1974, I was living in Manhattan, and discovering my taste for Times Square and the great informal museum of porn that was 42nd Street. One night I walked into one of the seediest shops in the area — it was located on Seventh Avenue around the corner from 42nd Street — and it was basically a small but cavernous store with tables of magazines and nothing on the beige walls. After looking through some typical photo magazines, I came upon a cardboard box of items on one table that looked different from the usual ’70s smut pix of grungy chicks and hairy studs, and took into my hands elegant digest-sized periodicals wrapped in plastic with artist-rendered covers. One cover had a pretty girl in heels and chains with a devil leering behind her. Another cover was a painting of high heel shod feet with the ankles bound together with decorative ribbon. The title on both magazines was Bizarre, and I didn’t have to look inside to know that these items were worth purchasing sight unseen (the cranky looking clerk probably wouldn’t have let me open them anyway). They were $3 each then, or $18 in 2022 money; so although they sound cheap now, they weren’t: to put it into perspective, I could get two eggs, toast, potatoes and coffee for breakfast at a diner in 1974 for 79 cents, and my weekly rent for a room in a residential hotel was $23 a week, or $92 a month. In any case, I didn’t have much dough to spend from the temporary office work I did at the time, but I had to have these magazines. In the budding stages of my collecting habit, I bought them. I’d been introduced earlier to the work of Gene Bilbrew through reprints of his femdom imagery in Nugget magazine in 1973, but the creator of these Bizarre magazines was new to me, and it was the beginning of an admiration that continues to this day. I still have those issues, too. And it’s odd to me also that I can so distinctly remember the way the store looked, wherein I purchased them. I guess in a way it was a kind of momentous event!
My one and only visit to the porn shops of Times Square was far too late. The 1990s were well-advanced, Rudy Giuliani had arrived, and the pornographic glory was long gone, even if I did manage to buy a couple of badly duplicated but extremely raunchy bondage videos on VHS. Nonetheless, Irv’s account reminds me so very strongly of the kid-in-a-candy-shop sensation the first time I walked into The Magazine in San Francisco and bought my very first bondage magazine (an issue of Bondage Life).
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This is 1950s pinup model Jane Rieger, but the kneeling pose complete with a rope belt that doubles as a leash? Pure kink!
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