Museum Erotica
I found myself awake and staining to hear — the rhythmic sound of a bed and moans of pleasure were soft but distinct. I listened to the sound of her pleasure and its interruption by muffled conversation and soft laughter. Before any disappointment could set in, they would return to the sounds of pleasure
I remember being asked what I was doing with my free day before I had to fly out; mentioned I was going to spend some time at the Museum Erotica. I don’t remember how I found out Copenhagen had a sex museum and the memories of the visit have faded with time. I do remember it was late fall because Tivoli Gardens was closed; I saw it briefly from the taxi on my way to the museum and remember saying to myself I must come back in the summer.
The museum itself was on Copenhagen’s main shopping street and easy to find because of the bold sign over the archway announcing its presence — Museum Erotica. As you enter, you are greeted by a large gold cock standing at attention, which like everything in the museum, had some sort of historical significance. The museum was curated and set up as a historical journey of human sexuality from past to present — historical images and artifacts on human sexuality through the ages. I spend a few hours wandering the halls, admiring the art, questioning the barbarism behind chastity belts and enjoying the explosion of pornography with the invention of photography. But unlike the Picasso Erotique exhibit I would see later that year, there was no sexual excitement from the experience. I left with an academic perspective on mankind’s sexual journey and a very nice poster featuring a circa 1854 photograph of a naked woman on a chaise lounge looking over her shoulder. By the time the taxi dropped me off at the hotel it was dark, and with my poster in hand, I went directly to the hotel restaurant for a light meal before I packed for an early flight the next day. The restaurant was empty and as I ate my thoughts turned to what I needed to get done before I went to bed. The wake-up call and the obligatory back-up alarm would come soon enough. I love Denmark but it was time to go home.
As I drifted, the distinct sound of a woman moaning came from the next room and I found myself awake and staining to hear — the rhythmic sound of a bed and the moans of pleasure were soft but distinct. I listened to the sound of her pleasure and its interruption by muffled conversation and soft laughter. Before any disappointment could set in, they would return to the sounds of pleasure. I could not help but think of you.
I watch your cunt slide over the shaft my cock as your lips spread leaving the mark of your excitement; a gentle moan escapes and fills the room. You shift and with your hand, take my cock deep inside, leaning into me as you grind your cunt hard into my pubis. You look at me, smile and lose yourself in the rhythm and fill the room with the sound of your growing pleasure. You hold my cock tightly, shaping it with your contractions as we both build — sound fills the room. You shift to ride the cock you have shaped, and with your hands pressed into my chest, you throw your head back. I watch your pleasure and listen to the sounds fill the room.
The rhythmic moans end with a final shriek of pleasure and the room is silent. You kiss me one last time as muffled sounds from the other room creep into the silence.
W
Cunt
Shifting in place as I stood, I struggled to reconcile what I saw and define what it meant — was the label CUNT, for all to see, meant to be provocative, was it there as a warning or simply an invitation to something beautiful.
She sat statuesque amidst the movement of the subway — almost out of place. Everything about her was proper and discipled; everything perfect by design. Short red hair combed with a part to the side; clear alabaster skin and gray eyes were accented with frameless glasses. She looked straight ahead with her hands resting on her lap, oblivious to what was happening around her. She wore a crisp white blouse with a tailored tweed jacket with browns, rusts, greens and blues: a complicated menagerie of colour. Washed designer jeans accented with a black belt and complimented by black leather boots with silver buckles. Beside her on the floor was a matching leather bag. When she did move, it was methodical; exact.
I could not help but notice her, and with great stealth, watched her. With as little movement as possible, she looked to her bag and reached for what looked to be a small sandwich wrapped in foil. With precision she adjusted the foil to expose the sandwich and lifting it to her mouth and took several small bites. As she chewed, she rested the sandwich in her lap. Once finished, she looked down and covered the remaining sandwich carefully and returned it to her bag. She then returned to her perfect position. As I continued to watch her in glances, there was a moment of recognition for something I hadn’t noticed before — on the right breast of her jacket was a small off-white label with the word CUNT printed in red block letters; easily missed in the colours and pattern of the jacket, but now impossible not to see.
Shifting in place as I stood, I struggled to reconcile what I saw and even define what it meant — was the label CUNT for all to see meant to be provocative, was it a warning, or simply an invitation to something beautiful. I could not help but imagine folds of pink wet flesh, a swollen clitoris, and a patch of perfectly trimmed red curls. It was a fantasy I almost started to fall into when I felt the subway slow for my stop. As I made my way to the door, I glanced at her one last time and I saw her staring at me. She winked and smiled ever so softly as I made my way through the crowd to the door.
Every now and then I wonder about that small off-white label with the word CUNT printed in red block letters and imagine folds of pink wet flesh, a swollen clitoris, and a patch of perfectly trimmed red curls.
I doubt she thinks of me at all.
W
image Aneta Pawlik
About That Time I Had A One Night Stand!
This kind of savage fucking was exactly what I was needing.
This happened several years ago now when I was engaged to be married. I don’t know exactly why it happened. Maybe it was because unconsciously I knew that the engagement wasn’t right. Or maybe its because I have a horny pussy that needs to be fucked hard and I just wasn’t getting what I needed. Most likely it was some of both.
I was out with a work friend at a downtown bar. I don’t remember if we knew that the guys we met up with were going to be at the same bar or if we just ran in to them there. They were professional hockey players enjoying different degrees of success at that point in their careers.
What I do vividly remember is two of these hockey players chatting me up, standing really close to me, and trying to convince me that leaving the bar with the two of them would be a fun idea. Gawd I was tempted. The idea of being taken by two young athletic men was very appealing and has to this day fueled an ongoing fantasy in me of two eager male energies focused on my pleasure. I could feel the tingle of my lubed-up clit in my jeans (I like to lube up a little when I go out because I think it feels sexy) as they flirted and pressed up against me. The only problem was that these guys knew people that I also knew and I was afraid that the story might come out.
Eventually the second of the two gave up on the idea and it was decided that myself, the one hockey player, my female friend and another friend of the hockey player would decamp back to my condo to keep the party going.
The taxi ride back was tight for four passengers and I ended up sitting on the lap of my new hockey player friend and could feel his hands on my lower back during the ride.
We arrived at my condo with everyone in a state of drunkenness and proceeded to smoke some pot and hang out.
As time went on my hockey player’s friend ended up passed out on the bed in my bedroom. My own friend was also passed out on the couch in the living room.
At one point someone had broken a glass and as I bent down to clean it up my hockey player kissed me.
I decided to go to the guest bedroom, took my clothes off and got into bed myself.
Shortly thereafter I was joined by my young hockey player. I asked him if he was going to fuck my pussy.
Turns out he was. I briefly sucked on his cock. I was really excited and needed to feel this new big cock in my pussy. I had him put on a condom and I positioned myself to ride this new cock cowgirl style. I gave it everything I had and rode him until my thighs gave out. He finished off with me on my back, pulling off his condom as he came on my belly. This kind of savage fucking was exactly what I was needing.
It was a wild night. He fucked me repeatedly. After the first fuck he subsequently fucked me from behind several times. While I didn’t come, it was so satisfying to have a young lustful man so eager for my cunt. All in all, I think we fucked and he came four times over the course of the night always pulling off his condom and coming on my body.
After everyone had left the next morning, no one the wiser, I cleaned up and then made my pussy come thinking about the lustful night I had just had. In fact, I have made my pussy come many times sense that night thinking about what might have happened had I gone with both hockey players as they originally suggested, and thinking about what actually happened and the feel of that lustful big cock so eager for my pussy. Eventually I made the walk of shame to my fiancée’s nearby condo building my pussy finally satiated.
Kayla M
Leather, wine and sex
As we close the door behind us, we were greeting by the overwhelming smell of leather; leather of the finest of quality — corsets, catsuits, bras, chaps, harnesses, collars, gowns, restraints, and other items that satisfy any decerning individual with a bit of a fetish.
The store front is on a busy street and the atmosphere is chic. The soft scent of fine leather fills the air — jackets, coats, skirts, dresses, pants, and the like. Beautiful people greet you with an offer of water or tea as you browse. They are quick to offer an opinion or search for your size but mostly they leave you to enjoy the smells and textures. If you know your way you can get to the back from there, but I prefer the entrance off the back alley. With no presumption of chic, the entrance is simple with barred windows clouded by the dirt of the city on each side.
Closing the door behind us, we’re greeting by the overwhelming smell of leather; leather of the finest of quality — corsets, catsuits, bras, chaps, harnesses, collars, gowns, restraints, and other items that satisfy any discerning individual with a bit of a fetish. As I savour the hints of musk, earth, and tobacco I hear what comes across as almost a declaration, just loud enough for anyone listening to understand the intensions,
“This time, we are here for you.”
The young woman at the register looks up and smiles; then goes back to whatever she’s reading. There is no indication that anyone else cares. Leather lines the walls on racks and there are shelves here and there for smaller items, and I’m quite happy to simply wander around and enjoy the look and feel and smell. As I make my way over to Yvonne, she looks at me with a smile,
“Winston, I think I found something.”
She reaches into a bin on one of the shelves and presents a small piece of leather with four silver button snaps. I looked at it with some confusion.
“It’s a ball harness.”
“How exactly is that supposed to work?”
She smiles as she folds the leather and snaps both sides of what initially seemed to be a simple piece of leather and rests it in the palm of her hand. She giggles slightly at my expression.
“Oh it will be fun. Let me go pay for it. Be right back.”
We wander the store a little longer not interesting in anything else now that the seeds of anticipation have taken root. The smell of leather fades as we make our way to the street and decide to celebrate our new acquisition with a glass of wine. Arm in arm we head to one of our favourite places just a few blocks up the street. As we make our way down the stairs to the entrance below street level neither of us can remember how we found this place.
The atmosphere and décor is a combination of rich woods and fabric and leaves you with a feeling of sensuality, dark secrets and a history only spoken in whispers. We find ourselves seated at our favourite table off in the corner — we seem to be lucky that way. As we settle in adjusting coats and bags, we were greeted with a smile.
“So, what did you buy?”
“A ball harness”
“Oh, that is marvellous. Two glasses of red; California, right?”
She walks away not expecting an answer. As I watched her walk away, Yvonne has reached into her purse for the harness and starts inspecting it in more detail.
“I think you are going to have to work a little to get this on. I’m still debating whether I want to watch or be surprised once you do.”
“Can I see that?”
As I play with it and inspect the leather closer, two glasses of wine are set in front of us.
“Oh, that is adorable. You definitely will have you shave your balls before you put it on”
“She makes a very good point. I’ll want your balls very smooth.”
She smiles and leaves us to our planning. I raised my glass and Yvonne follows my lead.
“For you, I will shave my balls smooth, put on my new leather and present my balls for you to play with at your leisure”
“And for you, I will be waiting in my satin thong and my red and black corset. No heals. I’m feeling bohemian.
The sound of crystal is barely audible.
W
The brilliance of the missionary position.
The debate about favourite sex position tends to find its way into conversation to share information, and more often or not, from a perspective of bravado or seduction. Sometimes, to be fair, it simply finds its way into the conversation after a couple of drinks to keep the good times going. No matter what the occasion my answer is always the same — my favourite position is the missionary.
Every so often, before I get out of bed, Yvonne would take a nipple in her teeth and bite very hard — never enough to draw blood but enough to make it tender all day. She told me she did it because when the fabric of my shirt caressed my nipple the sensation would remind me of her.
The debate about a person’s favourite sex position tends to find its way into conversation to share information but more often or not, it’s offered from a perspective of bravado or seduction. Sometimes, to be fair, it simply finds its way into the conversation after a couple of drinks to keep the good times going. No matter what the occasion, my answer is always the same — my favourite position is the missionary.
The connoisseurs of porn will most likely see this choice as traditional, old fashioned, and lacking imagination. I can only imagine what those people who think they’ve read the Kama Sutra would say. With great respect to all the positions out there, this is my reasoning.
With the missionary position I can get very deep and control the pressure on the clit as I grind or thrust. I am more sensitive to the rhythms and contractions of my lover’s body as she builds to orgasm.
There is more body contact and skin to caress, nibble and kiss with the missionary position.
I can watch as her pleasure builds, and her face contorts with her release.
I can feel her nails as they dig into my back, marking me deep. The pleasure of the pain.
She called me back to bed as I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror; the smell of our sex was still fresh. As I moved back to the bedroom, I turned my back to the mirror and glanced over my shoulder. Red lines ran the length of my back. The look and the sensation made me smile.
W
Image by Dainis Graveris