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23 Jun 2019

The Gladiator

From the hardcore days in the January, 2001, Penthouse Magazine. We also got this bit of prose we felt obliged to include, although it does make one wonder about the people that write these things. … Wisdom, justice, fortitude, reason — these were the qualities of any true Roman. Mere mortals proved this on the battlegrounds, others in the Senate. But the manliest of men, the gladiators, proved their mettle on the blood-drenched sands of the Colosseum. It was a time when man was pitted against man, or, sometimes, against savage beast, in a ritual of death transformed into the sacrifice of human life. The gladiators were made to fight until one had drawn his last breath; then the victor, lauded for his great strength, was shackled yet again and imprisoned with the other slaves. This was the fate of all the gladiators — except one. Every man fought only for himself, and a contest against Billy meant almost certain death. His opponents trembled when they learned whom they would face in the arena that day. The gladiator’s prowess and valor earned him special privileges, many better suited to emperor than to slave. Briana and Cheyenne were the Senator’s gift, saved for only the mightiest of warriors. After Billy’s hard-won victory, the girls were sent to wash him clean and see to his every need. A day in the arena had left Billy’s muscles aching and stiff, and the women decided there was one in particular that required special attention. They made sure their man’s member stood as straight as his sword, their sheaths moist and ready. The rugged gladiator was a cocksure marksman, and he impaled the girls’ tight cunts with precision. The potential death he had faced in the ring was soon justified by the pleasure he received from his prize. Cheyenne’s pussy stretched around Billy’s thick shaft, and he pounded her with a force she had never known. His strength served him in the bedchamber as in the amphitheater, leaving both girls weak and spent. Briana and Cheyenne vied for Billy’s attention, lavishing his saber with their tongues. They possessed strengths no fighter would ever know, and had found their own way to render Billy powerless. Briana and Cheyenne sucked Billy of his strength, and for once the gladiator was eager to surrender. The mighty warrior was felled and the battle was over as he anointed their mouths with seed, and they drank of his essence … hungrily.

19 Jun 2019

The Singer, Not The Schlong

A colorful experience from the May, 1999, edition of Penthouse Magazine. Sometimes that Earl Miller can appear mad as a hatter, y’know? … Apparently they were all drinking the same Kool-Aid that day.… Once upon a time there lived an accountant named Stephanie, and hers was a gray-flannel, button-down world of hard facts and crunched numbers. Every night before she went to bed she sipped a special soothing herbal tea and peacefully drifted off to sleep while fleecy white sheep gamboled across her ceiling. Then one evening the store was all out of her usual tea, and Stephanie was forced to sample a different brand — a strange new brew from Eastern Europe that steeped her dreams in lurid Technicolor. Mad-hatted Troy burst forth and pulled at her sparkling gown. They were an animated duo. He played piano, while she was an exotic singer, exposing her burning orbs to the whole delirious dreamscape. Stephanie moaned as he dreamed-worked her mounting passion into a purple haze. “Please let me be your kaleidoslut,’ she whispered hoarsely as she dropped to her knees and looked up into Troy’s hypnotic stare. She sucked his orange joysicle deep down her throat. Stephanie lapped and slurped at the thick stick of hard candy Troy presented. Was she not supposed to accept such gifts from strangers, she thought dreamily as she took another lick? “Who am I?’ she asked herself, as an irresistible force compelled her to straddle her space cowboy and ride him hard and long. Like all good wishes come true, Stephanie’s dream lover was inexhaustible, as was his supply of the magic elixir that spurted forth again and again, for as long as Stephanie wanted it to. Once more, her hot-pink petals opened to accept Troy’s throbbing wand, which tunneled to the very essence of her being and shot rainbows through her drab, workaday soul. Her cries of pleasure pierced the dark night, mingling with the otherworldly music that seemed to accompany Troy’s every thrust. “This,’ she sighed, “is the stuff dreams are made of.’