More Vintage British Porn Magazines fiction - London Articles and News

Vintage British Porn Magazines Erotic Fiction #2

Our recent article with a taste of 1970's erotic fiction from a vintage magazine proved surprisingly popular. Here's another story with a similar theme, this time an American story (from a British publication).

Vintage British Porn Magazine scan two

"What are you writing about this time?" the barmaid asks. "Tits," answers this writer. "Well," she flicks her bar rag at some stray ashes, "at least you have a universal subject." "As far as humans are concerned at any rate." He sips his beer slowly, the deadline yawning like a new fissure in an earthquake. "When do you have to get it in?" she prods like a mother. After all, she is older than the writer (but not by much). "Tomorrow." Now gulping the brew. "Well, you'd better get busy. How much do you have to do?" "Oh, around twenty pages." "Then what are you doing here?" Just what he needs—a mother in his beer. "You should be home writing." Yadayada, Warden, goes through his rapidly-disintegrating mind. But he managed a semblance of civility. "I know, I know. I'm just trying to get some last-minute inspiration." "Well," she tries to fake indignation, flicking the bar rag at his arm, "you won't get it here." "Oh, I don't know," he ogles her thinly-covered tits. "I could probably get ten . . . no, twelve pages," he adds needlessly. "Out! Out!" she points to the door. "Just kidding," he blurts, sliding the empty glass towards her. "Fourteen pages." "Now you're being ridiculous." She is aware of her small tits — she's had them for much more than half her life. The T-shirt she wears for the pool tournaments has "Tiny Ones" printed across the front. The writer had come in hoping to see the new barmaid who usually wore a halter top that barely covered her 38-inch wonders, boobs that had yet to give in to Newtonian Physics on their twenty-two year old owner. Now that was true inspiration. But she was off sick, and the owner was working her shift.

It had been like this all week. He hoped the girl didn't have a chest cold as the old joke went. "Just kidding," he eyes her small but tantalizing tits, regretting that she had recently been retired from circulation by her third marriage. "One thing about small boobs," she smiles, inhaling deeply, "they don't sag." "Yes, some people deteriorate in a more in-teresting fashion than others." "No more for you today. You are 86'd." It had been like that all month. It was enough to make a person go home and put a typewriter to his head. Indeed, it is difficult to imagine growing up a male in our society without at least a passing interest in the female breast. In fact, it is damned near an obsession. One could hardly escape it. The breasts are the first form of nourishment, the infant suckling happily until convention causes them to be cruelly weaned. In an age where bottle feeding often replaces the mammaries, many grown men become obsessed with the breast, seeking to make up in their adulthood for the feeding rituals denied them in childhood. One need hardly search farther than Woody Allen's grappling with a gigantic tit in "Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex" to realize the American craze over breasts. Scores of successful advertising campaigns have been launched realizing the power of the bosom. Whether it be the subtler 'It's What's Up Front that Counts', or Jane Russell and her 18-hour bra, ad men knew the power of the tit. The obvious endowments of Miss Russell, after all, had stirred protest from the repressive Hayes censorship of movies back in the forties when a film producer named Howard Hughes featured Miss Russell in "The Outlaw." It was enough to cause some people to wonder whether the millionaire spent more time developing the Spruce Goose, or a special uplift bra to emphasize Miss Russell's cleavage. Boobs. Tits. Mammaries. Knockers. Jugs. The euphemisms seems endless. They are a wonder to consider, separately or in matched sets. Big ones. Little ones. Tits like watermelons. Tits like lemons. Shaped like volcanoes. Shaped like teardrops. Tits that defy gravity. Tits that sag like the California Angels. Lake Titicaca. Tits that invite you to stay all night. Tits on a snow woman. Two-ton tits. Tits that weigh no more than the breath of a hummingbird. Cross-eyed tits. Tits floating on their back in a pool. Tits like God's throw pillows. Tits that lead directly to Hell. Shy tits. Tits from Brooklyn. Tits in a wet T-shirt. Bare tits at eighty-miles-per-hour in a top-down convertible. Tits with tassels, the third set from the left. Can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow? Or was that ears?

Historically, tits have always been in. They are a throw-back to the matriarchal societies of the ancients. But once the patriarchal society was established in the Middle East, man still clung to the biological necessities, even while covering the offending breasts with clothing as if a reminder of better times. But an agricultural society has been established and man needed to control the sexual proclivities just as he tried to control nature. Some cultures, like those in ancient Greece, attempted to have the best of both worlds, advancing the patriarchy in the senate, while dressing women in a manner that enhanced the mammaries. In more powers to the gods, though they might resemble patriarchy in the senate, while dressing women in a manner that enhanced the mammaries. In more primitive societies, such as those in Micronesia, bare tits were still in, but no freeways were completed. Women's Lib comes at a time when there is little room left on earth to develop jungles into suburbs. In essence, despite contrary statements by some of the movement's vocal minorities, the woman is offering her breasts to man as a pillow, telling him that it is time to slow down, or move over. Whether or not such an act is progressive or a step back is moot.

Tits are as popular today as ever. If their biological function was to entice man to frontal intercourse once we walked upon two feet as Desmond Morris, author of The Naked Ape, would have us believe, is also unimportant. He claims that the breasts acted as sexual objects once they were placed in front, replicas of the buttocks that draw male primates to their goal. Just how this was accomplished he doesn't really say. Freud emphasized the psychological, rather than the physiological development of mankind, but all the philosophers, psychologists, poets and painters cannot really tell us exactly why we are so attracted to breasts. They seem more concerned with the why nots. It is really difficult to label all our confusing sexual manifestations in today's world, a phenomenon much easier for an Anita Bryant than a psychologist. However, various researchers are better able to categorize behaviour that is abnormal rather than what is normal.

But now that we are delving more and more into the subconscious mind, we are finding that we all have various peculiarities when it comes to our sex drives — that in fact nobody is purely normal. There is so much input from family and society that it is hard to say what impressions will imprint in one mind while bouncing off another. Now that there is such a plethora of information of human sexual conduct available to us, we are no closer to solving the questions of man's nature than to figuring out the chicken/egg controversy. But we are able to reach some broad conclusions, even though we might become increasingly confused as the evidence grows. Legislators are becoming more and more liberal when it comes to an individual's particular sexual behaviour as evidenced by the enlightened laws concerning such activity now passed by many states. The key idea is in how an individual's behaviour, however peculiar the tastes may be, interacts with society.

We are now prepared to tolerate an adult's sexual preferences as long as it is performed with another consenting adult (or by oneself). It is when a person's activities become a threat to society, such as those of a rapist, that such activity must be controlled. Fetishism is one of the activities that has recently come out of the closet along with everything else. The word itself comes from. Latin feticco, supposedly borrowed from the Portuguese sailors who discovered various primitive African cultures that valued certain items as magical. The cultures of Micronesia and Polynesia had another word for it — mana. These objects were held to have special powers to the gods, though they might resemble nothing but an ordinary rock or bone to a jaded observer. Modern Christianity was to incorporate various fetishistic objects into its religious ceremonies, most notably the cross. An interesting comingling of religious fetishism takes place among the Yaqui Indians of our Southwest. Incorporating various objects of religious veneration from both their old religion and the new one brought to them by the missionaries, they enact a ceremony that coincides with Easter. Dressed in animal furs and antlers, the bad spirits confront the good ones. As in all good morality plays, good wins out, chasing off the evil spirits with their fetish objects and dances. In the end a mock crucifixion takes place, the evil spirits mounting the cross!

The early sexual researchers, needing terms for their new non-religious, borrowed the word fetish to apply to secular manifestations. Thus, fetish came to be known as any object, animate or inanimate, that served as a replacement for the genitalia of the opposite sex. That is to say, if a person would rather get it on with a rubber sheet than his sexual partner, he was a fetishist. It's not so simple as that. Very often, the fetishist will incorporate the sexual object into his relation-ship with the sexual partner, as the item may have been something, a pair of panties say, that has strong implications with the sex act. Psychologists aren't sure just what causes certain individuals to develop a veneration for the fetish object, but most agree that the conditioning takes place in early childhood. A child may develop a strong attraction to some particular item that he associates with sex, either by trauma or repeated identification. He stores this information, and it will reappear during maturation, often surprisingly.

Many psychologists call this imprinting. Scientologists, for instance, call these impressions engrams. Whatever they are called, a person who becomes hung-up on a fetish object functions on a lock-key response level in his adult sexual life. For instance, a young child may have been a bed wetter. The mother, tired of changing sheets, puts a rubber sheet on the bed. The child outgrows the bed-wetting, but many years later, he may become sexually excited at the thought of rubber, its texture, its smell. It harkens back to a time when he felt secure, before the pressures of society began its inroads on his psyche. He feels comfortable when he feels, sees or smells rubber. If he is lucky, he will find a mate who will dress in rubber clothing, especially made for the fetishist. If not, he may have to visit prostitutes who cater to his whims. If he can't afford it, perhaps he has an imagination. A fetishist without an imagination is no fetishist at all. Unhappily for some, a particular fetish may be repugnant to those he meets. He may become introverted and withdrawn, playing out his games in masturbatory fantasy, or suppress his inclinations. Those who are very frustrated may begin to act out their desires in manners frowned upon by society, such as the man who steals panties off clotheslines so that he may use them in his fantasies. And so in our enlightened age, psychologists have come to recognize that there are many kinds of fetishists, some harmful to others, most not. They have even sharpened the definitions, calling those who have, say , a strong attraction to a fetish object, animate or inanimate, partialists, that is to say, the individual is strongly partial to a certain part of the anatomy, but is able to function in a normal sexual manner.

Those whose obsessions are stronger, to the point that they are unable to function without some concession to their fetish present during the sexual act cross over into fetishism. It is all a matter of degree. To the man who has a partialistic or fetishistic view of breasts, this society has made it fairly easy for him to play out his fantasy. It is difficult to draw a distinct line as to whether a person is partial to or fethishistically attracted to breasts, so common a sexual attraction breasts are in this society. Only when a person who is psychopathically imbalanced, say a killer who mutilates the breasts of his victims, comes to our attention, do we label him. Most are able to play out their fantasies to one degree or another with a suitable partner. One might even say that as a nation we are obsessed with breasts to a point of fetishism. Young girls are encouraged to wear training bras before they really have anything to put into them. Teenage girls may measure their bust every day, hoping to show some sign of their development. It is interesting that despite the national mania for being thin, it doesn't apply to the mammaries. In the last decade the country has been able to more openly indulge in its appetite for tits. Topless clubs abound. Women have burned their bras and let them bounce beneath thin blouses and shirts. Males have even been made aware of the sexual sensitivity of their own nipples.

One male we encountered went so far as to try and grow his own. While he is not the only one to go this route, his case is interesting. "Ever since I can remember, I had this thing for tits. I remember my mother would often go around the house without anything on, her full boobs swinging free, and I was simply fascinated. One time, I must've been four or so, I came upon her while she was feeding my baby sister, who was only six or seven months old. "I've never felt such jealousy, at least not that I can remember. I don't remember when it was that she weaned me, but she says that I was nearly two. I didn't rely totally on her up until two, but. I got as much as I could while I could. But I don't recall that — it was probably too traumatic. But when I saw her nursing my sister, I got really jealous. As soon as she put my sister back into the crib, I climbed up on her lap and tried to take the nipple into my mouth. " 'Johnny, don't be silly,' she chided me, but I persisted, taking her big, still dripping nipples into my mouth. She tried to slap me away, but this seemed unreasonable to me, so I bit her. Not hard enough to draw blood or anything, but enough to make her jump. 'No,' she yelped, slapping me lightly. I clamped onto her again and started sucking, but she got angry and jerked my head away, then gave me a spanking. "After that, she was careful not to let me see her nursing Irene. A couple of times I caught her nursing my sister, but she'd quickly send me out to play. I resented this treatment, unable to under-stand why she'd cut me off. But I was always obedient to her after that. Not that I didn't behave like a devil sometimes, but I was always careful that she didn't catch me. As I grew older, I would sometimes play games with my sister, making her promise not to tell. We were playing `Mommy and Daddy' once when I was about eight, and I had her play the part of the baby to my role of mother.

Anyway, I got her to suck on my nipples as if she were nursing me and was amazed at how good her tongue felt on my nipples. I don't think that happened more than once, although I'd try to bribe her with candy. She was more interested in being a cowboy — and me wanting to be a mother. Strange family I come from. "By the time I was in high school, I'd gotten into masturbation. I don't suppose my interest was the same as other boys though, for I'd often pinch my nipples as I jerked off with my other hand. I'd undress and look in the mirror, sort of disappointed I wasn't a girl so I'd have tits growing on my chest. I even went so far as to sometimes put clothespins on my nipples when I'd jerk off, loving the slightly painful feeling they'd bring to me. "Yet I didn't really want to be a girl all the way. I couldn't stand guys who were swishy, and never have I had the desire to have a cunt. I played sports, track and swimming, and was masculine in all ways except that I had this fascination for tits.

I was jealous of the girls who had big tits, but for some reason I was afraid to date them. I think I resented my mother and sister for having tits, I don't know... "Anyway, I went on to college and all that, not wanting to be around to see my sister's developing tits, I guess. But I went out and got laid regularly, having overcome my shyness. I had also developed this desire to be spanked, to be mothered really now that I can understand it better, but I kept this to myself. I guess it all went back to that time my mother smacked me and pulled me away from her tits. But I never really got to get into my fetishes with anyone until I came out here to the Coast and got into a really swinging crowd. "I hadn't really had trouble with getting my breast thing out when I was with girls — you could do that, play with them, suck them and all, and it seemed like a regular part of sex to my partners, although one fairly perceptive girl once chided me for spending so much time on her titties before I'd fuck her.

But the scene on the Coast got me into a lot of other things I'd only dreamed of. "Drugs. Sex. Music. The Coast was really open. I'd always been pretty adventuresome, and this was the place for me. I got a job as a bartender and got into everything. This girl I was with one night, a girl who was a barmaid and had these really big tits, playfully gave me a spanking. I don't even remember how it happened, but we'd been playfully arguing about something and the next thing I knew, I was over her lap getting a spanking. I got hard and the next thing I knew, she was on top of me, smothering me with her big tits, balling me like I never knew possible. "I was with her for a short while, seeing her as often as possible, and she got me in with this kinky crowd in Hollywood. She split for New York not long after this, but the people I'd met through her had already accepted me as a member. There was somebody into just about anything you could think of in our group — S/M, homosexuality, you name it. And I got really close to this drag queen. We even tried fucking, but I just wasn't into the fag scene.

I'm a guy who is more of a lesbian than anything I suppose, but that's getting ahead of our story. But we became friends, and he told me about things I'd never considered. He was in the process of becoming a she, saving money for a trip to Sweden where he could come as close as he could to being a real she. But he told me about hormones and all, and it just hit me so strongly. I mean, even with all the things I'd been doing, there seemed to be something missing. Two things, actually — tits. My tits. "And I started taking hormones. Amazingly, after a couple of months, I began to grow tits. I'd parade in front of the mirror, hooking them into a • special cut-out black bra I'd gotten. My hips began to flare, I began to think more like a woman. But this was strictly an onanistic pleasure for me. As much as I loved having my own tits to fondle, it was hard to find a girl who would share my pleasures with me, especially now that I looked so much like a woman myself. Most of the people involved in the drag scene were other guys, and as I've already said, I wasn't into other guys. Even with the hormonal changes my body had undergone, I still wanted sex with women.

Most of the girls that hung around the drag scene were either lesbians, or fag hags that were afraid of sex; peep freaks we called them. Then too, the hormones had made it difficult, if not impossible, for me to get a hard-on. I wasn't really into drag — I never wore my dresses on the street, just the tits. But without a stiff dick of my own, even the fascination of having my own set of jugs was somehow diminished. I stopped taking the hormones and lost my tits." John's case is rather unusual as one does not often find a person whose fetishism causes them to go so far as to attempt to incorporate that object onto one's own body. Today he is still unmarried, still hanging around with the unconventional crowd. His real satisfaction seems unattainable, like a nympho who dreams of King Kong, but he adjust to it. "It's like everything else," he sighs. "It's not what it's cracked up to be. But I had a good time. I just think that what I fantasize is so impossible physical-ly, it really isn't worth the effort." He leads a functional sexual life by once again fantasizing about his tits while performing with a person who actually possesses his desired objects. "At least I was able to come a lot closer to realizing my fantasies than some people. It's sad when you realize that your fantasies are unreachable, but what's even more pathetic to me is someone who never even attempts to do so." Most breast fetishists fall into a more conventional pattern of behaviour. They are able to satisfy their compulsions without having to go to such extremes.

However, when they are lucky enough, like Jack, our next subject, to actually confess their preference to a woman they admire or, better yet, love, they can actualize their fantasies in a more complete manner. Jack was born the youngest in a family of five, and when it came his turn for nutrition his poor mother's breasts had dried up. "I was the only one in my family who was bottle fed," he says with a self-depreciatory shrug that seems his trademark. "That was only the first blow, but it helped me prepare for the others. Like the fact that they put up a swimming pool in our neighbourhood right after we'd moved. That the pay in the army tripled within two years after I'd left. I'm one of those people who takes a car into an auto repair shot and the mechanic says, 'I've never seen that happen before.' "But I'm used to it. I can't really recall any particular incident that got me so fascinated with breasts, other than the bottle-fed thing, but that happened to a lot of guys, I suppose. As soon as I was about twelve or thirteen though, I could hardly think about anything but tits. Shit, I was sur-rounded by them. I could hardly sit through a class in high school without getting an erection with all those high school cuties surrounding me, tits sprouting from their chest faster than a ripening tomato.

The first time I got bare tit from a girl at a drive-in movie, I came in my pants. I don't think I even considered cunts until this one girl grabbed my cock and shoved it into her snatch after I'd spent what to her must have been hours playing with her titties. Even today, though I like fucking, putting my cock into Linda's pussy is rather anti-climactic although that must be a contradiction in terms. What I mean to say is I only put my cock in her pussy as a relief to the pressure that builds up from playing with her tits." There must be a lot of men like Jack, although others may not spend so much time with the prelude as Jack. Linda is his wife of four years, a girl who sports a well-developed set of thirty-eight specials on her chest. Looking at her in a tight pink sweater one wonders how such large growths appeared on a girl barely five-feet-one. She was a secretary in the real estate office where he was hired five years ago. Their meeting led to a wedding; while not made in heaven at least in Reseda. As she tells it: "I've never met a man as interested in boobs as Jack is. I'm liberated, and I'll admit to several romances before Jack.

He knows all about my past so they're no secrets. But his attentions have all but obliterated the other guys from my memory. I know all about the problems other people have with their sex lives, especially after they've lived together long enough to get used to each other. I'm surprised people even get married anymore, what with the divorce rates. I wasn't sure about it myself. Until Jack. "People probably wondered why I married him. Not that he's a turkey or anything. But I'd always said how I'd never get hitched and all. I mean, marriage is for kids. Kids we don't need, or want. I wouldn't want to raise a kid in today's world. Besides, I have Jack." Jack blushed. "I felt pretty much the same way. But Linda was the first girl I could really relate to. In more ways than the bedroom. I guess that's because she takes such good care of me in the bedroom first though. We have a good marriage —she works in the same office, only she's not just a secretary now. She's a salesma . . . person just like me now. But that's beside the point." "What he's trying to say is that he loves my tits more than me," Linda cut in. "But he realized that it's not just another dumb broad attached to them.

See, I have really sensitive tits. You just have to brush against them for my nipples to get hard. Other guys were fascinated by my tits — after all, they are my most obvious attributes. But with Jack it was different. No one had ever paid them as much attention as he did. Even before I first balled him, even before he'd even seen them without clothes, he'd stroke them with extra care, with reverence, if that doesn't sound too far out. "When we were first going together I thought he was doing it just for me, lavishing all that attention on my tits to make me happy so he could get what he wanted later. But we got into this discussion one night and he comes out and tells me what a fascination he has for tits, all tits, but especially mine. Here we were on the same wave length and all. Since we discovered that mutual interest it's been getting better and better. It was only natural we get married." Jack adds: "It all seemed too good to be true.

As much fun as I'd had with other sets of tits, with Linda I've been able to do things I'd previously only fantasized about. For instance, I'd always dreamed about fucking someone's tits. Just putting my cock in between those wonderful mounds of flesh and humping away. A couple of girls I tried it with thought it too weird, and made me feel like a pervert or something. The only girl who was free enough to try it had tits that weren't fit for a sparrow, so that was out. Until Linda, I'd pretty much given up on that idea. "With Linda . . . well, we joke. I say she's really got three cuts: the regular one and the one in each of her nipples. But she can actually come just from me sucking her nipples. Not that we don't go in for all the other stuff, like giving each other head and regular fucking. But we spend a least fifty-percent of our sex lives dealing with her boobs. Call it a mother complex or whatever, I don't really give a rat's ass — it's fun." They went on to describe the way in which they play out their ritual. Linda: "He even buys me all kinds of special bras, pushup bras, cutout bras. I think his favorrite is this one we got through a mail order house that is all black lace and is cut out so that my boobs are sort of surrounded by it." Jack: "Yeah, that one really drives me wild. It outlines the centre of my affection. All I have to do is walk in and see her wearing that bra and I go nuts." Often in breast fetishism we find that a person may display manifestations of both animate and inanimate fetishism.

A foot fetishist, for instance, may love both feet and shoes, the latter being associated with the former. So it may be with a bra, the fetishist fondling it and fantasizing the breasts it was designed to hold. "Now I can't get off to just a bra," Jack continues. "I suppose some guys can, but that's their problem not mine. A bra is more than just a piece of cloth to me, but it can't get me off by itself. But when it is wrapped around a set of tits, especially tits like Linda's, I'll just go crazy imagining what's underneath. "I don't always fuck her tits. We sort of reverse that for a special treat. We might start out just like anyone else, me kissing and fondling her to get the juices flowing. But sooner or later, I'm bound to get my lips down there around the tits. I might just bury my head in between them, smothering in their elasticity.

Remember the song by Donovan? The one that goes something like 'first there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is?' Something like that. I don't know what he had in mind, but I know that's what it conjures up in my mind. Two big wobbly flesh mountains that are my favourite real estate. "I might pinch lightly at her nipples then, or suck them into my mouth. I usually judge by how hard she's breathing to see if she's ready for more forceful manipulation. If she's ready, I'll start nipping at her nipples with my teeth — not hard, you understand, we're not into pain. But as the pleasure spreads, she can take stronger stimulus. "I knead harder at the glands then, maybe sucking at one tit while I flick at the opposite nipple with my fingers. Then switch, back and forth, until we're both horny enough to explode. Then I might stuff my cock up her snatch, all the while massaging her tits, or give her head. Or maybe I'll sit on the edge of the bed and let her get down on her knees to give me head, thrilling at the way her tits feel squashing against my thighs. "Just like regulanfolks," he laughed. "Except for the times I'll sit straddled over her stomach and put my cock down in between her tits, maybe first prodding the nipples with the head of my cock, then bunching her tits around the shaft with my hands while I pump my hips so that my shaft is surrounded by tits.

That's living." To be sure, women can cross over into breast fetishism, or more correctly into nipple fetishism for the male, but such cases are rare. It is far more common for a woman to be the receptor, such as with Linda with her extra-sensitive breasts. Women are certainly aware of the power of their breasts, whether comforting a crying child against them, or, at the other end of the scale, going so far as to get silicone injections if she feels herself inadequate, a practice popularized by certain topless dancers that is fortunately on the decline. Padded bras seem to be on the way out too, as the new attitude towards breasts, like many other things, seems to be to accept what you've got — to be natural. Any way you look at it, breasts are a natural • wonder, one of the most wonderful creations given to mankind. As we move into the scientific era, breasts (and perhaps the egg) are one (two) phenomenon (a) that cannot be improved upon by our experiments. In an age where cloning and test tube birth are seemingly just around the corner, it might seem that the breast hag outlived its natural biological need. But there will be tits as long as there are men, no matter how strong the unisex movement might prove. All that remains is the name of the scientist who will be the first man to put tits on a robot.

This article was uploaded in September 2014. Some American terms and spelling were altered.