Penthouse Uncensored VI Read online

  Erotica from Penthouse copyright © 1990 by Penthouse International, Limited

  More Erotica from Penthouse copyright © 1992 by Penthouse International, Limited

  Erotica from Penthouse III copyright © 1994 by Penthouse International, Limited

  Copyright © 2006 by General Media Communications, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  The Warner Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: December 2006

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-6999-7

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  PART ONE: Erotica from Penthouse

  ARE WOMEN TOO EASY?

  OUR FIRST VIBRATOR

  THE INDELIBLE AFFAIR

  SWAN SONG SEX

  SEX DURING DIVORCE

  MORNING BECOMES ERECTION

  DIAL “S” FOR SEX

  SEX IN THE DARK

  FANTASY GAME

  STEAM HEAT

  I WAS A COKE WHORE

  I SLEPT WITH A GANGSTER

  THE LESBIAN EXPRESS

  THE LESBIAN WHO LOVED MEN

  THE STUNTWOMAN: HIGH SENSATION SEEKER

  THE WOMAN WHO CRAVED CUNNILINGUS

  SUSHI SEX

  FEAR OF LESBIANISM

  A GIZMO NAMED DESIRE

  FOAMING AT THE MOUTH

  IF IT’S MIDNIGHT, IT MUST BE JERRI

  THE EROTIC CONFESSIONS OF A ROMANCE WRITER

  I FALL FOR BASTARDS

  LOUSY LOVERS: A REPAIR MANUAL

  THE PROFESSOR OF SEX

  THE DEFLOWERING OF A LESBIAN STRIPPER

  SINGLE SWING CLUBS HARDLY SWING

  THE FAMILY MISTRESS

  THE VIRGIN AND THE STOWAWAY

  THE CASTAWAY AND THE PROSTITUTE

  FIRST INTERCOURSE, 1946

  PERVERSITY IN EVERY PORT

  ONE NIGHT IN BANGKOK

  PART TWO: More Erotica from Penthouse

  HIGHWAY, MY WAY

  NEVER TOO OLD

  RAINY DAY PLAY

  TALES FROM THE DARK SIDE

  BALLING ALI

  SERMON ON THE MOUND

  OTHER PEOPLE’S HUSBANDS

  POOL PARTY

  HOT FOR TEACHER

  NAVY BOY

  BIRTHDAY PRESENT

  GOING DOWN UNDER

  THE PRINCESS BRIDE

  A LOOSE WIRE

  AEROBISEX

  THE NATURAL

  SEA OF LOVE

  THIS IS YOUR WIFE

  SOMETHING WILD AT THE CASINO

  THE BEST MAN

  WHO’S THE BOSS?

  WEEKEND PASS

  SQUEEZE PLAY

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS

  GEISHA BACHELOR PARTY

  COITUS INTERRUPTUS

  CHAIN BANG

  FREE PARKING

  RESCUE AT SEA

  COLORADO CAVALIER

  TREASURES OF THE FAR EAST

  THE LURE

  GROUP GROPE MOTEL

  CABIN FEVER

  THE DUDE & THE DIVORCÉE

  THREE-FOR-ALL

  PART THREE: Erotica from Penthouse III

  FILL ’ER UP

  HUMPIN’ JACK FLASH

  ITALIAN STALLION

  BACKSEAT DRIVER

  WHEELS OF FORTUNE

  THE NIGHT IS YOUNG

  MR. FIX-IT

  SCREEN TESTES

  THE COCKTEASER AND THE SCREAMING PRICK

  HOT RODS AND RUBBER DOLLS

  WORKING LATE

  THE COUPLE AND THE BACHELOR

  THE GIFT OF TONGUES

  PRIVATE SHOWING

  TRIVIAL PURSUIT

  THE BEST MEDICINE

  CLEAN AND SUPPLE

  OVEREXPOSED

  IN CONCERT

  TEST FLIGHT

  RIDE ’EM

  WIVES ON THE WAVES

  HEART & SOUL

  OFFICE ORIENTATION

  STRIP TRIP

  FRENCH GIRL

  A SOLDIER’S STORY

  BETH AND THE FRAT BOY

  BAHAMAS GETAWAY

  BOX LUNCH

  WILD STRAWBERRIES

  DUTCH TREAT

  ALL HANDS ON DECK

  A GIRL CALLED SPIKE

  MORE THAN A MOUTHFUL

  THE WIDOW MAKER

  HOW DO THEY DO IT?

  Penthouse lovers share their passion in every conceivable combination...as bedroom intimates taking a new and thrillingly unexpected position...as erotic adventurers finding love with the improper stranger...or as carnal gourmands plunging into joyful couplings of three, or even more. Where do they do it? At home or on the highway...by the pool or at the casino... amid the cacophony of the big city or the isolation of the wilderness... wherever opportunity and their active libidos will take them. They’re about to take you with them. And all you’ve got to do is be ready.

  OTHER BOOKS IN THE SERIES

  Erotica from Penthouse

  More Erotica from Penthouse

  Erotica from Penthouse III

  Letters to Penthouse I

  Letters to Penthouse II

  Letters to Penthouse III

  Letters to Penthouse IV

  Letters to Penthouse V

  Letters to Penthouse VI

  Letters to Penthouse VII

  Letters to Penthouse VIII

  Letters to Penthouse IX

  Letters to Penthouse X

  Letters to Penthouse XI

  Letters to Penthouse XII

  Letters to Penthouse XIII

  Letters to Penthouse XIV

  Letters to Penthouse XV

  Letters to Penthouse XVI

  Letters to Penthouse XVII

  Letters to Penthouse XVIII

  Letters to Penthouse XIX

  Letters to Penthouse XX

  Letters to Penthouse XXI

  Letters to Penthouse XXII

  Unleashed: Sex Tips

  Letters to Penthouse XXIII

  Letters to Penthouse XXIV

  Letters to Penthouse XXV

  Penthouse Uncensored I

  Penthouse Uncensored II

  Penthouse Uncensored III

  Penthouse Uncensored IV

  Penthouse Uncensored V

  Penthouse Variations

  26 Nights: A Sexual Adventure

  Penthouse: Naughty by Nature

  Penthouse: Between the Sheets

  Penthouse Erotic Video Guide

  Part One

  Erotica from Penthouse

  ARE WOMEN TOO EASY?

  Women go to bed with me much too easily. In fact, women generally give in too easily. I know this assessment is provocative. Women, if they read no further, will think this is some kind of arrogant boast. Men will probably misinterpret my conclusion—a call on women to put up more resistance to seduction. And both sexes will assume that I’m advocating a return to repression and Moral Majority rule.

  No. All wrong. What I’m talking about here is a tactical shift in the ground rules of the seduction game to make the play more exciting. For example, some of the most intense erotic pleasures occur before the decision is made to go to bed. And those suspenseful, anticipatory, teasing, toying, breathtaking, heartstopping moments of escalating arousal and resistance are too often lost in the accelerated art of modern romance.

  Look at it this way. If exquisitely prolonged foreplay before actual penetration is desirable, if exquisitely prolonged intercourse before orgasm is desirable, it stands to reason that exquisitely prolonged seduction is likewise desirable.

&nb
sp; Yet the seventies systematically destroyed seduction. It wasn’t just the instant lovelock of LSD-eye contact or the instant intimacy of encounter ecstasies or even sexual sophistication that destroyed it. Or maybe it was. Sophistication, that is. I have the feeling that after casual sex became common, not to say commonplace, most intelligent men and women grew adept at sizing up the opposite sex.

  From the first mutual glance, from the very quality of initial eye contact, they knew just whether they’d eventually sleep together. This development removed a lot of suspense, or a lot of romance and, I suppose, a lot of frustration in some cases. But there are those who believe romance is more than sublimated sexual frustration.

  It may be a problem of communication. Women don’t realize that many, many men appreciate the subtle gradations of a slow but intense and smoky seduction. They believe that men still want what they used to want—the selfish ego satisfaction of instant seduction success.

  But now that men tend to sense, or scent, success from the beginning, the symbolic value of an instant consummation is diminished. And if men don’t display eagerness for instant sex, that is, going from first kiss to first fuck without an intervening candlelit dinner, women feel they are being rejected. However, as I learned recently, women don’t always have to be sweet-talked out of a first-night fuck.

  I was at the party of a friend when I spotted Delilah (not her real name) leaning against the refrigerator and smiling at me as I looked for an opener.

  “I’m looking for an opener,” I said, as I rifled my friend’s kitchen drawers.

  “Men always are,” she said, winking at me.

  That was Delilah, full of teasing, sexual insinuation in her eyes and her smile. She had glossy auburn hair and a fresh-scrubbed Irish face sprinkled with freckles. I was completely charmed. But I couldn’t tell whether the come-hither wit was a put-on or a come-on. There was the same mystery about her clothes—a starched white-lace, high-collar blouse and Brooks Brothers ladies-floor cardigan. She was prim and ladylike, befitting her position as a securities analyst of a Wall Street investment banking house.

  She said her job was to analyze computer-generated performance charts in search of erotic stocks.

  “Erotic stocks?” I asked. “What are they like?”

  “The ones that have been building a base for some time and are already rising in volume and velocity. I have to get a feel for what I call their ‘hot plateaus.’”

  I liked the way she touched me for emphasis. I liked her so much I was nervous asking for her number.

  “Uh, would I be remiss asking for your phone number?” I said as we parted.

  “Remiss?” she said. “You’d be a fool not to.” On the way home I felt that I was falling in love.

  A week later we had dinner out together for the first time. Our knees touched under the table. It provided a genuine erotic subtext of innuendo to even the driest discussion of commodities, futures and leveraged options. We skipped dessert and went back to her place.

  We sat on her bed drinking wine and listening to Neil Young records. I savored each moment of anticipation. And then, just as I could suppress it no longer, she said, “Would you like to sleep with me?”

  Let me interrupt this story for a moment to cite some ancient wisdom on the central question of contemporary seduction that Delilah’s question raised. I found this gem in a book called Miss Rona, the autobiography of Rona Barrett. It’s not a piece of Miss Rona’s wisdom, but rather a proverb from one of the ancient elders of Hollywood, Louis B. Mayer of MGM, on the relationship between the frustration of desire and the theory of narrative form. According to the mystical mogul Mayer, “There’s only one good plot and that’s a delayed fuck.”

  Yes. The delayed fuck. In my opinion this is a neglected source of erotic intensity. It doesn’t have to be the prudish and narrow-minded slow-down that gave delay a bad name when we were teenagers. So much of recent erotic literature has been a misguided or simple-minded reaction against this kind of delay. For instance, Erica Jong’s “zipless fuck” in Fear of Flying and the fully clothed stranger-fuck of Last Tango in Paris.

  Do you remember that scene in Last Tango in Paris when Brando and Maria Schneider are lying naked together a few weeks after their introductory fuck-at-first-sight? Schneider playfully asks Brando to see if they can “come without touching each other.” Brando waits a few seconds, then jokingly asks her, “Did you come yet?” But it seems to me that with an artfully delayed fuck two people can get so horny for each other that they practically can both come just by looking into each other’s eyes. I know it can happen.

  The full sexual potential, the often thrilling sexuality of lovelocked gazes, is almost never realized. Erotic eye contact or “grokking” (to use the term from Stranger in a Strange Land, popular in the psychedelic era) used to lead to instant psychedelic seductions. In an artfully delayed fuck, eye contact can almost become “like giving head with the eyes,” as one woman I know put it.

  But let me get back to the woman on the bed who asked me if I wanted to sleep with her. Well, sure I did, but I had noticed lately that the less time I spent with someone before we slept together, the less time I wanted to sleep with her afterwards. In fact, with some women I couldn’t bear to spend the night afterwards. I didn’t mind fucking a stranger. But sleeping with one was different.

  Somehow, deprived of the longueurs of a prolonged seduction, I never built up the romantic illusions that are so often the sublime products of sublimated sexual frustration. I never got to endow a woman with the magic—or to savor the magic already there within. I talked about this matter with a friend who was really popular with women—so popular that he had a hard time finding any who would put up serious resistance, or allow him to enjoy a teased-out seduction. He told me how he’d given this problem a piquant erotic twist.

  He started playing hard to get. “What I’d do,” he told me, “is get to the point with a woman where we were close enough or intimate enough that we both knew we’d end up sleeping together if one of us made the first move. We’d both want to, you see, but I wouldn’t make the expected move. I’d make her seduce me. And I wouldn’t be an easy lay. I’d make it hard for her. I’d make it frustrating. We’d end up at the end of an evening sipping an after-dinner cordial in a bar and she’d be leaning up against me, rubbing her leg against my thigh, whispering “Let’s go back to my place” in my ear, and kind of punctuating that with her tongue, if you know what I mean.

  “And sometimes I’d go back to her place and sometimes I wouldn’t. But if I did I wouldn’t always do what she wanted. I’d resist, playfully, until she ended up moaning, getting really frustrated and bitchy just the way men used to get. Then when we’d finally do it, it would be so hot, so intense, we would almost be like lust-crazed teenagers tearing into each other.”

  Sorry for that delay. I was just about to tell you what happened after that sweet, sexy securities analyst asked me flat out to sleep with her. The thought did cross my mind to do with her what my friend did with women—play hard to get. But that was a little too calculated and even mean-spirited for my taste. And besides, she looked so winsome and sultry there, sprawled out on her covers, limbs akimbo, giving me head with her eyes that, even though I theoretically wanted to resist, I thought it might be misinterpreted as ungallant.

  But three days later, as we were lying in bed together talking about that moment, we came up with another solution.

  “Did you like it when I asked you?” she asked me.

  Well, I told her, I loved it. But I tried to explain how I sometimes missed the Age of Delay, the long slow seduction, the thrill of surmounting every sensual gradation on the way to all-the-way.

  At first I thought she had taken offense.

  “Oh, I see,” she said. “I know what you want. You want me to be a cock-teasing bitch—the kind that leaves you high and dry, gasping for more, until she gives in and makes you feel like a real stud. Is that it?”

  Well, I said, that
wasn’t exactly how I’d put it. But I did concede that I liked cock-teasing girls. The ones who curl their tongue around the tip of your cock. The ones who can make licking their lips seem as if they’re licking your cock.

  I thought she might be offended by my analysis, but she just laughed. She was into it. “I like to tease cocks,” she admitted. “I don’t like to hop right into bed, but I guess with the ratio of men to women I do feel this pressure to be a sex bomb on the first night. I like the slow build-up. In fact,” she continued, “tell you what. From now on this lady is going to be very hard to fuck. At least for you,” she added, with expert cock-teasing bitchiness.

  Well, I’m here to say a kind word for cock-teasing. And the reverse—cunt-teasing, or whatever you want to call male resistance to seduction.

  The whole of the next week she refused to see me. Wouldn’t even take my calls at her office. Then Saturday afternoon she called me up and asked me if I wanted to help her shop for a sexy camisole. Choked with lust, I could barely manage to mumble agreement to meet her at a New York store specializing in classy silk undergarments like camisoles, teddies, tap pants and the like. When I got there she dragged me into a dressing room, whipped off her jeans and proceeded to try on one after another heart-stoppingly seductive undergarment of the camisole sort. All the while, she was giving me delicious come-hither glances, rubbing against me in the close confines of the dressing room, giving me head with her eyes.

  Half an hour later we were in a cab speeding up to her apartment, necking madly, urgently. But when we pulled up to her place she drew herself away, hopped out and said she was having dinner with her older brother that night and would see me next weekend.

  The following Saturday night we met at a movie theater and spent about 119 of the 120-minute movie with our tongues in each other’s mouth and our hands in each other’s pants, trying to suppress gasps of lust. This time she hopped into a cab right outside the movie theater and didn’t even let me get in with her—though she practically had to slam the door on my, uh, hand to keep me out.

  The next weekend she invited me over to her place and answered the door wearing just her camisole. Pulling me over to her couch, she opened my fly and we had probably the most furious spasm of sex I’d ever experienced. Since then I’ve held out on her, with equally intense results.

  It’s my opinion that the artfully delayed seduction is the way to have the best of both worlds, the hot, feverish lust that’s bred of repression and resistance, and the playful intimacy of post-