Frothing in the Frothy Sea

I really like this picture HERE.

Not only is it the latest interpretation of William Maltese's "Artists Do" series, the artist doing just happens to be Kris Jacen, Executive Editor and Formatting Director at MLR Press, Passions in Print Press, and Featherweight Press.

Considering the heavy workload of Kris's publishing duties, I have to wonder how she found time to create her "William Maltese Arising From the Frothy Sea." Makes me feel as though I'm moving at a snail's pace. Makes me question my own efficiency, or lack of it, but doesn't prevent me from enjoying Kris's graphic.

THE GREAT MALTESE CANDLE ADVENTURES

Vlad walkie-talkie cues the light man; in the main room, the lights go out; the plethora of Jfay candles simultaneously go on to appreciative gasps from the audience bathed suddenly in what seems purely candlelight but cleverly includes artificial glow emanating from the ice bales stacked around the room.

Cascades of blood-like liquid flow are projected on all empty wall space, accompanied by the amplified pulse of an actual heartbeat.

(Excerpt from SUCKS! Book 1 of the DRAQUAL VAMPYRE CHRONICLES)

And so the adventure begins for Jfay and her candles -- Whisked away by the Great Maltese (better known as Author William Maltese of International Fame) to far away places and on fantastical, and many times erotic and paranormal adventures!

Since the onslaught of the DRAQUAL VAMPYRE CHRONICLES and the candles that were designed for the entire theme and story-line, I have been very fortunate to have had the opportunity to work further with Mr. Maltese on other exciting projects and have had the honor of my candles as well as myself, in my Jfay persona, make appearances in subsequent story-lines.

I'd like to share this candle and story-line adventure with you as we have traveled with Mr. Maltese thus far........

I’m expecting an old crone, candle-making seeming to insinuate black-magic or even witchery. I’m pleasantly surprised by Jfay, wax artisan, who is an attractive woman, late thirties, with an absolutely charming southern accent, “Y’all come on in.” Her brown hair is perfectly coiffed. Her eyes are dark chocolate. Her lips are colored with just a hint of pale red. “I thought we could have cold Coronas and jalapeño snacks while we discuss the candle in question.

Our chairs are grouped around a round coffee table upon which sits opened beer bottles punctuating a bed of ice cupped within a large punch bowl parenthesized by two smaller bowls almost overflowing with spicy home-made chips.

“You’ve a candle color definitely in mind?” she asks and drinks some of her beer straight from the bottle.

“I’m thinking black, maybe representing the dark and the unknown but, to be quite candid, I’m not quite sure why I think it should be black; just that it should be,” Kenneth says. “If you can, please, include at least some brown, since I have an unmistakable feeling that those we seek are buried in the ground. You might slip in a bit of white by way of insinuating my hoped-for enlightenment.”

(Excerpt from BLACK CANDLE READER, in MLR Press' anthology LOVE ME DEAD)

Now, you have to know how excited I was to have the chance to interact with the characters in this story, to meet with them and design a candle for them intended for Candle-Reading, a power that Mr. Maltese has included in this story as well as his teen warrior saga, Flicker Warriors, which I will share with you in detail as well. But the Black Candle Reader Candle was designed for the characters in the story and also in real life as you will see here:

And next, for our adventures in FLICKER: The Teen Warrior Saga, as promised ~ FLICKER has been an on-going adventure traveled with Mr. Maltese that is set in Washington in the town of Flicker and centers around teenagers who possess many powers, one of which is Candle-Reading, and there are candles that are written into the story that possess certain powers and hold the keys to answers sought by the Flicker heroes and heroines. There have been a total of 5 candles designed and brought to life for Book 1, now ready to go into print after a nearly year long run of free chapter postings on the Flicker Warrior Myspace page. It has been a tremendous treat to have the opportunity to bring these special candles to life --

It all began in the past........

Uxana hurriedly handmolds a candle made of scraps of wax from other candles being careful to choose mainly the purple wax in which to contact Melissa, a Candle Reader, in the future.....

Uxana and Melissa make contact through their candles, one living far in the distant past, the other now in the future, breaking beyond the boundaries of time.

Their two candles, Uxana's crudely made purple candle, and Melissa's blue candle fuse into one spectacular candle and their scents combine in a BERRY SPICE FUSION, a magickal blend of Blueberries, Mulberry, Black Cherry and Clove....

(Flicker Warriors)

And from FLICKER to "Ludus Scaenicus Mortis Rubrae", which is a short story featured in MLR Press' Anthology, RED, a clever homage to Edgar Allen Poe’s infamous The Masque of the Red Death, which puts two handsome and horny aristocratic young male lovers among a company of ill-fated revelers locked within the castellated walls of Prince Prospero’s fortified abbey … the latter with rooms a-flicker with Mistress Jfay’s candles:

The progress of each and every is impeded by the many twists and turns of the Abbey’s rabbit-warren maze of rooms, tiny and big … corridors, wide and narrow … between us and the Imperial Suite. The lighting that accompanies our journey is just as erratic as the interior landscape we traverse. Some spaces have so little that they require either a familiarity or an actual dragging of a hand along one wall to make a successful crossing from one side to the other. In bizarre counterpoint, one of the smallest has seven very impressively large deep-red candles, each a-droll with red-orange wax, and smelling — to my surprise at Mistress Jfay, Candle-maker to the Prince, and me possibly sharing a similar passion — of blood-red oranges; the septet’s combined candle power is sufficient to illuminate a whole auditorium.


So, where shall our adventures take us next?

Well, I've designed a Mysterious and Magical Candle which possesses the captured soul of an avenging warrior meant to be a beautiful, yet deadly wedding gift for an evil king, as well as numerous other candle renderings designed to accompany many other Maltese works of genius.

Just recently I've learned that Jfay candles will be making yet another appearance soon in a new Maltese work in progress titled, I DEBAUCHEE -- So be sure to stay tuned for this one -- And it is not to be for the faint of heart from what I've been privileged to see. It is going to be a stunning Maltese no holds barred masterpiece, I'm sure!

To take a tour of all of the Maltese/Jfay Book and Candle pairings, be sure to visit the MALTESE CANDLE GALLERY: http://www.studio3bonline.com/maltesecandlegallery.htm

You can also visit the fabulous Mr. Maltese online at http://www.williammaltese.com

Join us for all of the excitement of FLICKER WARRIORS at http://www.myspace.com/flickerwarriors

Author William Maltese

Thank you William for all of the fun and excitement! Jfay xxoo

Candle Readers Possess The Power.......

And Lilith, the first woman, did see the vision within the flickering of a candle flame that did show her Jaweh’s displeasure and how He would supplant her in Adam’s favor with Eve. And Lilth became Demon. — ancient Jewish text.


I’m expecting an old crone, candle-making seeming to insinuate black-magic or even witchery. I’m pleasantly surprised by Jfay, wax artisan, who is an attractive woman, late thirties, with an absolutely charming southern accent, “Y’all come on in.” Her brown hair is perfectly coiffed. Her eyes are dark chocolate. Her lips are colored with just a hint of pale red. “I thought we could have cold Coronas and jalapeño snacks while we discuss the candle in question.

Our chairs are grouped around a round coffee table upon which sits opened beer bottles punctuating a bed of ice cupped within a large punch bowl parenthesized by two smaller bowls almost overflowing with spicy home-made chips.

“You’ve a candle color definitely in mind?” she asks and drinks some of her beer straight from the bottle.

“I’m thinking black, maybe representing the dark and the unknown but, to be quite candid, I’m not quite sure why I think it should be black; just that it should be,” Kenneth says. “If you can, please, include at least some brown, since I have an unmistakable feeling that those we seek are buried in the ground. You might slip in a bit of white by way of insinuating my hoped-for enlightenment.”

“All which can certainly be done,” Jfay says and reaches for a jalapeño chip which she puts in her mouth and crunches between her white teeth. “Scent?”

“Pine scent,” Kenneth says.

Before I can stop myself, I say, “And clove.”

This is Kenneth’s candle, and I’ve inadvertently intruded; I’m supposedly there as an interested bystander soaking up pointers. “I am sorry,” I say. “That just slipped out.”

“Pine and clove?” Jfay queries for clarification.

“Just pine,” I say. “I hope there’ll be no more such uncontrollable outbursts on my part. I don’t know what got into me.”

Exerpt From BLACK CANDLE READER, by William Maltese


BLACK CANDLE READER, by William Maltese, is one of the stories in MLR Press' newly released ghostly anthology, LOVE ME DEAD, in which Kenneth Black is a Candle-Reader, one of those possessed with the power to read into a candle's flames to seek knowledge and find answers to secrets thought long hidden in the past.

He is on a quest to find the burial spot of missing family members thought to have been killed by Nazis and buried in a mass grave somewhere in a forest long long ago.

Come take the journey with Kenneth which leads him to the doorstep of Candle Artist Jfay to commission the perfect candle to show him the way. Thus the BLACK CANDLE READER Candle is born from the pages of William Maltese's story and brought into reality by Jfay.

You can find both on Wick'd Reads at http://www.wickdreads.com/lovemedead.htm
Male Erotica

Elisa Rolle's Reviews for Readers

An Opinion Piece

by

Jardonn Smith

These days it seems anybody can hang a sign on their web address door and proclaim themselves to be reviewers of books.

Many are book lovers who shell out the bucks and are inclined to express their likes/dislikes, regardless of their abilities to coherently analyze reasons for their likes/dislikes.

Others have signed up at review sites so they can get free books to read, their purchase price being their agreeing to review the books, again regardless of their abilities to coherently... (see above).

Still more have a hidden agenda, either to purposely promote authors in their little clique, or purposely denigrate authors not in their little clique. Some of these reviews are written by authors themselves with an agenda impossible to hide: trashing books written by their competition.

What are the poor readers to do? How do they determine which review sites are truly giving them honest opinions, so they can decide where to shell out their hard-earned money for books they will enjoy? It's a crap shoot, no doubt, but I can honestly vouch for one specializing in male on male erotic romance.

Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings

Not only is this classy lady from Padua, Italy a reader of manlove romance titles, her appetite for them is voracious. Ms. Rolle devours an incredible number of books weekly, and not only does she gain keen insight from what she's read, she shares her thoughts via her self-written book reviews. Elisa favors no particular publishers or authors. She has no rating systems for books she reads. Her reviews are detailed, well-organized, and invaluable to not only her fellow-readers, but the authors as well. I've lost count of the comments I've seen on her site from authors who tell her she found personality traits in their characters even they didn't recognize existed. I am no exception. Ms. Rolle's review of my Danube Divide taught me much about the men in my own story.

So, any manlove fiction lovers out there looking for ideas on what next to read, Elisa Rolle's site is a must-visit-daily for you, and as if reviews weren't already enough, lately Elisa started what she calls The Inside Reader where authors and readers list their all-time favorite LGBT books.

That's where one of our own comes in. Just check out the names on this list which includes William Maltese.

The Inside Reader: Geoffrey Knight

Yes, we claim him. William is ours. One of our Frothing Authors, and we intend to never let him go.

Collaboration

Collaboration in

TOTAL MELTDOWN

by William Maltese

Having just seen the results of two collaborations, in which I’ve been involved with other authors, reach the book stands … and just before I begin another collaboration with our very own Jardonn Smith, on our period-piece "railroad" novel, GRIT … do let me tell any fellow authors, who may not yet have a clue, that collaborations aren’t the easiest way to go, even if they do seem to offer the advantage of two or more people, each of whom, in theory, only has to write part of a book.

There’s a decided difference, believe me, between joining in an anthology … which is merely you contributing a story to fit an over-all theme, along with other authors … and you teaming up with another author or authors to come together in agreement on characters, character traits, and a coherent single story-line. It is now my experience that writing, like cooking, can see a lot of difficulty arising around too many cooks/authors (and two can sometimes be too many) in the kitchen and/or at the computer keyboard.

In the case of THE GLUTEN-FREE WAY: MY WAY, written with my niece, I thought I had "it" made — no matter everything I had ever heard about the dangers of working with amateurs and relatives. I mean, she and her family had been living gluten-free for several years, and it was merely a case of her telling their story and our providing a few gluten-free recipes, and that was that … right?! The usual major problem of finding an interested publisher had been solved early-on by me, in that Borgo Press had gone to contract on just a proposal. Needless to say, it wasn’t easy at all, in that I ended up writing far more of the book than I originally intended (although, I’m sure the book is a better book because of it) — what with the strain of meeting a deadline placed upon a novice author, and my niece having to deal with an uncle who looked upon a missed deadline as just about the worst sin possible and had no qualms about saying so (which didn’t help the situation and probably, truth be told, acerbated it — sigh!).

http://www.wildsidebooks.com/MALTESE-William_c_547.html

TOTAL MELTDOWN, done with Raymond Gaynor (aka Gary Martine), was easier. My co-author on this one, after all, had published several previous books, knew all about deadlines, and he’d written over 300 pages of this one before I joined in. As with THE GLUTEN-FREE WAY, I persuaded Borgo Press to go to contract before this one was finished; so my main predicament turned out to be my having entered the writing process so late in the game that the characters, character traits, and plot were pretty much in place, all as complicated as any novel dealing with the complications of international politics and espionage and treason and finance. Admittedly, it took me a good deal of time just to figure out who was who, where was where, what was what. That we managed to achieve what we did was only because neither of us looked upon anything we wrote as engraved permanently in stone … which made me less fearful when I started chopping (three hundred pages to a final 155), and shifting character’s sexuality from bisexual to homosexual, from homosexual to heterosexual. Had Raymond put up major complaint, instead of merely commenting that I had "taken his blond-haired, blue-eyed innocent baby boy and converted him into a dark-haired, black-eyed terror", we might still be trying to hash things out, to this very day, instead of basking in the sheer pleasure of having the book now on the bookstands.

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Total-Meltdown/Raymond-Gaynor/e/9781434403551/?itm=1&usri=1

How will Jardonn and I fare in our about-to-begin collaboration on GRIT? Only time will tell, but I have high hopes. Our relationship goes back a ways. We’re professionals, each of us well aware of the writing process, each other’s sensibilities and the existent time-line. Wish us luck!

I Am a Doll

HOT DIGGEDY DAMN! I AM, INDEED, A DOLL!!!

By William Maltese

I am pleased to have, among my acquaintances, a whole array of truly artistic people. Actually, I’ve been drawn to artistic types for a very long while, maybe to do with envy, since I’ve never been able to draw, except stick figures. I did my "time" in and amongst the hoi-polloi of the Seattle, Washington, art community, collecting such Northwest stellar artists as Kenneth Callahan, Paul Horiuchi, Bill Ivey, Bill Cumming, Paul Havas, Bruce Selchov, Karl and Hilda Morris… Experiences from which I drew to write my bisexual murder mystery THE FAG IS NOT FOR BURNING (not to be missed, by the way!).

(excerpt)

"FOR GOD’S SAKE,

you have to be kidding!" Cord said after seeing what Morgan selected for him from one of several closets.

"Who would expect a cop to dress like one?" Morgan argued. "It’s perfect."

"I don’t understand the need for any of this," Cord said. "Why dress up like it’s Halloween, anyway?"

"Because you want to understand," Morgan insisted. "And dressing up is part of it. Besides, Don has someone here tonight who I’m sure you’d like to quiz about Horton. It’s this way, or no way."

"Who are we talking about?" Cord asked, still hoping to delay the inevitable. Having come this far, he wasn’t prepared to turn back or go forward. No matter that he’d feel right at home in a cop’s uniform. He’d worn one plenty of times before becoming a detective, although he’d never done so under such extenuating circumstances.

"You’ll see," Morgan assured, dropping the uniform on a bench that would have looked right at home in a school locker room. In fact, the whole place resembled a locker room. There were two private showers and a large, communal one. There was a urinal, three toilets, and a bidet, all lined up military style, and a couple of enclosed toilet stalls. Pretty extensive a setup for some guy’s basement.

Cord watched Morgan who, obviously knowing where things were, conjured motorcycle boots, a helmet, a billy-club, handcuffs, and what looked like a genuine police-issue revolver and holster.

"Oh, yes, the gun is real," Morgan guaranteed. "Don is a stickler for authenticity. It isn’t, however, as you’ve probably noticed, loaded. Don can’t know, as I do, that you won’t get carried away and shoot up the place in a fit of orgasmic excitement."

(end excerpt)

____________________

Of course, lately, I’ve gathered in talent from all over the world to contribute to my ARTISTS "DO" author WILLIAM MALTESE art collection, born of narcissism and the re-discovery of an old black-and-white publicity shot of me, naked as a jay, which I had filed away (Good God!) in the bottom of a dusty old trunk.

http://www.williammaltese.com/nude_1.html

Someone who has come to be one of my very favorite artists is Star Urioste, doll-maker extraordinaire, who approached me a couple of years back with a query as to whether or not I’d like to see myself as "a doll" — since I "so obviously already" was one. How could I refuse? The result being the anatomically correct free-standing gold ("the author as jaguarspirit son") doll which I immediately placed at the doorway of my office and whose life-like appendage has grown exceedingly shiny over the past few months (like the snout of a bronze boar once spotted in a European town square and regularly stroked for good luck), from me and everyone else groping a feel on each and every pass by (I should be so lucky in real life).

As if that wasn’t enough, Star recently sent me another addition for my collection — the author, as an action-figure doll "the deer hunter" (just the first, I understand, of a series of "author as" action-figure dolls soon to be forthcoming as welcome additions to my collection).

What boy (young or old) hasn’t wanted his very own action-figure doll? What boy (young or old) hasn’t wanted to BE his very own action-figure doll? What boy (young or old) hasn’t wanted a cock hanging down to his knees? My only chance for the latter, having been my very own action-figure doll — now the reality.

Thank you, Star, from the top of my head, to the ends of my toes, to the tip of my dick!

Maltese Pulp Part 5

STARSHIP INTERCOURSE

Part Five

by William Maltese

"…inform you it is imperative you change course immediately, rendezvousing with Starship 12B as quickly as possible. Your time for rendezvous has been approximated at three years and eight months. Your coordinates for such rendezvousing are: 002-4.3 21464-5 WSWTV2. You will reactivate freezing units to allow the trip’s completion without defrost of any member of the crew. You will defrost only Captain Peterson at the present, informing him of the situation, leaving the remaining members of the crew in freeze. You will hand Captain Peterson this directive with orders that he comply immediately. While he may attempt radioing us for verification, he is to change the ship’s course whether verification is received from this headquarters or not. I repeat: Captain Peterson is to proceed to rendezvous with Starship 12B whether or not verification for him to proceed is received from us. Starship 12B has been given proper coordinates for rendezvousing with you in Galaxy 4-5-21, Interstellar Chart 4. You will meet and join, utilizing Code Name Polar. In no instance shall this code name be made known to anyone else besides you, as radio operator, and Captain Peterson. You are warned — REPEAT: WARNED — that you may have on board one or more of the species of aliens mentioned in the first portion of this critique. The situation, as it has played out thus far leads us to believe they might well have had agents aboard all interstellar experiment ships leaving our ports after year 1978. Reports of destroyed and/or lost ships tend to verify this suspicion. Your rendezvous with Starship 12B has been programmed and analyzed as the only possible locking up of experimental ships in your segment of the galaxy. Three other spaceships have been scheduled for mid-space docking elsewhere, their coordinates to follow for your future reference. It is with the greatest possible regret that we here at Control inform you of such catastrophic interference by other beings, and we only hope that you will be able to carry on and survive where we have failed.

"Rendezvous scheduling of:

V-AcH-200 and P-DTU-4…"

The communicator module went silent. Lieutenant Margaret Masters adjusted her headpiece, switched dials, and attempted to clear the headphones of the galactic static that was suddenly rumbling in her ears. She eyed the decoded ciphers on the radio tape with a degree of horror and disbelief.

The ship seemed suddenly tomb-still.

She kept focused on the instrument panels. Everything seemed in working order. She re-inspected the series of messages which had been received by Charles Wilcox: Lieutenant Wilcox had been the radio communications man who had been defrosted to accept the last recorded message on file. All had been in order during his shift. He’d scribbled out a handwritten message to Margaret on the margins of that last decoded cipher sheet:

"Remember me in another three years, Margaret, baby. By then, this boy is going to be ready for a hot and sweaty fuck."

She had smiled when she’d remembered their last night on Earth together. Foolishly, he had screwed her without protection. Foolishly, she had let him. They’d both known what the results of that could have been, but the very danger of an unacceptable outcome had somehow added to the pleasure of the moment. She only thanked God that she hadn’t become pregnant. God knows what would’ve happened had she come out of deep-freeze and found an unborn baby in her suspended-animation cell. She discarded the horror of that particular scenario and, then, went back to dealing with the horror at hand.

She had defrosted right on schedule. At the time, the ship’s dials, coded forms, computerized data had given all indications that the experiment ship was progressing on course according to schedule. She’d made all the necessary routine checks before putting on the earphones. She’d checked the time, the date, and the other instruments which would assure that the message beamed from Earth would be picked up as scheduled. Her routine check of the ship’s operative components had taken her longer than she’d expected, and she’d taken her seat at the communications panel one minute prior to the moment of proposed interception of broadcast. She’d sunk back into the comfortable foam of the chair, wondering at how two years in deep-freeze had left so little tiredness within her bones. She’d engaged all necessary radio equipment and had waited. When the vacuum waves had still hummed nothing but static a minute later, Margaret had hastily re-checked her equipment. Everything had been operative. Everything had been in working order. Still there had been nothing incoming. She had again checked the time dials, running info through the computer to find any clue as to some undetected time lapse — a precaution she’d already taken earlier. Again the lights had blinked green, yellow, red; again the machine vomited out its tape.

Date: 23

Month: March

Year: 2003

Time: 2:15 p.m.

Date checked, re-checked,

Information accurate—

REPEAT: ACCURATE. Replay

Panel 5C2.

Margaret had pressed panel 5C2, and again the same information had rolled forth. The day had been right. The month had been right. The year had been right. The time had been right. All equipment had been operative. Yet, there had been no message received.

Automatically she had turned to the recorder. She should’ve checked it before, but priority on awakening had stressed that she first assure that the ship was in operative condition. By the time she’d finished with that, it’d been time for the message to come in.

She had pushed the rewind button, noticing that there had been, in fact, a fairly long length of used tape. Nervously, she had waited for it to rewind. It had finished with a click; a red light had gone on to indicate readiness of replay. She had hesitated nervously, had checked one more time to assure that there was no message in over the other equipment, and had pressed the replay switch. The dire message had begun:

"When you hear this, we shall be dead, destroyed, murdered. It will be up to you to carry on the human race. There will be no more Earth, no more of its men, no more of its women, and no more of its children.

We therefore must…"

In discussion of the "freezing" process induced by pulseometer

A state of consciousness will return by degrees, as the subject is merely awakening from a deep sleep, or from the deeper realm sometimes induced by hypnosis. In fact, the subject has been under a sleep of sorts, one induced electronically, through utilization of the pulseometer, and the conduits of electroregulators as applied to both the duodenilenta segments of the brain cell pilota. And as electronically as the sleep was induced, likewise, electronically the sleep will be removed. During periods of "sleep" the subject’s body functions will be slowed down as in archaic "freezing" techniques utilized in the operating theatres of the twentieth century. Slowed to the proper level, the subject will still exist but at a level wherein what would ordinarily take place in seconds can be programmed to take place in years… —SECURITY: CRYTO-TOP SECRET.

Charles Wilcox returned to consciousness by degrees. It was, indeed, rather like awakening from a deep sleep but not a lengthy one.

One always had a tendency to regret such awakenings, thinking momentarily that one hadn’t really been given the rest actually needed. This phenomenon, labeled scientifically Brotumulla by the medical staff at Experiment Headquarters, was sure to appear whether the subject had been asleep minutes (as in initial experimentation), hours (as in intermediate experimentation), months (as during final experimentation), or years (as in actual flights into deep space).

The darkness in Charles’ brain lifted, giving way to a light gray, which faded into white, which turned opaque as he opened his eyes to let the reality roll over him.

The body was never cold, because, though the archaic terminology "freezing" and "defrosting" held over from the early beginnings of experimentation in suspended animation, freezing was never actually what occurred. There was no lowering of the body temperature whatsoever.

If anything, Charles was a bit warm, a resultant effect of his blood’s suddenly increased circulation throughout this body.

He lay there in his tube quietly, trying desperately to gather his senses (a process termed Bilotmea by the staff, and Muddle by the crew), and felt that something was desperately wrong.

He’d felt this very same way the time he’d had to fight his way back through the black, the gray, the white, the opaque, to actual consciousness to learn there’d been a machinery malfunction and he’d almost died. Two other subjects had died.

He sat up in his animation tube, glancing about the cabin. Everything seemed in working order. The right lights seemed to be blinking; the right noises seemed to be coming from the computers. But something still felt wrong.

He had defrosted: that was what was wrong! Either he’d defrosted prematurely or the others hadn’t defrosted per schedule. He’d been scheduled for revival only once during the course of the mission, and that time was over and done. When it had occurred, he’d received standard information on the communiqué beamed from Earth right on schedule. He’d activated one minor change in the ship’s course, according to received instructions, and had then gone back to his tube. His next revival was to be upon their arrival at Omego D, along with the whole crew. Presently, he sensed no re-awakenings in any of the pods grouped around him. In the tube immediately next to him, Corporal Kelly still slept on in his dream world; the dials of his pod set for revival mode in nine months.

"What in the hell is going on?" Charles asked aloud.

Suddenly, he heard muted sobbing.

He surveyed the room, more carefully this time, and noted each and every pod, its instrumentation, and its occupant, until he finally found one empty.

"Margaret?"

"Charles?" Her voice was weak and came from somewhere in the adjoining compartment. "Oh, God, Charles, help me."

She sounded so damned pathetic, so shook up, that he felt compelled to get to her as quickly as possible.

His legs were weak but operable.

"There will be a certain degree of physical weakness," the instructors had told them, "but that’s to be expected. Initial care should be taken that unused muscles are not strained, despite artificial stimulus, via biolatent froxexins, administered periodically during freeze state.

"Margaret?"

He found her huddled in a corner. Her eyes watered, and her face was screwed up in a grimace indicative of pain, fear, or a combination of the two.

End of Part Five -- taken from one of William's Greenleaf Classic pulps, long out of print, available only from collectors who demand big $$$, but serialized here as a free read by courtesy of the author.

Blood and Chocolate

BLOOD AND CHOCOLATE
by William Maltese

Excerpt from my short story Black-Candle Reader due to appear in an anthology of ghost stories due out from MLR Press later this year:

I accompany my drink with a square of Xoçai™ XoBiotic™ dark chocolate which I truly believe, what with its combination with açai and blueberries, provides antitoxic benefits that I can’t get from regular candy. It’s the difficult individual packaging of the latter that occupies enough of my attention to keep me from getting any more turned on by Jeremy’s sexual sounds. I’m unwrapping a second piece of the chocolate when he comes in, licking his cummy fingers as he’s the one who has been eating chocolate.

“You want to be super healthy, you should eat more of my cum and less candy squares,” he says Then, he snatches the piece of unwrapped chocolate from my hand and pops it into his mouth with a wide smile.

Excerpt from my THE GLUTEN-FREE WAY: MY WAY self-help and cook-book due out later this year from Wildside/Borgo Press:

As a genuine chocolate addict and advocate of over-all healthy living, I admit to having planned, from the get-go, to plug Xoçai™ chocolate, in this non-gluten book, as a dessert option or recipe chocolate-substitute option for anyone with a gluten-allergy problem — if just because I not only personally believe this particular kind of chocolate is so beneficial to my well-being, and can be to yours, but because I’m not alone in that belief, backed up by the results of scientific studies like those conducted by, Eliot Brinton, M.D., University of Utah, on blood pressure, glucose, insulin, lipids, and other risk factors that affect the cardiovascular system.

As someone with a history of Type II Diabetes in his family, I had my blood glucose levels spike dangerously high during my mother’s long period of dying from ovarian cancer when I had the weighty responsibility of being her sole care-giver. While, since her death, my glucose levels have receded, undoubtedly accountable to a lessening of stress, I still monitor my blood sugar on a regular basis. Time after time, I’ve discovered that consumption of regular chocolate can send my blood glucose above recommended levels, while consumption of the same amount of Xoçai™ chocolate keeps them confined within prescribed safety limits.

Excerpt from the upcoming Chapter #61 my novel FLICKER: TEEN-WARRIOR SAGA (teen-angst vampire, candle-reader, werewolf, witch, warlock, chimera, dragon, zombie … et al), presently being serialized on MySpace free of charge and twice a week, prior to its 2010 print publication) — http://www.myspace.com/flickerwarriors

Since then, he came to look upon Rhoda’s blood as dessert, especially since she’s taken to eating Xoçai™ Chocolate. If she enjoys the natural benefits of all that antioxidant-rich açai berry and cacao which keeps her blood pressure and her blood sugar under control, where pigging out on regular chocolate would never do the same, Gregory, from first suck knew her blood was something special above and beyond the blood of all the other regulars upon whom he feasts. He knows that if he isn’t tempted to drink Rhoda’s blood now — and he isn’t — that whatever strangeness is happening to him may well be irreversible.

Her Xoçai™-laced blood is his, once again, for the taking. He can see just how it makes the large vein in her sexy bare throat pulse in open invitation for his canine teeth to dig in, for not the first time, and enjoy.

He gets up, goes not to the woman on the bed, with her warm, thick blood, but into the living room and, then, into the kitchen. He begins opening and shutting cabinet doors until he finds her cache of Xoçai™ chocolates — two boxes: XoBiotic™ Squares, dark chocolate with açai and blueberry; Xoçai™ MEGA Squares, dark chocolate with açai and orange. He begins unwrapping the small 1 x 1.8” individually wrapped squares and popping them into his mouth, one after another after another.

He can hardly believe the ecstasy of the entire undiluted-by-blood flavor suddenly exploded upon his tongue and sliding sensuously the length of his throat to his belly.

He’s still tasting the wondrous aftermath of healthy dark chocolate, açai, orange, and blueberry, later that night, at home, in his own living room, in his own easy chair, when Timothy comes in carrying a package and handing it over.

“It’s a gift to you from Melissa,” Timothy says, by way of explanation. “She was inspired by a dream and hopes you’ll know the reason why.”

The quickly discarded tissue reveals a richly dark-brown candle, dribbled with brilliant red, orange, and blue wax; it all smells deliciously of chocolate.

All of the above are indicative of my recent conversion to Xoçai Chocolate and rationale for my having once again indulged my fetish for candles by commissioning wax-artisan Jfay to provide me with her truly inspired “Blood and Chocolate” candle for my ever expanding collection:

Link to see what I'm currently munching: http://www.mxi.myvoffice.com/williammaltese

Starship Intercourse Part 4

From the alienated brain of William Maltese comes part four of his pulp fiction from Greenleaf Classics... STARSHIP INTERCOURSE...

“Well?” Susan had asked later, letting Patricia know by the very sound of her voice that she certainly didn’t believe one word of the story about the car breaking down.

“Well, what? Patricia had replied. But she’d long ago decided this was one secret she wasn’t going to keep to herself. There were some things a girl just had to get off her breasts, or bust (she had smiled at that bit of word-play). She had looked at Susan and given her a girl-to-girl smile. “It’s a good ten inches,” she’d whispered with a girlish grin.

“You lucky bitch!” Susan had squealed.

Patricia had noticed how the squeal brought glances from others in the dining room. For once, she didn’t care.

“How was it?” Susan had asked, her voice returning to a whisper.

“I thought I was going to die,” Patricia had said. Then smilingly, she rolled her eyes. “But what a hell of a way to go!”


***


Pushing her hips up to meet the downward deep-thrust of his cock, Patricia rolled slightly as Buzz’s penetrating erection ripped into her. It was as if twenty-five years of lost fucking had been channeled into this one frantic hump.

His hands stroked her ass and, simultaneously, pulled her body in close to his each and every time his cock rammed the dewy corridors of her twat. He increased his frantic pumping.

“Harder!” she screamed. “Harder!” She wouldn’t have cared if her cries had awakened the rest of the crew. She was too far gone to give a damn about anything except the pleasure. “Harder!” she screamed again.

He was already pumping her hard; any harder and she would’ve passed out with the pleasure and the pain. He brought his lips to her cheek, slobbering in his attempt at kisses. His tongue ran over her face, turning it wet with spit.

She worked to return his every thrust. Her tongue simultaneously wet his face with her own spit. Her body thrashed on the padded floor, her cries filling the air as if she were being impaled on a Krupp-steel spike rather than a taut pole of human flesh.

He echoed her moans, his cock speeding through the juice swimming within her hole, drilling her — in and out — in and out. Their breathing grew heavier, deeper, and more frantic. Their rasping heaves sounded loudly as their trembling bodies pushed closer and closer to orgasm.

She climaxed, first, and her insides melted and then rolled in heavy waves of pleasure like the sea in motion. Wave after wave of ecstasy washed through her and threatened to drown her. Somewhere through the resulting blur, she became aware of Buzz’s cries of pleasure, feeling his cummy come explode up the crack in her lower belly.

“Fuck!” she screamed, her mind fooled into thinking this fuck was all fucks, her mind’s-eye remembering all the other times Buzz had fucked her, all the times Williams had fucked her, all of the other times any and all cock had pumped cum up her hole. Her mind conjured a collage of three-dimensional phalli spurting, spouting, and spewing hot jism up her guts.

Buzz held to her climaxing body, hugging it with an intensity that might have been painful if not for the overshadowing pleasure. He kept her entrapped within his embrace as his cock continued its frantic pumping even after the last reservoir of his sperm exited his completely deflated nuts.

Finally, he was through. He rolled off of her and lie beside her.

For the next few moments, there seemed to be no sounds within the space that contained them, except for their ragged breathing and rapid heartbeats as they recuperated from their mutual climaxes. Then, their beating hearts and breathing quieted, too, and Buzz’s cock finished its wilt into complete flaccidness within her still-containing twat.

Suddenly, his body stiffened but not in orgasm.

“Buzz?” she asked.

He pressed his mouth in close to her left ear and said, “Listen.”


She listened, hearing nothing. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Not a thing?”

She listened again. She could tell he was holding his breath. She did likewise. “Nothing,” she confirmed finally.

He lifted his head from her neck.

“Oh, my God!” he said and got up from beside her; their sweat glossed their parted flesh.

“Buzz, what is it?”

“It’s past,” he said. “The time, I mean.”

She got to her feet, too, suddenly, like him, realizing the full impact of what had happened.

“We missed it, you mean?”

“It would seem so?” He was dismayed, rightly so, and sounded that way.
He flicked a button on the machine marked RECORD and waited for an instant before pushing REPLAY.

They listened … to the silence.

“We didn’t miss anything,” Buzz said. “There’s no incoming message to miss.”

“But…”

“There wasn’t any incoming message to miss!” he repeated with emphasis.

“Maybe they sent it early,” Patricia tried hopefully to rationalize. “Maybe it’s already recorded and back-logged.”

Buzz stepped to the machine, again, and pushed all the proper buttons.

Again, they waited.

William Maltese - Starship Intercourse 3

William's whipping out part three of...

STARSHIP INTERCOURSE

They’d fucked on the way back to the test area after a briefing in Section C. They later told everyone their car had broke down. But everyone — including Susan, who couldn’t wait to hear all about it — knew what kept the two from checking in on schedule.

Buzz had parked the car, leaning over for a kiss, and Patricia’s hand had strayed to his thigh. What she felt there, running down almost to his knee, made all her inhibitions vanish. It was big. It was thick. It was ten inches. Her cunt was already leaking for it, and Buzz understood her hand’s continual caress of his cock to be an affirmative answer to his unasked question (which, in truth, it was).

“I’ve a blanket in the trunk,” he said. “The car is too damned cramped even for necking.”

The way he said “even for necking” let Patricia know he, as well as she, had a lot more in mind than a few kisses. She also noticed how he reached into the glove compartment for a tube of lubricant before they got out. That she pretended not to notice assured him he was going to get his desired piece of ass.

It hadn’t taken either of them long to get undressed, Patricia audibly gasping at the sight of the tool upraised between Buzz’s legs. She doubted he’d ever get something so big inside her if he didn’t slop the damned thing with gallons of lubricant. She’d begun wishing he’d brought a much larger tube (of the latter).

Buzz noticed her apprehension at seeing his monstrous dork unsheathed and wasted little time in crawling between her legs. He gripped his cock and slipped its bulbous wet head smoothly along the mouth of her slit, stopping only long enough to smear his prick with cream from the tube.

He gathered one of her tits in his mouth, sucking and nibbling at its flesh. Patricia felt her nipple turn hard as he attempted swallowing it. Her pussy was leaking with the feel of his cock against its outer rim. He hadn’t even attempted to shove home yet. He wanted to make sure her hole was wet enough to take each and ever stiff inch of his pecker. The wetter she became, the more likely that full submersion was likely to occur.

Finally, he was ready, and he prayed she was, too. His cockhead pressed just inside the warmth of her dripping cunt hole. He paused, but only momentarily, before pushing his blood-engorged dick into her slot. Pussy walls yielded beneath the onslaught, folding back to let his battering ram push home along slick corridors: penis head and shaft violated her inner sanctum.

Patricia felt the fire his hard and bulky dick ignited up her cunt and how her pussy walls concaved to accept the phallic intruder. Her cunt trembled uncontrollably. She groaned.

“Buzz?” she asked weakly, not knowing what else to say. The heat in her cunt flamed higher as inch after inch of his prick buried inside her until it was submerged to Buzz’s big hairy balls. His hirsute scrotum pooled atop her upturned ass.

She felt weak, as if her breath had been taken away, as if his prick had been a pin, so long that it stuck her to her lungs, puncturing them.

“Easy, baby, easy,” he whispered in her ear. “You have it all … every inch.”

“All?” Patricia asked. She had difficulty realizing the reality of her feat. All? My God, how could I have actually taken it all?

She experienced the pleasure and the pain of his largess, digging her fingernails into his back, pleased that he muttered pain at her scratching.

His cock ballooned bigger within her, teased to new greatness by the increased friction caused by the rubbing of his penis against her juicy cuntal membranes. His hands reached underneath her, cradling her ass, pushing the moue of her pussy slit up closer about the base of his monstrous prick.

“It’ll be good, baby,” he promised; his inches slowly pulled out, his inches slowly slipped back in. “It’ll be really … really …really good.”

Patricia could tell it would be good, too. She’d been fucked enough times to know the beginnings of a good screw from a bad one. This one was one good poke. She had no doubts whatsoever that it was going to get even better.

Although, as he progressed to fuck even more in earnest, there were times she thought she was being torn apart with each violent plunge; the pleasure, though, always, far overshadowed any of her pain.

Buzz’s fingertips worked into the crease of her ass, finding the pucker of her asshole within the valley of her ass-cheeks. He spread the entrance, inserting a finger into her funky rear hole. She lifted her hips in a reflexive attempt to dislodge his finger, burying, as she did so, all ten inches of his dick up her ravaged snatch. Falling back downward, her ass sucked up his finger to its second knuckle.

“Oh, God!” she mumbled at the double violation of her body. “Oh, Jesus God.”

Buzz’s cock pulled out to its slippery head, then instantly plugged back full-depth. Like a locomotive and its cars, the train of his prick pushed up her front tunnel. He fucked her. God, how it fucked her. His balls frantically banged her butt before finally bunching up against the base of his cock in preparation for shooting his spermal discharge.

His finger up her ass felt his cock on the other side of a thin, separating membrane. The sensation of feeling his own pumping prong inside her pushed him even closer to the brink of orgasm.

His drilled her all of the way possible — hard. His cock throbbed. His body tensed. His nuts let go his creamy load and sent it far … far … far … up her acceptingly vacuuming hole.

She screamed her pleasure, ramming and grinding her hips into his lower belly, raking his back with her fingernails, biting his neck until she tasted his blood on her tongue.

William Maltese - Starship Intercourse Part Two

And now, return to the days of Greenleaf Classics with your host and author, William Maltese, as he presents...


STARSHIP INTERCOURSE

by William Maltese

Chapter 2

And so, Lt. Buzz Shaw, communications’ expert, and Lt. Patricia Riley, ecologist, fucked aboard Starship 12B en route to a tiny galaxy in outer space termed on the charts as nothing more than Beta 10.

They both sank down into the padded flooring of the briefing area, not too far from the radio which would soon be broadcasting their latest instructions from the planet Earth. Patricia acted coy at first, trying to put off Buzz’s insistence, but her resolve (Had she actually had any?) was soon dissolved amid his kissing and caressing. After all, as he said, who would know four years from then, when they were scheduled to reach Beta 10, that Buzz and Patricia had fucked in outer space? Besides, it wasn’t like they hadn’t done it before. In those hectic days before blast-off, the two of them had gone at it until both were bordering on exhaustion. The doctor at the final examinations had eyed Patricia carefully. It’d been Dr. Kenault.

“Poor Doctor Kenault,” Patricia said.

Buzz was already naked and out of his flight uniform. His twenty-five years in outer space certainly hadn’t shrunk his cock any.

“What about Doctor Kenault?” he asked, handing her one of the preventatives, which she swallowed.

“‘Cut out the fucking,’” he said to me. “‘Or else you’ll be too damned weak to make the trip.’”

“Doctor Kenault said that?” Buzz laughed. “That meddling old buzzard.”

Poor Kanault, Patricia thought. He was old then. God, how old is he now that twenty-five years have passed, and he hasn’t been in suspended animation to preserve his looks? Patricia shuddered unconsciously. Buzz mistook it for a sign of passion.

“I’ll set these dials,” Buzz said, “so that when the message arrives, we’ll be able to hear it. I mean, there’s no sense in interrupting playtime until it’s absolutely necessary.”

Patricia again noticed his cock. It was ten inches of hard meat if it was an inch. Its fistlike head glistened in the low-light flashings of the machines.

Patricia stretched out on her back spreading her legs. After twenty-five years in bed, her muscles were more than just a little stiff. Buzz turned back from the radio, coming toward her, finally kneeling down. He lowered his body on top of hers, his prick mashing between their bellies. Patricia opened her legs farther, letting his lower body slip between them.

He kissed her, rubbing the wetness of his prick along her lower belly. After twenty-five years in deep-freeze, the fire in their bodies hadn’t been extinguished. If anything, defrost had allowed the flames to burn even higher. Already Patricia’s hole was leaking its juices, streaming them from her cuntwalls to dribble out the mouth of her hair-lined slit. She could feel the stream leaking out of her twat’s mouth, slipping stickily down the crease of her ass.

“God, baby, God!” Buzz muttered. He’d pushed his cock’s head to the doorway. He was previously planning on a lot of foreplay. But after a few minutes of actual body contact, he and Patricia both agreed — without actual voicing it — that nothing more was needed to prepare either one of them for direct action.

The prick’s thick tip pressed its way into her wet tightness, followed by inches of hard cockshaft as it sank deeper and deeper into the offered slit.

Their bodies seemed to fit together perfectly. He’d noticed it before when they’d humped. They seemed to belong together like two peas in a pod, like the right nut for the right screw. It was heaven. It was just as he remembered it.

“This is Lieutenant Shaw,” Dr. Kenault had said. “He’s to replace Williams on the Beta 10 expedition.”

Lieutenant Williams had been found to have a heart murmur. Nobody really knew how it had managed to escape notice until that late in the game. The Beta 10 expedition was scheduled for departure in less than two months.

“You’re replacing a good man,” Patricia had said. She’d meant, of course, as a member of the project. She’d little imagined that Buzz’s cock would soon be replacing Williams’ cock, also.
.
Patricia and Williams had been fucking around since the expedition’s members had been selected. Everybody knew they’d been doing the sex scene. In a way, it was expected. In one way or the other, the whole Beta 10 contingent had paired off in groups. It wasn’t always an equal dividing line, however. It was a well-know fact that Lt. Martin and Lt. Perkins were Lesbians. But then, Lt. Susan Pilon had done her share for the well-being of the operation by taking on three men at the same time: an arrangement which everyone, Susan and her three men included, had no objections to at all.

But because of Williams’ heart murmur, he was taken off the team. Taken off the team and taken off Patricia. Where they’d transferred him — five-hundred miles away as an instructor at Camp Piptolincan — his cock, no matter how long (and they’d measured it once as nine and a quarter erect inches), had been unable to manage the stretch now required to reach Patricia’s distant cunt.. After a few letters, Lieutenant Williams had settled down with a redheaded civilian nurse, and Patricia had decided that Buzz Shaw was better than nothing: anyway, his ten inches of hard cock sure as hell beat the Coke bottle she’d been doing herself with since Williams had left the scene.

She had, at first, been rather reluctant about Shaw. For one thing, he wasn’t exactly her ideal of a he-man. He was rather nice-looking (she thought a bit too nice-looking, if that were possible), and he exuded that air of self-assurance that is normally only found in the very rich. And Buzz Shaw, or rather Buzz Shaw’s family (which boasted governmental heads back to pre-World War II), did have money. In short, Patricia found him spoiled, conceited, and too cock-sure of himself to actually replace Williams in more ways than one. She might’ve managed not to succumb to his sexual charms (which at first she thought were nonexistent — she’d yet to find out about the ten-inch cock) — if it hadn’t been for Susan.

“Have you two been doing it?” Susan had asked. Though she already had three men humping her, she was always scouting around for more.

“I hardly think that’s any of your goddamned business,” Patricia had replied.

Susan tended to get just a bit personal at times. She figured since she didn’t mind discussing her sex life that everyone else would be just as candid about theirs. Patricia’s blunt reply had admittedly stung.

“I’m sorry,” Susan said, and she said it in such a hurt, downcast way, that Patricia was immediately sorry she’d been so rude. She’d told herself time and time again she had to be more understanding around Susan. Susan, despite her good looks, wasn’t really out to hurt anyone. Despite the fact that her IQ was near-genius, if not genius, she reminded everyone of the “dumb blonde”, and she seemed to prefer that role herself.

“I used to be a bookworm,” she’d once told Patricia in one of their infrequent girl-to-girl chats. “But I found out that a girl doesn’t get anywhere acting superior to the guys — or to the girls, either, for that matter,” she offered as an afterthought.

Patricia never bothered to delve into the meaning of that last bit of unsolicited information.
.
“It’s my middle-class upbringing,” Patricia had said, finally, feeling tinges of regret at her blunt reply to Susan’s innocent questioning. “I sometimes still get very upset over this sex thing.”

“Oh,” Susan said, immediately brightening up. She was always easy to forgive someone. She’d had years, before flowering into maturity, when she’d been really quite unattractive. Bad looks and a superior brain had made her very undesirable company. She still remembered those days, and even though the ugly caterpillar had metamorphosed into a beautiful butterfly, Susan never forgot her days of social ostracism. She always thought the day might come when the butterfly would somehow revert to the cocoon, coming out finally the ugly caterpillar again. She had nightmares about it that she never told even her doctor.

“I didn’t mean to pry, after all,” Susan said. “I mean, he’s just so damned cute, and Walter said he was hung like a goddamned horse. But then Lieutenant Williams was hung like one, too, wasn’t he?” Susan hurried on. “But Walter said this one is much bigger.”

Walter was Captain Reynolds, head of the Beta 10 mission as well as one of Susan’s paramours.

Patricia wondered just why Reynolds had been so goddamned observant as to the size of Shaw’s cock. It had been rumored, more than once, that Reynolds was kind of fruity, but as long as he kept his extracurricular activities private, and satisfied Susan sufficiently so that she would boldly broadcast his masculine virtues, no one had nearly enough reason to complain.

“That’s the only reason I asked,” Susan said, biting into a roll which was oozing yellow butter. “I’ve never really had a big, big one. I mean, Walter has a good-sized one, but he said Shaw’s must be at least ten inches.”

Patricia had choked on her milk.

“Are you all right, honey?” Susan had squealed, running around the table and giving Patricia a slap on the back that was loud enough to draw the attention of those who hadn’t already noted Patricia’s gagging.

“I’m fine,” Patricia tried to say, but couldn’t get it out. She gagged again, and Buzz Shaw had left his tray to see if he might be of any assistance.

When Buzz arrived, Susan had slapped Patricia’s back once more, and Patricia was almost completely recovered from her ordeal. She was, all the time, despite her gagging, attempting to conjure in her mind’s-eye the actual dimensions of a ten-inch cock. She’d remembered just how large Williams’ had looked, and how they’d measured it with a tape measure.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Buzz had asked.

“Fine,” Patricia had said, finding her face not two inches from Buzz’s crotch. Her imagination singled out the lengthy crease in his pants, which she was sure must be concealing his flaccid prick. It was right then and there that she decided she was going to one day soon be able to tell Susan just what it was like to be jabbed with a ten-inch spike of hard male meat.

(to be continued)

William Maltese - Vintage Pulp 1

SURE, I’M GOOD! … BUT WORTH 1000 BUCKS?

If I’d been a genuinely smart author, way back when, first starting out and pumping out books for Greenleaf Classics (while I was busy pumping something else as well), I would have held on to a helluva lot more copies of my books than I did. Instead, I passed along all my author comp copies to friends and associates, like Jesus passing out bread and fishes.

Actually, I guess, compared to some other authors — very few who survive from the time of Golden Pulp Fiction —I managed to save at least one copy of all my books, with the possible exception of MASTER BLACK, which I wrote as Wm. Lambert III (if anyone has an extra copy, please send it along).

What’s happened, of course, is that those pulp books have since become hot items (in more ways than one) for collectors, for just the very reason that so few of them, considered as disposable as toilet paper in their day, have survived. You thumbed through them, you jacked off to them (I didn’t call them “one-hand reads” for nothing; and, yes, I do hold the trademark rights to that phrase — one-hand read), you got their pages all stuck together with your dried cum, you gave them a toss in the wastepaper basket, and you went down to the dirty-book section of your local sleazy hole-in-the-wall and picked up a couple of the more recent offerings. In those days, the halcyon days of pulp-fiction erotica, Greenleaf was putting out as many as four straight fuck-books and four gay-fuck books on a monthly basis.

While, over the last couple of years, I’ve noticed the decided increase in the amount of money anyone has to shell out for a good many of those early smut books, mine included, even I was surprised to find a copy of my straight STARSHIP INTERCOURSE erotica, written by me as Lambert Wilhelm, offered up the other day for the asking price of $1000.00. Of course, the cover is by none other than Robert Bonfils, an illustrator who has only recently started receiving critical praise for his work, but still …

I’ve decided to provide all of you frothingauthor.blogspot.com readers with a free peek at what, these days, you’d have to dig deep into your pockets (and not just to play with yourself) to see … because, as luck would have it, I do still have one author’s copy of STARSHIP INTERCOURSE in my collection, not only signed by me but by Robert; I’m holding on to it in order to pay for some very plush days of retirement.

Therefore, with no additional fanfare — feel free to unzip, pull out, and grab hold — for …


“Hi,” he said. “Remember me?”

Patricia Riley — Lieutenant Patricia Riley — yawned, stretched, lazily blinked her eyes, then suddenly realized where she was.

“My God, are we there?” she asked, sitting up with a start.

“No,” Buzz Shaw replied with a smile. “I just got lonely.”

Patricia looked about the cabin, noticing the neatly lined suspended-animation cylinders holding the Captain and the rest of the crew. She then turned her attention back to Buzz, who was still grinning like a little school boy.

“You’re mad,” Patricia said. “Absolutely dotty. Do you know what Reynolds is going to say when he finds out about this?”

“What do you mean, when he finds out?” Don’t you mean, if he finds out? I’m sure as hell not going to tell him. Are you?”

“Hell, yes,” Patricia said, indignantly. “You’ve committed a breach of orders. They’ll court-martial you for this. It’s my duty as an officer on this ship to see that those orders are carried out to the letter. You had no authorization to defrost me until we reached Beta 10. You were instructed in the briefing that no one was to be defrosted before Beta 10 unless it was an emergency. Then it was to be Captain Reynolds.” She looked at his smiling face, finding it really impossible to be mad at his baby-faced grin. The impossibility to feel anger annoyed her.

But then Buzz Shaw had always annoyed her. He wasn’t somebody she ever would’ve believed to be Space-Corps material. He was more of the country-club, cotillion, lawn-party, high-tea set. He wasn’t the dedicated sort of gung-ho person one expected to be wrapped in the cobalt blue of the Experimentation Squad. He was too carefree, too happy-go-lucky, and too unobservant of rules and regulations. He’d been that way from the beginning.

“You bastard!” she said finally. “You silly-assed, goddamned bastard!”

“Such language for a lady,” he smiled.

“They’ll have your head for this,” she said, trying to let some form of seriousness creep into the conversation, sink into his head. “They’ll cut the goddamned thing off, shove it in one of the vacuum tubes, and jettison it back to Earth before the rest of your body gets there.”

“How about a kiss?” Buzz laughed. He’d always thought Patricia a bit too serious. Not that they hadn’t had some fun times together. They’d surely had some of those. That’s why he’d decided long ago to defrost her when his turn came up to receive the periodic communiqués beamed to them from Earth.

“Like hell, I’m going to give you a kiss!’” Patricia almost screamed. Her attempt at impressing him with the seriousness of the situation had apparently gone way over his head.

“Hey, baby,” Buzz grinned. “When I pushed all those buttons, I thought I’d defrosted you. You’re just as frigid as ever.”

“My God, my God,” Patricia muttered hopelessly. “What more can I say than that?”

What more could she say? What more was there to say? Here they were, the only two conscious people in an intergalactic vessel in outer space. She was suddenly at a loss for words.

“Come on,” Buzz said, extending a hand. “It can’t be all that bad. Who the hell is going to know four years from now that Lieutenant Shaw defrosted Lieutenant Riley and fucked her in outer space?”

“Who fucked who, where?” Patricia asked. She retrieved her hand, which she’d extended for help in getting out of her suspended-animation tube. “Nobody is fucking this baby, anywhere.”

“Guess I defrosted the wrong bitch,” Buzz pouted. “I was really tempted to push the buttons for Susan. Now, she wouldn’t have bitched. She would’ve been pretty damned appreciative.”

“I guess you should have,” Patricia said, lying back down in her tube, crossing her arms as if she were a Pharaoh being laid out in the sarcophagus. “As a matter of fact, you can just freeze me back up and go defrost Susan.”

“And what makes you think I won’t take advantage of you once you start to go under?”

“You wouldn’t!”

“And just think what would happen if I didn’t get my rocks off fast enough. Everyone would wake up on Beta 10 and find my cock frozen up your cunt.”

“Ach!’ Patricia said, sitting up again. “You are damned impossible. And I suspect you’re a little perverted to boot.”

“The truth is,” Buzz confessed, “I haven’t got time to defrost Susan.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s time for me to check the ship and see if it’s in working order.”

“You haven’t done that yet?” Patricia was flabbergasted.

“Come, now, sweetheart,” Buzz consoled. “Things can’t be too bad. We’re all in one piece, all the machines are still making noise, and we are still moving.”

“And how about the message? You know your whole purpose in having been defrosted according to a schedule was to accept the message beamed from Earth.”

“I thought if you’d help me check out the ship, we’d have a few minutes to talk before the message. I mean a guy could get pretty damned lonely with nobody but the machines to talk to.”
“Just talk?”

“Or whatever.”

“What does that mean?”

“I thought maybe we could fuck. I told you that.”

“I haven’t been taking preventatives,” Patricia said.

“No fear,” Buzz smiled, extending his hand again. “I just happen to have some on me.”

“You just happen to have some?” Patricia asked immediately. “You just happen to?”

“Sure,” Buzz said. “I picked some up before boarding. “No one even noticed them in the pocket of my flight uniform.”

“You were instructed to bring nothing,” Patricia said. “Nothing at all except what the regulation set out. This goddamned ship has a maximum-weight capacity.”

“Now, how many excess pounds to you think I added by smuggling aboard one small box of preventatives?”

Patricia shook her head disbelievingly.

“Your time is fast arriving,” she said. “One of these days you’re going to do something you weren’t supposed to. Then look and see what the hell is going to happen.”

“Gee,” Buzz said. “Just because I wanted to fuck a fifty-five-year-old woman? Such static?”

“Just who in the hell do you think you’re calling a fifty-five-year-old woman?” Patricia asked indignantly.

“It’s the year two-thousand-three,” Buzz said.

“My God!” Patricia replied. She automatically checked her body for signs of age.

“You asked me once why I became a member of the Space Corps,” Buzz said. “Now you know. Who else could look twenty at fifty?”

“My God,” Patricia breathed. “Twenty-five years of my life gone in one night’s sleep.”

Unresisting, she let him help her from her capsule.


(to be continued)

Note from Jardonn: William's web site (Link HERE) has more pics of his pulp classic covers, as well as his library of hot erotic fiction still in publication. Best of all, he has an extensive collection of artwork based on his photograph that he calls "'Artists Do' William Maltese."

Best of the best of all, he's put together excerpts of Starship Intercourse from his Greenleaf Classics days for posting to this blog. It is a rare treat, ladies and gents, for here will be words you will find nowhere else -- not unless you were clever enough to save such material from when it was in print.