Ooh La la

Whorticulture is a Cream Scene Carnival Column: A rotating menagerie of qualified sex-ed advice, erotica, and everyone’s favorite: musings.

an innovative format: sex-ed advice interspersed with erotica. You’ll happen across some not-so-boring info and advice before getting to the sexy interludes!

Questions from readers are accepted via email. 

Whorticulture.by.sabrine@gmail.com 

Captain Hastings was in a mood.  The weather was turning, from a lovely spring sea to a black, boiling cloud mass ahead of him.  Even if the heavens didn’t open directly upon them, the wind would surely make for a challenging course ahead.  Hastings just wanted to drop anchor and have a few nights on land.  He missed being on land.  Hastings may have a tentacled sea god in his family tree, but land had hot food, overstuffed beds, and barmaids to bring abed.  

The squall had taken all of his crew’s energies. They rested on the deck, backs against the rails and water barrels,  He surveyed his crew, all of them, sweaty and punch drunk after their twin storms of adrenaline and lightning.  Fighting to stay on course during harsh weather meant most of the men had stowed their shirts. His eyes delighted in the bare, wet chests heaving in the hard won sunlight.   Hastings knew he had a gloriously attractive crew, even if some of their personalities were foul.  Regretfully, they could only feast with his eyes.  

He imagined, as he was sat right next to his man Orson, with his arm resting on his belt, that the back of his hand could easily arc over and rest on Orson’s slowly rising and falling chest.  The Captain dreamed that that casual touch would lead the man to smirk suggestively at him, and then to slowly untie his breeches and let himself out into the sun.  Orson had a cock with personality, and the Captain longed to pay it some attention.  Orson’s horn looked so happy with Hasting’s mandibular tentacles wrapped around it.  Many times below decks, Hastings had wrapped three tentacles around the base of him, all while rolling a testicle around in his mouth, slowly.  He liked to drag his teeth along the surface of Orson’s sack, as his tentacles enveloped the upshaft.  His hands were free to grab Orson’s muscular ass, and Orson would try to hold out on him.  

Hastings imagined rolling over on top of the man next to him, and kissing his chest. He could smell the sweat of the men, and it was driving him mad with lust. Hastings snapped out of his daydream, the image of himself riding Orson’s lap dissipated into memory. It was torturous to wish for something he could never have in the open.

Hastings imagined rolling over on top of the man next to him, and kissing his chest. He could smell the sweat of the men, and it was driving him mad with lust.  

He wished he didn’t have to hide with men.  The sunny, drying deck would be a wonderful place to straddle Orson’s legs, bite him on the neck and show him how aroused he was.  He could hold onto the railing behind Orson and grind his blue green cock into his lap, until Orson was just as hard as he was.  That would make him want to grab Orson by the neck and kiss him deeply, but Orson wouldn’t permit it.  

Some of the crew refused to be affectionate in their rough below-decks couplings.  Maybe that’s why the Captain wanted a wife so badly.  

He could hold women in ways that many of his male lovers would never permit.  He could put an arm around a wife in public, whisper flirty ideas to her, and no one would bat an eyelash.  He had to get into the nearest port and empty his balls into the first woman that’d let him.  


Hastings preferred women with full hips and tits.  Thinner thighs didn’t feel substantial enough in his hands when pulling a lady’s pelvis into his.  He thought his muscled frame looked best contrasted with a soft, curvy partner next to him.  He loved everything about women’s bodies, and lamented that he couldn’t have more than one woman in each port, outside of the cat house.  

Landside propriety was seriously cockblocking him.  


He made sure the crew was fed and rested, and then set a course for the nearest port city.  He had a mental map of which cities had the cutest school teachers, farm girls, and clerks. Fishwives and whores were occasionally pretty, but not as often as he liked.  Hastings had been incredibly vain in his youth, only bedding the loveliest women, until he discovered what beautiful bodies less fortunate looking women had underneath their dresses.