Fashion, intent, desire, choice – new free erotic fiction by Fulani

“Question for you. How come I get tied up and whipped and fucked and never seem to have any actual character? You hardly ever write about my feelings on politics or art or culture or fashion or music. I don’t even have much of a backstory or heritage or even much in the way of family!”

“Well, it’s porn. People aren’t interested in your politics, or whether you like old school EBM. Not unless it’s somehow relevant to the basic context of getting tied up and whipped and fucked.”

“Okay, so they just want to know about my body – tits and ass, whether I shave my pubes and what colour hair I have this week?”

“And other things, obviously. What you’re wearing, what kind of scent you have on…”

“That’s another thing. Most of the time I’m wearing hardly anything. I do feel the cold, you know. Would it be too much to ask for a coat when I’m outdoors? And maybe convey a bit of anticipation, instead of just going straight to the sex?”


Cassie pondered the near-certainty that the evening would end with her being tied up – or down – for a whipping, following which she could expect a gangbang that would leave her exhausted.

Exhausted, yes. But also satisfied.

It wasn’t so much a rape fantasy as one of putting herself deliberately in a position where she’d have no choice but to comply, to be submissive to many men. Out of character for a woman with a strong sense of social justice and a broadly feminist outlook?

The whole point of those battles for human liberty, individual liberty, women’s liberty, back in her mother’s day were that as a consenting adult, you should have the freedom to act on your desires, act out your fantasies. And the women’s movement couldn’t prescribe what those fantasies should be, because you were free.

She remembered a story her mother’s friend, Gloria, had told her about a lesbian group. “We were all lesbians, back then,” she’d said. “It was about solidarity and political correctness and not being reliant on men for pleasure. But there was a group called the Kinky Dyke Collective, who were lesbian but into S&M. And the S&M thing meant they were never accepted by the rest of us. They got banned from using the community centre, and in the end weren’t allowed to attend the consciousness-raising groups. Not that they thought that was a bad thing. Those groups did go on for hours and hours…”
She’d never got to the bottom of how her mother knew Gloria, or the nature of their friendship. Maybe that was good. There were certain things one was better off not knowing about one’s mother. Just like there were things mothers were better off not knowing about their daughters.
Like Cassie’s penchant for indulging her desires through submission, feeling the welts for days after a good thrashing and sucking cock until the spunk leaked out of her ears.


Cassie made her choices. What we wear, how we look, is symbolic as well as practical. It’s a statement about who we are, and it can be a way of reaching out to something not quite concrete, something beyond everyday consciousness.

Cassie knew this when she dressed for work: power suits with shoulder pads for the jacket, pencil skirts, high heels, but counterbalanced with pale non-threatening makeup.

Tonight would be a different look, though, projecting a different Cassie.

So: hair a startling red, out of a bottle. Pubes shaved. Eyeliner and dark but glittery eyeshadow. Lips the colour of Jaegermeister straight out of the bottle. A dark, musky perfume heavy on patchouli. Considered what dress to wear, decided on none. What would be the point?

Fashion follows intent.

Instead she chose a long coat that buttoned almost to her chin. The evening was being cooled by a strong breeze and the coat was enough to keep the wind out. The inner lining moved smoothly against her skin, teasing. Teamed it with leather high heeled boots that ended just below the knee.
She walked to the address of her impending degradation. The wind played on her knees, tiny tendrils of cool air worming their way up the insides of her thighs. In her head, an old Nine Inch Nails track was playing. I want to fuck you like an animal. Maybe it was the vibe she was putting out, as well. A man walking out of a convenience store looked at her, looked at her button-up up state, as though he had X-ray eyes. As though she were some exotic creature from another world.

He was right. She was.

Cassie stood for a time outside the front door. Not because she had second thoughts, but because she was savouring the anticipation. The way it made her heart race, the way it wrapped around her and kept her warm. The way it made the muscles in her thighs and stomach firm up.

Music, muffled, from the other side of the door. She recognised the beat, the cadence. Front 242: You put me in a cage.

Well, yes. Probably. He had a cage in his living room, human-sized.

She waited until her body was announcing its desire, clearly and with a moistening of soft membranes. Until she was the very image of unfulfilled desire.

And then she rang the doorbell.


“See? That wasn’t so hard to write, was it?”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s