Emerald in the magazine

Emerald sat on the park bench staring at the magazine.

It had been left by the previous occupants of the bench, two student-looking guys wearing T-shirts that seemed to advertise heavy metal bands. The cover didn’t appeal to her, but she’d been curious.

The photo had resurfaced. It was on page 35, the lower half, as part of an advert.

It was evidently being used as the cover image of a book. No. 1 bestseller! the billboard announced. Sex, Scandal and Sadism in the Swinging Sixties. The title was in a script that was harder to read – she hadn’t brought the right glasses – but had been positioned strategically to cover her nipples.

The ad evoked a rush of memories, emotions, reactions. They didn’t come in any particular sequence or order. They didn’t tell a story. They were just elements in her life, no join-the-dots connectedness to them.

The picture came from 1965. She’d been 21 at the time.

The original showed her hands tied behind her back; ropes around her upper arms and breasts; knees and ankles tied together. It was technically a hogtie because a rope ran from her ankles to the small of her back, pulling her feet behind her. But she’d been lying on her side. Nude, of course – Jon always preferred to shoot her nude. But the shot was taken from a low angle, with her looking back – or up, from her perspective – at the camera. Her face and tits had been in the foreground, with the rope around the tits.

He’d used a Hasselblad. State of the art for the period. All of her body was in focus, including her toes, visible behind her head. NASA had used Hasselblad cameras on the first Apollo missions.

The shoot had been in colour. Jon spent a lot of time messing with a red light in front of her, and a blue light – an ordinary bedside light with a silk scarf thrown over it – behind her. But the finished product, half-page in a pulp magazine, had been in black and white.

The mags had started to decline in popularity in the late sixties, and some of them had turned to explicit photos rather than artwork to reverse the trend. She couldn’t remember the title. It was in the weird menace, murder, horror and sexploitation end of the market.

Was Jon even alive, still? She hadn’t seen him since the mid-seventies. God knew who held the rights to the picture now. She’d been paid five pounds for the shoot, which in those days was a week’s wage packet for a lot of women.

He’d gagged her with a piece of cloth ripped from her kaftan mini-dress. The kaftan had cost seventeen shillings and sixpence from a shop in the Kings Road, this being in the days before decimalisation when shilling and pence were still in use. She’d insisted on being refunded the cost in addition to the five pounds.

After the shoot she’d walked home naked under her raincoat.

The pic was one of a set. He’d shot maybe three dozen and come up with five he really liked. The others were of her from a low angle, full-frontal; from above, looking down as he stood over her with this shadow falling across her thighs; close-up of face and breasts; and one shot from by her knees, showing exposed buttocks, arms behind her, ropework.

This was all done in the days before Japanese bondage became popular. No kinbaku, no shibari. Not many people had heard of John Willie. There was no aesthetic of jute and hemp: it was all damsel-in-distress and white cotton rope, the kind used for window sash cords. You could buy it in any street-corner ironmongers.

Every parade of shops had an ironmonger in those days. Everyone needed coal scuttles, dustbins, nails, washing lines, rope…

In the picture she was crying. The tears were real. The terror was real. The bastard wanted her to look terrified. He’d told her about a serial murderer who tied his victims up exactly that way, and carved messages to the police on the skin of his victims. Then he’d thrown a cut-throat razor onto the floor next to her. That feeling of the story being a wind-up, but at the same time having an emotional effect because she was vulnerable, stayed with her a long time.

The razor had been cropped from the cover picture she was looking at.

They’d had sex when he’d finished the camerawork. He’d untied her ankles and knees, rolled her onto her back, on a blanket, and spread her legs. Her weight pressing on her wrists had made every thrust excruciating. But the fact she was still tied meant the pain didn’t matter. The fact she was still crying because of the murder story and the razor didn’t matter. Sex after a photoshoot was ritualistic, a way of bringing the whole encounter to a form of closure. The sex was a way of grounding the emotions generated in the session, like his cock was a fizzing bolt of lightening and she was the channel for it to reach the earth.

About six months after the shoot, she’d bumped into Jon again. Gone back to his place to see the magazine. She couldn’t remember the story the pictures were supposed to illustrate, though it wasn’t the one Jon had told her during the session. Then they’d had sex. It was the last time they’d had sex because by then, she had a boyfriend. After sex with Jon she’d gone home, still feeling horny, and persuaded her boyfriend to have sex with her as well. She’d given him a blowjob – ‘giving head’, they called it back then. In those days giving head was something rare and special, maybe just something you did for thirty seconds as part of foreplay. It wasn’t the normal, natural part of sex it seemed to have become now.

The shoot had been in the garage of Jon’s house. It had a cold concrete floor and despite the blanket under her when they had sex, small pieces of grit dug into her shoulder blades and buttocks. She barely noticed them at the time, but they left a rash of tiny purple bruises that took several days to fade.

It wasn’t the first time she’d been tied up. Wasn’t the last time either. The sense of helplessness always got to her, though not always as intensely as the photoshoot had done. Being taken captive had been a fantasy from a young age. French arthouse films had confirmed it wasn’t just her being weird, but a deeper part of the female psyche. The tricky part had been finding partners whose sadistic and dominant tendencies she could trust. Partners who do the things she fantasised about, but without the gruesome consequences.

The shoot had been part of a chaotic time of her life. In the sixties she’d been a wild child. It wasn’t easy being wild, you had to work at it. Not because of the drugs – she’d been a secretary in music company at the time and they’d always had a bowl of coke on the table in the meeting room and ready-rolled joints in a drawer of the reception desk. Emerald doubted anyone would believe those stories now. The company didn’t start cleaning up its office until 1967, after the Rolling Stones arrests. No, the hardest parts of being wild were the four-day parties in the country and the condition of the various squats she and many of her friends lived in.

She’d been 21 in 1965. She was 68 now. The years between then and now had seen her married, bringing up two children, divorced, remarried, bereaved. She’d had two affairs – or was it three? – and spent several years going to swingers’ clubs with her second husband. She’d enjoyed bondage sex, but the last time that had happened was going on three decades ago.

The picture was a moment in time, not a summary of a life. It was a paid photoshoot to illustrate a story she couldn’t remember, maybe hadn’t even read the whole of; it was Jon’s conception, inspiration and staging. It was a five-minute wank for unknown thousands of men who’d now be the same age as her. And yet there was a sense in which, even at this distance in time, it defined something essential about who she was.

She wondered what had happened to the other pictures from the shoot, and whether she’d ever see them again.

Unhurriedly and with the trace of a smile on her face, Emerald put the magazine in her shopping bag. She stood, smoothed the front of her raincoat in a reflex movement, and walked slowly out of the park.

***

You may see a longer version of this story in a collection at some point in the future…

Writer’s Block – new free fiction from Velvet Tripp

Sally frowned. ‘I’m stuck. Well and truly blocked. I just can’t do it,’ she said.

Greg grinned at her. ‘Well, maybe we can do something about that. If inspiration and incentive are what you need I’m sure I could provide them.’

‘How?’ Sally retorted. ‘I just can’t write if I can’t get my imagination going.’

‘A blindfold and flogger might help.’

‘How the hell am I going to write if you have me tied up and blindfold?’ Sally said indignantly.

‘Er, we have the technology,’ Greg replied, pulling out a small microphone and plugging it into the laptop. ‘You can dictate as we go.’

Sally grinned. This seemed like a bit of fun that might just get her creative writing juices flowing.

Slinking out of her already scanty summer shorts and T-shirt, Sally already felt the warmth of anticipation between her legs. This had to beat hammering keys and racking brains for the next sentence. Her eyes suddenly shone. Greg pulled out his bag of rope.

Sliding it around her, he did a ‘quick and nasty’ tie to secure her arms above her head to the anchor in the open plan staircase, and her legs to a spreader bar. Once he’d slipped a blindfold over her eyes, he fixed the microphone to the rope close to her face to pick up her speech.

‘Now you’re going to write. Or else,’ he said.

Sally’s eyes closed. Her skin tingled. The flogger made contact with her arse. Gently at first. Warming, awakening. ‘Write!’ Greg said suddenly. ‘Now.’

‘It was dark.’ Sally said.

Thwack!  ‘More,’ said Greg.

‘She was alone in the dungeon. Alone and very nervous.’

‘Good. That’s a start.’

Thwack! ‘She heard a sound behind her. The sound of chains dragging and clanking as her Dom entered the space with the objects of her bondage and maybe torture.’

Silence. Thwack!  ‘Keep going. You’ve a whole book to write. Your arse will be pretty sore at this rate.’

Sally wriggled. Her arse was rosy, warm and ready for the next blow.

Greg appraised his prisoner. Her soft skin glowed where the flogger had made contact. He ran his fingers over her left buttock, creating a quiver of desire through Sally’s thigh. Sliding a finger between her legs, he felt the slickness that told him she was ready for more.

Reaching into his bag of tricks, he fished out a pinwheel. The sharp little teeth sparkled in the light. Greg carefully ran the pinwheel up the inside of Sally’s thigh. She gasped. ‘Write!’ Greg commanded.

Breathless, Sally continued. ‘She felt her captor buckle ankle cuffs tightly. Chains rattled. Her legs dragged apart.’

The other thigh now, pressing a little harder into her skin. Raising his hand – slap! He hit her arse, causing it to glow even deeper.

Sally jumped. ‘Ow!’

‘Get on with it.’

‘He began gently enough. The crop flicked over her skin like a feather, and she shuddered with each touch.’

Thwack! Sally’s legs trembled, much to Greg’s delight. Moving around to face her, he ran the pinwheel slowly over her breast, up and around her areola. Her nipple stood proud, and he took it into his mouth, nibbling and sucking. Sally groaned.

He repeated his teasing on her other breast. Her eyes rolled beneath the mask. Her head began to spin.

‘Write.’

‘Er, Er,’ Thwack!  ‘He began the real torture now. She’s been waiting for this. Her skin was already on fire, already anticipating the pain she loved. The crop provided the first wave of intense pain/pleasure as he striped her buttocks with its length.’

Greg approved. He loved Sally’s writing. It wasn’t often she hit a writing block, but he was mighty pleased with himself for thinking up this way to unblock her. Double positive!

Now the pinwheel was employed inside her thighs again. A trickle of moisture now dribbled down her leg. Greg slipped out of his trousers, pulled his T-shirt over his head and pushed himself up against her back, his dick proudly pressing into her arse cheek.

Sally groaned again. Pushed back onto his hard promise. He moved away, grinning. ‘Now it’s your turn,’ he said, pulling out a riding crop. He didn’t start so gently as Sally’s character. After all, she was already warmed up.

The stripe he produced on her left cheek looked great. And Sally’s squeal as he made it was so satisfying he did it again, to match, on the other cheek.

Sally wriggled now, writing forgotten. But only by her.

‘Write,’ he said again.

‘I can’t. I really can’t but I will be able to do it now. Honestly!’ she moaned.

Crack! He landed another stripe on her arse. ‘Write.’

‘She gasped as he roughly pinched her nipples, twisting them until she yelped.’

‘Good girl. Good idea!’

‘Please Greg, fuck me now! I’m not blocked any more. Please!’

‘Very soon. Just as soon as…’ He placed the first nipple clamp on her, then slid a finger inside her. She was so wet!

She gasped and groaned, waiting for the second pinch of pain. It soon came. Crack! The crop making a third stripe neatly over both cheeks. Sally jumped, and the chain on the clamps swayed, pulling on her nipples.

Her clit got the message, and she strained in her bonds, eager now for penetration by her lover.

Greg watched as the small trickle of moisture grew and crept down her thigh. Unhooking her from the staircase, he carried her over to the rug, her legs still spread wide. Laying her on her back, he carefully nuzzled her clamped nipples, licking over their tips, squeezing her breasts.

Slowly, he pushed himself inside her, feeling her arch her back to meet him.

‘Dirty girl. Filthy mind,’ he murmered.

‘Mmm,’ was all Sally could say.

He plunged deeper now, kissing her neck, running his hands over her body. She rose to meet each thrust, the chain tugging on her nipples in rhythm, intensifying her high.

She began to fly now. He thrust deeper, harder, grabbing her arse and pulling her onto him, grinding their bodies together.  She cried out as she came. He kept the rhythm until her cries died down, until she sounded spent. Then, without warning, he removed the clamps.

‘Yeoooow!’ She cried. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking gently, then the other, as he began to pump again. Sally’s clit couldn’t resist, couldn’t ignore. Gasping wildly, she shook violently as her clit pumped her into ecstasy.

‘Coffee?’ Greg offered just as Sally began to open her eyes.

She sat up, now freed from her bonds, and smiled. ‘Yep, she said. I’ll need that to get onto chapter two.’

Velvet Tripp

If you like our writing, there’s a whole other page of all our work, and there are other free stories here. Feel free to look around.

New free fiction on Fulani’s Limited Attention Span

The second episode of the moving house saga, ‘Sex and the homeless’, is now finished: it’s not on here though, because these stories are appearing alternately here and on Fulani’s other blog, Fulani’s Limited Attention Span. You’ll have to go there to read it (it’ll open in a new window). The first story in the sequence. ‘Memory Dump’, was a little while back on this blog. The third story , in a week or so, will be back on this blog again.

I may have mentioned our own move was delayed in the way the story depicts, by a lawyerly fuck-up, as a result of which we had a night in a motel before the transaction went through and we got the keys. Hence the inspiration for the story – 2700 words of smut, and you can have fun trying to guess how much or how little of what’s laid down there actually took place.

So, to recap: ‘Sex and the homeless’, erotic story, now up as a blog post on Fulani’s Limited Attention Span; go there, read, enjoy.

Have fun!

Hot Review on Rope Bondage story

Fulani’s done it again! I’m proud to tell you that his erotic rope bondage story  ‘Addicted to rope’ has another great review. BDSM Book Reviews’ Riane has this to say.

Rope bondage story

Addicted to Rope. Click to buy on Kindle

Here’s the summary of the story Riane kindly took the time to read.

Ruth’s work leaves no time for relationships. Traveling a lot and living in hotel rooms, her sex life revolves around one-night-stands. In a hotel bar, one night, she encounters a professional bondage rigger and maker of dungeon equipment. His occupation might be strange, but he’s more together and more interesting than most of the men she meets. When he offers her a challenge, she can’t resist it. And it leads her into an addiction to rope.

And Riane’s opinion?

Review:
Rope. Rope. Rope. I, personally, am fascinated by rope bondage. Shibari is something I’ve never tried but am extremely interested in. When I saw the name of this book, I knew immediately I had to read it.

Ruth is a driven professional woman, a corporate trainer to be exact. She relaxes by having one night stands with guys she picks up in the various cities she visits. While looking for a new sex partner, she meets Leo. When she learns he’s a professional rigger, she’s stunned but interested. He gives her a small taste of domination in the hotel bar and then they part ways with his room number and an offer for more if she’s interested. Since this is not the end of the book, you can guess she’s interested.

The book progresses rather quickly. She’s given an immediate introduction to ropes, and more. I was a bit surprised by the level things progressed to in the first scene. In real life, it generally takes a bit more time to build up the trust required to do some of those things. However, this is fantasy, and it was very hot.

This book is heavy sex, light plot. Not a bad thing, if that’s what you want in a read. I was hooked until Chapter 4, at which point the story took a bit of a turn for me. I like being able to place myself in the position of the female character when I read a story, but Ruth became obsessed. Obsessed not just with rope, but with becoming a “cheap whore” just for free instead of cheap. Instead of being a book I can sink into, it became more of a porn flick on paper… you can watch from a distance and enjoy it on a different level.’

If you want your very own copy of some sizzling hot erotic adult fiction so you can read the story again and again… you can buy it here. Or tell your friends about it. Just click to send to your network on any of the services listed below.

The cover story – free erotic fiction by Fulani

As promised, here’s the story inspired by the cover image of my new story collection. The image itself is in the previous post and this story isn’t in the published collection, obviously, because I first saw the cover myself only a couple of days ago. And I should point out the collection itself is considerably more explicit. Renaissance have tagged it under their ‘extreme’ category…

And the collection, again, is Hanging Around, published by Renaissance Sizzler Editions.

***

The Cover Story

Mariska’s journal was a complex thing. It contained diary entries of places she’d been and stuff she’d done, and musings on fantasies she’d like to act out and fantasies she wouldn’t. It had rants about what was wrong with her life and what was right. It had worked-out arguments about why society was fucked-up about sex, fetish, morals and money. It even included some short stories.
And now, with names changed to protect the guilty, it was about to be published.
Which led to a question.
The cover.
“We could just go with some graphic design, or an illustration or a stock photo,” J said. “But from a sales point of view it would be much, much better if there was an actual pic of you on the cover, preferably doing something kinky enough to get people’s attention but not so kinky it scares people. I don’t suppose…?”
No. She had no such pics.
She did have pics. Tomas, for whom she was muse, had painted and drawn her often enough. The paintings were abstract, the drawings all too graphic. The kind of thing that might scare people. She had photos, shot by Felix. There was, for example, the deliberately soft-focus and grainy black-and-white of her with her hands tied, sucking off Emma’s husband whose name she somehow couldn’t remember. The photo had even been exhibited at one of the city galleries. The memory – of the event itself, and the exhibition – made her warm. But it wouldn’t work as a book cover. The other photos she remembered were far too kinky and explicit. They wouldn’t project the right image.
Mariska was amused, because it was the first time in her life she’d had to worry about projecting the right image. It was a novel situation.
J was characteristically inventive and yet pragmatic. “We need a shot of you in bondage, but clothed. The fast solution is to do it here, in my office. I know a guy who does a lot of traditional shibari work; I know a freelance photographer. The whole thing would take a couple hours. All it depends on is you and them meeting up to see if you’re comfortable working together.”

***

It was strange to be in a regular bar, the kind where the carpet on the floor didn’t stick to your feet, people wore regular everyday clothes and cocktails were served. Mariska had come to associate drinking alcohol with leather, rubber, raw brick and concrete walls, chains hanging from the ceiling. She smiled to herself. Those mental connections told her a lot about how her life had changed in the last year or so.
She’d chosen a severe, businesslike yet oddly gothic outfit: pinstripe blouse with a black tie, stretchy black skirt of a conservative length, but holdup fishnet stockings and boots with adventurous heels. She felt good. She felt like a writer. She felt like she was projecting an image. An image of a slightly skewed and individualistic worldview.
They made an odd trio. The photographer, W, was younger than her. Earnest. Dressed in jeans and T-shirt, the way photographers always are. Trying to make an impression, reach out to her. He was sweet. The bondage rigger, F, was maybe a decade older. Quiet, better dressed, with an air of Zen calmness around him. Didn’t try to play the dominant. “I see myself as an artist in rope and flesh,” he said. “My aim is to create something that looks good on camera. It’s always a pleasure to do that, but in this case it’s strictly business. I tie you up, make sure you’re safe, and take you down again when the pics are done.”
Mariska warmed to them.
“So let’s do it,” she said.

***

It felt freaky, helping F build the suspension frame in J’s office. She was helping to create the instrument of her own bondage, and it was happening in a bland office environment, a desk in one corner of the room, filing cabinets, a calendar on the wall showing publication dates for books – including Mariska’s own.
They moved the desk, set the frame up in front of a sofa. Mariska took time out while W muttered to himself about white balance, went to the restroom. Examined herself critically in the big mirror. Decided that the stockings were fine but panties would show a visible line through her skirt, and removed them. Decided ropes over her breasts would be more comfortable without a bra, and removed it. Touched up eye shadow, applied lipstick. Took three deep breaths and figured she was as ready as she’d ever be.

***

F was quick. And effective. Mariska was swinging in midair inside a couple of minutes. He hummed quietly to himself, checking the way the ropes hung, the distribution of her weight on the ropes. Suspension was tough but bearable. She had to learn a new way of breathing, almost like scuba-diving. Began to trance out.
Began to fantasize.
They were on the third floor, but there were no curtains. Evening light flooded the room. Was someone, maybe in an office across the street, looking out and seeing her exposed and vulnerable?
And what would it be like, now, in this unfamiliar place, to have these two guys rip her clothing from her? Take her, one in the mouth and one in the pussy, swinging helpless between them? Each one thrusting at her, pushing her against the other cock?
Suddenly she was horny as hell, filthy hot and shivering. Lost in a craving for contact, for sex, that was increased by the pressure and restriction of the ropes. Made intolerable by the gentle swaying that resulted from any small movement. A rope running between her labia, across her clit, would be… desirable. She became aware she was whimpering, moaning, with every breath.

***

They didn’t do it. Didn’t strip and fuck her. They were well-mannered professionals, hired to do a specific job. And she’d lost the power of speech, couldn’t articulate her need.
Later, looking back, she thought that was probably a good thing. Fucking would only have complicated the situation. Made her appear unprofessional. It wouldn’t have been the kind of fucking relationship between a model and an artist, or artists; more like a junior exec fucking hired help from the temp agency. It probably happened. A lot. But that still didn’t make it feel right.
Instead, they let her down, wrapped her in a blanket – because when the ropes came off she felt cold. Gave her coffee. Let her come round. She felt light. Ethereal. Yet desperately in need of pain, and of sexual release. In her case, the two were usually intertwined.
Taking her leave of the two men and the office, she took a taxi to Tomas’s studio. He opened the door to his muse, barefoot, wearing scruffy shorts and splashes of oil. She didn’t care.
He admired the rope marks imprinted on her skin. Some other time, he’d probably have wanted to sketch them. But her visit was urgent, and the high roof beams in his studio were ideal for her to hang from, naked and in chains. She received pain and sexual release. Simultaneously. Intertwined.
She slept peacefully in Tomas’s arms, in his bed, warmed by the welts he’d placed on her skin. And she dreamed of another time and place, and two other men.
She had the numbers for the W and F, the photographer and rope artist. Maybe tomorrow she’d make a call. Or the next day. See if they could arrange another session. A more recreational session.

***

The cover photo, when she eventually saw it, was good. Set on its side, it conveyed the impression she was flying. It captured her response to the suspension. It projected the right image. It captured her intentions for the future.

***

And to save you scrolling back to the top of this post: the collection is Hanging Around (link opens in new window).

Submit! – free erotic fiction from Velvet Tripp

I don’t know how long I’d been there. Waiting. He’d not be far away. He could be standing right in front of me. I squirmed at the thought. As much as I could anyway, bound as I was to the chair. His, I mean my dom’s, special chair. Blindfold and gag deprived me of two of my senses. Headphones played a track that blocked out sound from the room. Taste, sight and hearing impaired. Let me tell you, that really does sharpen your remaining senses. Touch. And smell.

All I could smell at this moment was the freshness of the night air drifting through the open window. There would be no-one around for miles. That’s why he chose this place. No one can hear you scream. As for touch. That’s what I was waiting for. That’s what I wanted. But he knew that. He knew I was impatient. It amused him to watch me, knowing I would only be hotter if he left me to endure anticipation for a while.

I felt something then. A shiver over my skin. Did he touch me? Has a bird flown in? I can’t hear anything but the music. Strange, Germanic type stuff. They’re singing about ripping clothes off. Hmm. That happened a while ago, now. I think the disk is called Eevil Young Flesh. That would be a good description of me, then.

I feel warmth to my left. He’s here. My heart races. My pussy dampens. I know he’s going to be a bastard tonight. Because he wants me to call him that. When he’s earned it. He considers it a compliment. And he knows I’ll resist using that title because it’s what he wants me to do. I can’t help it. That’s how I am. He’s decided I need to learn the true meaning of submissive. One lesson at a time. I know tonight will be a challenge for me. To submit. To do as I’m told. To take what I’m given.

His hand cups my crotch. ‘Good,’ he says, flatly. ‘You’ve shaved. I like easy access, slut.’

My heart is pounding now. My crotch even more damp. I shiver as I feel cold steel on my thigh. Then the other thigh. A knife. That’s my thong gone. I wondered why I’d been allowed to keep it on before he bound me with 30 feet of rope. Legs splayed by the special chair, arms firmly bound to the armrests, breasts bound until they throbbed. Then left to ‘contemplate my fate’. Now I meet it.

‘Now, I know you’ve had to wait, so I’m not going to mess you around any longer. I promised you would learn to call me by my favourite name and that I would earn it. Here we go. I start to earn now.’

Searing pain shot through my left nipple. I squealed through the gag, found it hard to catch my breath. A clamp. The really bad ones, I think. The pair connected by a chain… He waited moments for me to relax, and then my right… I gasped, almost screamed. But the rebel in me didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

‘So that’s easy for you, eh, pain slut?’

I nodded. Stupid.

‘In that case, I think we’ll have to make you work harder. I can’t have you slacking, can’t have you being wilful. I control you now.’

I bit down on the gag, unsure of his next move. My nipples throbbed, transmitting their protests down to my clit, where somehow it got a pleasure signal, and my now exposed pussy was positively wet. Then my nipples exploded. Again. Bastard! He has some little weights to hang off the chain of the clamps he especially liked to use when torturing me. I could feel that weight on them, pulling, tugging and making every nerve ending in them scream. But I still didn’t. My clit stubbornly refused to accept what my nipples were telling it. I began to drip. I was breathing hard; absorbing the pain, letting it change my chemistry, flood me with endorphins.

My minds started to float away. I was high. He was getting off on me getting high. I could now smell his muskiness and the leather of his trousers. Leather, pain, pleasure and imagination. Oh, yes, I was sky high.

Suddenly he whisked the headphones off me.

‘Now slut, you have two choices. A or B. Which do you choose, I wonder? Raise a finger on your left hand for A, a finger on your left for B.’ I sat, paralysed, high, confused. I heard him step away. The leather of his trousers as he moved. A or B? But I didn’t know what those meant. What choice was that? Then I got it. That was the point. Whatever I chose, He chose. He decided what happens next. Clever fuck! He just want to make me submit!

Smack! I flinched, the clamps swayed, tugged. I squealed through the gag. He chuckled evilly. A flogger. On the inside of my thigh. I should have raised that finger… Smack. Now I screamed. I dripped. I lifted my left finger. OK. A. I do submit. I do.

I waited. He moved away. Fuck! What had I done? What now? My heart pumped blood and adrenaline and endorphins round me so fast my head was spinning. My pussy drooling.

‘You should know I’ve got a quick call to make, then you’ll have my full attention again,’ he said abruptly. ‘Hi, yes, she’ll be ready for you in about ten minutes. Ok, yes, I’ll make sure of that, don’t worry.’

If I could have gulped, cried out to be released, I might have. I still had my hand signal, but I wasn’t going there. Pride wouldn’t let me. I wouldn’t let me. I wanted this. I got this. I’ll see it through.

I hear him moving things, some clicking kind of sound. Then he untied me, deftly, dragged me by the collar across the room, juices trickling down my thigh as I walked. He carefully lowered me to my knees and cuffed my wrists, pushed me forward. I found myself face forward on a sofa or bed of some sort, ass exposed, legs as far apart as he could push them. The clamps bit my nipples. He bit my ass. He ran his finger over my soaking, exposed clit.

‘Huh. You are a pain slut, aren’t you. My little pain slut. I can do what I like when I like, can’t I?’

I nodded. He grabbed my hair, pulling my head back. ‘Now the clamps. You know they have to come off, don’t you?’ I did. He took them off, one at a time. Blood flooded back into squeezed and tender flesh, nerve endings flashed into overdrive and I yelled through that gag. Did I yell!

Then a loud buzzing sound. Not like a vibrator, more like a chainsaw. There wasn’t time to think. Suddenly that sound made contact with my pussy. It was a vibrator. It felt more like a jackhammer. My instinct was to try and wriggle away. But he had me pinned. My pussy went straight into rocket-assisted launch mode. I gasped and gasped and gasped. I creamed and screamed. I came so hard and so fast my brain went stratospheric. My pussy exploded over and over. He carried on. I couldn’t come down. The only way was up. I screamed again. I came again, tears escaping from behind the mask, and again, forced to orgasm until I didn’t know which way was up.

It stopped. I stopped. He stopped. I collapsed, flying; waves of incredible ecstasy still rippling through me as he stroked my hair now, kissed my back.

‘It’s not over. You know that, don’t you?’

I was incapable of responding. He just laughed. He took out the gag. My jaw trembled.

He got up and left me draped over what I could now see was a leather covered storage box all padded out. I heard him open the door. ‘Come in, Janine’.

My lover. He’d invited my female lover over. The bastards had planned it all. I smelled her perfume as she came closer. ‘Now, my pet, now we both have you. Now you’re ready for us,’ she whispered. I turned to him, smiled shakily and said ‘Fucking bastard, thank you.’

***

More from Velvet? There’s a short story in a different vein, Tropical Paradise, in a short collection of five stories and simultaneously in a full-length 20-story collection, both by Xcite. And more to come soon from the same publisher…