Product review – the Ocean BiMiNi vibrator (by Velvet)

Well, here’s something a bit different from our usual stuff for you. We went to the BBB (Birmingham Bizarre Bizarre) a couple of weeks ago and spent some money on new treats. One of them so impressed me that I decided to do my first product review for you.

The exciting new purchase seems nothing special when you say it. A vibrator. This particular model is the Fun Factory “Ocean” BiMiNi, from their ‘Mini’ range, a term they use for vibrators up to 14cm long. In other words, compact and capable of being carried discreetly in a handbag.

All much of a muchness, you might think. Well, let me tell you that in all my years I have never found a vibrator as functionally efficient at what it’s meant to do, nor so user friendly. It’s brilliant. From the packaging to the handling to the using it’s a delight. The materials used are lovely to touch and have touching you. The shape makes it possible to stimulate all the exact right areas. It can be used with lube, is very quiet (even if you’re not) and the first time I tried it I was, well, amazed at the feel of it on…in…well you know where. Vibrators have certainly come (if you’ll pardon the bad pun) a very long way from the original Non-Doctor (for those of you with elephantine memories).

The recharging is done by magnetic connection, and is so easy to do, leaving the device wire free. If you buy more than one of their range of designs, you only need the one charger, available separately. That’s great news for your pocket and the environment.

There are three vibration settings, all very easy to use while playing with it (plus and minus button controls). One charge will last a couple of hours, even if you can’t!

Fun Factory are German, and this is a high quality design with great attention to detail. The model I bought, the “Ocean”, is one of six mini-vibe designs and they also have extensive ranges of attractive maxi, lay-on and ‘G4’ (fourth generation?) designs in different sizes and shapes. It’s silicone and they say it’s a skin friendly fabric. It is most certainly that! In fact, it’s deliciously good fun, if not classed as deviant these days.

Interested? Want to know more? By the way, this review is for you. I gain nothing financially from telling you about it. Just the satisfaction of sharing a superb product with people I think will appreciate the thought.

We bought ours from Kinky Monkey  who have a range of Fun Factory toys and regularly attend as stallholders at the BBB, in case you want to handle the product before you buy.

Here’s the official Fun Factory website, straight to the right page. The site’s based in Germany but also has information in English, Spanish and French. There is a UK based site as well (http://www.funfactory.co.uk/) but it’s currently under construction.

Burnout – free erotic story from Fulani

Firstly, if it’s a relevant consideration for you, we hope you’ve had or are having a happy Beltane or Bealtain (spelling according to choice).

The story below isn’t a Beltane story, and it’s somewhat experimental. You can decide for yourself whether it’s a true story or not. I will just say some of the practices described are inadvisable due to the chemical residues involved. And if you find it too strange – well, there are others on this blog and another one will be along in a few days…

***

I’m bored with erotic, the cock and cunt and bondage and thwap of the flogger of it. I’m jaded. What I need is some startling image that comes from nowhere and burns itself into my brain, my desires, causes instant addiction. What I need is a new mythos of erotica. Or a new psychopathology. Or something.
Everyday life is always capable of offering the unexpected, though. Out in the local woods on an afternoon stroll – we’d just released the mice we’d caught from the humane trap in the garden – we find a burned-out estate car. It’s still warm, the paint blistered and scorched, tyres burned off, seats and dash reduced to charred fragments. There’s a smell of scorched rubber and diesel hanging in the air.

I like the abandonment, the dereliction, the suddenly frail finality of the vehicle’s state. I like the way the flames have tinged what’s left of the shell, the seared basecoat of paint, a mottled pink that looks surprisingly fleshlike. I like the fact it’s evidence of a crime. Its form has twisted, halfway between the curves of a limb and the evidence of torture. But it’s that smell more than anything that pushes me over the edge, makes me take you by surprise, grasping the back of your neck and pushing your head inside the gaping hole of the rear door.

“Hey! What…!”

You struggle in my hands, but playfully. You have no serious intent of escaping my grip.

“Just see,” I say, “whether there’s a body in there. Sometimes, you know, they torch up and all that’s left is fried bones.”

“Ewww…” But I’m reaching in over the top of you, pinning you down, and the baked electrical wiring on the rear door pulls away in my hands yet still has enough strength in it to slip over your wrists. I tie them to the metal frames of the rear seat, leaving you bent at the waist. I pull your jeans off. T-shirt and bra – well, I have a penknife in my pocket, always. Don’t often get to use it. First time for months.

The cool blade grazes your skin. Makes you squirm. Then you feel the flat of the blade against your labia and freeze like a mouse in the undergrowth seeking camouflage from some predator.

Your hips are swaying, a complex harmonic that means: “Someone might see us”, “We should stop”, and “I want it now”.

I stand back, admiring my handiwork. My moment of reflection, my making you wait, perturbs you. You twist, trying to see what I’m doing.

I gather up ashes from the ground, rub them into your thighs and ass, reach around to mark your breasts and face. I want you grimy, stinking of fire and diesel. I want you to become a part of the car, indistinguishable from it, grey and black streaks on your pretty skin.

That looks much better.

I climb in through a buckled driver’s door. Kneel on the blackened frames of the two front seats, pull my cock out. Instinctively you lean forward, lips apart, anticipating my intention is that you suck. You can’t get close enough. Instead I breathe the surreal sweetness of incinerated leather and pleasure myself, stroking, one finger pressed into the base of my cock against the vein there to force its engorgement.

You’re making little “Ah… ah…” noises as if they’ll encourage me to lean forwards and let you taste. A look in your eyes somewhere between a question and a request.

But what I do is this. I spurt on your face. Sticky semen plastered across your cheek, eyelid, forehead.

The mix of ash and semen on you. The shock on your face. It’s an almost spiritual, transcendental, iconic image.

I have to give myself several minutes to recover. You pull against the wire on your wrists, to see if you can release yourself. You only succeed in making angry red lines there. But that’s another fantasy, for later.

By the rear wheel there’s a silver puddle, probably an alloy wheel trims that’s melted. It’s paddle-shaped, heavy. As I turn it over I see glass nodules in it, the safety glass they use in vehicles that shatters into rounded pieces. I heft it in my hand.

When I hit your ass with it, you squeak incoherently. Protesting, yet liking it, yet wanting to not scream, to attract attention.

The small pieces of glass make angry bitemarks on your reddening ass cheeks. And since you enjoy being hit with hard implements, you’re soon squirming and hot. In fact, the repeated impacts can in themselves bring you to climax. And when you climax, you…

Scream.

I give you my leather jacket to wear on the walk home. I like the way it looks on you, delinquent biker grrl style, unzipped and with nothing underneath. I like the fact you still have a smudged and spunk-plastered face.

“Don’t,” you say, “ever do that to me again.”

But a couple of days later you mention, in the casual tone you have that tells me you’re excited and really want me to pay attention, there’s a wrecked sports car that’s been burned out at the back of the industrial estate. You “just happened” to notice it, driving back from work.
***

Other offbeat stories? A couple. Try Scaplelfuck, from July last year, on my Fulanismut blog. If you want more fully-fledged auto-sex, there’s always JG Ballard’s book, Crash, and the David Cronenberg film of the same name, based on it… For stuff that’s maybe a little more conventional, there’s a ‘Stories Available Now’ button at the top of this page that shows you other published short stories.

Now why do I feel the need to go out for a walk with a can of paraffin…?

Rhavaniel – new free erotic fiction from Fulani

Has it really been a week since the last post? Oh well. The next novel is coming on nicely, thank you, though the story that follows is nothing to do with it. Whether this eventually becomes the basis for a longer piece, sometime in the future… anything’s possible.

***

Writing a novel requires imagination and dedication.

It also requires time, freedom from interruptions, the ability to dive into a character and a situation.

Livia’s solution was a cottage, rented for the summer. A mile up a dirt track road, five miles from the nearest small town. It had its own generator for electricity, water from a spring, but no telephone and no cellphone coverage or WiFi.

It was perfect.

The first chapters ripened. The plot thickened, throwing out new strands. Characters developed. Outside, cloudless skies meant hot days. Inside, there was no air conditioning. Livia wore a loose, flowing dress. But with no one around, and the heavy air making even a dress uncomfortable, she found herself almost unconsciously wearing nothing more than panties. And then, after a few days, nothing at all.

Her central character was Rhavaniel, a name meaning ‘The Wild One’. She was half-elven and half-human, the offspring of a human male pleasure slave kept by an elven warrior princess, for that reason disowned by her mother and sent to live in the human world. In rediscovering her ancestry she entered into the elf world, where dangers awaited.

Livia followed the well-known rules of writing set down by Kurt Vonnegut, among them the injunction to be sadistic to her characters. This, she followed diligently. Rhavaniel, navigating a world she did not fully understand, was quickly captured by brigands and sold into slavery.

Livia began to imagine the ill-treatment one might receive as a halfbreed female slave among elven lowlife. There would be casual brutality and severe punishments, probably of a sexual variety. There would be frequent, rough couplings with any man who wanted her. Probably, with her heritage, many would be curious to fuck her. They’d be ruthless in their use of force and application of discipline, uncompromising in their demands. They’d humiliate her for their amusement. Loan her out to acquaintances.

The chapters moved on, but Livia found herself wondering more and more about Rhavaniel. About how she’d learn from her situation. Learn to please men. Learn to accept pain as a constant in her life. Would she resist, or find a way to manipulate the situation to her advantage?

Hot, sticky nights afforded little sleep. Naked and without covers on her bed, Livia rediscovered pleasure at the end of her own fingers. Tossed and turned in the darkness, with no need to suppress her moans for the sake of neighbours.

Heading for the nearest town next day Livia drove three-quarters of the way there before chancing to look down and see she’d forgotten to wear any clothing. Drove right the way through town anyway, identifying places she wanted to go. Next day, in a more rational frame of mind, she visited the mom-and-pop hardware store, the filling station, the tiny supermarket, the delicatessen. Found the only coffee shop in town and soaked up the sounds of human conversation. Found it difficult to communicate with people and only later realised she’d begun to use the grammar and vocabulary of elven speech. In town they probably put it down to her eccentric city ways.

Back at the cottage, Livia stripped off. She donned the thick leather dog collar she’d bought at the hardware store, the kind intended for a guard dog of about the same weight as her. She attached it to a long chain, the other end of which she padlocked to a piece of ironwork outside the front door. Ate her dinner on hands and knees from a dog bowl. Sat watching the gathering darkness. Finally, she found satisfaction in masturbating, lying splayed out on the warm earth.

Livia slept in the collar, found it comfortable and strangely comforting. Next day the writing seemed to go quickly. When she flagged, she tried another tactic: sitting at her desk, she applied clothespegs to her nipples, breasts, the inside of her thighs. Then, finally, to the lips of her labia. She became astonishingly aware of every movement of her hands on the laptop’s keyboard, yet astonishingly unaware of what she was actually typing. Until later, when reading it back caused her to seek out something to relieve the need in her. Scrabbled though her meagre belongings, dismissed the deodorant, finally settled on an outsize carrot from the kitchen. It was cool inside her, but it did what she wanted it to.

She slept that night spreadeagled on the bed, the chain from her collar fixed to the iron bedstead, a scarf wrapped around her eyes. Rhavaniel would find the bed luxurious, she surmised, and to be placed on a bed at all – rather than sleeping in a cage, or simply chained to a wall, would imply some man could be expected soon.

She relished to sensation of being chained and blindfolded. She’d left the front door unlocked. Anything could happen.

Nothing did. But that could be fixed.

The chapters moved quickly now, but seemed much more focused on Rhavaniel’s experiences at the hands of her captors, and then the underground slave market, the unscrupulous merchant who bought her as a decorative feature for his shop, the aristrocrat who claimed her as a prize when his forces stormed the city – after, of course, the soldiers had used her extensively. She spent almost all her time naked, except perhaps for high heels, and in cuffs and chains – or alternatively, tied to some framework designed to expose her breasts, buttocks and pussy for either flogging or fucking.

A gag was, Livia discovered, a path to an inner core of submission. She improvised one from a thin belt, a length of material wrapped around it to force her mouth open. After an hour or so it made her drool, but that in itself added to her sense of helplessness.

The next time she visited town, Livia remembered to wear a dress. She’d paid attention to the conversations she’d had, and the ones she’d overheard, on the last occasion. And she was grateful that many people had very free in their discussion of one particular young man. ‘Happy to sleep with any of the girls in town, but he won’t settle with any of them. Says they’re too narrow minded. And you should hear the stories about the things he likes doing in bed…’ This from the two middle-aged guys who worked in the garage-cum-filling station.

Her destination was the delicatessen, which doubled up as a sandwich bar and impromptu art gallery. The name she’d heard was the same one she’d seen on the paintings.

She looked again at the paintings. They were mainly of women, and displayed a sensual, almost harshly sexual, gaze. The models were in clearly provocative poses. They were the kinds of pictures that Livia thought might have been cleaned up for public consumption. The artist probably had the originals, and they probably showed the women in an altogether more naked state.

Livia bought a sandwich, asked about the artist and was unsurprised to find he was the young man she was talking to. Handing the bills over, she passed him a folded piece of paper at the same time. And walked out of the door without a second glance, feeling excited and nervous at the same time.
Back at the cottage, she removed the dress – and found to her consternation she’d been wearing the collar all this time.

Oh well. It had certainly underlined the point of the note.

She ate from the dog bowl again, naked on the porch. Imagined herself splayed out against its ironwork, chained to it. And, when it was dark, went to the bedroom, leaving the front door open. Collar locked to chain, chain to the bedstead. She wore the gag, the blindfold. And waited.

The sex was everything she expected. Rough, ruthless, uncompromising. Marks on her buttocks from the application of discipline. He’d removed the gag for the insertion of cock in mouth, but left the blindfold on the whole time. She’d been humiliated, but the experience had pumped adrenaline through her system, created a craving she knew she’d have to feed again. Soon.

He wasn’t there in the morning. But on her desk was a page torn from a notebook, a pen-and-ink sketch of her that captured her in her sexual bondage. The title above the sketch was the same name she’d put on the note.

Rhavaniel.

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?”

Don’t mess with the author – new free erotic fiction by Fulani

I haven’t had a chance to blog much, being in mid-flow of the next novel.
The thing is, my lead character’s a bit unruly. She keeps asking awkward questions, like “Why do random people want to keep torturing me?”
“Well,” I say, “think of the bigger picture. You’re collateral damage in a political game you didn’t understand. That’s why you’re a prisoner. And for another you’re pretty and attractive. All the key players in the game are ruthless and perverted. The kind of people who tore the wings off butterflies when they were kids. So their idea of fun is to leave whip marks on your body, see you suffer and hear you scream.”
“I thought really powerful people were often submissives,” she protests. “You know, submission as the way to balance out the responsibility that comes with power?”
“Well, that can happen.” I stop typing and put by elbows on the desk, fingertips pressed lightly together. “But these people feel under threat. The system they manage is collapsing, they’re looking at a state that’s failing because it’s been hollowed out. You must have read Mark Davis, Naomi Klein, all those people?”
She laughs hollowly. “I live fifty years in the future. Those people wrote books, right? No one reads books any more. It’s all very well saying I’m living in a failed state – all I know is I got recruited as a stripper straight after leaving school, and the place I live, if you’re female, a blowjob is just a form of currency except you never get rich giving them.”
“Look,” I say, “just jump back into that screen, will you? I need to write another thousand words by this evening.”
“Yeah? What’s that going to be about?” She poses dramatically, hand on forehead, pretending I don’t know what she’s going to say next. Seeing as she’s naked, with cuffs on her wrists and ankles, it’s a cute pose. “Maybe for a change it’ll be a scene where someone from the ruling class is a masochist, for a change, and I get called in to torture them!”
“That’s three chapters further on.”
“You’re the writer, just cut those parts and get me to a good bit.”
Well, no. The proprieties of the plot have to be observed. I cuff her wrists and ankles in a hogtie, load her into the back of my pickup truck and take her out to a secluded part of the estate where there’s an old tree. A chain hangs conveniently from one of the overhanging branches. I attach her cuffs to that and drive the pickup away, leaving her dangling about three feet off the ground, arms and legs stretched painfully. Muscles in her shoulders and thighs are tensed, stand out under her skin. I like it when she looks that way.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Just trying an experiment.” I reach into the cab of the pickup where there’s a paintball gun, stand back far enough that she makes a good target.
“The paintballs are loaded with a gel that includes an aphrodisiac,” I tell her. I don’t know why I bother, she’ll find out soon enough. “It’s reactive against skin, so if I’m a good shot, you’ll feel very aroused in a couple of minutes.”
“Fucking writers! Too much imagination for your own good!”
“Believe me,” I chuckle, “I could have come up with much worse…”
But she keeps up the tirade, which is boring and would take a lot of typing. So I step over to her and pull a ballgag out of my pocket, where I keep it handy for emergencies with spontaneous character dialogue. It has the inverted Y piece that runs over her cheeks to meet at her forehead, then run over the top of her head to buckle at the back.
Her eyes flash wildly at me.
“Ukk rrr ttrrrs!” She flexes in her restraints, which I notice results in a very delicious bounce of her firm breasts. Maybe… no, never mind about the nipple clamps…
Back in position I fire the first shot. It hits her right leg, making her yowl in pain while imparting a gentle circular motion. I hit the same point again, and she’s swinging around now. She does half the circle, and I try for a shoulder but get her high up on the ribs instead. However, with three doses in her system she’s already reacting to the aphrodisiac. Her breathing is harsher, her belly trembles as she tries to lift it and push with her hips. She’s hanging in midair, there’s no resistance, it’s fruitless.
By the time I’ve put the paintball gun away and come back to her, she’s definitely hot and bothered. I look at the bruises caused by the gel-balls and enjoy the way they’ve bruised her skin. Bruises that will flower in the next day or two before fading. I part her knees and note the way her labia glisten at me. I don’t bother to take her down, release her, because I can fuck her exactly in that helpless position.
She tries to move against me but I have the control.
She did know she’s capable of multiple orgasms, I think. At any rate she definitely knows now.
She’s an exhausted, sweating, dripping, limp and sexually played-out wreck by the time I’m done with her.
I hit “save file” in the knowledge she’ll be coming back for more in a few hundred words.

Pool hall – new free erotic fiction from Fulani

What follows is a true story. It didn’t happen to either of us, but it did happen to a friend of Fulani’s, a few years back. Still no BDSM content, which is unusual for him! Maybe next time. Names have been changed to protect the guilty…

***

I didn’t give it a second thought. We’d been out clubbing. Left the club at three when it closed, but on a wave of excitement, dance beats and cool moves, we wanted more. So we, Anja and I, went to the pool hall.

Playing pool requires you to bend over the table. I was wearing a dress that would have been pretty normal for Second Life. In real life it meant that bending over got me a lot of attention because it put most of my ass on show, along with the tiny G-string I was wearing.

I’d retained enough sanity to know I’m not that good at pool. I avoided the guys who wanted to stand close behind me while showing me how to use the cue. I turned down the offer of someone who said he’d take my shots for me if he could shoot in me afterwards – he wasn’t bad-looking, just crass.
So we, Anja and I, found ourselves sitting in one of the side booths with Gray and Tony. She knew them, said they were OK guys and trustworthy. I think she said trustworthy. Maybe it was fuckworthy. My ears were still ringing from the club.

The booth has these plush bench double seats and high backs on them, facing each other across a polished wood table. The lighting’s low, almost non-existent apart from the glow reflecting off the rings of liquid where bottles and glasses have been put down on it. I’m sitting opposite Gray and next to Anja, and listening to Gray who’s talking about being out for the evening on the pull because his wife is a lesbian and she’s out at a club herself tonight.
And I scoff and say ‘my wife’s a lesbian’ is inventive as a pickup line, but it doesn’t do anything for me. Then Anja says it’s right, his wife is a lesbian.
I give her the dead eye stare and she explains.

‘You know some men are gay, right, but they try to deny it and get married and have kids and stuff. Then a few years down the line they decide they can’t suppress their real identity any more?’

Yes, I know about that.

‘Well it happens to women too. And it happened with Gray’s wife. She won’t even give him a blowjob. I’ve met her. She’s called Roxanne. She wanted me to go to clubbing with her one time. Then she fistfucked me right in the club.’

Anja never learned much about social skills, about what’s a good thing not to say in certain company. And I don’t think Gray had ever heard that story before. Eyebrows crawling over his face like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

And I notice Anja has both her hands under the table, her upper arms rubbing against the edge of it.

I don’t even think about what I do next. It just kind of happened. The seats aren’t that deep so it was easy to slide off and crouch underneath it, where I can see Anja’s hands stroking Tony’s cock which is out and free of his jeans. And I unzip the fly of Gray’s jeans to release an organ the colour of boiled lobster.

No underwear.

So is he just pleased to see me, or does he truly get off on his wife being a lesbian? I have no idea. I don’t care, really.

Then: oops, I seem to have the head of his dick in my mouth. Fortunately it tastes of soap, not boiled lobster.

Work it back and forth, getting some lubrication going. Use one hand to tug at his jeans and free his balls as well, cup them in my hand, get the middle finger of the left hand underneath them, the sweet spot that stimulates the prostate. Use the other to squeeze his shaft to the rhythm of a track that’s still in my mind from the club, earlier.

I’ve done this before. You can tell, can’t you? Gray certainly can. I’m under the table but I can gauge his reaction not just from the way his cock strains and pulses, but the trembling in his thighs and the way his breathing changes.

This all goes on a long time, with me bobbing my head up and down, creating a pressure seal with my lips and sucking so hard there’s almost a vacuum inside my mouth. And I’m driving the cock to the back of my mouth, and wrapping my tongue around it like a big meaty lollipop.

A lot of men say a tongue piercing gives a hell of a lot more stimulation. I wouldn’t know. I got mine done a few weeks before I gave anyone a blowjob.

I’m dizzy with oxygen starvation but I can feel him on the edge, nearly coming, the veins engorged and pulsing, and then he pops and I’ve got all his sticky goop in my mouth.

I roll it around there. When I finally emerge from under the table, I open my mouth to show him, laughing because he’s still bug-eyed. Then I spit it into my almost-empty beer glass.

The thing about a blowjob is, you focus on the cock in your mouth and can’t see much. Especially under the table in a dark pool hall. So I have no idea what happened with Anja and Tony, except, Anja is trying to wipe spunk off her wrists with a tissue.

After that we say goodbye to the guys and go home. Because it’s gone four in the morning, and we don’t want to take them home with us.
On the way out I can’t resist pointing out to Anja she’s got spunk on the hem of her dress. She can’t resist pointing out to me I have it on my cheek.

I stay over at hers because it’s a shorter taxi ride.

And I keep thinking. I’m not lesbian. You’ll have noticed that, I guess. Maybe I’m bisexual. A bona fide lesbian experience would be a whole new world. Anja and I spoon up in her bed. We kiss and stuff, but it’s just being close and a bit flirty and we still have our underwear on. And we’re both still feeling juicy. Neither she not I actually came while we were out. Handjob and blowjob, that’s just a bit of fun.

I make her tell me about the fistfuck, and where the club is. And I can feel her squirming while she’s telling me about it, how it made her feel, how strong the climax was. I squirm back at her, ask her when she’s going again, and she says Roxanne’s taking her next week. If she wears a collar and leash.

Could be interesting.

Gagging for it – new free erotic flash fiction by Fulani

We’ve been away for a few days. Normal service now resumed.

***

I’ve always been a ‘tie me up and fuck me’ type of girl. I like the feel of the ropes on me. I like sex when I’m his captive.

I struggle, though, and he has to dominate me. Not because I want him to untie me – I don’t – but just on principle, because it makes it more fun.

I resist with words. He can do what he wants with me, but I always manage to say ‘sir’ or ‘master’ in the tone of voice that says I don’t mean it. I tell him he’s being unfair and taking advantage of me and I needle him by demanding stuff, like changing the music or the lighting.

When I tell him I want the lighting changed, he laughs. Instead of dimming the lights, he puts a blindfold on me.

That’s even better because behind the blindfold, all I see are my own fantasies, fed by what I can hear. His footsteps. The opening and closing of the freezer door, heavier than that of the fridge, meaning he’s fetching some ice to torment me with. His breathing. The swishy sound of a crop. The light jangle of the chain connecting the nipple clamps. The slight fizz as he lights a candle to splash my skin with wax.

Doesn’t shut me up, though. I ask him if he’s planning on making his little slut howl; if he likes it when I yelp in pain.

Of course he does.

When he puts the nipple clamps on me, I draw in breath, a sharp hiss, but refuse to cry out. He experiments with the riding crop, drawing the flat end of it across my clit and then giving me a sudden thwap. It takes a lot of self-control not to cry out, and then tell him he needs to try harder, but I can do it.

I can sense him close to my ear, close to my face. He tells me he can make things easy for me, so I don’t need to concentrate on giving him a hard time.
Then something hard goes in my mouth.

And straps around the back of my head, buckled tight.

I know this thing – a huge red ballgag that distends my jaw and fills my mouth with silence.

In those two or three seconds, I know I’ve lost the power of coherent speech. I know my only means of communication is a muffled yowl or a throaty ngaagh or gggghh.

In those two or three seconds I know he has me completely under his control and I can’t do anything about it.

In those two or three seconds, my pussy turns to a river of quicksilver. My body becomes as resonant and tuned as a guitar or violin, vibrating under tension. My mind has the gloopy consistency of spunk.

He can do anything at all he wants with me. And he will. And I want him to. I want to mewl and moan and wail and whimper.
But he’ll make me wait. I’ll be trembling with anticipation.

He’ll make me hurt. I’ll hurt so hard the endorphins kick in and I’ll be laughing.

Then he’ll fuck me.

Eventually he’ll take the gag off. With difficulty, with lips and tongue that barely work, with jaw muscles almost seized up, I’ll say Thank you, sir. And mean it.

Relief From Boredom – an adventure. New free erotic fiction by Velvet Tripp

Nipple jewelry for a slut

Laura had been bored for a while. Her last big night out had consisted of a trip to the local, a wander downtown to the usual boring night club and a cheap’n’cheerful curry on the way home, slightly drunk. Her girlfriends had been prattling on about Johnny Depp and his latest film and one had got far too drunk and been taxied home early.

Never again, she thought. I’m just so BORED with this. There has to be something more interesting to do on the last Saturday night of the month, her only night of freedom. That was when her babysitter stayed overnight in the spare room and she could relax properly. So here she was, trawling the net for a more original approach to her time off. A month to plan, a month to look forward to something new and exciting. But what?

Hmmm. Websites filled with nightclubs playing the usual. Yawn. Cinema? Yawn. NaughtyPlaypals.com. Interesting. Sign up, free membership for women. Cool. Here we go. Odd black outfits. Little videos. Oooh, that looks interesting. The way he’s tied her up there, with that mean little gag and some sort of jewellery on her nipples. Says ‘Slut’. Memories stir. Long forgotten fantasies of submission and helplessness. Damp knickers.

A night of fantasy and dreams follow. Out comes the dildo. Sleep. Kids to school, housework and homework done, kids in bed. PC. EBay. Decision made. Slutty underwear ordered. Black, peep-hole bra, matching very brief briefs, fancy legged stockings, hold-ups, of course. Shoes. 4” steel stilettos. Expensive. Sod it. Ordered. Just a dress to find. Now, NaughtyPlaypals.com. Choose a likely ‘escort’. Check his profile. Gorgeous! Tick. Fit? Tick. History? Previous Playpals rate him highly – five stars! Big tick. Now, hope he responds to her email.

One week to go. Playpal’s member has sent Laura her instructions. Be there at eight thirty on the dot. Lateness will be punished. Cool. Luckily, the clothing she ordered, even the dress, have been given the OK. Babysitter booked, and double checked. This can’t go wrong.

One hour to go. Bathed. Pubes, as per instructions, gone. Make-up and hair, perfect. Kids fast asleep. Babysitter sorted, with videos and supper. Friends? Think her sitter has a bad cold. Slut gear donned, coat to cover on. Just in time. Taxi. Heart beginning to pound.

He was waiting, glaring at his watch. She was three minutes late. That will cost her, she’s informed with a twinkle in his eye. Already those very brief briefs aren’t dry. Led into the club on a lead – attached to the collar he put on her at the door. Can she look around? Yes, but not for long. Take it all in now. ‘You’re going to be too tied up later’, he tells her. What’s his name? Either Sir or Fucking Bastard, but he prefers to earn the latter title.

Weird toys everywhere. People strapped to tables, cargo nets and pillars. One covered in food, several people licking it off her. Another being whipped. A man being flogged, tied to a cross. Now her turn. No more looking. Time to experience.

He ties her arms behind her back, covers her eyes with a leather blindfold. The leather smells good. Feels good. She feels vulnerable. He, presumably, feels powerful. He leads her through the crowd. Someone asks if they can touch. She hears him assent. A hand strokes her arse. Another tweeks a nipple through the dress. He unties her hands. ‘Take off the dress’. She does.

Leather straps tighten on her wrists and ankles. She’s guided to a toy. The straps are attached to the toy. She finds herself spread-eagled on what feels like an X shaped cross. Stretched. Exposed. Semi-naked. ‘Open your mouth.’ She does. It’s filled with a ball. Straps tighten at the back. A small ball is placed in her hand. ‘As agreed. Dropping it means enough. I will stop instantly.’ She nods. Behind the blindfold, her eyes are tight shut. This is… glorious. Exciting.
Sensation starts on her neck. Feathers? Fur? Gentle. Over her nipples, down her abdomen. Shivers. The little prickles. What is that? Who cares? Feels scary. Voices mumble. Something about how pert her nipples are sticking through the peep-hole bra. ‘Go ahead,’ he says. ‘She’s willing.’ Teeth. Lips. Tongue. Nipples now engorged. Pleasure messages shooting down to clit. Fingers brush over knickers. ‘Slut,’ he whispers. Now. We begin. Something tightens on her nipple. Laura gasps through the gag. He waits a moment. Then the other nipple. Gives her a few moments to absorb the pain. Her chest heaves then settles. He checks her crotch. Even wetter. Good. ‘Now, you were late. For that you will suffer, slut.’

Something hits her skin. She guesses a flogger. That’s not what hurts! It’s the chain swinging on the nipple clamps. She stifles a scream. ‘Try to keeps still and they won’t hurt as much,’ he chuckles. More of the flogger. Her thighs, her belly. The straps come off. She’s turned around. Strapped facing the cross. Now her arse. Keep still. Don’t bounce, she remembers. But she can’t keep still. The flogger stings now. She wriggles. He chuckles. She smells perfume. Someone kisses her. It’s a woman. They meet tongue to tongue. A voice whispers. ‘He’s good. Enjoy.’ Then a tug on the nipple clamp chain. Another scream through the gag. Three minutes late. Three of the best. Whack. ‘One.’ Whoah. Laura gasps loudly. Felt like a cane. ‘Two. Owww,’ she squeals. ‘Three.’ That brings a tear. But god, she’s hot now.

She’s unfastened from the cross. Led away by him and her. The music changes. They’re in another room. She holds Laura. He secures the cuffs behind her back. She’s seated. Her legs are spread and ankles fastened to keep them wide apart. Some kind of chair. He takes out the gag. She kisses her. He takes off the nipple clamps. Then it hits her. ‘Fucking bastard!’ she wails. After all, he’s earned it! Then she’s laughing, giggling. Insanely high. Floating. He enters her. She kisses her. Sucks her nipples gently. When she comes, she leaves the planet.

The phone rings. It’s her best mate, Tammy. ‘You didn’t miss much. We just did the usual stuff, you know. Down the pub and club. Sorry you couldn’t join us though. What did you do with yourself?’

‘Got tied up in knots going through stuff from the past.’ Laura smiled. And I’ll be doing some more next month, she thought to herself.

***

The nipple jewelry in the pic is an item sold by our friends Freak Clubwear. Read more Velvet Tripp at Xcite Books.

Benj and Sarah – new free erotic fiction by Fulani

Some context: this is a segment of a much longer piece I wrote several years back, about a small-time petty thief called Benj who sets himself up selling a consignment of counterfeit designer underwear to lap-dancers who then sell it, used, to the people they dance for. The longer piece was never published and probably never will be… Unusually for me there’s no bdsm in the story. Normal service will be resumed soon!

***

Benj moved around his bedroom, indecisively. It wasn’t his style to get invited to dinner by lap dancers and he didn’t know what to wear. He’d showered, shaved, noticed a stray hair in his nose and painfully removed it, and was wondering if his regular jeans and T-shirt were OK or whether he should go smart – chinos and a shirt with a collar or something. In the end he decided that if he was going to make a mistake on the fashion front, he’d rather be overdressed than underdressed. And Guy wasn’t helping, his conversation peppered with words like in, out, oral, and penetration, together with speculations about Sarah wearing as little around the house as she did on stage, and his observation that it didn’t really matter what he wore because he probably wouldn’t be wearing it for very long anyway.

He drove the van on automatic pilot, thinking there must be something he’d forgotten. A garage reminded him. Benj cut across the forecourt, switched off the ignition, pulled the handbrake and opened the door in one fluid movement. Flowers. That was what he needed. And chocolate. He selected the least weedy-looking bunch from the bucket by the door, the largest of the boxes on the display.

Sarah must have heard him pull up. She was at her front door as he climbed down from the van, looking gorgeous in a crop top, jeans holey at the knees, and bare feet. She was much shorter than he remembered, barely up to his chin. Of course, he thought, in the club she wears heels. She looked, if it was possible, even better in her clothes than she did out of them. In her arms was a kid, maybe three years old. It hadn’t ever occurred to Benj she might be a mother.

‘Come in.’ She cracked that wonderful wide smile, and jerked her head towards the kitchen. ‘Thanks for bringing those, that’s really thoughtful. There’s a vase in the cupboard next to the sink.’ For the next few minutes they made inconsequential talk while Benj made coffee and Sarah let the kid get messy with some jelly, then bounced him in her arms. ‘Come on, Josh, you should be tired now! Nearly time for your lie down, you naughty boy.’ She rubbed her nose against the kid’s, and swung it from side to side. ‘Jesus, you’re heavy these days. Will you go and lie down for mummy?’ In the time she was gone, putting the Josh to sleep, Benj sat in the living room. Your regular small private estate first-time buyer’s house, cream walls, grey carpet, no real decorations and self-assembly sofa from Ikea. The only out-of-the-ordinary touch was the pair of thigh-length five-inch heel red PVC boots lying beside the telly.

The stereo in the corner was on low, playing some kind of folk music – about the last thing Benj would have predicted to be in Sarah’s taste. At length she returned, took her coffee mug from the side table, and sat facing him cross-legged on the floor in one smooth graceful sweep. ‘Sorry about the place’ she said, gesturing around her. ‘I’ve not long moved in, haven’t had time to do much with it.’ Benj thought how clean it looked. No empty cans in the corner, unwashed plates on the table, or fluff on the carpet. ‘Compared to where I live it’s a palace. But then it is a shared flat…’ He left the thought hanging. He’d spare her the details.

‘I’ll do the dinner in a minute,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing much, just a stir-fry. I’m guessing you’re not vegetarian, but I am and I promise not having meat won’t kill you.’ She took a slug of coffee. ‘You gawped a bit at Josh’, she observed. ‘Yeah’ Benj replied. ‘Well, you see people in one context, you know, and you don’t expect … I mean you don’t know …’

‘Other parts of people’s lives?’ Sarah completed the sentence for him. ‘I know exactly what you mean’ she continued. ‘That was my problem with Josh’s dad. Not knowing about other stuff in his life. Which caught up with him pretty damn quick.’ Benj raised an eyebrow.

‘Well, it’s an everyday story really, isn’t it?’ she observed, quietly. ‘Couple meet, fall in love, girl gets pregnant, guy turns out to be a violent criminal who gets himself put away on a drugs bust. Me, I was an accounts clerk before all this. Josh has never seen his dad – born a couple of months after he started his sentence. He’s never written to us or anything. Mind you, the breast feeding was good for the dancing. It gave me nice big weighty boobs.’ She lifted them up and gave herself a cleavage to emphasise the point. ‘And it always means, when guys come on at me, I can say I have to go home to a very possessive blond hunk.’ She finished her coffee. ‘Anyway, stir fry awaits. Come and help in the kitchen?’

Glass of white Chardonnay in one hand, wooden spoon in the other, she carried her story on over the sizzling wok in the kitchen. ‘I only got into this after Josh was born, you know. We needed more than I was making in the day job, and when I started going to the gym again one of the girls was a dancer. It’s funny the way things work out.’ She scooped stir-fry onto two plates. ‘Fork or chopsticks?’ Benj opted for a fork.

Now the meal was under way, Sarah got down to business. ‘Now we’re eating, let’s get down to business. I want to tell you something I’ve not breathed a word about at Suspenders.’ This suddenly got Benj’s attention and made him grateful he’d bothered to dress up. ‘I won’t be there much longer.’ He sat straight in his chair, having a sudden vision of his enterprise and profits collapsing. ‘I’ve taken up an offer to work for the competition.’

‘I didn’t think they had competition, not round here.’

‘Ah, but they will soon,’ Sarah pointed out. ‘It’ll be a bit smaller, more city centre, attached to the casino. So it’ll be a better class of punter. And I’m in there, maybe doing a share of the dancing but mainly choosing the girls and working on costumes and routines with them. It’s a move up in the world, you see. And I’ll be wanting to do the pants thing there. No, don’t worry,’ Sarah reassured him, seeing the expression on his face, ‘Suspenders will keep doing it. I’ll pass the business over to one of the other girls. So you’ll have double the fun, two places to service. Deal?’ Benj couldn’t see it being a problem.

Sarah sighed. ‘There’s only one thing about being a dancer,’ she said. At the club you’re untouchable, and outside the club everyone who knows you dance thinks you’re either a lezzie or a man-eater. So men stay away.’ She stretched and flexed her shoulders, then hooked fingers into her jeans to pull out the waistband and let it fall a little lower on her taut belly. Following Benj’s gaze, she smiled. ‘Took ages to get it back to this condition after Josh. Months of sit-ups and a small fortune at the gym. You don’t think I’m a man-eater, do you? No, it’s just doing what I do, I guess it makes you more … direct about certain things.’ Her hands snaked across the table and into his. ‘I’ve got two hours before I have to get ready for the club. We’ve done the business, so let’s not waste the rest of our time, huh?’

Benj allowed himself to be led upstairs by the hand, quietly past the back bedroom – Sarah with a finger to his lips, mustn’t wake the kid – and into the front. Closed gauzy curtains suffused the room with warm pink light. Benj took in the piles of clothes on the floor, the women’s mags and toys scattered beside the bed, and finally the bed itself, king-size, with brass bedstead and cream Egyptian cotton sheets. This was obviously where she spent her money. There was no standing on ceremony. Even as he took in the decor, Sarah was peeling off her top. Turning to face him, she undid the fly buttons of her jeans, shrugged her hips, and bent to take them off. No bra, no knickers. She giggled as he took in the view. ‘I keep underwear for work, not home,’ was her short explanation.

Benj had to remind himself the only part of her he hadn’t already seen was the pink, moistly glistening sex between her legs. She shaved – and yes, he knew that from the taut, cheese-wire G-string he’d seen her wearing at the club. But there was a world of difference between seeing her flesh on display at the club, and seeing her now as real, touchable, strokeable flesh plus a real personality. While he fumbled with his shirt buttons, she knelt and gently unzipped his fly, easing his cock from the restraint of his underwear.

‘You sell designer stuff and the best you can do for yourself is scabby old boxers…?’ He was on the point of replying when his cock disappeared into her mouth, making him buckle at the knees. He collapsed slowly backwards until he was lying on the bed and felt his trousers being stripped from him – not so gently, either. Quite an art considering her mouth was still working his shaft.

But when she finally lay down beside him, there was none of the “masterfully he plunged his throbbing tool into her aching honey pot” stuff. They lay in each other’s arms for a while, getting used to how well they fitted together. He felt the warmth of her groin against his, and her breasts pressing on his chest; she felt his hands alternately stroking and kneading her shoulder blades and the curves of her buttocks. He closed his eyes to kiss, and as their tongues slipped around each other he opened them briefly to see her wide-eyed. This can’t be real, Benj thought, I must be in someone else’s fantasy, stuff like this doesn’t happen to me.

They moved gently together, smiling; he felt her long fingernails quietly manipulating the base of his cock, she felt the warm squeeze of his fingers rolling her nipples. Benj felt her tawny flank ripple as she stretched her free arm behind her, and heard the bedside table drawer open.

‘Condom?’

‘Sssh.’ She held his lower lip between her strong white teeth. ‘Yeah, condom’. Putting a corner of the packet between her teeth now, to hold while she twisted and extracted the limp pinkish-white thing from the foil. Sliding down the sheets, Sarah caressed his dick, not forgetting the sensitive prostate spot right at the base, just behind his balls. Then he felt her squeeze the base of his shaft rhythmically, while giving the head a tongue bath. He juddered involuntarily, pumping his thighs to meet the pressure on his cock and feeling long, repeated, downward sweeps of her hand.

‘Done.’ Peremptorily Sarah pushed a hand down on his shoulder, pressing him flat on the bed, and brushed away the hand that fluttered between her legs. ‘Me on top’, she said, and bracing herself against the bedhead, fed him strongly, urgently, inside her. Benj gasped with the warmth. In a daze, he saw her chest blushing under her tan, and breasts bouncing as she moved back and forth. Balanced now, Sarah matched him thrust for thrust, fingers circling her nipples as she swayed above him. Little noises escaped from her throat, gasps and grunts, and gradually, as her sense of balance evaporated with pleasure, she swayed lower until she almost lay on top of him, breasts dancing inches from his face. In a little rational corner of his brain, Benj thought she’s smaller than me, how come her tits come this far up? And then he had one in his mouth, gently biting – and not so gently when he heard her insistent moans.

In a moment she had collapsed on him completely. ‘Roll me over. Fuck me hard … hard … hard …’ Gathering her arms to her sides, and allowing her to straighten her legs, Benj twisted until she toppled onto the sheets and quickly raised his thighs, managing – just – to keep inside her. As he drew up his knees, Sarah’s legs parted underneath him and he raised himself on his elbows just enough to look into her face. Her thighs were already pumping, grinding her belly into his as he pounded, grunting, into her with his whole weight.

Benj felt a familiar tightening of his scrotum, gradually supplanted by a shuddering, pulsating flow. And he was spent. It was that sudden, that explosive.

Lowering himself to Sarah, he licked perspiration from between her breasts. He could feel the tightness of her cunt trying to suck him in, but in reality squeezing him out.

‘Hang on in there,’ he heard himself saying, as he twisted and slithered down her body to let his face rest between her legs. She tasted hot, salty, and slightly rubbery from the condom. Allowing the weight of his forehead to fall below her pelvis, in what he thought of as her love cradle, his tongue went off on a journey of its own, parting the folds to discover her clitoris. His head thumped as she bucked in response to his discovery, and her fists tugged his hair, thrashed wildly, gripped the bedhead, and went back to his hair again. He heard her ragged gasps, building to an inarticulate cry as she twisted to bite the corner of a pillow. Yeah, I remember, don’t wake the kid, Benj thought, but the noise of her coming was like an aircraft takeoff, louder and louder until his ears were ringing and Sarah’s belly slammed up and down so fast he thought his nose would break against her pubic bone.

And suddenly it was done, and they were laughing out loud in each other’s arms, locked eye to eye with the enormity of the moment before knotted muscles collapsed and they fell together, belly to belly, her face buried in his neck. Benj sneaked a look at Sarah’s face – completely sated, blissful, almost childlike in repose. He reached behind him to pull a corner of the duvet across them both and realised, suddenly and incongruously, that he was still wearing his socks.

University demonstrates motorized sex toy!

Universities have changed since we did our degrees… There’s a report on the BBC website (Northwestern University sex toy show ‘disturbing’) about a ‘motorised sex toy’, which sounds like it was probably a fucking machine, being demonstrated in during a psychology lecture on human sexuality.

The particular topic was human sexual arousal and female physiology. Apparently ‘About 100 students observed the proceedings … Attendance was voluntary and students had been warned what to expect’ and ‘Student feedback for this event was uniformly positive’. The demonstrator was quoted as saying “We had fun with it. I’m an exhibitionist.”

It does raise some interesting questions. Is there a reason, apart from university administrations being concerned about their PR, why students on a human sexuality course shouldn’t be able, voluntarily, to be exposed to such ‘teaching material’.

One can’t assume university students, who are adults, would be completely innocent in such matters anyway. Whether the demo added to their knowledge and understanding is something that probably can’t be assessed from a distance. However it’s plausible that it would have informed students not just about female physiology and arousal, but the whole issue of ‘sex toys’ and given them some insight, too, into the nature of exhibitionism. Presumably the main embarrassment factor for the university is the fact that it’s all become a public issue.

It is the role of univeristies to teach, and human sexuality is relevant to a range of courses from psychology to sociology to biology and medicine to art and literature. There’s always new ground to break and sometimes barriers have to be crossed in order to do it. In the 70s and 80s it was often considered necessary if daring to use actual pornographic images in lectures about pornography and eroticism, the psychology of sex and other topics. In lecture terms, a picture is often worth a thousand words. It’s also been known for toys such as vibrators to be shown to students (though probably not ‘demonstrated’) and for actual prostitutes to be invited to speak at seminars and lectures on prostitution and sexuality. Reportedly in some places and at some times, couples have actually fucked for students to observe and make notes.

Outside universities, plenty of feminist groups and others have done things like invite women to inspect their own genitals and those of other women in minute detail, and this has often resulted in women having greater self-confidence and a sense of empowerment.

Is there a ‘freedom to teach’ or ‘freedom of knowledge’ issue here? What specific issues are there about the nature of knowledge and methods of its acquisition? If a fucking machine demo is acceptable, how about other sexual practices? Bondage? Spanking? Needle play?

And finally, given that universities in the past have been engaged in all sorts of things they haven’t wanted to be public knowledge, from accepting donations and grants from dubious sources to ethically problematic research across a wide range of disciplines, isn’t demonstrating a fucking machine a relatively unimportant issue?

Thoughts and comments welcome!