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…

***

Burned-out carI’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…!”

Burned-out carYou 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.

Burned-out carI 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.