New – Hunting, Shooting, Racing

It’s been a while, huh? No new stuff published, no posts about anything much. Real life gets you like that sometimes, stuff happens you have to push plod or plough through. Since the middle of the year we’ve had bereavements, illnesses and chunks of very unerotic work all of which took priority over writing erotica.

Hunting Shooting cover small

Hunting Shooting Racing cover

That said, one new novella is now out. Hunting Shooting and Racing (or use this link for Amazon.co.uk) is based on the idea that in the recession (which many of us are still feeling, by the way, despite government figures saying the economy is picking up) a couple who manage a 50-acre or so site for paintballing and airsoft might try to pick up on a niche market for outdoor BDSM activities. It’s large, it’s private, and it has installations ranging from stockades to tumbledown barns and faux graveyards for those who like that kind of thing for their bdsm play and, of course, for sex. Plus a lot of trees people can be tied to. This opens up all kinds of possibilities, including ‘slave hunts’ and pony play…

Here’s the opening:

Breeze playing over my bare skin. Rope tight between my legs. Stumbling over the rough grass because I’m hooded, and he’s yanking on the rope he’s using as a leash. Wrists bound behind me. Feeling exposed and helpless. Anticipating the cruel fucking he’s going to give me.

Life doesn’t get much better than this.

He won’t be taking me far. The site is 58 acres, less than a mile on each side. But naked, hooded, hands tied behind my back and dragged on a leash it feels like we’re crossing an entire county. The length of the trek ramps up my sense of helplessness. And my wetness level. The rope between my legs is slick and slippery.

Sometimes we play hide-and-seek. I hide, Dylan seeks. This time I thought I’d found a good hiding spot. The Deep Cover section of the site slopes down to a shallow pond with a small island in the middle of it. I was on the island, under a cover of low branches and leaf litter.

He found me.

The deal was, if I could stay hidden until dusk, he’d be my slave until tomorrow morning. If he found me, I’d be his prisoner until then. It’s a grown-up version of hide-and-seek. An adult, triple- X-rated version.

I thought I was well hidden, but he found me. I’ll give him credit for that. I heard nothing. Nothing that couldn’t have been a bird in the trees or a vole on the waterline. Then his hand on my ankle, pulling me backwards. His knee on my spine. Hands forced halfway up my back and tied there.

“How …?” I wheezed.

“Easy. I’ve been noticing the places you looked at in the last couple of days. I saw the mud stirred up in the pond. After that it was just a case of being quiet and using my sixth sense.”

Fuck. Next time I’ll go to the Trench Warfare section and dig myself a foxhole.

[Edited to add: when I first checked the Amazon.com listing it showed as ‘pricing information unavailable’. I thought that was a glitch but it turns out to be what Amazon does if you can access it from a closer Amazon site, in my case Amazon.co.uk. If you’re in the US and buying from the .com site you’ll be fine, it shows as $1.91 or thereabouts for 37 pages.] If you’re in the UK it will cost you £1.19. I have no idea what the conversion factor is into pence per orgasm, but no doubt you can be guided by your own experience.

There will, incidentally, also be a story of mine in another Sweetmeats collection in the near future – a collection called Wander Lust themes on sex and travel, and in the case of my own contribution with a bit of a steampunk thing going on as well. And a mountweazel, if you know what one of those is (and no, it’s not a new type of sex toy…).

In case I’m not back on here before Halloween (or Samhain, if you’re that way inclined), remember the ‘Our Publications’ list includes several vampire, paranormal and other suitably Halloween-ish titles including Ridden (vodou bdsm), The Vampire Skye (vampire lesbian bdsm), The Vampire’s New Plaything (vampire bdsm), a short story in Xcite’s Spirit Lovers collection (paranormal bdsm), Velvet’s story ‘A Woman Possessed’ in the Sweetmeats Naked Delirium collection (her story is paranormal pagan bdsm, the others vary) and a bunch of other stuff. You may detect a bit of a theme going on there… The links are all to Amazon.com but the ‘Our Purchases’ page gives Amazon UK links and other sources as well.

Have fun and enjoy your erotica reading responsibly!

-F

Phone Sex

I read it in a magazine a while back. Survey reckoned sixty per cent of all women have had a phone conversation with someone during sex. Doesn’t mean sixty per cent of women do it every time, or that the women who do it have phone conversations for sixty per cent of the time they’re having sex. But Jessica’s way up there in percentage terms.
When her phone plays a bleepy version of some club dance anthem, Jessica scrabbles on the bedside table for it.
‘Hi!’ Voice pitched a little lower than normal, husky and breathless. There’s a reason for that. She’s feeling hot, wild and sheet-biting eager.
‘He did what? Ohhh…’ The Ohhh is because we’re having a doggy style moment and I’ve shifted position very slightly in a way that makes a big difference to depth of penetration.
I guess that she’s talking to Sharon. They’ve had several conversations recently about Sharon’s husband, who seems to have spent a lot of evenings working late, and weekends playing golf. Except the golf club, when Sharon phoned them, had no record of him being on the course and he wasn’t in the clubhouse.
It doesn’t matter to me who Jessica’s talking to. As long as it’s not her husband. And I’ve reached the point where my own need to climax is building in urgency. I’m pretty sure the sound of my thighs slapping against her ass cheeks will be audible over the phone.
As are her gasps, evidently. I can’t hear what Sharon’s saying, but after Jessica’s quiet moan, I get Sharon’s squeal even through the pinhead-sized speaker on the phone.
Jessica breathes heavily, chuckles, grunts into the phone.
‘I’m in a motel…’
The room’s bland. Brown carpet, magnolia walls, a long shelf with a TV, telephone and kettle none of which we need. A bed that’s quite sturdy and doesn’t rattle or creak, which we do need.
Her dress, a blue button-through in light fabric, is on the floor by the TV. She didn’t bother with underwear. I’d only have ripped it off her and she knows it. My trainers are on opposite corners of the room and my jeans, jacket and shirt are draped over the single tub-shaped armchair. I didn’t bother with socks or boxers. She’d only have ripped the boxers off me. And sex while wearing socks is definitely a style faux pas. She, on the other hand, is still wearing neon-blue heels that dig into my calves when she writhes, but definitely aren’t a faux pas.
She also has a gold anklet that winks in a thin shaft of sunlight that stabs through the closed curtains. Very eighties, but on her delicate ankle it’s utterly charming.
She wanted me to buy it for her a while back, wears it every time we meet up. Takes it off again when she goes back home. Calls it her slave anklet.
‘No!’ she shrieks, amused. ‘I’m with uhhhh, uhhhh…’
She hasn’t forgotten my name. It’s just that I’ve used my left hand to reach under her belly and pressed the nail of my middle finger into her clit. And I take the ‘No’ to be her answer to a question about who she’s with. As in No, she’s not with her husband.
And no, I don’t know who he is. All I can say is he’s some kind of corporate executive who spends a lot of time away from home and leaves Jessica terminally bored. I’m the cure for her boredom.
‘You’re joking!’
I’m not interested. There’s pressure in my balls, and the pump-and-pulse feeling that runs from the base of big vein on the underside of my dick all the way up to its head.
‘Are you serious?’ She sounds incredulous.
Jessica snakes a hand under her body – the hand holding the phone. I’m moving more deliberately, slow and long, building my own climax, but she’s twisting and pushing against me in a way that makes it difficult. And there’s a ker-klik of the photo app on her phone.
I slap her ass. The fleshy smack is followed by a high-pitched ringing echo from the walls, and then her gasp that isn’t just shock but excitement.
Yes, she likes it. It’s the thing that turns up the dial on her sexual amplifier to max.
‘You really want me to?’
Jessica withdraws her hand. Fingers flicker across the phone’s screen. She’s just sent Sharon a pic of my balls and my cock pushing into her.
She arches her back, which increases the friction for both of us. Starts to moan more urgently, mutters ‘Yes, yes’ either to me or to Sharon, I don’t exactly know, and then ‘Fuck, oh fuck!’ which I guess is her beginning to come.
I reach forward and grab Jessica’s hair, an unruly blonde mass that trails halfway down her spine. Pull back on it, forcing her head up. It’s a big trigger for her, in a good way. It triggers her orgasm.
And the room is flooded with Jessica’s breathless howl of coming, my grunt and growl of ejaculation, and a quieter tinny shriek that comes from her phone.

‘Was she…?’
We’re both lying on the bed, limbs entangled. Post-coital.
Jessica nods. ‘Once she figured what we were doing, she started playing with herself. Then, when she had the pic I sent, and the audio of us, she brought herself off. You made two of us come at the same time.’
‘So what’s the deal with her husband?’
Jessica shrugs. ‘I dunno.’
She stops holding out on me when I take a nipple between my teeth. But only after I’ve taken her back to the point when she’s not quite sure if my bite is pleasure or pain.
‘Word is, he’s exploring his sexuality. Sharon’s tracked a credit card payment to a billing name that turns out to be a professional dominant.’
‘So is she doing more about it than talking with you?’
Jessica grins at me.
‘Not as such. Not yet. But it’s on her to-do list.’
I wonder about the idea of an affair as something you’d put on a to-do list. The kind of thing you’d do on principle and slot into your schedule as a lifestyle choice. I can imagine there are people like that. I can imagine Sharon’s one of them, scheduling what is essentially a revenge fuck.
Her phone rings again. It’s a long conversation and I zone out for a while.
Jessica nudges me awake.
‘Sharon says, would you be up for it if I left my phone camera on next time?’
‘Why?’
She smirks. ‘Because I can run streaming video to her.’
‘She wants to watch us fuck?’
There’s more conversation before she turns to me and says ‘It’s the next best thing to having an affair. But consider it an audition for when she does want to have one.’
‘We’d better make it interesting, then…’

And we do. Apparently Sharon’s very excited by the fact I’ve booked a ninth-floor room in a good-quality hotel, tied Jessica up and made her stand at the window. And by the use of a riding crop mark her ass. And even more so by the industrial-strength massager I’ve brought with me to bring Jessica to a screaming forced orgasm. Sharon’s even decided to get herself an ankle bracelet like Jessica’s.

***

Yes, it’s been a while since we posted. That’s life – sometimes we have to buckle down and write stuff for paying readers rather than spend time on the blog.
The story is, incidentally, inspired by a real survey that was published in June this year. You can read news articles on it in the Huffington Post, The Guardian and probably elsewhere – though apparently while 62% of women will check their phones during sex, only 34% actually admitted to answering a phone call while in the throes of ecstasy.

Voodoo Fetish free until 28 July

Voodoo Fetish cover pictureVoodoo Fetish, the second book in my Vodou Trilogy, is free on Amazon until 28 July: it’s available on Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk. The first book, Ridden, details Eloise’s brush with the lwa and Baron Cimitiėre in which she’s used as an instrument of supernatural healing. Her powers are only released, though, when she has bdsm sex in which she can use her pain to channel away another person’s illness. This novella isn’t free, so to read the backstory you’ll need to pay a nominal two dollars and some cents. Voodoo Fetish details her life back in London. You’d think London is a long way from vodou – but the vodou diaspora is present these days in many large cities. She’s called upon by the lwa to carry out a healing ceremony for the daughter of a work colleague. Among other things this involves supernatural sex, discussions with crows and a dead witch, sex with a pagan couple she meets who are recruited to her healing project, a relationship with a houngan (male priest) who comes from the slightly different New Orleans tradition of vodou, a bass guitar with interesting properties, and discussion of the Navier-Stokes equations of fluid dynamics. There will be a third novella in due course, which explains how the various people she’s healed are connected together and what the longer-term project of the lwa was. And, yes, bdsm and sex will be involved. However, for now you can read the second novella, Voodoo Fetish, for free. Go to it. Enjoy.

Emerald in the magazine

Emerald sat on the park bench staring at the magazine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Sex, Art and Aromatherapy for free (until 9 June)

Sex Art and Arometherapy alternative coverXcite tell me Sex, Art, and Aromatherapy will be free on iTunes Bookstore between 27th May – 9th June.

It’s a short story – one of my gentler pieces of erotica, and about 6000 words – about a woman who’s already experienced in BDSM and fetish, but she falls into conversation with an older man in an art gallery, who also seems experienced in that world. He tells her stories about how, in his youth, BDSM was simply one part of a wider and more spiritual quest. She sets off on a journey with him to discover some enlightenment.

Quick sample:

The label says the picture is called ‘Untitled No. 41 (1989)’, by Joshua Cesario.

Ruby consults her mobile phone. The display should tell her the time, but it’s blank. The battery’s died.

A few other people are in the gallery. One is an older man, sitting on the leatherette bench in the middle of the space. He’s looking at the same picture.

‘Excuse me,’ she whispers. ‘What’s the time?’

He looks at his watch, casually. ‘A couple of minutes after three. Are you in a hurry?’

She’s not. Though she was planning on buying some shoes and chocolate on the way home.

‘You’ve been looking at the picture for a while,’ the man observes. ‘Do you know much about it?’

‘Why? Are you the artist?’

He chuckles. ‘Much as I’d like to, I don’t paint. I’m an aromatherapist.’ Figures: for the first time, Ruby notices a faint scent of rosewater in the air. ‘But I did know him, for a time. I first met him at a party. This was maybe twenty years ago.’

‘Oh?’ Ruby’s interested, but not yet hooked.

‘You’ve no doubt worked out that despite being abstract, the picture’s about sex. Specifically, about sex and bondage. It was… How shall I put this? It was that kind of party. Fetishistic. Orgiastic.’

Ruby does a mental doubletake, remembering that this fifty-something man with greying hair must have been young once. The kind of things she’s done, while fresh and interesting to her when she experienced them, have been done before…

‘I remember he’d tied up a young lady – she was a lady actually, though I don’t recall her exact title – and there was a certain amount of sex involved along with the painting. But that’s another story. This painting, I remember him explaining the details in a drunken conversation. It was a memorial to a particular woman he’d been having an affair with, to their idea of love.’

Of course the large canvas was about sex. Otherwise, why the pile of clothes in one corner and the shoes at the end of what, presumably, is a naked body? And what picture isn’t about sex, anyway, in some coded form? But the story coded into this picture suddenly captures her imagination and she wants to know more.

This link to iTunes should take you to the US iTunes store directly. If you need another store, just search for author ‘Fulani’ and title ‘Sex, Art and Aromatherapy’.

Sex Art & Aromatherapy coverDepending on which store you’re viewing you’ll either see the cover image at the head of this post or the one on the ‘Our Publications’ page (also see left) – when it first went onto iTunes they weren’t keen on covers depicting bondage.

So have fun. For free, until 9th June.

Filthy Money

Filthy Money cover

Filthy Money cover (link to Smashwords)

Please read responsibly!

I’ve just self-pubbed this collection of eight stories, which I’ve described as quasi-erotica: Filthy Money, and other stories of sex in the gutter. And I’ve put it up at the bargain bin price of 99 cents.

Why ‘quasi-erotica’? As I said in the blurb, these are stories of desperate sex, sexual perversity and moral degeneracy from the margins of contemporary society – they’re mostly set in the kind of social situation where people are living in bad neighbourhoods, or in squats, or on the streets. The kind of situation where no one has any money but drug and alcohol use are common and life is chaotic.

It’s not, of course, an accurate representation of that life. The collection is BDSM themed, for a start. And many of the more unsavoury aspects of that life – self-harm, self-destructive behaviour, people who collect debts with machetes and so on – have been toned down. A lot.

I haven’t included a snippet as a come-on. You can see the first 20% for free on Smashwords anyway.

I’ve had these stories in my head for a while, maybe for a couple of years. And I’ve self-published them for two reasons.

Firstly, it was a form of exorcism. It worked, more or less. But secondly, since it’s unlikely to be a massive best-seller anyway, I’ve treated it as an easy introduction to self-publishing on Smashwords. At the moment it’s only on Smashwords (and thus ultimately its associates like Diesel, Ebooks-Eros and B&N). I haven’t decided if I want to put it anywhere else, like Amazon, yet. That’s a decision I’ll make a month or two.

Self-publishing it was a learning curve, but now I’ve climbed it I might try it again in the future with other stuff that’s a little less strange and dark.

Have fun. If it actually sells I’ll be gratified. But if you like it it’ll only encourage me – even if you only like it in a ‘That’s as entertaining as looking at a car wreck’ kind of a way.

Free Voodoo Fetish!

Voodoo Fetish cover pictureFrom 8 to 12 May 2013, my Voodoo Fetish novella is free on Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk.

I won’t bore you with the plot summary or blurb, because you can find those things on Amazon anyway.

I’ll just point out that it’s an erotic novella with paranormal and BDSM themes. Along the way you’ll find sex, bondage, whips, post-structuralist philosophy, vodou, paranormal sex, fluid dynamics equations, three-way and four-way sex, the 1832 Public Cemeteries Act, fetishism, gas masks, sex in a cemetery, syncretism, demonic possession, medical and musical equipment being destroyed by a malevolent spirit, a bass guitar, a goat’s head, and an anvwar mo. And references to certain things you can find on YouTube. And sex and bondage and bdsm.

I hope you enjoy it. If you could also review, rate or tag it on Amazon or Goodreads or wherever that would be kind. And if you like it – I have others; Ridden, obviously, which is the first book of the trilogy, but you’ll find other paranormal/supernatural erotica over on the ‘our publications’ page of this blog.

Velvet also has paranormal erotica published, including the much-praised and well-reviewed A Woman Possessed – an entertaining story of spiritual possession, pagan ritual and bdsm.