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.

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.

Writer’s Block – new free fiction from Velvet Tripp

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

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

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

‘A blindfold and flogger might help.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It was dark.’ Sally said.

Thwack!  ‘More,’ said Greg.

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

‘Good. That’s a start.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sally jumped. ‘Ow!’

‘Get on with it.’

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

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

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

‘Write.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Write,’ he said again.

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

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

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

‘Good girl. Good idea!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Dirty girl. Filthy mind,’ he murmered.

‘Mmm,’ was all Sally could say.

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

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

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

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

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

Velvet Tripp

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

Ridden – for free, 14-18 November 2012

Ridden coverIt’s true, you can get Ridden for free, for a limited time. Xcite have it on free promo on Amazon for four days. Erotic novella, bondage and BDSM, voodoo and paranormal, more details in previous blog posts.

Get it from Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk. And please leave a review on Amazon when you’ve read it!

Bearing in mind it’s Part 1 of a trilogy (though each volume is self-standing and complete in itself) and Part 2 is mostly written while Part 3 is already plotted, I’m still open to suggestions about particular scenes you might like to see in the later volumes…

Ridden – now out

Ridden coverOkay, I’ve been slow to promote this novella, especially since my novel came out a week or so ago (see the posts about Corporate Slave, below). It’s been out since Monday but I’ve been writing other stuff, nonfiction, about topics such as cultural imperialism.

And that’s relevant, actually. Because the novella is based in a culture that isn’t mine. But then again, for various random reasons, it’s a part of a diaspora of beliefs I happen to know at least a little about, and that you can now find embedded in almost any world city.

Currently Ridden is available as an ebook only on Amazon in the US and Amazon in the UK, and it will be a while before it’s available elsewhere. But I’ll have another announcement to make about it next week…

The core of the plot is based on voodoo, if you like the ordinary Westernised spelling; or vodou, which is how its practitioners and followers usually refer to it (there are other spellings as well but they mostly relate to its practice in West Africa, and other names used within the range of vodou beliefs). The title of the story comes from the common description of someone who is possessed by a lwa, or spirit, as being ‘ridden’. And of course, in more everyday English, someone who is completely obsessed with some idea or emotion is sometimes said to be ridden by it.

I’d like to think, though I may be deluding myself, that alongside the erotic content readers may pick up something more ‘educational’ about the nature of vodou in reading the novella. I haven’t tried to be absolutely faithful to its practices and beliefs, but I have tried to convey something about its worldview.

So: rather than try to offer a short description (which is on Amazon anyway) or an extract (which is on our Tumblr, and you can use the Amazon ‘look inside’ function to read the beginning as well) I’ve come up with something that I hope is a more evocative summary:

The hospital doctors said Eloise had concussion. It wasn’t concussion.
Tom nodded slowly. “I know what you’re thinking,” Eloise whispered. She felt a myriad of sensations. Later, she felt herself accelerating, plunging towards sweaty carnal seizure.
Confused and dream-filled sleep.
Huge, rusted cemetery gates. Nakedness, erection, the smell of sex.
There had been a travail, a working.
Tom. Romero. Philippe. The sudden flare of the candle. Romero’s old bullet wound. Instinct. Possibilities multiplied. Complicated palette of emotions. Ropes, hanging from the rafters. Fuck.
Healing people, through sex. Sex as a moral and sacred act.

This is Part 1 of a 3-part trilogy. It’s a complete story in itself but there will, in a couple of months or so, be more to read about Eloise and her developing relationship with vodou.

I hope you like it. If you like paranormal, I hope you find it to your taste. If you don’t normally like paranormal, I hope you find the slightly out-of-the-ordinary paranormality of the novella intriguing. If you don’t normally read bdsm erotica, I hope it helps you understand why people might become motivated to try bdsm, and leaves you hot and sweaty. If you do normally read bdsm erotica I hope it leaves you hot and sweaty anyway. If you don’t know much about vodou I hope it gives you at least a sense of how and why others are attracted to it – though if you are, in fact, a vodouist you’ll probably think it’s overly simplistic, not to say overly imaginative. But whoever you are, I hope it makes you rampantly excited.

-F

New Novel Corporate Slave

Corporate Slave Cover

It’s out. It’s finally here! Fulani’s latest Novel Corporate Slave will be available from Friday 2nd November. After Twelve months of Slaving away over a hot Mac, editing, proofing, then finding a delightful cover, it’s ready for you to enjoy. And I’m sure you will enjoy it. Fulani’s top quality writing (I know I’m biased, but see for yourself) will keep you turning the pages, stopping only to cool down!

You’ll be able to find it at Erotic Book Network initially, but later on Amazon and on lots of other websites such as Smashwords. 

Here’s the lowdown:

Life isn’t easy for Cassie. She’s a sales assistant in a convenience store, in a society where sex is used to sell everything and is one of the main commodities for sale.

When she buys one of the new Intelligent Dresses to wear when she’s out clubbing, it sparks a sequence of events that lead to her being accused of using the garment’s on-board computer to carry out industrial espionage. Her captors assume she’s part of the resistance movement, seeking to bring down the group of multinational corporations that rule the country. She is imprisoned, interrogated and tortured, and ultimately sold as a slave to a senior corporate exec, Mistress NightMaire. She becomes a pleasure slave to be used for the entertainment of guests and clients.

Meanwhile she discovers a friend of hers, Lorne, is also being held by Mistress NightMaire. And Lorne, it turns out, does have connections to dissident groups.

Cassie begins to plan her escape. But will she be able to find Lorne? Will she be able to join up with the dissidents? Can they change the world? And just as importantly, now she knows the capabilities of the Dress can she get her hands on another one?

Don’t miss this one! VelvetTripp

[Edited 1st Nov to add: read a short sample of the novel, which sets out some of the setting and characters, over at Fulani’s other blog – fulanismut.blogspot.com]