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?’
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.

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.

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 –]

Bondage. Question: How does it Feel?


Me, hogtied

On a Pagan camp during the summer I was asked ‘how does it feel?’ right after the question ‘are you OK?’ when the audience (we were doing a demo) saw me flat out, face down, hogtied and very, very quiet.

Very good questions. Of course, I was OK. They laughed when the tone of my reply (‘I’m OK,’) was so obviously one of bliss. And that’s how it felt. My introduction to the world of BDSM at the tender age of forty+ was a bondage demo in a club. A Goth club. I watched a man tying up someone and fancied trying it. I was impressed to see he was monitoring his charge as he progressed with the tying. His approach was safety-led, ensuring no tendons or joints were under too much pressure, that arms and legs were in safe positions and his charge could breathe properly.

So I had a go while friends watched to ensure my safety, as this man was a stranger. The club was packed. Big Goth boots walked around me hogtied on the floor. Goth music blared out loudly. Weirdly in such circumstances I felt…spaced out. It was such a strange feeling. Unexpected but really good. Much better than I’d anticipated. As someone who has done a lot of meditation and has had hypnosis, this felt like some kind of trance. I was blissed out! In the middle of a busy club! I still am not sure why this should be. Is it to do with being swaddled as a baby and being tightly bound made me feel safe? Is it that I had always had to be in control in my daily life as a single mother and business manager, so here was a chance to give up control and relax? I think maybe it’s a little of each.

One thing it wasn’t and isn’t is scary. Fulani was that stranger. He is now my partner. I still enjoy being tied up. He still enjoys doing it. My birthday this year will be special, as we’ve been invited to a Rope Bondage party that very day. Fun! Scary is actually something I like when we’re playing, but bondage alone doesn’t do that. Mind-fucks do that. And they aren’t physically dangerous.

Bondage is only one aspect of BDSM, and it would be a while before I gradually found out about some of its other delights. Fulani has many years more experience than I, and has always treated me with the utmost respect. Our BDSM is a game. We do not ‘live the lifestyle’ that some choose to, but still get a lot out of it in terms of pleasure, as well as it making our relationship stronger. That’s because of the levels of trust involved. Trust is a very important issue when it comes to BDSM. As the submissive, I give my power over to Fulani whenever I put my collar on and we play. If I give him my safeword, I know that he will instantly stop what he’s doing and release me or check with me what’s wrong. This is VITAL. I might feel ill. I might feel upset. I might feel that a rope is too tight or pressing somewhere it shouldn’t. Rope can damage tendons if it presses on them for too long. Your top or Dom needs to know what he/she is doing and be able to correct a problem quickly.

So if you want to try bondage, you should trust the person who is tying you up, be certain they will respect your limits and have a safeword in case you need it for any reason at all. Communicate with your top. Tell them if something hurts when it shouldn’t. Tell them if you suddenly feel scared or upset.  Of course, if you are playing with pleasure/pain as well as bondage, ‘ow’ will not suffice. Be specific and say ‘The knot on my wrist is digging in,’ if that’s what’s happening, so he can correct if for you.

But as for how it feels, two people at that demo had a go once I’d been released. They both experienced the same blissful feeling as I did. They had never ventured into the BDSM world before. I can’t guarantee you will but how will you know if you don’t try it? And don’t forget to try something twice, just in case it was done badly  the first time!


Government denies existence of mermaids

We thought Old Palfrey had finally lost it. Came into the bar that night calling for drink and raving about having seen a mermaid. I asked him how much he’d already had. “Half a bottle of rum,” he said. “Needed it to steady my nerves. Wouldn’t you, if a mermaid came up caught in one of your lines?”

The older guys, seasoned hands, just chuckled and shook their heads. The younger ones shrugged their shoulders. “Whatever you caught, just send it to the canning factory with the rest of the catch. No one’ll know the difference.”

But he wouldn’t have it. Half woman, half fish. Nice face. Tits on it. Long blonde hair. And the clincher was this: “She’s still in the hold. I tied her hands to a stanchion there.”

“You mean you haven’t offloaded your catch?” No one keeps their catch after they’ve docked, the factory wants it fresh. “Well, in that case,” I said, “there’s one way to settle it. Let’s go see what it was you did catch.”

So we went back down to the docks. Old Palfrey, me, Jack, Jules, Ty and Brad. With torches. Made him open up the hatch.

And right there, hands tied, was a mermaid. Resting on a pile of lobster pots.

She looked at us with venom in her eyes. Slapped away questing hands with her tail. But she was weak, and we got a rope around her just above the tailfin.

“See?” Old Palfrey said triumphantly. “Told you I got myself one. Came right up with the pots, unconscious. Like she was exhausted and fouled herself on a line.”

“You gonna call the coastguard?” I asked. “This is going to make the news.”

“What’cha do with a mermaid?” Jack asked. It was a rhetorical question. “Cos I don’t see a cunt. Gotta be in the mouth, then.”

And while the rest of us were standing around he’d got his cock out, grabbed her by the hair to pull her face up and started pumping between her lips. She made gkk-gkk sounds. Her eyes were big, round, startled. She might feel venom but wasn’t exactly in a position to express it.

“If you don’t want her,” Brad said slyly, “I’ll buy her off you. She can live in my bath and soap me down when I get in with her.” Yeah. Like he ever bothered to even take a bath.

Jules fucked her, then Ty.

By the end of it her face was a slimy mess. She didn’t even seem conscious.

“You should have her, too,” Jack told me.

“Nope. You don’t just fuck a strange new species. That’s asking for trouble. And you don’t, like, fuck the other stuff that comes up in your catch, do you?”

Brad just grinned. He’s a slimy bastard but I’d never have expected that of him. That’s so perverted it’s surreal.

“Listen, you don’t know anything about her. Germs, parasites, weird stuff. And you’re lucky her tongue doesn’t have fucking spikes on it.”

Then a little voice from the darkness. “Motherfuckers.”


“Hey,” I called out. “Did you just speak English?”

Her breath came in irregular gulps. “Of course I… speak fucking English. Stop me… Drying out. Water.”

Old Palfrey sloshed a bucket of slop from the bilges over her. It seemed to help. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

“What are you?” I asked.

“You don’t want to know.” Quiet voice. Dreamy. “But if you want to stay and keep me company…?”

Old Palfrey, too old and alcohol-soaked to contemplate a mermaid blowjob, had already fallen asleep. Jack, Jules, Ty and Brad were too young and alcohol-soaked to even think it was a strange idea. Or be put off by the bilge slops. For all I know Brad actually found it a turn-on. And I was too sober to know what the hell I thought. Or felt.

So I left them to it.


Around seven the next morning I went back to the docks to see what the score was. The dock gates were blocked, though, by a couple of black SUVs. No insignia on them. And there were plenty of guys in suits I didn’t recognize, plus a few marines in uniform. And armed.

Lunchtime, the talk in the bar was about how Old Palfrey’s boat had been seized. No one know who by, or where it had been taken. Neither Old Palfrey nor the other guys were anywhere. I’d left them on the boat, screwing the mermaid. Far as anyone knew, they were still there when the SUVs pulled up a couple of hours later.

And there was a report on the TV in the corner of the bar. The government were strenuously denying the existence of mermaids. No evidence of aquatic humanoids has ever been found. That’s what they said.

We never saw Old Palfrey, or the other guys, again. Not ever.


This story’s inspired by a BBC report, ‘No evidence of mermaids, says US Government‘. Apparently there was  TV show on the Discovery Channel about mythical creatures that a lot of people thought was a documentary about real ones. The US government took the unusual step of making the statement that ‘no evidence of aquatic humanoids has ever been found’.

Related stories: Fulani has a story ‘Andi in Chains’, in the Lucy Felthouse collection ‘Seducing the Myth‘, a selection of retellings of old myths from various cultures. ‘Andi in Chains’ is an urban punk version of the Andromeda myth, one he especially likes since it involves a nude maiden chained to a rock waiting to be eaten by a monster – very damsel-in-distress style…

We’re back: plus free erotic story ‘Memory Dump’ by Fulani

You will have noticed we haven’t been online a whole lot for the last few weeks. This was due to a house move. We didn’t move a long way, but it certainly felt long-drawn out due to screw-ups by lawyers, the telecoms company and others. We’re still surrounded by cardboard boxes, still won’t have proper internet access for another week or so, but the house is brilliant.

More about that in later posts. In the meantime, the experience of moving prompted Fulani to start a cycle of stories based loosely on the theme of moving house, of which the one below is the first.

Memory Dump – free short story by Fulani

Moving house involves packing. But what do you do with boxes that never got unpacked, went straight into the attic, when you moved into the place you’re now moving from?

You can just carry them with you, unopened, to deal with another time.

You can take the view that if you never unpacked them, you never needed what was in them. They’re now redundant and should be disposed of.

You can take the view it’s best to find out what’s in them, just in case.

I took the third view.

Three cardboard boxes, each one a cube about two feet on a side. It was a surprising amount of stuff.


The first one had notes, newspaper cuttings, tourist brochures, maps – the detritus of a novel I started and never finished. Did I still need any of this? The novel itself, what I wrote of it, I still had on a flash drive somewhere. The rest of the material, I couldn’t remember why I thought it was worth keeping. And at the bottom of the box: some teensy, flimsy female underwear and a brown envelope containing half a dozen photos, the old instant Polaroid type we used before digital became the norm.

I remembered. Megan. Malaga. Four years ago.

The last summer we were together, we went to Spain. It was a good holiday. We browsed the street bookstalls, photographic collections of tattoos, fashion, shoes, suggestive poses. Got drunk in a basement bar. Megan went to the toilet, came back with a half-smile and a thrust of the hips. Put her underwear into my hand. We fucked in an alley.

‘Do it to me hard.’ Her voice was low, cracked, urgent. The tone and the codeword, hard, that meant she wanted violence. I pushed her up against the stonework. Watched her ass grinding against it with anticipation. Slid the belt out of the waistband loops of my jeans. Wrapped it round my hand, twice, leaving eighteen inches or so loose. Hit her across the breasts and thighs with it. I could see flesh bounce under her thin summer dress, hear the echoes of the blows coming back at me from further down the alley, like distant gunshots. Or maybe they were distant gunshots. I heard the sharp intake of breath and low whine of need unleashed at each blow.

I turned her around, her hands against the wall and ass exposed to me, legs apart. Her heels meant her pussy was at exactly the level of my groin. I took her fiercely, using the belt on her shoulder blades as I thrust against her.

One thing about Megan: petite and frail-looking as she was, she could take a huge amount of punishment, begging for welts to cover the bruises. I didn’t hold back.

It was only in the artificial light of the hotel lobby, as we walked through to the lift, that I truly saw the effects of our coupling: the red marks shading to purple, visible as she walked and her skirt slid across her thighs, the snail-trail of spunk on the back of one leg, the dirt on her hands and the back of her light dress. The night porter paid no attention. Tourists: he’d seen it all.

In the room, I dragged her to the bed by her hair, tied her hands behind her back with the thin cloth belt of her dressing gown. Admired her excitement, the hot shiver running through her body and the way she opened her lips compliantly. Then forced my cock down her throat.

I took pics of her tied and waiting expectantly; pics of her, cock in mouth and eyes rolled all the way up to stare into the lens; pics of her with semen dribbling from her lips.

It didn’t last. On holiday, away from our daily and weekly routines, we’d been a conspiracy of two, intense and focused. Back home, obligations of work and daily commitments eroded the time we could share. Our relationship faded, more slowly than bruises and welts, but with the same inevitability. It was a relationship we both needed but somehow couldn’t make time for.

Rehearsing with the local amateur dramatic society, Megan started fucking the guy I thought of as the Second Murderer – because that was the part he had in the play. She’d found someone else to conspire with.


Second box.

Random paperwork. Bank statements, credit card statements, landline and mobile phone statements, all of which I now deal with online. Receipts for car repairs from three cars ago, for electronic equipment I threw away even before I’d moved into the house we’re now moving from. A screwed-up ball of gaffer tape.

And in that ball, a story.


That ball memorialised a filthy weekend in Paris, a brief, intense, deeply exciting and exquisitely dysfunctional relationship. Why had I thought it might last? She was a decade younger than me, a financial exec on three times my salary, running an office with a dozen guys who obeyed her every command. I didn’t obey; I challenged and I disciplined her. That was what she wanted from me. I was a journey, an extreme she needed to experience.

I hadn’t brought any sex toys with me.

‘Really?’ She was incredulous. ‘I thought that was the whole point of the weekend. I thought you were going to tie me naked to one of the headstones in Père Lachaise and giving me a good thrashing. In fact I remember you explicitly promising exactly that.’

It was true. I had.

Instead I bought gaffer tape in a flea market. Later that evening, walking back to the hotel along a street waiting for rubbish to be cleared, something clattered underfoot: I’d kicked it accidentally. Bent to pick it up. A piece of turned wood, something that had once been part of a chair or small table.

Cut to an hour later: Tanya, spread face-down on the small double bed of the budget hotel with the pillows under her hips to raise her ass. Wrists and ankles secured to the metal frame. Despite being invented in World War II to make waterproof seals on ammunition boxes, gaffer tape has a multitude of uses including those connected with sexual and fetishistic pleasure. Tanya liked to think of herself as an escape artist, so binding her fingers together with more tape was an obvious strategy. And the tape also made a semi-effective gag, once her mouth had been stuffed with underwear to prevent her using her tongue to moisten the adhesive side and the skin it adhered to. The ‘mmmph-mmmph’ sounds she made were… arousing.

As were the contortions she tried to make, and the long-drawn out muffled moans, when I used the turned wood to trash the twin globes of her buttocks. I didn’t stop until the mattress was wet with her tears, and then I fucked her furiously, leaving her tied face-down.

Afterwards I went for a beer across the street, and didn’t release her until I’d fucked her another three times.

It wasn’t Père Lachaise cemetery, illicitly entered during hours of moonlight (bearing in mind it closes at 6pm in the summer); it wasn’t an elegant, stylish fuck. It was a cheap hotel with kitsch flowered wallpaper, neon lights flashing on the ceiling through the blinds, and whores working across the street. It was Paris grunge. It was a low-budget, effective and absolutely hot scene.

I found some bunched-up gaffer tape in my suitcase when we got home. I’d been too sentimental to throw it away. 

Again, it didn’t last. Not for any bad reason, but because Tanya was a high performer at work, as well as in the bedroom – or anyplace else we had sex – and as ambitious at work as she was imaginative in her fantasies. She was offered a move to New York, and took it. Last I heard, she’d gone even deeper into her explorations of pain, living with a guy who was into playing with needles and fish hooks.

She’d always liked men who stretched her boundaries.


Third box. The oldest and dustiest of them. There couldn’t be anything I’d want to keep, after much a long time.

Contents: notes dating back to my master’s degree, a train timetable, a couple of old tickets. I examined the tickets with curiosity and had a sudden memory shock. Vanessa. The first woman I’d ever tied up.

We’d met at university. Started our relationship at the least convenient time, right at the end of the academic year, at the party when five of us were leaving the house we’d been sharing. I moved into a job a hundred miles away, that being the era when graduates were able to find jobs with relative ease.

Since she’d stayed on, being offered a doctoral scholarship and a position as a teaching assistant, it was a long-distance affair. A couple of times a month I’d travel to her place, or she’d travel to mine, depending on our schedules. We’d stay in bed for two, three four days at a time. The bondage started out as a form of messing around. I’d use pantyhose (as she called them; where I was brought up we called them tights) to bind her wrists, and everyday implements such as elastic bands, clothes pegs (pins, she called them), plastic rulers and dripping candle wax to torture her. We didn’t even think of it as kinky. It was just experimentation.

These particular tickets were, firstly, one I’d used for travel to a conference, and secondly, one she’d used to come and meet me at the conference. In those days mobile phones were the size and weight of housebricks and the only people who carried them were business wheeler-dealers with money to burn. She’d phoned the conference and left a message with the organisers. Mid-morning on the second day of the conference, I picked up the slip of paper from the conference message board: ‘Vanessa, 7pm, train station’. I felt drained, having surfaced from a thoroughly indecent night of repeated fornication with… I can’t remember her name. Tall, voluptuous woman, long dark hair, wide mouth, easy smile, enthusiastic cocksucker. We’d smoked a lot of her dope stash, drunk a bottle of brandy and fucked a dozen times or more through the night. But she was there as the PA and occasional mistress of some captain of industry who’d been called away to deal with some industrial-scale emergency. I remember, when we were in bed, she described how it felt being lent out to one of his business partners. She’d found it ‘enlightening’, she said.

So, having had a dozen cups of coffee through the day, I arrived at the station at 7 that evening to find Vanessa in one of the coffee bars there, reading a book. She looked up, surprised.

‘What are you doing here?’

My turn to look surprised. ‘I got your message’.

Her eyes rolled up to the ceiling. ‘I left that yesterday. Came up last night. You weren’t here.’

‘Oh… I’m sorry.’

‘Well, it worked out fine. I waited for you, and you didn’t come, and a good-looking man asked if I was OK. Which I wasn’t. I think at first he thought I was a hooker, but we talked and he offered me his place for the night. Well, not just his place. And he tied me up and whipped me very nicely. So now I’m on my way back home. He works for a European something-or-other agency. Expensive apartment, top floor of a tower block over looking the river, with a jacuzzi on the roof garden. It’s very cool, stepping out of a jacuzzi and then fucking thirty-four floors up, looking out over the city.’

I had to agree, it would have been.

‘The strange thing was, he could only climax while he was wearing a gas mask. And next time I see him, he’s promised he’ll take me to a fetish club. In Munich.’

There wasn’t a lot I could say to that.


‘What are you doing?’ Jen asked, coming into the room with a couple of steaming coffee mugs.

I looked up, startled.

‘Oh… Checking these boxes before I throw them out. There’s no point taking stuff with us if it’s just going to sit in another attic for another seven or eight years.’

Jen smiled. ‘Absolutely. But that faraway look… I know you, remember? Intimately. You’ve found some memories in those boxes, and you’re doing a memory dump.’

She does know me. Intimately.

‘Whatever you found in those boxes, or whoever you found, it’s good to let go. I was going exactly the same, last week. Because we’ve got a whole new house to move to next week, and a whole new future.’

She was absolutely right. The boxes went out in the trash. The memories? Well, I’ve let them go as well. But not before writing them down. 


Getting on with things

We haven’t been posting as much as usual on here over the last few weeks. We’ve been getting on with other things that have turned out to be a little time-consuming.

Fulani wrote a novella. Currently being considered by a publisher, we’ll see how that goes.

He also, bearing in mind we’re at a pagan camp for the next few days, got round to making a firewhip. Pagan camps is where we do bits of fireplay and we wanted something new this time. Frankly, we were going to buy a firewhip but the companies we tend to use for fire performance equipment were out of stock.

It looks crude, because it is, but it does crack. Loudly.

Home-made fire whip

Hone-made firewhip

Apart from that we have things we’re used before: the fire flogger and the fire rope. If you want to see older pics of these things in use, they’re on a post ‘Playing with Fire’ we did back in January (opens in a new window). We should have some new pics in a couple of weeks…

The flogger is the only one of these things that can be used on actual humans, of course. And while it’s scary for the person being flogged, the logic of it is that the flames brush across the skin so quickly, because it has to spin fast, that the heat is much less significant than the sound of flames roaring as it travels through the air and the whole headspace of having it done. Once the thing is alight, you have to keep it spinning otherwise anyone holding it will get their hand burned off. For the person being flogged, hair, obviously, does need to be wetted down (on fact we usually damp down the skin as well) and long hair kept well out of the way…

The rope is far to large and unwieldy to be used in play, though it does make for pretty pictures. And the whip should, in theory, not just crack but send a small ball of fire off the tip when it cracks. Again it’s for performance rather than play. Probably.

Home made fire flogger

Home-made fire flogger

Fire rope

Fire rope

Safety stuff. We don’t use these things without a good space (usually around 10 metres) between ‘performer’ and anyone watching, and we do have a safety spotter and fire extinguishers to hand. If necessary we wet down the ground where the things are being used as well. These are not toys for playing with anywhere other than outdoors with a lot of space around.

Apart from that, we’ve been out and about doing fun things at clubs, and playing at home since Velvet decided we no longer need a separate guest bedroom (she kept cracking her shins on the corner of the bed, so it’s been replaced with a fold-out sofabed) and cleared room in there so it could come back into use as a private playspace.

Oh, and Fulani did write at least the first part of a story based on the fact it’s now the music festival season. But you’ll have to go to his other blog to read it – called ‘The Museum of Deviant Dreams, on the Fulanismut blog (opens in new window). Maybe the second part will get written while we’re away…