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.

Something new, something old: End of Season

I was going to do an intelligent blog about writing projects. I have a few under way, including an erotic epic poem, a piece based on found text – pieces of paper found as rubbish in the street – and half a dozen others. They’ve been under way for some time, though, and I’m not sure when or if they’ll see publication. Sometimes as a writer, or indeed any other type of creative, you start something with no idea where it will lead or whether you’ll be able to bring it to a successful conclusion.
However I’m not feeling very intelligent today, so instead here’s a reworked segment of something I wrote last year that I never found a home for. If you like it I could post more…


End of Season

The east coast of England is a patchwork of caravan and chalet sites, like so many refugee camps butted up against each other. They were popular fifty years ago, before cheap air travel took holiday-makers away to the Mediterranean. Then they became ghettoes for those who couldn’t or wouldn’t travel abroad for their summer vacation. With the recession, they’re popular again.

It’s the end of the season, the holidaymakers have left and the family that owns the site is in Spain for a month. Ghislaine and Danny have the whole site to themselves. They’re cleaning, doing maintenance, mothballing the site for the off-season. But also, importantly, they have the whole site to themselves.

Ghislaine works her way around the site, cleaning the units for the last time this season. It’s fast work because there’s no need to ready the units for more occupants. Outside, as she moves from unit to unit, there’s a cool sea breeze but repetitive physical movements keep her warm enough, in her stripped-down choice of short shorts and skinny T-shirt.

She’s pretty sure Danny will be at the clubhouse when she’s finished. She’s pretty sure what he’ll have in mind. That thought, as well as her work, keeps her warm. Keeps her warm in special places. In fact, it’s that more than anything that gives her a glow of perspiration. Of anticipation.

Ghislaine also knows it will end soon. In less than a week she’ll be out of here. Danny will be part of her sexual history, she’ll be part of his. That’s just how it goes.

When they started this project of realising each other’s fantasies, she thought she’d be able to predict Danny’s preferences. The point of fantasies is of course that they’re deeply seated, transgressive, and not always in the best taste. That said, she suspected his fantasies were more conventional than her own. Fuck in every part of the site, the chilren’s play area, the pool table in the clubhouse, the middle of the big central lawn. A lot of blowjobs. Her acting out the part of a drunk teenager, a slutty barmaid, a burglar or a street hooker waiting to be picked up.

He did have those fantasies. They did act them out. But maybe she’d just thought her own fantasies were deeper, or more creative, simply because she’d had more life experience than Danny, had more education and was somehow more sophisticated. Whatever she’d thought, it’s wrong.

When Ghislaine finally walks back into the clubhouse, the tables are cleared away – except for one that is evidently for a teacher, and a smaller one for a pupil. She doesn’t have much in her wardrobe that’s schoolmistressy, but she can improvise. Hair up (it normally fell to the middle of her back), some lipstick, heels that gave her a catwalk prance, and she’s completely in character.

What she doesn’t expect is that Danny’s wearing a short pleated skirt, while his shirt bulges to accommodate a bra stuffed with old tights. His normally shaven scalp is hidden by a cheap blonde wig, the kind they sell in the tourist shops in town.

And on the teacher’s desk: a cane, a dildo and a bottle of lube.

There’s a small blackboard balanced on a chair – the one they use to write daily lists of site activities. On it, Danny – or Dani – has written: Tha teecher punised Dani wiv sicks stroks of a kane and then fuked her in the ars wiv a dilldo.

What had surprised her when he finally admitted it was that his deepest, most intense fantasy was being taught how to spell. Because, he said, he’d never exactly paid attention to reading and writing in school. He’d been too busy doing speed and stealing cars.

He genuinely can’t spell properly, and it takes many more than six strokes of the ‘kane’ to make him learn. Ghislaine creates a spelling test that includes the words blowjob, bondage, climax, dildo, erection, kneel, lick, orgasm, penis, punish, slippery, spank, spurt, strict, suck, teacher, thigh, tight, wet, write.

Dani doesn’t need to pretend she can’t remember the spellings, because she genuinely can’t. It’s as difficult for Dani as it would be for Ghislaine, for example, to remember the whole of the Standard Model of particle physics. It takes a while for Dani to pass the test – on the sixth attempt, she achieves fifteen of the twenty. By this time Dani’s ass is striped the same livid red and pretty pink as the sticks of rock they sell in the site’s convenience store.

After that, there’s a dictation test: ‘Dani has to wear the dildo and write down what teacher says. When Dani passes the test she can kneel between the teacher’s open thighs and lick her out.’  Dani wriggles uncomfortably with the dildo in his ass. The wriggling looks oddly girly and cute. But, surprisingly, she remembers the spellings. Ghislaine lets Dani lick until the teacher has an orgasm.

Only then does Ghislaine consent to Dani coming, the disciplinary aspect of this being that Dani has to achieve this by masturbating to a climax in front of her, with occasional encouragement from the cane.

Dani’s kneeling on the floor and she’s behind him, using the cane lightly on the back of his legs. Somehow, though, his spunk still manages to hit her face.

There are some unused words on the list. Bondage being a key one. Ghislaine tells Dani to go and find some rope, and be quick about it. There’s going to be an extra lesson.


Sometimes you can tell

This is a teaser. It’s the beginning of a story that will ultimately be quite a bit longer, though I hope it stands up on its own as a bit of flash fiction. However, if anyone has any desire to see it take off in any particular direction please feel free to make suggestions.

If I’m lucky it will be part of a story cycle based around the sexual adventures and misadventures of a bunch of deadbeat characters, small-time criminals, their friends and enemies.


Sometimes you can tell, can’t you?
I got this job, stacking shelves and working the till in a hardware store. It’s not part of a chain. It’s owned by my half-brother’s uncle’s boyfriend, which is how I got the gig I guess. He looked at me and says he don’t go for girls himself, but it’d be nice for the customers to see a pair of tits around the place. Plus, he says, we won’t need to close for lunch.
Arnie, that’s the owner, comes in each day about eleven. Smelling of aftershave. Wanders around a bit like he’s in charge, wafts his man-scent around the place. Goes to the tiny upstairs office and does a line of coke around midday, which I know because his dealer comes by the shop. Ten minutes after that, Gideon goes up there. Gideon’s same age as me, nineteen, fit guy with a sloppy grin and razorcut hair and a six-pack. What he says is he needs to go over the accounts with Arnie. Something like that. Different excuse for each day of the week. And I know what they’re doing because the shop’s part of a street of old terraced houses that’ve been converted, and the floorboards up there creak like fuck.
So: yeah, sometimes you can tell. You can tell what’s going on in the customers’ minds. Because for some people – and I’m not ashamed to say I’m one of them – a hardware store isn’t just a place that sells hardware. It’s a place that sells sex. It sells toys and possibilities and fantasies.
This guy comes to the till, and he’s buying:
– thirty metres of 7mm diameter polypropylene rope
– four mouse traps
– a pack of huge cable ties, the kind you’d use to hold plants to a garden trellis, or secure someone’s wrists and ankles
– some D-shackles and snaphooks
So where does your imagination go with that? The same place mine does?
The guy smiles at me as he hands me money. He’s maybe in his thirties. Not old enough to be my dad. No, wait, he probably is old enough because my dad was seventeen when I was born. And my mum was fifteen. From where I’ve come from, not having had a kid by the age I am now is more fucking miraculous than a virgin birth. My dad’s thirty-five this year, which is about what this guy is.
“Hope you have a good time with this stuff,” I say. My voice has got an I-know-what-you’re-doing kind of tone to it.
And he eyeballs me, long and slow, pupil to pupil. Maybe more like teacher to pupil. Hangs it out, like the fantasy he’s going to make with all this stuff is just hanging in the air between us in a little bubble and we’re both watching it. Hangs it out so I get the taste of sex in my mouth. And he says: “I’m planning on having a very good time with you.”
Hear that? That’s no Freudian slip, is it?
“With me?” My voice has gone all squeaky.
He looks at me, at my face. “I said I’m planning on having a very good time, thank you. But I could have it with you, if you like.”


I don’t have much out in this kind of style at the moment. There’s First Day at Work, which has a work-based theme (obviously) but doesn’t have such a grungy feel. It’s one of my earlier stories but it has the advantage of being sold as a long short story in its own right. Or there’s a free story, Transference, on my other blog. It does aim at a similar kind of feel. Or for something a little stranger albeit not in quite the same vein, try ‘Filthy White Dress’, in the Making Her Pay five-story collection and also the 20-story Tricks For Kicks collection, both published by Xcite.


Going shopping – free flash fiction by Fulani

Just an idea for a scene. It’s an idea I’m working on in another context for something yet to be published…

I’m on a mission. Out clothes shopping. He had me walk out of the house wearing my long leather coat and heels. And makeup. And that’s it. Gave me some cash, suggested I try the charity stores.
The inner lining of the coat is cool and smooth on my skin. I take longer strides, letting the material swish against my thighs. The way I walk means the coat opens more, gives people in the street flashes of naked inner thigh.
The first shop has a short skirt, black, hugs my hips, pleated to flare, hem only a few inches below my cunt.
I take it to the changing room. Pull off my coat, take a shot of myself naked in there with my mobile phone. Send it to him.
Next store: a plain white shirt, short sleeved, thin material, tight across the breasts. My tits will show through. In the changing room, I take a pic of the material stretched over my nipple. Send it to him.
On the street market, I buy holdup stockings. Go into an alley to put them on. The tops are a couple of inches lower than the hem of the skirt. Strip of bare skin there. Picture. Send.
In the park I take an upskirt shot, since I have no underwear.
Cruising the streets again I meet Lola and Felix. Tell them what I’m doing. We go for a drink. I put my head on Lola’s shoulder.
“You and me, ladies’ toilet, now,” she says.
We make slutty poses, her hand inside my shirt, mine on the inside of her thigh.
I send him texts. Lola sends him the pics.
Then we have an idea. My next text is: Please may I suck Felix off in the toilets?
You can guess the reply. Lola takes the pics, and a movie, and sends them to him.
I’m storing up trouble for myself.
I like the kind of trouble I’m storing up.
When I get home, I take off my coat and stand in the hallway. He comes out to meet me. Rope in his hands.
Rope on my wrists, pretty quick. Then I’m in the living room, where the big wooden frame is already set up. He’s done that while I’ve been gone. And standing there, bound, I watch all the pics and the movie which he’s uploaded to the TV system.
Damn, I’m hot.
While I watch the TV I feel his eyes inspecting me.
He plays with my labia for a while. Puts two fingers in my cunt. It’s very wet, now. He avoids the clit, and I squirm, trying to get him to apply pressure there.  He chuckles. Then he goes into the kitchen. Comes back with a pair of scissors. The big, bad scissors, the kind you can cut hunks of meat with. Runs the blade lovingly over my skin.
Then starts cutting off the clothes. Slowly, leaving them in tatters. Uses strips off the shirt as a gag.
Which was the point of buying the stuff from the charity shops in the first place.
Talks to me softly, menacingly, about what a bad slut I’ve been.
I hear him unfasten his belt buckle, pull it through the belt loops on his jeans.
And I’m shivering with anticipation and pleasure.

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.

Photos at an exhibition – free erotic/strange flash fiction by Fulani

The following comprises a page of a catalog from a photographic exhibition. The page – it would have been a right-hand page – had been cut from the catalog. The running head on the page identifies the photographer as ‘Felix M’.
Each entry comprises a title for the image and the photographer’s commentary. The pictures themselves would probably have been on the facing (left hand) page and are therefore not available to us. We may speulate, given some of the incidental details described, that they would have been taken with a large-format film camera of the kind often used in the 1960s – a Rolleiflex, say. The name of the gallery would probably have been contained in the running head on the left-hand page and so is also lost.

#18 – The Appliance of Sex
I wanted to capture a collision of multiple worlds. There is the ordinary domestic world in which vacuum cleaners are typical domestic appliances. At the same time, they can have ‘scientific’ and ‘engineering’ connotations through the design choices – angles, colors and so forth. And at the same time again, the domestic sphere might be considered one of both sexuality and patriarchy in which the hard lines of a vacuum cleaner might at the same time stand as some kind of technical sex toy, something a woman might desire. Something that might fulfill her sexuality better than a man would be able to.
A woman’s body is soft but her desires have hard edges. Perhaps in the future men will need to become more like domestic appliances.
Black and white print.

#19 – Fellatio in light and shade
This photo explores the idea of the abstract vernacular. I mean this in the same sense that one talks about the vernacular in architecture, to mean something built using locally available resources, cultures and so on, and intended to address similarly local and specific functions and meanings.
We all have a native appreciation of the abstract – it’s what we might see in the morning as our eyes refuse to focus after a heavy night of drinking, or when one’s brain, in processing the sensations of an orgasm, ceases to interpret objects in our field of vision.
In this case the reverse is true. I pointed the camera at a sexual act but a combination of technical factors – focus, aperture, shutter speed, movement – meant that the result was abstract. Does knowledge of the subject matter influence the way you interpret it? Would it be possible to treat it as an expressionist, rather than abstract, study – an orgasm in light and shade, for example?
Black and white print.

#20 – Crucifix sur l’herbe
I wanted to do an hommage to two very different paintings, one somewhat risque in its subject matter and the other in its style. The idea of the Crucifixion – in practice, a fairly standard form of execution for non-Romans in Roman times – has been a central icon of Western religious culture for around two millennia. The question I asked myself, and which motivates this picture, is: has the amount of energy expended on representations of the Crucifixion resulted in it being eroticized?
Black and white print.

#21 – The imaginative leap
Take the photograph at face value: it was of a ‘found object’, a crumpled piece of paper blowing along a street, the factory wall behind offering a simple and slightly out-of-focus blank background.
Look, though, at the curve in the edge of the paper. And remember that product designers, whether of cars, bottles, or even household items such as lemon squeezers, have a vocabulary, a taxonomy, of curves. Curve has purpose and meaning, even if it appears as a random feature of a discarded item. Curve can be dissociated from the object itself.
It is my contention that this ball of paper, a leaflet possibly for a political movement, in fact offers the promise of sex with a stranger while on a train journey to a possibly dangerous location.
Sepia print.


Yes, I have a collection of stories coming out shortly. Yes, these pictures are mentioned in a couple of the stories… More details soon…

Something different – weird flash fiction from Fulani

‘What the hell?’
Zack shrugged his shoulders.
‘My idea was, do something different. So, I thought surreal. I thought paraphilia. How about industrial sexuality? It doesn’t have to be pounding pistons. It could be something to do with ordinary appliances…’ He shrugged and gestured.
‘So you’re expecting me to get up close and intimate with a vacuum cleaner and a toaster, while wearing stockings and opera gloves and covered in baby oil?’
‘Well, since you put it like that… Yes.’
He’d spread out a huge black plastic sheet over the living room floor, so the baby oil didn’t go everywhere. Except over me, of course.
The vacuum cleaner was one of the modern no-bag types in funky purple and red with a lot of transparent parts. Close up I was hypnotized by the smoothness of its cylinders against my legs, the elegance of its handle and accessories, the casual yet firm grip of the ribbed hose wound around my body…
It got messy, both literally and symbolically. The baby oil, slippery as any long term relationship, meant I couldn’t grip the toaster between my thighs. It flew across the room as if I’d just given birth to a technosexual UFO.
I even started feeling maternally attached to the fucking thing. Its cable looked like an umbilical cord, right? So the memes got really dense and fucked-up when Zack decided to lay it on my chest as if I were suckling it, but use the cord to tie my hands.
The thing about models and photographers isn’t always true. Just true for me and Zack, an after-effect of the weirdness he puts in my head. The sex was smooth and slick. No toast was involved, and with the baby oil, no need for butter.
I saw the pics a few days later, when he’d had a chance to Photoshop them. Lurid would be the best word to describe them. Neon colours. They were suggestive and explicit, both at the same time.
What Zack does is… not much, really. He doesn’t even have a proper website, or an agent. Just throws stuff up on his Tumblr blog.
Six months passes. I forget about it. Then, driving into the city, I see a billboard.
It’s not me, not the same model of vacuum cleaner, and my pussy and tits aren’t on display. But it’s the same pose, the same concept for the image.
It’s how they’re marketing their home appliances. They want the surreal market: this vacuum cleaner is not a vacuum cleaner. It’s a wet dream, a sex symbol.
Like it always was, in the hands of marketing people. But different, now – harder-edged, fetishized.
Thing is, every time I see the ad it puts me straight back into that situation, that photo-shoot, the technosex of it. My thighs tremble, there’s a shiver in my belly and my eyes can’t focus. I need to fuck my wonderfully hard, streamlined cylinder upright.


Velvet said: ‘I don’t know how people will take this. They’re going to think you’re weird…’
Please don’t try this at home!