Phone Sex

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

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

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

***

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

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…

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.

The naked house – short free fiction from Fulani

Continuing the moving-to-a-new-house saga. It’s quite short, just 1100 words or so, because it was done quickly in between finishing off some other stuff. The first two stories on this theme are here and here. There will be another couple of stories on this theme eventually, split between this blog and Fulani’s other blog.

***

The Naked House

 

The previous owners had removed everything, of course: carpets, curtains, furniture, even the light bulbs. Of course they had: they’d stripped the place and it had been empty for months, the agent had told us, because they’d emigrated. It was ready for new paint, new carpets, new furniture, new possessions. It was ready to be adapted, remodelled, to fit our own tastes, ideas, lifestyle.

That wasn’t going to happen quite yet. With the delay in the house purchase, we’d had to let our stuff go into storage and wouldn’t see it until the removal company had a truck available in five days’ time. Until then, we had a bare house. Clothes. Kettle and mugs. Sleeping bags. Our imagination. We could plan, and we could paint the walls.

No house, though, is truly empty after it’s vacated. There were still traces of the previous owners. We didn’t look in the bathroom mirror and get glimpses of them, anything like that. But we did get glimpses of them from the patterns of wear: the patches on the walls where pictures had been hung or furniture placed, scuff marks on the bare floorboards, the way the empty space moved and flowed.

Jen and I laid out our sleeping bags in the big front bedroom. Huddled in them, with a hot tea for Jen and hot coffee for me. We’d eaten dinner at a nearby restaurant, and bought an electric kettle earlier in the day. The room was cold because the central heating guy hadn’t finished fitting the new boiler. No curtains, just reflected light from the street lamps and the occasional car. We let ourselves relax: the move had been stressful, we wouldn’t see our possessions for a few more days, and the plan was to use the emptiness to get some redecoration done.

Something kept glinting at me, catching the reflection of passing headlights. A hook in the ceiling, there, by the bay window. Looked like it would be anchored on a joist.

I pointed it out. Jen arched an eyebrow.

I shrugged. ‘Who knows? One of those Sixties globe seats that hangs from a chain? Heavy flower basket?’

Jen looked around. ‘That wouldn’t explain the eyebolts in the skirting boards, though.’

Either side of the bay window, large bolts that would be sunk well into the brickwork behind the skirtings.

‘If we find a use for them, they’ll stay. If not, I’ll take them out when we redecorate.’ But my imagination notched up a gear. I could definitely find a use for them.

The twist at the corner of Jen’s lips means she already knows what use I’m thinking of. She can read my mind.

‘We’re going to need heavy light-tight curtains in here.’

Well, yes we are. Unless of course we’re going to be exhibitionists.

She puts her mug down and her head in my lap. I stroke her hair. I have my tender moments.

After a while, she tells me to look at the wall behind me.

‘There’s a shadow on the wall. I can’t see what’s casting it.’

From this angle, there’s a clear outline of an X, from floor to ceiling. I run my fingers over it. Where the X is, I can feel the wallpaper is slightly compressed. When I tell Jen this, she looks up at me wide-eyed in the darkness. A car goes past outside and the reflection of its headlights make her eyes flash wickedly.

‘Now why,’ she says with a mock innocence, ‘would the previous owners have a big cross mounted against the wall…?’

I think the answer is the obvious one. But I take her wrists, stretch them wide across the floor. She arches her back and chuckles. But then she says: ‘It’s too cold in here. You can’t expect me to strip naked.’

She has a point. On the other hand, the eyebolts are right there in the wall and I have a couple of thin webbing luggage straps around my suitcase. So it’s not long before her wrists are tied to the eyebolts with the straps, she’s lying on the sleeping bags, and her jeans and panties are bundled up and tossed into a far corner of the room. I’m considerate enough to leave the thick woollen socks on her feet. They look cute. I could easily become a sock fetishist, I suspect. There are Goosebumps on the insides of her thighs, where the tendons are hard and outlined against her flesh. I warm them against my hot tongue. Taste all the mixed emotions of the day on the lips of her pussy; sweetness with an underlying mix of tension, hope, frustration, anticipation, relief. Use my fingers to spread the lips and circle Jen’s clit. I can feel the little spasms and jumps and twitches inside, coming from midway between clit and navel.

It’s always amused and gratified me that the moment I tie her wrists, she goes into that alternate, submissive headspace.

I fuck her, slowly and deeply, watching her face in the sodium lights from outside. I see the screwed-up eyes, the way her lips part and her jaw sets as she pushes determinedly towards orgasm. I see the tension of the day slipping away from her, replaced by an altogether different and more urgent tension. She’s beautiful like this.

I feel the increasingly impatient thrust of her hips against mine.

Nine times out of ten, sex for us involves ropes, chains, whips, floggers, gags and blindfolds. And multiple partners. As far as we’re concerned, this is as close as we’ve got to vanilla sex in quite a while.

Don’t knock vanilla sex; it’s a refreshing change.

And then I feel her back arching, legs and arms tense, see the rictus of climax on her face. Eyes open wide but they’re not looking anywhere, focused inwards on the slo-mo explosion of pleasure.

Takes me another couple of minutes to get there myself, my own rictus of pleasure. Jen doesn’t care, she’s multi-orgasmic.

And eventually we sleep spooned together, stroking softly, the straps released from the eyebolts but still on her wrists. I listen to Jen’s even breaths, feel her ribs move with the inhale/exhale, and watch headlights flicking across the wall, high up, hitting the top right hand side of the X like a big tick winking at me.

 

In the morning, now we know what to look for, we find more evidence. The light spatter of candlewax on the lounge floor, a rough pattern suggesting the outline of a now-absent object. Half of a mail-order catalogue from a sex shop, caught among brambles in the back garden.

We know now what attracted us to the house in the first place.  

The lingering clues about, and traces of, the previous owners.

 

***

By the way, this just in: a new review of Seducing the Myth, the Lucy Felthouse collection with a Fulani story in it. It’s over at The Pen Muse.

New free fiction on Fulani’s Limited Attention Span

The second episode of the moving house saga, ‘Sex and the homeless’, is now finished: it’s not on here though, because these stories are appearing alternately here and on Fulani’s other blog, Fulani’s Limited Attention Span. You’ll have to go there to read it (it’ll open in a new window). The first story in the sequence. ‘Memory Dump’, was a little while back on this blog. The third story , in a week or so, will be back on this blog again.

I may have mentioned our own move was delayed in the way the story depicts, by a lawyerly fuck-up, as a result of which we had a night in a motel before the transaction went through and we got the keys. Hence the inspiration for the story – 2700 words of smut, and you can have fun trying to guess how much or how little of what’s laid down there actually took place.

So, to recap: ‘Sex and the homeless’, erotic story, now up as a blog post on Fulani’s Limited Attention Span; go there, read, enjoy.

Have fun!

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.

Tanya.

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…