Sizzler Editions revamp

Sizzler just announced a revamp of their website, which will be temporarily closed prior to a grand relaunch on 1 April 2013. See Renaissance Sizzler’s announcement on their Tumblr account here.

[***Edited 7 April to add: the new URL is and a redirect is in place from the old site as well.]

Hanging Around - coverThis only affects one of Fulani’s books, the story collection Hanging Around – which is still available from a bunch of other places including and; Barnes and Noble (Nook edition), AdultEbookShop and Fictionwise.

While I think of it, you might be interested to know the cover model was Ellie, a goth/fetish model who moved in the same circles as me a few years back. The photographer was Jon Wilson, who at the time was a prolific fetish photographer in the UK. And the setting was a swingers’ club near Birmingham, UK which had monthly fetish events as well as being a venue for photoshoots and such. Turn the pic on its side: this was actually a suspension from a bondage frame that isn’t visible in the pic, with the frame itself not visible in the shot.

Times move on. Ellie left the area, I think for family reasons, and I lost touch with her. Jon Wilson, when I had a conversation with him a couple of weeks ago, is now heavily into making CGI. And when the lease on the building used by the swingers’ club ran out, so I heard, the property was sold for redevelopment. Another club started up in that area soon afterwards and also does fetish events, though I’ve never been.

The story collection, though, remains as fresh, imaginative, juicy and bouncy as it was the day it was published!

We’re back

We’ve been away and now we’re back, having covered, roughly speaking, 1,000 miles in 8 days. It was pretty full-on though not particularly fetish-related. Lots of little things we did and places we saw, and conversations we had, worked on our imaginations in ways that could easily find their way into stories at some later date. Give us a few days…
Fulani came back to an email announcing that an interview he did with Renaissance Sizzler for their blog came out while we were away – you can read it here (opens in new window). The interview includes a teaser for Hanging Around (link opens in a new window), his collection of BDSM stories based in a somewhat bohemian/artistic subculture. Renaissance Sizzler published it a couple of months ago.
Meanwhile, here’s a pic taken at a campsite: it was on the side of an old campervan that was in pristine condition but seemed to be either stored on the site, or possibly used by the owners themselves. We liked it, anyway. Or identified with it, or something.

Trailer Trash

Trailer Trash

Adult Ebook Shop now stocks ‘Secret Circus’ and ‘Hanging Around’

Just had an email from Adult Ebook Shop, a UK based site, announcing they now have agreements with both Pink Flamingo and Renaissance to stock my books.

The link for both titles is

This will make it easier for peeps in the UK to order and pay in sterling rather than dollars.

They also have a bio of me (admittedly patched together from back cover blurbs) at

In other news – not been posting much here the last few days because both of us have been writing a lot and working on some other things that will hopefully see light of day (or light of electrons on computer screens!) quite soon. And no, I’m not dropping any hints. Just wait.

The cover story – free erotic fiction by Fulani

As promised, here’s the story inspired by the cover image of my new story collection. The image itself is in the previous post and this story isn’t in the published collection, obviously, because I first saw the cover myself only a couple of days ago. And I should point out the collection itself is considerably more explicit. Renaissance have tagged it under their ‘extreme’ category…

And the collection, again, is Hanging Around, published by Renaissance Sizzler Editions.


The Cover Story

Mariska’s journal was a complex thing. It contained diary entries of places she’d been and stuff she’d done, and musings on fantasies she’d like to act out and fantasies she wouldn’t. It had rants about what was wrong with her life and what was right. It had worked-out arguments about why society was fucked-up about sex, fetish, morals and money. It even included some short stories.
And now, with names changed to protect the guilty, it was about to be published.
Which led to a question.
The cover.
“We could just go with some graphic design, or an illustration or a stock photo,” J said. “But from a sales point of view it would be much, much better if there was an actual pic of you on the cover, preferably doing something kinky enough to get people’s attention but not so kinky it scares people. I don’t suppose…?”
No. She had no such pics.
She did have pics. Tomas, for whom she was muse, had painted and drawn her often enough. The paintings were abstract, the drawings all too graphic. The kind of thing that might scare people. She had photos, shot by Felix. There was, for example, the deliberately soft-focus and grainy black-and-white of her with her hands tied, sucking off Emma’s husband whose name she somehow couldn’t remember. The photo had even been exhibited at one of the city galleries. The memory – of the event itself, and the exhibition – made her warm. But it wouldn’t work as a book cover. The other photos she remembered were far too kinky and explicit. They wouldn’t project the right image.
Mariska was amused, because it was the first time in her life she’d had to worry about projecting the right image. It was a novel situation.
J was characteristically inventive and yet pragmatic. “We need a shot of you in bondage, but clothed. The fast solution is to do it here, in my office. I know a guy who does a lot of traditional shibari work; I know a freelance photographer. The whole thing would take a couple hours. All it depends on is you and them meeting up to see if you’re comfortable working together.”


It was strange to be in a regular bar, the kind where the carpet on the floor didn’t stick to your feet, people wore regular everyday clothes and cocktails were served. Mariska had come to associate drinking alcohol with leather, rubber, raw brick and concrete walls, chains hanging from the ceiling. She smiled to herself. Those mental connections told her a lot about how her life had changed in the last year or so.
She’d chosen a severe, businesslike yet oddly gothic outfit: pinstripe blouse with a black tie, stretchy black skirt of a conservative length, but holdup fishnet stockings and boots with adventurous heels. She felt good. She felt like a writer. She felt like she was projecting an image. An image of a slightly skewed and individualistic worldview.
They made an odd trio. The photographer, W, was younger than her. Earnest. Dressed in jeans and T-shirt, the way photographers always are. Trying to make an impression, reach out to her. He was sweet. The bondage rigger, F, was maybe a decade older. Quiet, better dressed, with an air of Zen calmness around him. Didn’t try to play the dominant. “I see myself as an artist in rope and flesh,” he said. “My aim is to create something that looks good on camera. It’s always a pleasure to do that, but in this case it’s strictly business. I tie you up, make sure you’re safe, and take you down again when the pics are done.”
Mariska warmed to them.
“So let’s do it,” she said.


It felt freaky, helping F build the suspension frame in J’s office. She was helping to create the instrument of her own bondage, and it was happening in a bland office environment, a desk in one corner of the room, filing cabinets, a calendar on the wall showing publication dates for books – including Mariska’s own.
They moved the desk, set the frame up in front of a sofa. Mariska took time out while W muttered to himself about white balance, went to the restroom. Examined herself critically in the big mirror. Decided that the stockings were fine but panties would show a visible line through her skirt, and removed them. Decided ropes over her breasts would be more comfortable without a bra, and removed it. Touched up eye shadow, applied lipstick. Took three deep breaths and figured she was as ready as she’d ever be.


F was quick. And effective. Mariska was swinging in midair inside a couple of minutes. He hummed quietly to himself, checking the way the ropes hung, the distribution of her weight on the ropes. Suspension was tough but bearable. She had to learn a new way of breathing, almost like scuba-diving. Began to trance out.
Began to fantasize.
They were on the third floor, but there were no curtains. Evening light flooded the room. Was someone, maybe in an office across the street, looking out and seeing her exposed and vulnerable?
And what would it be like, now, in this unfamiliar place, to have these two guys rip her clothing from her? Take her, one in the mouth and one in the pussy, swinging helpless between them? Each one thrusting at her, pushing her against the other cock?
Suddenly she was horny as hell, filthy hot and shivering. Lost in a craving for contact, for sex, that was increased by the pressure and restriction of the ropes. Made intolerable by the gentle swaying that resulted from any small movement. A rope running between her labia, across her clit, would be… desirable. She became aware she was whimpering, moaning, with every breath.


They didn’t do it. Didn’t strip and fuck her. They were well-mannered professionals, hired to do a specific job. And she’d lost the power of speech, couldn’t articulate her need.
Later, looking back, she thought that was probably a good thing. Fucking would only have complicated the situation. Made her appear unprofessional. It wouldn’t have been the kind of fucking relationship between a model and an artist, or artists; more like a junior exec fucking hired help from the temp agency. It probably happened. A lot. But that still didn’t make it feel right.
Instead, they let her down, wrapped her in a blanket – because when the ropes came off she felt cold. Gave her coffee. Let her come round. She felt light. Ethereal. Yet desperately in need of pain, and of sexual release. In her case, the two were usually intertwined.
Taking her leave of the two men and the office, she took a taxi to Tomas’s studio. He opened the door to his muse, barefoot, wearing scruffy shorts and splashes of oil. She didn’t care.
He admired the rope marks imprinted on her skin. Some other time, he’d probably have wanted to sketch them. But her visit was urgent, and the high roof beams in his studio were ideal for her to hang from, naked and in chains. She received pain and sexual release. Simultaneously. Intertwined.
She slept peacefully in Tomas’s arms, in his bed, warmed by the welts he’d placed on her skin. And she dreamed of another time and place, and two other men.
She had the numbers for the W and F, the photographer and rope artist. Maybe tomorrow she’d make a call. Or the next day. See if they could arrange another session. A more recreational session.


The cover photo, when she eventually saw it, was good. Set on its side, it conveyed the impression she was flying. It captured her response to the suspension. It projected the right image. It captured her intentions for the future.


And to save you scrolling back to the top of this post: the collection is Hanging Around (link opens in new window).

Now out! ‘Hanging Around’, a collection of short stories by Fulani

After several months of waiting impatiently (because it was accepted back in February) I’m extremely pleased to announce the publication yeasterday of my short story collection, Hanging Around by Renaissance in their Sizzler Editions list.

Hanging Around - cover

Hanging Around - book cover and link

From the book blurb:

It’s two in the morning, and Mariska is dangling from a rope and displaying a lot of flesh to her tormentors. And she giggles. She’s been looking for something new in her life, and being a film extra in a low-budget zombie horror movie is certainly new… Twelve stunning chapters follow Mariska’s journey from barista to member of a group of bohemian artists, actors and others. She’s inducted into their fetish-oriented lifestyle, and along the way she’s tied, whipped, fisted and more in situations ranging from a film set to a lesbian club to an art exhibition. Oh, and somehow she finds time to write a journal about it. Fulani’s erotic stories, often dark and with BDSM-based themes, have appeared in numerous anthologies and ‘zines.

The stories follow Mariska and a group of her friends – artists, photographers, film-makers, musicians and actors, plus a librarian – through a series of scenes that (despite Renaissance tagging the book as ‘male dom’ and ‘extreme’) include straight, lesbian, bisexual and some gay action, a great deal of bondage and BDSM, and of course sex. Quite a lot of that as well.


1. The meat-packing factory. It’s two in the morning, in the old meat-packing factory. Mariska is dangling from a rope and displaying a lot of flesh to her tormentors. They’re going to fuck her senseless. And she giggles. She’s been looking for something new in her life, and being a film extra in a low-budget zombie horror movie is certainly new…

2. Elements of lust. That she and Tomas would have sex was, Mariska knew, a foregone conclusion. He was an artist and she was his model. What she hadn’t bargained for was how much she’d have to suffer for his art, and how excited that would make her.

3. Hellebore. Having a stranger turn up unexpectedly when you’re in the middle of a scene can be disquieting. Then again, as Mariska finds, if it’s Hellebore it can be exciting.

4. Cut piece. Kidnapping, S&M and performance art. It’s all part of a birthday party at a lesbian club… But a little bit of street justice needs to be administered as well.

5. Déjeuner sur l’herbe. A picnic turns into a photoshoot based on the famous Manet painting. So why is a big wooden cross involved?

6. Backlash. Mariska feels dumbed-down and dull from too many hours at work. She needs a way to reconnect with herself. A brutal whipping, a maelstrom of pain, is the special ritual she needs to achieve it.

7. The afterparty. Markisa attends the screening of the zombie film in which she’d been a film extra. The afterparty is in a small, crowded club. Fortunately it’s the kind of club that puts condoms instead of peanuts in dishes on the bar.

8. Dear diary. Mariska’s new diary is to record the highs and lows of her life. The interesting parts, not the day-to-day work in the coffee bar. But she’ll make an exception for today.

9. The goddess of fire. Roz likes playing with fire. Literally. Her fire-breathing performance at the party is her way to reinvent herself after a relationship break-up. After it, she feels like a goddess, and the point of being a goddess is that you can pick and choose your sexual pleasures.

10. The power of words. By day, Roz works in a library. Following a discussion with a fellow librarian, Anton, about whether a book is capable of being able to deprave and corrupt a reader, they decide to experiment.

11. Obscenity. A court case against Felix, the photographer, prompts Mariska and Tomas to investigate religious icons—and experiment with obscene sexual acts.

12. Hanging around. Mariska hangs out at an art exhibition. Literally, since she’s one of the exhibits.

Finally, I’ll mention that I first saw the cover a couple of days ago and immediately wrote a short story (which, obviously, isn’t in the book) about the cover itself. I’ll post it tomorrow to save this post getting too lengthy. Oh, and I wrote another one back in February, which also isn’t in the book, that’s a description of the book being published from Mariska’s point of view. It’s in this blog, back here on 14 February.

So please save a starving writer, go buy the book and enjoy!

Meeting Fulani (from Mariska’s Journal) – free erotic fiction

Erm… this is an announcement, of a sort. Things will become clearer in a few days. Work out the clues if you want, or just enjoy!


He first saw me at the art exhibition. Would have seen a lot of me, I guess, since I was one of the exhibits. He left his business card with the organizers. Fulani, it said. Just the one name, or nickname.
People said he was genuine, but reclusive. They said he lived in a suburban house with a workshop in the back garden and did most of his business online.
He was older than I’d thought, but puckish. He looked at me as if to say “I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”
He read my stuff and said he wanted to introduce me to M. M would want to publish it.
Only thing was, I didn’t know who M was, and I’d only just met Fulani.

Fulani was supposed to be straight-up, a good reputation, a well-known figure on the fetish scene, a man of his word.
I told him I wanted to know more about his bona fides. He nodded. “You want to know I am who your friends say I am, that I’m not going to rip you off big time.” Also he noticed I was looking at the earthenware pot in the corner of the room. It contained a selection of canes and crops.
His outhouse had a big, heavy vintage flatbed press.
“I use it to make limited edition prints and books,” he explained as he tied my wrists to the top of the frame. “I could make a photo print of your journal and publish a hundred copies. But whether there’s a market for them in that format – that’s the question.”
I tested the bonds. They were tight. He knew his ropes. I made a sound that came out halfway between a purr and growl.
“My opinion is, as a new author you’re better off selling to a publisher who can move a lot of copies.” He unzipped my skirt and noticed for the first time that I hadn’t bothered with underwear. “Also,” he said, “my opinion is, you have a wonderful ass. I shall enjoy putting marks on it.” Judging by the way he ran his fingers over my ass cheeks, he’d noted that I had a few faded bruises on there. Tomas’s doing, from a couple of days previously.
He left me there while he went back to fetch the canes. It was a warm afternoon. The scent of honeysuckle drifted through an open window, mixed with the richer smell of printer’s ink. I planted my feet wide apart and tried to relax. He was probably five minutes. In my head it was about five hours: I was after all naked in a shed in a suburban garden, visible through the window, about to be marked up by a complete stranger.
It was that familiar, deliciously deviant feeling.
What can I say? He knew his stuff. Started gently and built up the sensation slowly, on the well-known principle that you can always go harder but can’t take back one that’s too hard. He began with a crop, then a longer, stiff riding whip that was moderately stingy. I wriggled. He chuckled. I started to get into the zone. He noticed my breathing changing, I think.
The cane he used was heavy, about as thick as his thumb. Made me present my ass. One stroke. I pulled against the cuffs, the sting of it reverberating through my body. He let me compose myself, slow down my breathing, present my ass again.
Six strokes. I felt all the little jumping, twitching, sizzling connections from ass to pussy to thighs belly spine back of neck and crawling into my brain. I felt fevered. I was ready for him to take me, then and there, in that position.
Instead he made me turn around, face out from the frame.
Through half-closed eyes I saw a wooden tray with pegs on it, and a length of string.
Pegs in two lines, starting at each collarbone and running across my breasts, towards my navel, then to just above my clit and a couple on the inside of each thigh.
“I’m sure you can figure this out,” he said, threading the string from each peg to the next in a long line. I was more interested in the sensations from the pegs on my breasts, my belly, my thighs.
“This process tends to make victims quite vocal,” he murmured. Victims, plural, I noticed. There was a ballgag in his hand. Then it was in my mouth and buckled tighter than was strictly comfortable. I did a lot of mmmph-mmmphing just for effect.
He seemed to enjoy the effect. When he brushed against me I could feel his erection pushing on my hip.
He left the pegs on for a quite a while. Assured me this would add to the effect.
Certainly made me breathe harder, trying to put myself in the right mental space to handle the sensations. Trying to still my body, not squirm, not move my hips the way they really wanted to move.
Fingers moved gently over my tits, belly, clit. No fair. I’m ready, just fuck me.
When he pulled the cord that yanked off the pegs it was a massive headrush. You’d think it should be painful, but the sensation just disconnected my head from my body and cushioned me in endorphins.
I was dazed, limp and hanging in the cuffs, eyes refusing to focus. The ringing in my ears was the echo of me squealing through the gag, I think. And all I could think to say was the one thing I wanted to happen. Uck ee oww. No consonants because the gag prevented them, but he got my meaning and fulfilled my wish. Spread me over the flatbed of the press, opened my legs. And yes, I was juiced up.
This guy was, I’d say, twenty years my senior. Back where I grew up, that could have made him old enough to be my father.
I’d figured that before I came here. Was it, unconsciously, why I’d chosen the over-the-knee socks, the short skirt and cropped top? The deviant schoolgirl look? Had I wanted the age-play aspect of this?
These were thoughts I only had afterwards, because he was long and vigorous, and twenty years older or not, he kept going a hell of a long time.
When I finally came round, got mind and body back together, he was looking though my handwritten journal again.
“Interesting stuff,” he remarked. “It’s like a renaissance of erotica, in the classical sense of the term.”
“Renaissance: a re-awakening of artistic and intellectual inquiry into the world and the human condition. Never mind. Let’s just say it’s good.”


I rewrote a lot. Put entries in date order, changed names and some details to protect the guilty. Rephrased the whole thing in the third person, so I was a character in my own stories.
Here’s what the mysterious M said: “Great news, sweetie – the publisher loves your book. Please sign the attached contract.”
I could have been fucked sideways.
Actually, I was. Fulani did. It became our regular thing. Especially after I threatened to write another book that would be about him.
He knows I’m not joking. Says he’ll have to make sure I have enough material for it.