New Novel Corporate Slave

Corporate Slave Cover

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

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

Here’s the lowdown:

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

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

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

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

Don’t miss this one! VelvetTripp

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

Bondage. Question: How does it Feel?

hogtied

Me, hogtied

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VelvetTripp

Fire Flogged!

Following Fulani’s post about our holiday, I’ve been asked what it feels like to be flogged by fire. I wonder how people guessed I might know the answer to that? It’s an interesting question. Of course, we take thorough precautions when playing with fire, and have an extinguisher ready, as well as lots of cold water to treat any burns with, a first aid kit and my own first aid trained Fulani. I have to strip, as clothes could cause serious burns if they caught alight. Don’t try this stuff if you don’t know what you’re doing, please. A recent domestic accidental burn has left me even more careful as the pain was ridiculously high and has left a nasty scar.
What does it feel like? Well, an ordinary flogger is quite thuddy and hard, but a fire flogger is surprisingly lightweight. When used correctly, it hits the skin very quickly, and for this reason, believe it or not, doesn’t hurt. It’s an interesting experience. You feel the flogger, and feel the heat, but it glances over the skin so fast that, although I have in the past been convinced that there would be marks or burns, fire flogging has never damaged my skin or even left a red mark. I am so confident I’ve recommended to friends to try it. One of those friends is in the pictures in the last post. He loved it! You feel a stingy glow and of course the excitement (biggest BDSM tool being the brain) work wonders. We have been known, after doing a demo, to disappear for a while on our own. Over to your imagination now!

VelvetTripp

Happiness is…six of the best

We were chatting over the weekend. Of course everyone is different (thanks goodness) and we wondered, having watched a hackneyed movie quoting what happiness is…what is it in Sexual or BDSM terms? Here are my six of the best.

Happiness is…anticipation of a play session
Happiness is…fire and ice. First candles, then ice cubes. Whilste spreadeagled to the bed, of course.
Happiness is…the nipple clamps coming off!
Happiness is…three forced orgasms in a row
Happiness is…curling up in my dom’s arms when he releases me from my bonds
Happiness is…falling asleep with the rope marks and feelings still on my body.

Don’t be shy. what are your six of the best. We’d love to know…..comments please

Unkle Fulani’s problem page…no.1…to make you smile!

Q: why have all my socks gone missing?

You have an infestation of sock goblins.

What on earth are they?

Goblins, sometimes also known as knockers, trows, bogles, or wichtlein, are native to Northern Europe. They are natural pranksters who enjoy disarranging your home thus ensuring you can’t find things. However, they are also sock fetishists and have very likely stolen your socks for their own sexual gratification.

But I don’t believe in goblins

Some of us don’t believe in the Inland Revenue but it doesn’t make taxes go away. The goblins don’t care whether you believe in them or not. In fact, your not believing in them makes it easier for them to live in your house and carry out their fetishistic activities.

What do you mean, they’re sock fetishists?

They enjoy the form and style of socks, also the feel of them against their rough skin, and are known to experience heightened sexual response to unwashed socks especially, which they sniff. Should you find socks that contain either viscous or dried mustard-coloured fluids, unfortunately these will have been left inadvertently in your house following onanistic practices. The fluids are however acidic and very likely the only evidence you’ll find will be a single unwashed sock, with a hole it in, possibly stuffed under your sofa or behind the TV set.

Socks that are particularly attractive to goblins are women’s sports socks though there have recently been reports of long, gothic-style purple and black striped over-the-knee socks going missing.

How come I never see the goblins?

Goblins generally are about 30cm high, dark, hairy, ugly and given to wearing dark colours – black and grey. You may occasionally see an unwary one out of the corner of your eye, but they can move very fast, ensuring that even though they may be literally just behind you, they can scamper around you as you turn. They are also able to squeeze into tight spaces, such as between the cushions on the sofa.

Are they all sock fetishists?

There are a few panty and bra goblins (they tend to prefer silky G-strings for the concentration of scent on  narrow band of material), and increasingly we have come across evidence of goblins exhibiting a preference for leather, rubber or PVC in any form. The claim that there are now porno DVD goblins is still being debated because there is only limited evidence they have learned to operate electrical equipment. Basically they have followed our industrialised way of life and now exhibit a high degree of differentiation and specialisation. They are however quite a different species to gremlins, which prefer office environments and like sitting on photocopiers while they are operating.

Do they do anything else with my socks?

There is no definitive answer as yet. Some sources believe they simply hoard them in order to gain repeated sexual excitement. They may for example regard sniffing a set of three or four socks from different owners in the same way that you or I would appreciate a three or four course meal.

Others believe they eventually trade the socks for other articles such as clothes hangers. Some faethropologists claim goblins use clothes hangers for more dangerous sexual practices. There is also a market for socks among elves, who use the fibres of pre-worn clothing items to weave spells into their wall hangings and tapestries. There is as yet no evidence to support the trading of socks for clothes hangers, though it is possible a quite complex eco-system, or economy operates in which the elves obtain socks to make their spell-tapestries, which they sell to dry cleaning trolls in exchange for clothes hangers. They would thus make a profit from both the goblins and the trolls. This has not been empirically proven, however.

Are the goblins dangerous?

Although historically they have been known to weave nightmares from gossamer and place them in the ears of people while they were sleeping, modern life produces nightmares far worse that those goblins are able to make. You are unlikely to experience significant additional risk from exposure to goblins. Indeed, depending on your own sexual preferences you may find them stimulating.

How can I get rid of goblins?

There are two methods. First try bribing them by leaving out vodka, food and pornographic magazines or DVDs and they may leave your socks alone. If this doesn’t work, buy a dozen pairs of new socks, wear them consistently for several days and then place them overnight in the washing machine with the door open. About 10 minutes before dawn slam the door and start the wash cycle. Any goblins trapped with the socks will be flushed away, though the socks may be unwearable after such treatment. Repeat as necessary until your problem is solved.

Won’t this damage my washing machine? I’ve heard goblins can be as strong as people.

Their strength rapidly dissolves in water, especially with detergent added.

Can they breed?

Apparently so, but we don’t know how this happens since only male specimens are ever found. Socks may form a crucial if unexplained part of their mating rituals.

Unkle Fulani’s problem page… no.2

Q: I’ve solved the goblin problem but now my washing machine is eating my socks. Why is this?

Underwear for pleasure and business – short story by Fulani

Passing the time in a coffee shop can lead to a business arrangement. Mobile phones and vibrators required…

***

“I’m playing a game with myself,” Stef explained. “I look at people as they come in and guess what their underwear’s like. Of course I don’t very often get to find out, but it helps pass the time.”

We were drinking skinny lattes in an upmarket coffee shop, a converted bank in the city centre. Around us were businessmen in flashy four-button silk-lined suits, solicitors taking a break from the magistrates’ court round the corner, ladies who lunch (after retail therapy) and some bright young things from the art college for whom a skinny latte would be the most expensive thing they’d buy all week. Stef was one of the latter, so it was just as well I was not only meeting her but picking up the tab.

Pic by Jon Wilson

Look, no underwear

“I suppose,” I mused, “it’s a kind of thought experiment. Even if you don’t know what underwear people are really wearing, you’ve made a judgment based on what they look like, how they dress, how they act, and made a leap of imagination about what they’re like underneath their public appearance. Are you imagining their hidden desires, or yours?”

“Probably both. Mostly I’m just thinking smart suit equals white CK boxer briefs, designer dress equals La Senza natural colored thong, briefs or French knickers depending on, erm, body mass index. But sometimes you get surprises. See the lawyerly type three tables along?”

I looked round casually. Smart suit, tight collar, sober tie, in reasonably good shape for someone in their mid-fifties. Probably a regular user of hair dye, because his carefully styled cut was jet black.

“I’d lay money on him wearing a full set of feminine intimates. Lacy teddy, stockings and suspenders. See how he sits so his trousers don’t ride up past the top of his socks? A lot of men like that, when they sit, you get to see a couple of inches of masculine hairy shin. But he doesn’t want to flash his pink stockings. He just gets off on the fact that he can wear that stuff in public and not be spotted.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “What about the guy in jeans at the head of the queue?” Twenties, in ripped denim and a white T-shirt so bright it sparkled under the lights when he flexed his pecs. A dozen rings in the ear I could see, a labret stud just under his lower lip.

“I’d say he’s the kind of gay who should be wearing something like a silver glitter posing pouch, except he puts more thought into who he can get his dick into than what underwear he keeps it in. Yesterday’s Y-fronts, turned inside out?”

I pondered this. “If you’re trying to profile people, I suppose the theory behind it has to be that some people just wear whatever comes out of the drawer first, and others care about what they wear because it has some private meaning, some feelgood factor, either to them or because they have a partner who’s going to see it. And the underwear style’s going to reflect something about their sexuality, whether it’s dominant, masochistic, kittenish, conventional…”

“So today you’re wearing the leather thong with the studs on the inside?”

I laughed. We’re both perverts and we know it, although that particular item was a running joke. I have never possessed such an item. The studs were on the outside.

Then her phone beeped. She consulted the screen, frowned, texted a message in rapid little clicks with long nails. Smiled brightly at me.

“Enough theory. Just play the game.”

I looked around the room. One of the retail therapy women was moving away from the counter. Bottle-blonde shoulder-length hair that made her look younger than the lines in her face said she was. Unconventionally for that crowd she was wearing leather trousers and long boots, a military-cut short jacket. One of her bags had a designer logo on it. The other was plain black plastic. She sat down carefully, leaned forward slightly rather than relaxing against the back of the chair.

I described her; Stef’s turn to look round casually and scope out my subject.

“Does a butt plug count as underwear?” I asked.

Stef had her cup raised to her lips. Trying not to laugh made her almost spill her drink.

Her phone beeped again. A frown, then a smile. “Can you lend me ten? I have to do a quick bit of shopping. It’ll only take a minute, you can get me another latte while I’m gone.”

I opened my wallet, passed over the note. Watched long legs in stripy back-and-purple over-the-knee goth socks walk out of the café, flashing thighs under the short tartan skirt. I did say she was an art student.

Stef returned, but needed the restroom. Her coffee was lukewarm by the time she came back to the table. And she’d lost interest in the game, because her mobile was going off every thirty seconds. And then she went to the toilet again.

I sighed, extracted a book from my shoulder-bag, settled down to read splatterpunk fiction. I’d found it earlier that day in a charity store. I’d reached page 21 by the time Stef returned, finally, from the ladies’ room. She looked slightly flushed.

“Cystitis again?”

“No thanks. I fancy one of the blueberry muffins they have here though.”

“I just wondered. Cold weather, short skirt, many toilet trips, you know…”

“All will be revealed.”

I couldn’t repress a snigger. When I’d finished sniggering I bought the muffins, because I have a soft spot for Stef. And because I fancied one myself.

The lawyer type, the one Stef thought was wearing a teddy and stockings under his suit, finished his drink and stuffed paperwork into his briefcase. As he came past us to the entrance, he nodded to Stef. She had something in her fist, reached out and gave it to him. He took it with one hand, and with the other placed a twenty note on the table. He raised a trouser leg just enough to show she’d been right about his choice of intimate garments. They both giggled. He walked out of the door without looking back.

“Explanation?” I prompted.

She took a breath. “We were playing with our mobiles last night, taking raunchy pictures. And swapping them, using the Bluetooth function. So I just forgot to turn Bluetooth off and all the files were set to ‘discoverable.’ He spotted the phone, spotted them, and texted me.”

“And…?”

She had the grace to blush. “And I’m wearing a little vibrating egg that’s phone-activated. It goes off when the phone bleeps.”

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

She shrugged. “He showed me some of his pics. Then he asked if he could buy my panties. The only problem was, I wasn’t wearing any. I had to nip out and buy some.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I know it’s big in Japan, the used panty thing. You can even buy them from vending machines. But here?”

She sniggered. “There’s a definite trend. That’s why I haven’t got any panties at the moment. I’ve sold them all online.”

“Do I get the ten back?”

Stef thought. “He left a twenty note so I can’t give you change. But you could treat it as an investment.”

“Terms and conditions?” I enquired.

Stef finished her latte, put the last crumbs of muffin in her mouth. She always looks strangely hot when she puts things in her mouth and licks her lips.

“Buy me a dozen more pairs of panties. Then we’ll go back to your place and you can stipulate my ass off, with changes of underwear between each clause.”

Stef’s an entertaining person to do business with.

I might have been sitting next to her, but I texted my reply. She was still wearing the vibrator, and her face flushed.

***

The pic used in this post was supplied by a friend of ours, Jon Wilson. His website isn’t online at the moment but if you like his pic and are interested in buying prints of his work we can put you in touch with him. Use the contact form on our ‘About’ page.

Free Erotic Story – The New Coffee Table

We try to be discreet, but there’s no getting away from it. Our obsession is obvious even to a casual observer, and it’s triggered every time we go shopping. For Damian and me, sex toys aren’t limited to ‘adult’ shops; we find them everywhere.

Here’s an example. We decide to get a new coffee table for the lounge. The legs of the old one have been weakened by the uses we’ve put it to. There’s a home improvement megastore about twenty minutes away. We look at far too many tables in cheap laminate, thin metal and glass, flimsy softwood… None of their range is suitable, and somehow Damian gets sidetracked. I find him a couple of aisles over.

‘Look at these, Michelle,’ he says, a shiver of excitement in his voice, ‘we could use them in the spare room…’ Damian’s looking at Damian porn: a small plastic container, marked ‘Eye Wall Bolt for Concrete, Brick and Stone: M8 14mm Extra Strong, two per pack’. The bolts come with metal sleeves that grip into a wall to make them secure.

I know exactly what he’s thinking. The spare room is the only one we haven’t adapted for our special games.

Let me explain.

The bedroom has a custom-made king size iron bed with specially-made attachment points. The front room has a big tapestry on one wall, mounted on a strong timber frame securely bolted to the wall. Take the tapestry down and look closely; you’ll see very slight imprints on the paintwork that come from my breasts, belly and thighs. The living room has exposed beams – it’s an old house ­– with hooks set into them. We tell people they’re original, for hanging pots and pans. Unless they’re close friends, in which case they know what they’re for because they’ve tried them out. The sofa stands on short but robust legs, which also make perfect anchor points. The kitchen-diner has a heavy farmhouse-style dining table that can bear my weight easily. Even the coat rack in the hallway has a couple of riding crops hanging from it, under the coats, just so they’re handy.

In the garage, one of Damien’s moments of genius, there are two garden gates, seven feet high and wrought iron, that close together to make a cage. And, no, I can’t climb out of it with hands cuffed behind my back.

Our porn, you see, isn’t quite the same as other people’s.

‘You’re thinking,’ I guess, ‘two packs, so one bolt at each corner of the wall, and the eyes will take those shackles you bought last week?’

‘Mmm… Or, with four at the top of the wall it would hold the cargo net we bought last month at the army surplus store…’ His eyes shine and his brain is working overtime. In his mind’s eye, I’m spread-eagled, a foot or so off the floor, and tied to the cargo net. It would move with me as I struggle, making a nice spectacle…

The next rack along has reels of rope, for sale by the metre. There’s a red multifilament polypropylene rope, braided, 8mm diameter. It would look good against my skin. The rope is surprisingly soft, cool and very slick as I run it through my fingers.

Once we worked out there was almost mile of rope in the house – around a hundred lengths of between ten and twenty metres. The suitcase under our bed has about three hundred metres of different kinds: hemp, treated and untreated, jute, various grades of nylon and polypropylene. Hemp is good, and being a natural fibre it warms quickly against flesh. But it’s not enough, never enough, and a vivid red can’t be ignored.

In seconds my hands are tied. ‘Not here,’ I whisper; so why am I smiling? Damian has body-blocked me to hide what he’s done from the couple further down the aisle. He glances around, sees they’re gone, moves a couple of paces back. Hands on hips he admires his handiwork. ‘So what do you think?’, he asks. ‘Is twenty metres enough?’ My breathing is fast and shallow, which tells Damian how aroused I’ve become. He takes that to mean no, we need forty metres. In ten-metre lengths.

As he unwinds the ropes an elderly gent comes round the corner slowly, wheeling a trolley. ‘I don’t know how you’ve managed to get it so twisted, coming off the reel’, Damian says, loud enough for the gent to hear. ‘Here, I’ll give you a hand…’ I smirk in collusion with this, and the gent probably thinks he couldn’t possibly have seen what his eyes tell him he saw.

The girl on the till looks perplexed, can’t work out why I’m so flushed as we pay for the rope and the eye bolts.

Twenty minutes out of town is a small village. There’s a small shop on the main street that sells contemporary designs and furniture from around the world. It takes us nearly an hour to get there because Damian gets the idea of a karada, a Japanese full-body rope harness. We stop at a lay-by and hop over a stile into a field, sheltering us from passing traffic. Not that anyone’s watching if they’re zooming past at sixty miles an hour. I strip off my calf-length leather coat, short dress, bra and panties. The red rope goes around my neck, between my legs, loops back on itself at the back of the neck, goes down to wind around my breasts, is woven into itself to make those classic diamond patterns down my body.

‘Hands on your head,’ he instructs, and I do it reflexively. He swats at my breasts, the sharp whacks engorging my nipples. They feel electrified, full of sparks. Then using the ropework to manhandle me, he bends me over. I keep my hands on my head and allow him to take the weight of my body in the ropes as he thwacks my backside. There’s no warm-up; the palm of his hand takes me full force with blows that redden my cheeks quickly, and the sound of the slaps is so loud in my ears I think passing drivers must hear it.

I can feel the bulge in the front of his trousers as he moves behind me, lets me go slowly. But of course the ropes are biting into me exactly where his cock would go… Eager and responsive I turn, offering him an open mouth. ‘Not yet, slut,’ he says. His voice carries that dominant tone I love, but also a little moan of desire…

My long leather coat covers Damian’s handiwork, and getting back over the stile is an interesting sensation. The rope between my legs is damp well before I’m back in the car, my clothes tossed casually onto the back seat. I have to sit carefully, partly because the ropes are tight, digging into my clit, and partly because my ass is tingling. I squirm in my seat in a way that makes Damian chuckle.

He has an evil chuckle.

At the shop we find a heavy, Indian style table in reclaimed teak. It’s exactly the right height for me to bend over, kneeling – we know this because he makes me assume the position right there, in the shop. I prop my chin on my hands, like I would if there was a coffee on the table right in front of me, except I’m very aware of my nipples all over again. The rope treatment and the casual beating they endured on the way here has made them very sensitive, and they rest on the table top, squashed gently against the cool inner lining of my coat. I realise that my ass is in the air and swaying gently as my thighs rub together. The pull of the rope between my legs is provocative. I feel the salesman’s eyes roving over my body and bite my lower lip to stop myself whimpering.

Damian borrows a tape measure from the salesman, checks the length of the table, then casually moves to measure me, from head to buttocks. It’s the right length to support me, lying back on it. The guy must know what’s in our minds. ‘A lot of people like this design,’ he says coolly, ‘because it’s so solid. It can take pretty much any abuse.’

‘It’s got a wonderful distressed finish,’ I murmur, just loud enough for Damian to catch, ‘To match the distressed female who’ll be tied to it.’ His sudden intake of breath is… rewarding. I’m storing up trouble for later. That’s a good thing.

The phone on the sales desk rings, and the man excuses himself to answer it. The desk is on the other side of the store, behind a set of display cases. Damian takes advantage of this to raise the hem of my coat, displaying my arse to the shop window. I whimper; I daren’t even look to see if anyone’s passing outside. The feel of his fingernails on my bare skin gives me goosebumps, and a shiver that runs inside me, from the very top of my head to my clit.

We have an estate car: the table fits neatly in the back, and I’m sure there’s a knowing smirk on the salesman’s face when Damian removes my clothing from the back seat in order to fold it down.

‘New rope; new table. Hmm… what’s missing?’ Damian muses. He teases me that way. ‘I think we should make one more stop on the way home.’

He can’t resist the equestrian shop. Actually, neither can I. Riding crops are a favourite of ours. The assistant is a petite redhead with charming freckles and a matter-of-fact manner, whose dress sense sits somewhere between riding club and dominatrix. Today she has calf-length slouch boots with many buckles and straps, and cream stretch riding breeches. When she bends over she displays very pert, tight buttocks with the suggestion of a black G-string under the breeches. Her blouse is worn loose, with a tight camisole top visible underneath that leaves no room for a bra – and indeed the nipples on her small, high breasts are clearly defined under the thin fabric. Slightly at odds with this look is a metal collar with a very obvious padlock fastening on the front. I’ve long suspected she’s no stranger to the use of a riding crop on a human rump, but I can never work out if she likes to use a crop or have it used on her. Or both, of course.

She points out the rubber-handled models. ‘Most of our clients like these for a better grip,’ she says. Damian eyes one of the traditional black designs, and I like the look of a 25-inch neon-pink version with a wider end to it. Damian takes the pink one, feels its balance in his hand, snaps it in the air experimentally.

The girl’s green eyes look into mine. ‘I think you’ll find it’s a good weight,’ she says, ‘with the tip not too large so it concentrates the force well.’ My eyes are out on stalks as she turns to lean over the counter, presenting her backside in a way that stretches the fabric tightly over well-toned muscle. When Damian gives her one experimental, but nonetheless hard, thwack her lips make an ‘O’ and she rises up almost imperceptibly on her toes.

That’s only a partial answer to my unspoken question, though.

Of course we get both crops.

She winks at me. ‘That’ll make eight crops you’ve bought in the last two months,’ she observes, smiling. ‘You know we also have bullwhips and lunge whips? Should I show you our selection?’

I have a mental image of her hanging by the wrists from a rafter in a stable somewhere, a master or mistress intent on putting tiger-stripe welts onto pearly-white smooth skin. It makes me feel lightheaded, yet also intensely juiced-up.

Damian hands her a business card. ‘If you want to get involved in some after-sales service…’ he says urbanely. Maybe some day soon my curiosity will be more completely satisfied.

I can feel the desire rising in him, and I’m right. On the way home there’s a local tourist spot, a picnic site a hundred yards off the main road, a clearing in a wooded area. Damian unties the karada I’ve been wearing all this time, the release of the ropes from by crotch making me feel empty and moist at the same time. He quickly re-ties it in a style known as ‘shinju’. The rope goes around my torso and upper arms twice, below and above the breasts; them wrap around my forearms, which are folded behind me, so trapping my hands. The ends feed, one over each shoulder, to pull the two torso ropes together at the front, between my breasts, exerting pressure on them. And of course there’s a metre or so left that become a kind of leash.

Damian pulls me away from the car and has me lean back against a tree, legs apart, exposing my pussy to him. And he uses the pink riding crop, bouncing it gently against my clit and then building the strokes until I can barely contain the pain, and yet I’m also at the point of coming.

He won’t let me come. Bastard. He’s really building the pressure; when he does finally allow me to come I’ll need a gag, because I’ll be screaming. Instead he drags me back to the car, forcing me to sit naked in the passenger seat for the remainder of the journey home.

We arrive back at our cottage as night is falling. Damian parks on our small gravel driveway. He opens the boot and manhandles the coffee table indoors. Then he returns for the crops, the rest of the rope and the eyebolts, my coat, my clothes.

‘What about me?’ I ask. He opens the passenger door. ‘You can come inside when you want to,’ he says.

‘But I’m naked…?’

He appraises me with a smile. ‘So you are.’

So I get out of the car, naked, in the gathering dusk, and allow Damian to lead me inside. Which he does very slowly. He takes me to the new table, now in the centre of our living room, makes me kneel and bends me forward over it. The last thing I see before the blindfold goes on is the glint in his eye and an erection pushing fiercely against the button fly of his jeans.

I wriggle slightly, making my arms and shoulders comfortable against the ropes and being thankful for the coolness of the wooden table top against my now enlarged and very sensitive nipples. He’s even had the foresight to put a small cushion on the table to absorb the pressure of the rope knot on my sternum.

Expecting my backside to be attended to by his hands and then the riding crops, I’m puzzled by hearing him leave the room, and then the sound of a power drill… of course, I realise, he’s putting up the eye bolts in the spare room. This will be a long session and he’s making me wait. The sensation of cool air on my open and exposed pussy builds my anticipation and frustration: I could shriek with the tension I feel in every muscle yet I daren’t move.

I don’t even hear Damian walk back into the room. The first smack on my arse seems to come out of nowhere. I let out a yelp that echoes off the walls, and I’m aware now of his depraved chuckle. He puts a foot between my thighs and pushes my knees further apart, flattening my back and giving him a better angle to work with.

‘Nice position,’ he says. ‘You’re a provocative little minx. But if you’re going to make that amount of noise, I feel a gag is in order.’

With that he rains a series of slaps on my arse cheeks that make me twist and writhe. I keep quiet a few seconds, and then it’s too much: I need some way to release the shock waves that judder and sizzle right through me. He takes hold of the ropes across my back to pin me down, and keeps going until I’m too out of breath to squeal any more.

I feel more ropes wound over my body, holding me down to the table and securing my knees wide apart to the legs of the table. Then a chinking sound, and I feel the shock of cold water on inflamed skin. He’s using ice on my arse. A trickle runs down the crack between my arse cheeks, finding the lower edge of my labia. I pull vainly against the ropes,  not because it’s painful but just because the sensation is too intense.

My head is up, and something pushes hard into my mouth. A ball-gag. He secures it tightly and I know whatever happens next won’t be gentle. I have to force myself to relax, breathe evenly, led my head drop forward to take pressure off my neck.

‘Blank, pink, black, pink…’ Damian is evidently musing about which crop to use. Or use first.

Whatever he decides, it stings like hell and he was right about me needing the gag. But the sting is strangely, perversely exciting and soon the noisy thwacks and my squeals of protest become noisy thwacks followed by moans of sexual pleasure.

Damian tells me I’m a depraved, degenerate, wicked whore to respond like that.

His words kick me over into…

Into…

A massive, incandescent, incendiary orgasm.

At which point, he decides to take care of his own lust. The cock that slips easily into my moistness feels like it ends somewhere between my ribs. A tiny space at the back of my mind wonders if this is the same erection Damian’s been harbouring since I first knelt here. The rest of my mind is somewhere in orbit.

Damian takes his time. He starts slow and strong. And I can feel my body caressing, sucking, urging at him to go faster and harder. But he’s in control, I’m tied and helpless, and he’ll do what he wants. The feel of his cock is amplified by the feel of the crop which he’s still using on my red-hot buttocks. Erotic tension builds in me like a fire, every time he hits the G-spot another dose of petrol on the flames. There is no escaping it. I’m going to…

…to come…

…come again…

…and he judges it to the precise point that I come as he floods inside me. Liquid metal shoots along all my nerves, a tracery of sexual conflagration connecting all the points from clitoris to the very top of my head. Behind the blindfold I’m seeing stars, fireworks, lasers writing in the sky.

When he unties me I slide back off the tabletop and into his lap, and lie in his arms for what feels like hours. He removes the gag though not the blindfold. I’m grateful – I don’t think I could bear any light in my eyes.

‘When you’re feeling recovered,’ he purrs wickedly, ‘I’ll take you upstairs. I put in the eye-bolts and hung the cargo net on them.’

I protest, but weakly. Damian just takes it as me being provocative, and truth to tell, he’s right. I’m looking forward to waking up in the morning stiff, sore, and with a huge smile that lasts all day.

posted free for you by Fulani. Do you like it?
There is a lot more from Fulani to come (‘scuse the pun) on here, but if you’re eager to read now or want some of his work to read at your leisure, click here