Voodoo Fetish, the second book in my Vodou Trilogy, is free on Amazon until 28 July: it’s available on Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk. The first book, Ridden, details Eloise’s brush with the lwa and Baron Cimitiėre in which she’s used as an instrument of supernatural healing. Her powers are only released, though, when she has bdsm sex in which she can use her pain to channel away another person’s illness. This novella isn’t free, so to read the backstory you’ll need to pay a nominal two dollars and some cents. Voodoo Fetish details her life back in London. You’d think London is a long way from vodou – but the vodou diaspora is present these days in many large cities. She’s called upon by the lwa to carry out a healing ceremony for the daughter of a work colleague. Among other things this involves supernatural sex, discussions with crows and a dead witch, sex with a pagan couple she meets who are recruited to her healing project, a relationship with a houngan (male priest) who comes from the slightly different New Orleans tradition of vodou, a bass guitar with interesting properties, and discussion of the Navier-Stokes equations of fluid dynamics. There will be a third novella in due course, which explains how the various people she’s healed are connected together and what the longer-term project of the lwa was. And, yes, bdsm and sex will be involved. However, for now you can read the second novella, Voodoo Fetish, for free. Go to it. Enjoy.
I won’t bore you with the plot summary or blurb, because you can find those things on Amazon anyway.
I’ll just point out that it’s an erotic novella with paranormal and BDSM themes. Along the way you’ll find sex, bondage, whips, post-structuralist philosophy, vodou, paranormal sex, fluid dynamics equations, three-way and four-way sex, the 1832 Public Cemeteries Act, fetishism, gas masks, sex in a cemetery, syncretism, demonic possession, medical and musical equipment being destroyed by a malevolent spirit, a bass guitar, a goat’s head, and an anvwar mo. And references to certain things you can find on YouTube. And sex and bondage and bdsm.
I hope you enjoy it. If you could also review, rate or tag it on Amazon or Goodreads or wherever that would be kind. And if you like it – I have others; Ridden, obviously, which is the first book of the trilogy, but you’ll find other paranormal/supernatural erotica over on the ‘our publications’ page of this blog.
Velvet also has paranormal erotica published, including the much-praised and well-reviewed A Woman Possessed – an entertaining story of spiritual possession, pagan ritual and bdsm.
It’s true, you can get Ridden for free, for a limited time. Xcite have it on free promo on Amazon for four days. Erotic novella, bondage and BDSM, voodoo and paranormal, more details in previous blog posts.
Bearing in mind it’s Part 1 of a trilogy (though each volume is self-standing and complete in itself) and Part 2 is mostly written while Part 3 is already plotted, I’m still open to suggestions about particular scenes you might like to see in the later volumes…
Okay, I’ve been slow to promote this novella, especially since my novel came out a week or so ago (see the posts about Corporate Slave, below). It’s been out since Monday but I’ve been writing other stuff, nonfiction, about topics such as cultural imperialism.
And that’s relevant, actually. Because the novella is based in a culture that isn’t mine. But then again, for various random reasons, it’s a part of a diaspora of beliefs I happen to know at least a little about, and that you can now find embedded in almost any world city.
Currently Ridden is available as an ebook only on Amazon in the US and Amazon in the UK, and it will be a while before it’s available elsewhere. But I’ll have another announcement to make about it next week…
The core of the plot is based on voodoo, if you like the ordinary Westernised spelling; or vodou, which is how its practitioners and followers usually refer to it (there are other spellings as well but they mostly relate to its practice in West Africa, and other names used within the range of vodou beliefs). The title of the story comes from the common description of someone who is possessed by a lwa, or spirit, as being ‘ridden’. And of course, in more everyday English, someone who is completely obsessed with some idea or emotion is sometimes said to be ridden by it.
I’d like to think, though I may be deluding myself, that alongside the erotic content readers may pick up something more ‘educational’ about the nature of vodou in reading the novella. I haven’t tried to be absolutely faithful to its practices and beliefs, but I have tried to convey something about its worldview.
So: rather than try to offer a short description (which is on Amazon anyway) or an extract (which is on our Tumblr, and you can use the Amazon ‘look inside’ function to read the beginning as well) I’ve come up with something that I hope is a more evocative summary:
The hospital doctors said Eloise had concussion. It wasn’t concussion.
Tom nodded slowly. “I know what you’re thinking,” Eloise whispered. She felt a myriad of sensations. Later, she felt herself accelerating, plunging towards sweaty carnal seizure.
Confused and dream-filled sleep.
Huge, rusted cemetery gates. Nakedness, erection, the smell of sex.
There had been a travail, a working.
Tom. Romero. Philippe. The sudden flare of the candle. Romero’s old bullet wound. Instinct. Possibilities multiplied. Complicated palette of emotions. Ropes, hanging from the rafters. Fuck.
Healing people, through sex. Sex as a moral and sacred act.
This is Part 1 of a 3-part trilogy. It’s a complete story in itself but there will, in a couple of months or so, be more to read about Eloise and her developing relationship with vodou.
I hope you like it. If you like paranormal, I hope you find it to your taste. If you don’t normally like paranormal, I hope you find the slightly out-of-the-ordinary paranormality of the novella intriguing. If you don’t normally read bdsm erotica, I hope it helps you understand why people might become motivated to try bdsm, and leaves you hot and sweaty. If you do normally read bdsm erotica I hope it leaves you hot and sweaty anyway. If you don’t know much about vodou I hope it gives you at least a sense of how and why others are attracted to it – though if you are, in fact, a vodouist you’ll probably think it’s overly simplistic, not to say overly imaginative. But whoever you are, I hope it makes you rampantly excited.
We’ve just been alerted to the fact the latest podcast by Wholesome Addictions contains a discussion of the Naked Delirium book (which we both contributed novellas to), and focuses in particular on Velvet Tripp’s novella ‘A Woman Possessed’.
Their comments: ‘Fucking phenomenal. It’s really good shit. It is dirty, it is nasty, it did things to my pants.’ Later on they say that while erotica doesn’t normally fall into this category, ‘this is literature’. They particularly like the fact the story hits three core areas of their interest: paranormal, bdsm and (of course) sex. And they call it hot and vivid, especially when the leading character is possessed and in ‘wolf-bitch mode’.
And as to the collection as a whole: ‘I can honestly say this is the best money on erotica I’ve spent all year.’
So, when you get to the website you’re looking for ‘Podcast 40: What Does He Really Mean When He Says…’ posted on: 10.11.12 and the segment on the book is about 29 minutes in. And the link you need is Wholesome Addiction.
If you want to buy the book – and why wouldn’t you? – it’s in paperback from Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk, plus it’s stocked at selected branches of Waterstones bookstore in the UK. It’s also an ebook from Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Smashwords, All Romance Ebooks, Kobobooks and probably some other places as well.
Plus, if you want to buy Velvet’s story as a one-off novella you can to that too: from Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Smashwords (multiple formats – and remember to turn adult filter off!), AllRomanceEbooks, and Kobobooks.
It’s been a bit quiet on this blog recently because we’ve been away. To a small pagan camp, with people we’ve mostly known for several years and to a place Velvet’s known for well over a decade.
For the uninitiated, ‘pagan’ doesn’t mean ‘wiccan’. Sure, a few of the people there were and are wiccans, but others have a range of beliefs that essentially revolve around the idea of ‘do as you will and harm none’, a respect for the earth and the environment, and a sense that imagination is a useful tool.
Also for the uninitiated, if you want to be initiated we can probably sort you out with an appropriate fetish themed initiation ceremony. Alternatively you could read Raven Kaldera’s book Dark Moon Rising: Pagan BDSM and the Ordeal Path (also on Amazon.co.uk), which sets out ideas for how such things could be done and is still the best source for such material we’ve come across.
That’s ‘come across’ as in ‘discovered’. If you didn’t get the double entrendre, you don’t have a filthy enough mind.
So what happened on the ‘pagan’ camp included the following: discussions of runes, drinking, making flutes, drinking, standing around bonfires drinking, and playing the odd drum or two. Oh yeah, and some drinking. Apart from that there was the naked orgy on the last night in the middle of the stone circle that’s on the site. Oh, wait, that was just in my imagination…
So seeing as this was a camp and most people were in tents (we have a campervan, though), this is what the camp looked like. In microcosm, and taken on Fulani’s mobile.
And here’s a shot of something that really did happen on the last night of the camp: Fulani playing with fire.
The pic may over-dramatise the amount of flame: the shot was a 2-second exposure at f4, ISO400. It was still pretty hot though.
So now we’re back, Fulani’s hammering away at a paranormal novella and Velvet’s doing some practical magic (aka planting vegetables in the back garden). We’ll give you updates on both in due course.
Meanwhile: pagan/supernatural stuff we’ve written and that you might like to look at includes:
For Part I of this story, look at the previous post…Charlotte came to slowly, wondering for a moment where she was, trying to remember to breathe. One hand rested on brickwork, the other on the edge of a dumpster. Her legs were weak and she let herself sink to the concrete of the alley. She felt hollowed out. At some point, it had started to drizzle. Her hair and clothes were wet. Twenty yards away, car lights on the road winked in the water-streaked darkness. When she looked down, raindrops on her jacket sparked like tiny white and orange stars in the reflected light. When she looked up, a tall figure stood at the entrance to the alley, silhouetted against the car headlights. He seemed to wave, and shimmered into nothingness. She couldn’t be sure if he’d just turned the corner, or evaporated into thin air. Or if her perception of a figure was a trick of the light.
Making her legs co-operate, Charlotte made it back to her car. She sat in the driver’s seat, consciously breathing deeply the way she’d always had to after sex with Ben. One finger confirmed her thong was soaked through. And it encountered something else, something circular and metallic, pressed between the material and the folds of her skin. Incredulous, she took it from its hiding-place and held it for inspection. There was enough light for her to see exactly what it was. A small metal ring. The kind with a tiny ball on it, for a piercing. The kind that would be used for a Prince Albert. She put it in her purse.
When her heart stopped pounding, she laughed out loud. It came out as a mad cackle of incomprehension, but also relief. Whatever she’d just experienced —and she had no way to explain it to herself—it wasn’t her that had gone crazy. It was the universe.
Pulling her mobile from her handbag, she called the office. They stayed open until eight, someone would still be there.
Ringtone. Debbie picked up.
“Debbie? It’s Charlie … I’m still at the old bar. He was fine, no need to worry. He’ll let us know … I got caught in a shower locking up, I’m wet through … I’ll go straight home and dry off … OK, see you tomorrow.”
At home, Charlie stripped and showered, sat in her bathrobe in the middle of the living room floor. For a long time she was lost in thought. Then the thought that burned in her brain went to nova. She dug in the back of her wardrobe. Leather trousers, skimpy leather waistcoat. Still there, glove-tight and sexy as ever. Nothing underneath. She liked the feel of the leather against her skin. The boots were under the bed but she’d have to practice walking in them again. On her way downstairs she passed the bathroom again. Ben’s Chinese neck-thong was still there on the windowsill. She picked it up and put it on.
In the living room again, she opened cupboards and pulled out the laptop, leads, headphones. All of it still there, waiting patiently for her all these months. She plugged it into her stereo. It wasn’t like a club sound system but it was all she had. The question in her mind was whether, after so much time away from DJing, she still had what it took. Could she or couldn’t she get into a groove?
She’d need some new music. Eventually. The half-dozen external drives in the cupboard held perhaps ten thousand tracks…
Friday night, dressed to kill, it was apparent Charlie was in the wrong place. Fluidity had undergone a refurb. The décor was bland, the music was bland, the clubbers were boring, the bar staff too overworked to talk. She remembered one of the door staff, he remembered her.
“Nah, your crowd doesn’t come here now. The club was bought up by a conglomerate that figured the location was being regenerated. Then they put in their standard designs. Leather, PVC and duck egg blue carpets—doesn’t quite go together, does it? But there’s a new place just opened up that does your kind of stuff. It has a name like, like…”
“Some kind of star?” It was a shot in the dark.
“Yeah, sort of. The Quasar Club.” He explained where it was. She thanked him and walked to the other side of the town centre. The side that wasn’t being regenerated, and wouldn’t be for a few years yet.
The Quasar Club was up grimy stairs. Black painted walls, scuffed wood flooring, comfortable but faded. The kind of place where the unexpected could happen. It was crowded, and she spotted a couple of trannies in the mix. Always a good sign, because they usually had discerning taste.
And the unexpected did happen. She was leaning against the bar waiting to be served and one of the bar staff spread his arms wide in a welcoming gesture.
“Hello you! Wondered where you’d gone. You disappeared after…”
“I did. But now I’m back.” She fingered the Chinese coin, wondering what kind of supernatural connection was being made here.
She stood to one side, sipping her drink, watching the crowd, listening critically to the music. Not the same choices she’d make, but close enough. She smiled when she realized her hips had been moving to the beat. Something deep and primal in her brain had just come out of hibernation.
“Are you OK?”
The words were shouted into her ear. Charlie turned to find the barman next to her, a stack of empty glasses cradled in his hands. She nodded.
“You’ve got that faraway look.”
“Just remembering what it was like, working the decks.”
Actually the barman wasn’t bad-looking. About as tall as she was in her boots, with shoulder-length hair and a lopsided smile. Not fat, not thin, muscles in all the right places. Probably a good muscle in his trousers as well. An open, friendly face, the kind it was easy to talk to.
“I remember your sets. I used to go to Fluidity. I’ll talk to the manager.”
The next time she saw him was around four in the morning, when the place was beginning to empty out. Where had the time gone? It was as though she’d been standing there in a trance all that while.
“The man, he say yes. If you’re interested, he can fit you into a late slot next week. Don’t give up the day job, though. If you have a day job?”
Charlie laughed, remembering the words she’d heard. You can be a star, nothing can stop you. And you’ll meet someone new. It’s your destiny. He’s your destiny.
“There’s an afterparty at mine, if you like,” he said.
“I’d like very much. Thank you.”
When they left half an hour later, it was hand in hand. Charlie thought she saw someone walk out of the doors just before them. As they reached the street she looked around. A tall figure stood about ten yards away. There were streetlights all along the road, but he was in his own patch of shadow that obscured his features, made them grainy like an old black-and-white movie. He looked for all the world like Ben. As she watched, he raised a hand in greeting, or perhaps valediction, and faded into the night like a TV picture that had suddenly turned pixilated.
“Did you see him…?”
“See who?” he asked her. “No, there’s no one here. And we’ll have to go round the corner to get a taxi.”
Charlie had a sudden realization. “You do know you haven’t even told me your name?”
“Oh, sorry. Desmond. Call me Des.”
“Or Destiny?” Des Tiny, she thought, breaking it down into syllables. Except he wasn’t tiny. The way his jeans were filled proved that.
His turn to laugh. “Maybe that’s what tonight is. Destiny. Mine and yours.”
She suspected her date with this well-built and well-hung Destiny would develop into something interesting. She also knew what the soundtrack would be while they were doing something interesting: Nine Inch Nails, “Closer.”
It wasn’t until the following week that Charlie remembered the PA ring. She wondered idly if it was the right size and gauge to have it put in her own flesh. Wondered if she had the nerve do get it done, decided she had. A nipple, or maybe somewhere even more private. She hadn’t removed the Chinese coin from around her neck, but the ring would be an even more intimate reminder of Ben.
Yet when she checked her purse, it wasn’t there. She never found it again.
If you liked this story, both Fulani and Velvet Tripp have other (and stronger/more explicit) paranormal stories published with Xcite – see the ‘Stories Available Now’ page for details of their stories in the Xcite ‘Spirit Lovers’ and ‘Lust Bites’ collections.
The pic used in this post is a detail from a photo taken 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.
Charlie looked around and said a bad word under her breath, quietly enough that her client wouldn’t hear. She knew she shouldn’t have taken on this viewing. It was in the wrong part of town. She had too much painful history here.
The client didn’t notice. He was some hotshot investor looking to make a fast buck on the back of the recession. He was young, maybe too young to shave properly, yet balding. He had an oily and overbearing manner, and he stalked through the property as if he already owned it. It wasn’t the building he wanted, anyway; it was the parcel of land.
The property was previously a bar-restaurant, now offered for sale by the brewery with potential for redevelopment. Ground floor: entrance lobby, bar area, kitchen, main room, games room, men’s and women’s rest rooms. First floor: function room, two offices. Second floor: bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. Basement: cellarage. Outside: off-road parking, patio area, boiler room, store. Location: fronting a main road in a commercial area due for regeneration, within walking distance of the town centre. Suitable for development as commercial units.
It was those redevelopment permissions that had drawn Hotshot’s attention. It was the property backing onto the car park that had made Charlie swear. She was standing no more than twenty yards from where Beautiful Ben had died.
It was bad form to cry in front of a client. She breathed deeply, put on a professional mask, answered Hotshot’s questions as best she could. Fortunately he didn’t make much more than a token pass at her, one she could fend off by blanking him, just pretending not to hear.
Beautiful Ben. A statuesque, long-haired and slim-hipped god of the darkness, and of the decks. He’d been a lifetime ago. Literally.
Three years previously, Charlie had been making a name for herself as a DJ. An unusual occupation for a woman, certainly, but no one had ever told her women didn’t do that kind of thing. She’d always been the nerdy girl, the one who dismissed the current boybands as trash and bored her friends with discs she’d found in obscure record stores. When it came to DJing, she’d just gone ahead and done it. Built a whole persona and look around it, and then made a success of it.
She’d been a goddess of the night. Black hair, black leather, six-inch heels and a magical touch that kept the energy running and people dancing all night. It had been a rough-and-tumble, full throttle world and she’d enjoyed every minute of it. Splendidly aloof above the dancefloor, headphones around her neck and the bassline thumping in her chest, she knew every man in the club wanted her. She could have a rough tumble with anyone she picked, and she was extremely picky.
Charlie’s regular gig had been a residency at Fluidity, the club she was looking at from the old bar’s car park. Benedict had come in, at first as a visiting DJ and later with his own slot, immediately before her usual 2am stint.
It hadn’t been a quick fling. Not like the other men she’d hooked up with before he’d come along. It had been a slow burn. They ended up talking obscure tracks, tech stuff – she’d been the first at the club to DJ straight off her laptop. They got a competitive thing going, a three-and-three where she’d play three tracks, he’d play three, and between them they’d keep Fluidity on the boil, steaming hot.
Famously, she’d once found him in the DJ booth with a skinny blonde on her knees, her lips wrapped around his cock. Equally famously, she’d grabbed a microphone and added the characteristic glup glup sound of oral sex into the mix. She knew he slept with other women; he knew she slept with other men. It was a working relationship for a month before it was a friendship. It was a friendship before it was a sexual bond. They were legend, king and queen of the dance, even before they ever got into bed together. Though the first time they had sex was nowhere near a bed.
The club had finished at four. On a whim they’d turned down an invitation to an afterparty at someone’s house. Instead she’d driven them, an hour and a half out of town, to rolling hills and a crag looking out over the sunrise. She’d wanted to feel the wind and the openness of it. It was there that she decided she not only couldn’t keep her hands off him, but wanted to feel him inside her. It was there she discovered for the first time that he had a Prince Albert piercing. It was a novelty for her, and very moreish. Afterwards they’d found some roadside mom-and-pop café, had coffee with hash browns and bacon. They’d looked hugely out of place, black leather and tribal hair among the lumberjack shirts, and been amused at the way the locals seemed to think they were exotic creatures from another planet. Which, in a way, they were.
And then eight months after they’d met, a couple of months into their being an item, it all came crashing down around her. Her car was being serviced, they’d shared a taxi back from the club. A drunk, drugged kid had tried to run a set of lights at sixty and slammed his hot hatch into them. It was stolen, he’d already lost his license. She’d spent three days in a coma, waking up to the news that her Beautiful Ben had been DOA at the hospital.
She walked away from the club scene. Started a new life. Nine to five, with the real estate agents. Kept herself to herself, didn’t answer the phone, cried in the evenings. She was still surrounded by little things that reminded her of Beautiful Ben. The thin leather thong with the Chinese coin he used to wear around his neck. He’d forgotten to put it back on after showering at her flat, and it was still on the bathroom window ledge. The wax on the living room carpet, where they’d made love in a circle of candles and one had dripped. She’d never cleaned it up.
Hotshot said something about letting her know what he decided. He climbed into his Merc and disappeared into the river of light that was the evening rush hour traffic. At this time of year dusk came early. And Charlie finally let herself give in to her private grief. Wiping tears from her face, she approached Fluidity. From this direction there were the remains of a low brick wall, then the side access that ran to the club’s stage door. She stepped over the brickwork, stood in the shadows beside a row of dumpsters.
A breath of wind came out of nowhere, tousling her hair. It was like a fond greeting. She tossed her head, looked around in surprise. Cars passed twenty yards away, on the main road. But there was no one around her.
“Hello, lover. I’ve been waiting for you here, hoping you’d show.”
Charlie jumped in surprise, then froze in fear. There was no one around and yet the voice was clear and low. She knew exactly whose it was. Maybe this was the moment she’d been most dreading. The moment when the voice in her head became real and she knew her sanity had departed.
The sense of pressure, something like a hand, trailing down her arm. “You’re wearing a business suit? What’s that about? You didn’t… Oh, you did. You gave up on your music.”
Arms enfolded her. Arms Charlie couldn’t see. She would have staggered, backed away, but they held her tight. Not in a bad way. Like a hug. Like a hug where fingers lightly pinched her nipples, making them pert and hard the way Ben used to. Her lips parted in a half-gasp. Despite everything, despite doubting her own senses and reason, the feeling was hot.
The way it always had been with Ben.
A soft chuckle sounded in her ear. “Gotcha. You always liked that, didn’t you!”
The hands moved, roaming up and down Charlie’s body. Impossibly, they felt like they were under her clothes, on her skin. It was intense enough, scary enough, that she had to reach out for support. Her hand found a rough edge of brickwork and she clung to it like a drunk holding on to a bottle. When she closed her eyes, she could see Ben’s face. Long and thin, a ring in his nose, crinkles around the eyes and permanent creases from smiling.
“I’ve waited a long time. But I think you have too. Grief, anger, despair— it’s time to move on, girl. You can’t live life in the shadows, you’re too good for that.”
The hands were on her thighs now, stroking gently with fingernails the way he used to do it. The way she somehow wanted it… Whatever was happening to her, she couldn’t deny it was making her moist and needy. It was real, more real than any fantasy or vibrator she’d ever had.
Charlie bit her lip, trying not to cry out. Who knew whether people were walking by on the street?
She planted her feet that little bit further apart, feeling the tight fabric of the work skirt against her thighs and even then the fingers were somehow inside it, running over her ass, low in her belly. She felt the twitch and flutter of excitement there, the moment Ben would feel too and then he’d…
He’d gently part the folds of her labia, using his tongue, exposing her, making her impossibly wet and greedy. And only then would he begin to fill her sodden cleft and its demands. She was wearing a black lace-trimmed thong—but the way her pussy reacted to the stimulus, she might as well have been wearing nothing at all. It felt like an actual, physical cock entering her, filling her up, hot, yet with the metallic coolness of his PA ring. It felt like the moment on a roller coaster ride when the train starts to move, and there’s no way to stop it or get off.
“This is for old times’ sake. Then I should let you go. You should let me go, too.”
Ben had been six foot three. With body parts all in proportion to his height. Even in her trademark six-inch clubbing heels, he’d had four inches on her. In bed, he’d had ten inches in her. And right now it felt like twenty of those ten inches were moving inside her, as if his cock was occupying the whole of her body, as if each stroke was lifting her up on tiptoe and taking her whole body weight. The sensation was old and familiar, but new and thrilling. It was strange in a literally out-of-this-world way, yet exciting and comforting. It was…
It was overpowering. Charlie just stopped thinking and stayed in the moment, grinding her hips against an unseen body. Nothing else mattered now. Everything was instinct, the tornado whirling inside her body, sucking up pleasure and concentrating it to a tiny spark-like point…
…that burst into a whirling constellation of tiny hot suns up and down her body, along her arms and legs, in her head, a direct connection from pussy to brain that blocked out everything except the vision, behind closed eyelids, of Ben’s face, his smile, and the feral effort of the fuck.
The brain-pussy connection built like noise, a bass beat shaking her and taking her higher until she was the tornado, the whirling sun, the wild animal, the beat itself. She opened her mouth and let out a wild howl. Ready or not, she was going to come.
At that moment the voice in her hear told her, “Remember, you’re a star. You can be a star, nothing can stop you. And you’ll meet someone new. It’s your destiny. He’s your destiny. And I wish you well.”
Part II published tomorrow (29 December).
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.
If you like this story, both Fulani and Velvet Tripp have other (and stronger/more explicit) paranormal stories published with Xcite, including –