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]

Going shopping – free flash fiction by Fulani

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

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

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 - 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.

Contents:

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!

Gagging for it – new free erotic flash fiction by Fulani

We’ve been away for a few days. Normal service now resumed.

***

I’ve always been a ‘tie me up and fuck me’ type of girl. I like the feel of the ropes on me. I like sex when I’m his captive.

I struggle, though, and he has to dominate me. Not because I want him to untie me – I don’t – but just on principle, because it makes it more fun.

I resist with words. He can do what he wants with me, but I always manage to say ‘sir’ or ‘master’ in the tone of voice that says I don’t mean it. I tell him he’s being unfair and taking advantage of me and I needle him by demanding stuff, like changing the music or the lighting.

When I tell him I want the lighting changed, he laughs. Instead of dimming the lights, he puts a blindfold on me.

That’s even better because behind the blindfold, all I see are my own fantasies, fed by what I can hear. His footsteps. The opening and closing of the freezer door, heavier than that of the fridge, meaning he’s fetching some ice to torment me with. His breathing. The swishy sound of a crop. The light jangle of the chain connecting the nipple clamps. The slight fizz as he lights a candle to splash my skin with wax.

Doesn’t shut me up, though. I ask him if he’s planning on making his little slut howl; if he likes it when I yelp in pain.

Of course he does.

When he puts the nipple clamps on me, I draw in breath, a sharp hiss, but refuse to cry out. He experiments with the riding crop, drawing the flat end of it across my clit and then giving me a sudden thwap. It takes a lot of self-control not to cry out, and then tell him he needs to try harder, but I can do it.

I can sense him close to my ear, close to my face. He tells me he can make things easy for me, so I don’t need to concentrate on giving him a hard time.
Then something hard goes in my mouth.

And straps around the back of my head, buckled tight.

I know this thing – a huge red ballgag that distends my jaw and fills my mouth with silence.

In those two or three seconds, I know I’ve lost the power of coherent speech. I know my only means of communication is a muffled yowl or a throaty ngaagh or gggghh.

In those two or three seconds I know he has me completely under his control and I can’t do anything about it.

In those two or three seconds, my pussy turns to a river of quicksilver. My body becomes as resonant and tuned as a guitar or violin, vibrating under tension. My mind has the gloopy consistency of spunk.

He can do anything at all he wants with me. And he will. And I want him to. I want to mewl and moan and wail and whimper.
But he’ll make me wait. I’ll be trembling with anticipation.

He’ll make me hurt. I’ll hurt so hard the endorphins kick in and I’ll be laughing.

Then he’ll fuck me.

Eventually he’ll take the gag off. With difficulty, with lips and tongue that barely work, with jaw muscles almost seized up, I’ll say Thank you, sir. And mean it.

Relief From Boredom – an adventure. New free erotic fiction by Velvet Tripp

Nipple jewelry for a slut

Laura had been bored for a while. Her last big night out had consisted of a trip to the local, a wander downtown to the usual boring night club and a cheap’n’cheerful curry on the way home, slightly drunk. Her girlfriends had been prattling on about Johnny Depp and his latest film and one had got far too drunk and been taxied home early.

Never again, she thought. I’m just so BORED with this. There has to be something more interesting to do on the last Saturday night of the month, her only night of freedom. That was when her babysitter stayed overnight in the spare room and she could relax properly. So here she was, trawling the net for a more original approach to her time off. A month to plan, a month to look forward to something new and exciting. But what?

Hmmm. Websites filled with nightclubs playing the usual. Yawn. Cinema? Yawn. NaughtyPlaypals.com. Interesting. Sign up, free membership for women. Cool. Here we go. Odd black outfits. Little videos. Oooh, that looks interesting. The way he’s tied her up there, with that mean little gag and some sort of jewellery on her nipples. Says ‘Slut’. Memories stir. Long forgotten fantasies of submission and helplessness. Damp knickers.

A night of fantasy and dreams follow. Out comes the dildo. Sleep. Kids to school, housework and homework done, kids in bed. PC. EBay. Decision made. Slutty underwear ordered. Black, peep-hole bra, matching very brief briefs, fancy legged stockings, hold-ups, of course. Shoes. 4” steel stilettos. Expensive. Sod it. Ordered. Just a dress to find. Now, NaughtyPlaypals.com. Choose a likely ‘escort’. Check his profile. Gorgeous! Tick. Fit? Tick. History? Previous Playpals rate him highly – five stars! Big tick. Now, hope he responds to her email.

One week to go. Playpal’s member has sent Laura her instructions. Be there at eight thirty on the dot. Lateness will be punished. Cool. Luckily, the clothing she ordered, even the dress, have been given the OK. Babysitter booked, and double checked. This can’t go wrong.

One hour to go. Bathed. Pubes, as per instructions, gone. Make-up and hair, perfect. Kids fast asleep. Babysitter sorted, with videos and supper. Friends? Think her sitter has a bad cold. Slut gear donned, coat to cover on. Just in time. Taxi. Heart beginning to pound.

He was waiting, glaring at his watch. She was three minutes late. That will cost her, she’s informed with a twinkle in his eye. Already those very brief briefs aren’t dry. Led into the club on a lead – attached to the collar he put on her at the door. Can she look around? Yes, but not for long. Take it all in now. ‘You’re going to be too tied up later’, he tells her. What’s his name? Either Sir or Fucking Bastard, but he prefers to earn the latter title.

Weird toys everywhere. People strapped to tables, cargo nets and pillars. One covered in food, several people licking it off her. Another being whipped. A man being flogged, tied to a cross. Now her turn. No more looking. Time to experience.

He ties her arms behind her back, covers her eyes with a leather blindfold. The leather smells good. Feels good. She feels vulnerable. He, presumably, feels powerful. He leads her through the crowd. Someone asks if they can touch. She hears him assent. A hand strokes her arse. Another tweeks a nipple through the dress. He unties her hands. ‘Take off the dress’. She does.

Leather straps tighten on her wrists and ankles. She’s guided to a toy. The straps are attached to the toy. She finds herself spread-eagled on what feels like an X shaped cross. Stretched. Exposed. Semi-naked. ‘Open your mouth.’ She does. It’s filled with a ball. Straps tighten at the back. A small ball is placed in her hand. ‘As agreed. Dropping it means enough. I will stop instantly.’ She nods. Behind the blindfold, her eyes are tight shut. This is… glorious. Exciting.
Sensation starts on her neck. Feathers? Fur? Gentle. Over her nipples, down her abdomen. Shivers. The little prickles. What is that? Who cares? Feels scary. Voices mumble. Something about how pert her nipples are sticking through the peep-hole bra. ‘Go ahead,’ he says. ‘She’s willing.’ Teeth. Lips. Tongue. Nipples now engorged. Pleasure messages shooting down to clit. Fingers brush over knickers. ‘Slut,’ he whispers. Now. We begin. Something tightens on her nipple. Laura gasps through the gag. He waits a moment. Then the other nipple. Gives her a few moments to absorb the pain. Her chest heaves then settles. He checks her crotch. Even wetter. Good. ‘Now, you were late. For that you will suffer, slut.’

Something hits her skin. She guesses a flogger. That’s not what hurts! It’s the chain swinging on the nipple clamps. She stifles a scream. ‘Try to keeps still and they won’t hurt as much,’ he chuckles. More of the flogger. Her thighs, her belly. The straps come off. She’s turned around. Strapped facing the cross. Now her arse. Keep still. Don’t bounce, she remembers. But she can’t keep still. The flogger stings now. She wriggles. He chuckles. She smells perfume. Someone kisses her. It’s a woman. They meet tongue to tongue. A voice whispers. ‘He’s good. Enjoy.’ Then a tug on the nipple clamp chain. Another scream through the gag. Three minutes late. Three of the best. Whack. ‘One.’ Whoah. Laura gasps loudly. Felt like a cane. ‘Two. Owww,’ she squeals. ‘Three.’ That brings a tear. But god, she’s hot now.

She’s unfastened from the cross. Led away by him and her. The music changes. They’re in another room. She holds Laura. He secures the cuffs behind her back. She’s seated. Her legs are spread and ankles fastened to keep them wide apart. Some kind of chair. He takes out the gag. She kisses her. He takes off the nipple clamps. Then it hits her. ‘Fucking bastard!’ she wails. After all, he’s earned it! Then she’s laughing, giggling. Insanely high. Floating. He enters her. She kisses her. Sucks her nipples gently. When she comes, she leaves the planet.

The phone rings. It’s her best mate, Tammy. ‘You didn’t miss much. We just did the usual stuff, you know. Down the pub and club. Sorry you couldn’t join us though. What did you do with yourself?’

‘Got tied up in knots going through stuff from the past.’ Laura smiled. And I’ll be doing some more next month, she thought to herself.

***

The nipple jewelry in the pic is an item sold by our friends Freak Clubwear. Read more Velvet Tripp at Xcite Books.

Kidnapper – new free erotic story by Fulani

I posted ‘Kidnapped‘ a few days ago. This is the same story, but from the kidnapper’s perspective…

***

It’s more difficult than you’d think to kidnap someone, even if they want to be kidnapped.

You have to work out how to do it unobserved; a location with no witnesses, no CCTV, preferably no way to trace vehicles from nearby street cameras. You have to co-ordinate people, places, surveillance. And because it’s the fulfillment of a kidnap fantasy, you need to brief everyone involved and make sure they know what they’re doing and what the victim’s limits are.

It takes a while to set up.

Snatching Jessica from right outside her house went perfectly. She hadn’t made me as I’d tailed her, relaying her position to the team. Because she’d had a couple of drinks on the way home, she wasn’t paying attention to our car, which was twenty metres from her front door. Paul and Phil, the snatch squad, simply stood in the deep shadow cast by a convenient tree. Jessica herself had been expecting the kidnap at any point from five o’clock onwards, so after almost three hours of nothing happening her attention had wandered.

It was only from her perspective that nothing had been happening. We’d been keyed up, ready and waiting, for the whole of that time. And we were ready to give her exactly what she wanted…

They had her hands cuffed behind her back, and the hood on, before she knew what had hit her. She was too surprised even to struggle as Paul picked her up bodily and placed her in the back of Rob’s SUV. He climbed in after her, so he and I sat either side of her while Phil took the front passenger seat.

I leaned in close, telling her she was going to be punished, tortured and turned into a fuckpet. I was explicit. I was pornographic. Jessica’s squeals were precisely halfway between excitement and terror.

While Paul ripped her blouse open to release her breasts, and squeezed her nipples, I parted her thighs and moved the thin strip of material to stroke her shaved mons, her clit, and then put two fingers into her unresisting cunt. She moaned, and shifted in her seat to allow me even better access.

Rob lives out in the country, in a property that has an outbuilding fitted out as a workshop. He parked on the driveway. Jessica looked cute, standing there in her hood and cuffs, wondering where we were and what would happen next.

She looked even cuter when we’d finished removing her clothes with a big pair of scissors; naked except for her fuck-me-now red high heels. Her nipples puckered at the slightest breeze, and there was a telltale tremble of frightened anticipation in her belly. I put a collar and leash on her. A pull on that, and a spank on the arse from Phil, was all she needed to make her move uncertainly, testing the gravel surface with each step.

We exchanged the metal handcuffs for leather ones, Jessica’s wrists now held above her head by a chain to an overhead beam.

‘I’m going to punish you,’ I told her. ‘Not because you’ve done anything wrong, but because you’re a slut, and because it’s a taste of what will happen if you don’t obey my orders. And because I can. Ten strokes, and if you yelp I’ll start the count over again.’

Since we’d only just started, I didn’t even consider using the bullwhip. I picked a heavy suede flogger from the workbench and used it on her arse, her tits and her back. Its characteristic ‘thwack’ sound echoed harshly off the workshop walls.

However, because it was a flogger, I didn’t hold back. She bounced and twisted in her bonds like a fish trying to escape a hook.

Ten strokes, clear of any yelps or squeals. It took forty-seven strokes to achieve that.

When she stopped shaking, we let her down. But only so we could put her in the cage in the corner of the workshop, hands still locked in front of her by the leather cuffs.

‘As far as I’m concerned,’ I told her, ‘there’s only one reason to take the hood off you. You need to say the magic words. You need to tell me you’re a fuckpet and a suckslut, and you want to suck all of our cocks.’

She mumbled the words. I made her repeat them until they were loud and clear. Until she wasn’t just repeating them, but believing them – not, of course, that she didn’t believe them before. She had negotiated with us to be treated this way…

I removed the hood.

She was as good as her word, and her throat was deep.

There were, I remind you, four of us. It took an hour and a half, and by the end of it, one cock after another, she was unable even to close her mouth properly, let alone talk. Dried juices plastered her face. Phil took pity and rinsed her down. ‘Otherwise she’ll have layers of it on her, like candle wax.’

Now that was an idea…

It was the work of a minute to have her out of that cage, in fact lying on top of it face-up, ankles and wrists secured to the bars. Rob and I had the candles. She squealed as the first splash of hot wax hit her left tit. In fact she squealed every time a splash of hot wax landed on her skin. It was very gratifying, though she probably didn’t appreciate our evil chuckles.

There’s only one way, in my opinion, to get wax off flesh when it’s cooled, and that’s with a flogger.

Jessica has those wonderfully big, sensual, pleading eyes that seem to ask why people want to hurt her. And the answer is: because she looks so damn sexy when she’s being abused.

I stopped when all the wax was off. Actually I didn’t, I confess I carried on for a while. ‘Look, is that another little piece?’ Thwap. ‘I’d better make sure it’s gone.’ Thwap.

Her body was rosy and shaking when I finished.

How we kept up the pressure: simple. We took six-hour shifts, so the next time I saw her was mid-morning on Saturday.

Jessica didn’t look like she’d had a whole lot of sleep. There were cane marks on her buttocks, more spunk across her breasts. I dragged her to the bathroom, let her pee and gave her a drink of water, then put her under the shower. Especially for her I turned the water to freezing, so she jumped and squealed and gasped for breath.

‘You need warming up,’ I observed casually. ‘A flogging should do that nicely.’

On wet skin, interestingly, it also stings more, as Jessica discovered.

By Saturday evening the poor girl was exhausted. Hardly surprising, because she’d been systematically beaten and fucked on the hour, every hour, for twenty-four hours. She was barely coherent. We showed her no mercy, though, because sleep deprivation was part of the brief, part of the deal.

I think she already knew, before the kidnap, what the word ‘fuckslut’ meant. At any rate, when we put her over a trestle and strapped her down, and I pulled her head up by her hair, her mouth was already wide, tongue out, to receive my cock. We spit-roasted her, me in her mouth while Rob fucked her.

Afterwards, I found it extraordinary how the disheveled look suited her: she looked sexy as hell with mascara streaks across her face and a blob of my spunk on her lip.

While she was finding her breath, we moved a pile of tarps to form a makeshift mattress, anchored her wrists to eyebolts in the wall and ankles to piles of circular weights from the weightlifting kit. The position, spread-eagled on her back, was probably the most comfortable – or least uncomfortable – she’d been in for the whole time we’d held her. Remarkably, we noticed after ten minutes that her hips were gyrating. As she flexed her thighs there was, I saw, a wonderful little concave spot, almost a dimple, running alongside the tendons of her inner thighs. It seemed to be winking at me.

There’s nothing easy about having four men fuck you, one after the other, the pressure of their thighs against yours, the violence of their thrusts bruising your mons and clit, the knowledge that your bonds make you helpless, not just literally but symbolically as well.

We were relentless, but even then I doubt we plumbed Jessica’s depths.

Much later, before we took her home, I made her kneel on the floor and thank us for treating her well.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘We could have been really unkind. We could have used nipple clamps. Taken you for a walk on your hands and knees, like an animal. Tortured you with a cattle prod.’

‘I thought you were saving those for next time,’ she replied.

I slapped her face, not too hard, just enough to make her realise who was in charge.

‘So when are you kidnapping me again?’ she asked.

We fixed a date and sealed the deal with a blowjob.

Next time there will be six of us.

***

The pic used in this post is 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 liked this story, you might like to know Fulani’s novel The Secret Circus of Pain and Degradation also starts with a kidnapping and contains numerous scenes of bdsm and rough sex…

Kidnapped – new free erotic story by Fulani

We’ve been away for a few days. Normal service is now resumed!

***

Cuffed and ready for kidnapping

It’s more difficult than you’d think, being kidnapped. Two weeks of emails, phone calls, planning, working out details and hard limits. Depravity being negotiated in my own little suburban flat, the computer on the dining table, the glass of red wine beside it, the vibrator beside that almost melted from over-use.

Do I need medication with me? No. Am I prepared to be fed from a dog bowl? OK. Have my face slapped? Could be a major turn-on. Hair pulled? Definitely a fuck-me-now turn-on. Fucked by complete strangers, safe sex only? Hell, yes yes yes.

So here was the deal: I’d leave work at five on Friday. I’d booked Monday off work. At some point, and I didn’t know when that point would be, I’d be kidnapped. No hints, no specified time, no agreed way it was going to happen. Just one thing. My kidnappers would recognise me by my outfit: a belt with a handcuff design on the buckle, and my bright red five-inch heels.

The anticipation was huge. My mind was racing and I couldn’t concentrate on anything for days – or for daze. Whichever.

On Friday I packed the belt and heels in a bag, took them to work. And yes, I told Cheryl what I was doing and left a printout of user-names and mobile phone numbers at my place, just in case… At five I went to the toilet, changes into the heels, put the belt on. Applied makeup – one always wants to look one’s best for a kidnapping, I thought – and decided that while I didn’t mind if my thong was taken off with scissors I wanted to keep my bra. So the bra went into my desk drawer. I stayed loose that evening…

I found myself acting like a secret agent, dawdling past shops, checking the reflections in the windows, doubling back on myself… Eventually I selected a bar, not my usual haunt, and had two large glasses of white wine. Figure the odds: single woman alone in a bar and not being chatted up. It was like I had a sign on my forehead: Do not approach, about to be kidnapped.

I wasn’t kidnapped. I went home feeling disappointed.

You know that combination of alcohol and fresh air, the way it makes the ground under your feet spongy, especially if you’re wearing high heels? I was feeling that way, reaching in my bag for my house keys, and then the world was black and I was falling.

Being grabbed by several guys who put a hood over your head, knock you off your feet and carry you bodily had that kind of disorientating effect. I was so surprised I forgot to struggle, which was something I’d thought about doing.

Handcuffs held my wrists behind my back. I was sitting in a car, a vehicle of some kind anyway, and there was a guy each side of me. One had a hand up my skirt, the other ripped my blouse into shreds and squeezed my tits until I gasped. And they were making smalltalk.

You’re ours now. We’ll strip you, string you up and beat you and mark your body until you’re screaming and begging to be our fuckpet. We’ll keep you in a cage, use every part of you until you ache. You’ll choke on our cum and like it, because it’s the only protein you’ll be getting. We’ll make you crawl on all fours, lick our boots, bark like a dog. We’ll keep you in chains and spit-roast you. Then we’ll stake you out and give you a pussy-whipping and fuck you unconscious. And we’ll take pictures and video for the website and when we’re done with you, we’ll auction you off or trade you for another slave.

There was more. Much more.

After a while the vehicle stopped. Cold air as I was bundled outside and stripped. It felt weird being handcuffed, hooded, naked except for the heels, and in the open air with the wind playing over breasts and between my legs. It felt weird and hot being in that state, having no idea where I was, who the men were, and waiting helplessly for whatever would happen next.

The small talk wasn’t just empty promises. They did everything they’d said. I had no idea where we were, but it was large enough that my screams bounced off the walls. I begged and pleaded to be their fuckpet and then the sounds of my orgasms, plural, bounced off the walls.

When they finally took the hood off, I couldn’t work out where I was. The place wasn’t a proper room, more like a workshop. There was a small cage in the corner, the right size for me to kneel in, the bars wide enough for them to reach in, play with me, fuck me. Later, when I’d been properly exhibited, fingered, made to crawl and generally aroused by my vulnerability, I was laid over a small workbench table for a flogging on the ass and then given the spit-roast treatment with one cock in the mouth and another between my thighs.

The thing they didn’t do, or at least I don’t think they did, was auction me off as a slave. Because I did, eventually, get home. I was deposited on my doorstep in an oversize second-hand T-shirt, welts on my body, the taste of cum in my mouth, and still wearing my heels.

The next day Cheryl – remember Cheryl? – was eager for every last depraved detail. I know my stories turned her on, because otherwise why would she have insisted her boyfriend went out and bought handcuffs? And then demanded to see the pics and videos, which came a day later by email?

The marks faded but the intensity of the experience didn’t.

That’s why I’m being kidnapped again next week.

***

The pic used in this post is 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 liked this story, you might like to know Fulani’s novel The Secret Circus of Pain and Degradation also starts with a kidnapping, and contains numerous scenes of bdsm and rough sex…

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.

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?

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