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 - cover

Hanging Around - book cover and link

From the book blurb:

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

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

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

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…

***

Kidnapped

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…