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 –]

Hot Review on Rope Bondage story

Fulani’s done it again! I’m proud to tell you that his erotic rope bondage story  ‘Addicted to rope’ has another great review. BDSM Book Reviews’ Riane has this to say.

Rope bondage story

Addicted to Rope. Click to buy on Kindle

Here’s the summary of the story Riane kindly took the time to read.

Ruth’s work leaves no time for relationships. Traveling a lot and living in hotel rooms, her sex life revolves around one-night-stands. In a hotel bar, one night, she encounters a professional bondage rigger and maker of dungeon equipment. His occupation might be strange, but he’s more together and more interesting than most of the men she meets. When he offers her a challenge, she can’t resist it. And it leads her into an addiction to rope.

And Riane’s opinion?

Rope. Rope. Rope. I, personally, am fascinated by rope bondage. Shibari is something I’ve never tried but am extremely interested in. When I saw the name of this book, I knew immediately I had to read it.

Ruth is a driven professional woman, a corporate trainer to be exact. She relaxes by having one night stands with guys she picks up in the various cities she visits. While looking for a new sex partner, she meets Leo. When she learns he’s a professional rigger, she’s stunned but interested. He gives her a small taste of domination in the hotel bar and then they part ways with his room number and an offer for more if she’s interested. Since this is not the end of the book, you can guess she’s interested.

The book progresses rather quickly. She’s given an immediate introduction to ropes, and more. I was a bit surprised by the level things progressed to in the first scene. In real life, it generally takes a bit more time to build up the trust required to do some of those things. However, this is fantasy, and it was very hot.

This book is heavy sex, light plot. Not a bad thing, if that’s what you want in a read. I was hooked until Chapter 4, at which point the story took a bit of a turn for me. I like being able to place myself in the position of the female character when I read a story, but Ruth became obsessed. Obsessed not just with rope, but with becoming a “cheap whore” just for free instead of cheap. Instead of being a book I can sink into, it became more of a porn flick on paper… you can watch from a distance and enjoy it on a different level.’

If you want your very own copy of some sizzling hot erotic adult fiction so you can read the story again and again… you can buy it here. Or tell your friends about it. Just click to send to your network on any of the services listed below.

Dangerous Sex

Would it surprise you to know that one in ten adults say they or their partner have fallen off the bed during sex at some point during their adult lives and one in fifty have fallen off the washing machine? That’s only the tip of the iceberg.

According to The Telegraph (OK, it’s an old article from 2010!), the most common injuries are;

1. Pulled muscle
2. Injured back
3. Carpet burns
4. Cricked neck
5. Bashing elbows / knees
6. Bruised shoulder
7. Twisted knee
8. Sprained / strained wrist
9. Sprained / strained ankle
10. Bending fingers back

We think between the two of us, at one time or another we’ve experienced all of these.

The most dangerous locations were:

1. Sofa
2. Stairs
3. Car
4. Shower
5. Bedroom
6. On a chair
7. Kitchen table
8. Garden
9. Lavatory
10. In a work cupboard

And the most commonly broken items were:

1. Bed frame (yup, done that)
2. Wine / pint glass (ditto)
3. Picture
4. Chair
5. Tea cup (you can tell it’s an English survey, can’t you…)
6. Wall
7. Chest of drawers
8. Door
9. Window
10. Vase

From personal experience we’d add that indoor practice with a bullwhip can result in damage to lampshades and light fittings.

The Telegraph doesn’t, unfortunately, give the source of the report. Another equally unreferenced report suggests you should remove your pets from the room before embarking on sex. Apparently, cats are especially prone to clawing at genitals if present (if the cat’s present, that is, not the genitals) when there’s action going on. Ouch! Avoiding oral sex after spicy food is also recommended, after a woman ended up in casualty with burns in a delicate place when her boyfriend went straight there after a hot curry. And of course, be careful what foreign objects you introduce into sensitive areas! Bottles, light bulbs and other glass objects are not a good idea. One report tells of a man’s lucky recovery, which required an operation, following an exploded light bulb in his rectum!

Many didn’t realise they were injured until the following day, when passion (and possibly alcohol) had worn off. If you’re into BDSM and topping or domming, you should have full control of your faculties, but subs beware – both alcohol and painkillers might leave you unable to tell how much pain/pleasure you are actually having.

So take safety seriously if you don’t want to end up recovering from a session for much longer than you anticipated! Clear the room you intend to use, have safe toys available, put the cat out and make a soft landing for yourselves if you’re going to climb on furniture.

So have fun and play safely!

Follow up to ‘Emotional Safety During a Scene’

There’s a Combichrist song we like to use as background music when we play called ‘This Shit Will Fuck You Up’. It was on the other night. I remarked that actually, this shit can sort you out! There’s a good reason for that. The memory I had that prompted the original post Mental and Emotional Safety During a Scene has, over recent weeks, been aired, sorted and ousted from my life and psyche. I had to work at it. I had to talk a little more about it, and I had to act on what I felt was right for me. In this case, I needed to regain my self esteem and self respect that had been damaged all these years by my past, forgotten event. Bringing it out into the open via the vehicle of BDSM, although an accident and a shock at the time, was very freeing and has had a positive effect in many areas of my life, not just the sex.

This is a world where you have to communicate clearly to your play partner. Otherwise you get stuff you didn’t want, and what’s the point in doing it if it’s NOT what you want? That’s not very satisfying for you and not for your play partner either. Dom or sub, you hopefully want your play partner to enjoy the experience in their own way as much as you want to yourself. People with low self esteem find it very difficult to assert their own needs. I am, due to the purge of the past, much more able to do that. Not only in the bedroom/dungeon but in everyday life too.

And that improvement in my life came partly through more play. Another scene. A much more positive one (well, two actually). It’s a great way to act out stuff you can’t in any other arena I can think of with someone who cares enough to see it through with you and be there should you need them to be.

If you have the support of a good play partner go for it. Explore new territory, dare to push your boundaries. Just remember to deal with stuff if it appears, however painful (and I’m not talking welts!). Don’t try to ignore it. You might find it more freeing than you think.


The plastics factory – free erotic fiction from Fulani

I did a previous story, Burnout, on an industrial theme and got some good feedback from it. Here’s another one. Pics by Velvet Tripp; the factory is quite near us.

Here’s a Twitter-sized summary:

Burned-out factory. Naked, gagged, wrists tied to a blackened overhead beam, open to the sky. He’s gone to fetch his whip. I’m euphoric.


The old plastics factory burned down a couple of months ago. Arson. Kids set a fire they couldn’t control.

I drive past it every day, going to work. Some of it is a lunar landscape, melted plastic like solidified lava flowing over the ground. Some of it looks like a war zone. At first there were security guards, fire investigators, like ants toiling in a post-apocalyptic world. Then, no one.

In a month or a year, someone might clear the site and rebuild. In the meantime, I’m curious.

When I mention it, you’re interested too. So we drive out there, one Friday evening.

And I know exactly what’s in your mind, because it’s in mine too. That’s why I chose the clothes I’m wearing, and it’s why there’s a bulge in your jacket pocket.

The stream on one side of the site flows grungy and dark. The trees surrounding it are as blackened as your soul. The metal fence as twisted as your imagination. We slip through it easily. Crunch, crunch. The sound of our feet on rough cinders, until we come to the slightly spongy melted plastic.

‘It’s a great shame,’ I say. ‘The place contributed to the environment by recycling plastic, and now the trees are gone and the chemicals polluting the water.’

‘Yeah. But despite the destruction we carry on. We even create our own amusements.’

We walk towards the shadowed entrance to the factory building. It’s not supposed to be an entrance – just where a wall collapsed. Inside, blackened unfathomable machinery. There’s a long girder there; it was a roof support and still rests on the remaining wall but is angled now to touch the ground on the other.

I just know you’re going to whip out what’s in yourpocket.

And you do. Twenty meters of rope.

‘Hold your hands out.’

I offer them to you, gleaming in the shadow. I offer my submission like a jewel. Because it is a jewel. You know it. I know it.

You secure my hands. Practiced ease. Throw the other end of the rope over the girder. Haul on it until I’m on tiptoe. Ties it off on a stanchion. Anything I try to do with my feet spins me round, out of control. Not, of course, that I want to be in control at this point.

There’s a reason I wore the halter top and the button-through skirt. It makes it easy for you to remove them. You throw them casually on the sooty ground, making them unwearable. My thong becomes unwearable because you rip it off. I have, now, no clothing, no protection, until we get home. Knowing this claws at the inside of my belly, pulls and strokes my clit.

After that I open my mouth automatically for the gag.

You stand back and watch me for a while, as I watch you watching me. I’m getting excited. I watch you getting excited. Breeze from outside excites my nipples. The breeze carries scents of oil, burned wood, fire smoke. Why is that a turn-on? What repressed memory makes me juice up at smell of heavy engineering and disaster?

After a while you produce a blindfold.

‘I need to get the whip,’ you say casually. ‘I may be a while.’

Normally I can still my racing mind, but being bound and exposed in a place like this… There’s always a risk, and risk is something I get off on. I’m restrained by the ropes, my imagination flies free, I’m own euphoric.

When you, or someone anyway, crunch back towards the building I’m hanging helplessly, liquid desperate dripping anticipation.

The whipcracks are loud in my ears, echoing in the cavernous space. The noise is more scary even that the impacts and stings. You – or someone – don’t spare me. You never do. While I know you care about me, for me, you also know that in this situation I must feel you have no mercy, no compassion.

And it feels exactly that way as stripes and welts form on my body, some overlaying bruises I still have from four days ago.

Despite the gag I yelp, and the muffled yelps bounce, amplified, off the metal surfaces. They come back to me as the sounds of sex.

Which they are.

I dance for you, for the whip.

By the time you’re done laying burning welts on me I’m in my own dreamworld of torture. This is a good thing. I like my dreamworld. I like the way my dreams become visible on my skin. When you release the rope I stand unsteadily, holding onto you for balance. Even with the blindfold I know whose arms they are. Through the gag I’m pleading, demanding, making my need for orgasm clear. Orgasm now. Right now. Please. Any way you want me. Do I have to say that magic ‘Master’ word? I say it anyway.

‘Not yet, lover,’ you murmur. Use the rope as a leash. Take me outside, walking nude across the broken wasteland. Tie me somewhere. I don’t know where. I’m bent at the waist, legs apart, arms up above my head. Perversely now I’m in the cold evening air, the welts feel even hotter. I feel even hotter.

And you take me from behind, the buckle of your belt pressing into my reddened ass with every thrust, until I scream.

Afterwards: my clothes are trashed. We leave them. The rope is sticky with oil, tar, ash. You string it along the fence as a symbol: we were here. I know I’ll see it, every morning on the way to work.

I’m nude in the car on the way home. All I have on my body: my sneakers, the gag, and the whipmarks. I’m in the darkness, feeling cool car seat leather on hot skin. That’s the way I like it.

Submit! – free erotic fiction from Velvet Tripp

I don’t know how long I’d been there. Waiting. He’d not be far away. He could be standing right in front of me. I squirmed at the thought. As much as I could anyway, bound as I was to the chair. His, I mean my dom’s, special chair. Blindfold and gag deprived me of two of my senses. Headphones played a track that blocked out sound from the room. Taste, sight and hearing impaired. Let me tell you, that really does sharpen your remaining senses. Touch. And smell.

All I could smell at this moment was the freshness of the night air drifting through the open window. There would be no-one around for miles. That’s why he chose this place. No one can hear you scream. As for touch. That’s what I was waiting for. That’s what I wanted. But he knew that. He knew I was impatient. It amused him to watch me, knowing I would only be hotter if he left me to endure anticipation for a while.

I felt something then. A shiver over my skin. Did he touch me? Has a bird flown in? I can’t hear anything but the music. Strange, Germanic type stuff. They’re singing about ripping clothes off. Hmm. That happened a while ago, now. I think the disk is called Eevil Young Flesh. That would be a good description of me, then.

I feel warmth to my left. He’s here. My heart races. My pussy dampens. I know he’s going to be a bastard tonight. Because he wants me to call him that. When he’s earned it. He considers it a compliment. And he knows I’ll resist using that title because it’s what he wants me to do. I can’t help it. That’s how I am. He’s decided I need to learn the true meaning of submissive. One lesson at a time. I know tonight will be a challenge for me. To submit. To do as I’m told. To take what I’m given.

His hand cups my crotch. ‘Good,’ he says, flatly. ‘You’ve shaved. I like easy access, slut.’

My heart is pounding now. My crotch even more damp. I shiver as I feel cold steel on my thigh. Then the other thigh. A knife. That’s my thong gone. I wondered why I’d been allowed to keep it on before he bound me with 30 feet of rope. Legs splayed by the special chair, arms firmly bound to the armrests, breasts bound until they throbbed. Then left to ‘contemplate my fate’. Now I meet it.

‘Now, I know you’ve had to wait, so I’m not going to mess you around any longer. I promised you would learn to call me by my favourite name and that I would earn it. Here we go. I start to earn now.’

Searing pain shot through my left nipple. I squealed through the gag, found it hard to catch my breath. A clamp. The really bad ones, I think. The pair connected by a chain… He waited moments for me to relax, and then my right… I gasped, almost screamed. But the rebel in me didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

‘So that’s easy for you, eh, pain slut?’

I nodded. Stupid.

‘In that case, I think we’ll have to make you work harder. I can’t have you slacking, can’t have you being wilful. I control you now.’

I bit down on the gag, unsure of his next move. My nipples throbbed, transmitting their protests down to my clit, where somehow it got a pleasure signal, and my now exposed pussy was positively wet. Then my nipples exploded. Again. Bastard! He has some little weights to hang off the chain of the clamps he especially liked to use when torturing me. I could feel that weight on them, pulling, tugging and making every nerve ending in them scream. But I still didn’t. My clit stubbornly refused to accept what my nipples were telling it. I began to drip. I was breathing hard; absorbing the pain, letting it change my chemistry, flood me with endorphins.

My minds started to float away. I was high. He was getting off on me getting high. I could now smell his muskiness and the leather of his trousers. Leather, pain, pleasure and imagination. Oh, yes, I was sky high.

Suddenly he whisked the headphones off me.

‘Now slut, you have two choices. A or B. Which do you choose, I wonder? Raise a finger on your left hand for A, a finger on your left for B.’ I sat, paralysed, high, confused. I heard him step away. The leather of his trousers as he moved. A or B? But I didn’t know what those meant. What choice was that? Then I got it. That was the point. Whatever I chose, He chose. He decided what happens next. Clever fuck! He just want to make me submit!

Smack! I flinched, the clamps swayed, tugged. I squealed through the gag. He chuckled evilly. A flogger. On the inside of my thigh. I should have raised that finger… Smack. Now I screamed. I dripped. I lifted my left finger. OK. A. I do submit. I do.

I waited. He moved away. Fuck! What had I done? What now? My heart pumped blood and adrenaline and endorphins round me so fast my head was spinning. My pussy drooling.

‘You should know I’ve got a quick call to make, then you’ll have my full attention again,’ he said abruptly. ‘Hi, yes, she’ll be ready for you in about ten minutes. Ok, yes, I’ll make sure of that, don’t worry.’

If I could have gulped, cried out to be released, I might have. I still had my hand signal, but I wasn’t going there. Pride wouldn’t let me. I wouldn’t let me. I wanted this. I got this. I’ll see it through.

I hear him moving things, some clicking kind of sound. Then he untied me, deftly, dragged me by the collar across the room, juices trickling down my thigh as I walked. He carefully lowered me to my knees and cuffed my wrists, pushed me forward. I found myself face forward on a sofa or bed of some sort, ass exposed, legs as far apart as he could push them. The clamps bit my nipples. He bit my ass. He ran his finger over my soaking, exposed clit.

‘Huh. You are a pain slut, aren’t you. My little pain slut. I can do what I like when I like, can’t I?’

I nodded. He grabbed my hair, pulling my head back. ‘Now the clamps. You know they have to come off, don’t you?’ I did. He took them off, one at a time. Blood flooded back into squeezed and tender flesh, nerve endings flashed into overdrive and I yelled through that gag. Did I yell!

Then a loud buzzing sound. Not like a vibrator, more like a chainsaw. There wasn’t time to think. Suddenly that sound made contact with my pussy. It was a vibrator. It felt more like a jackhammer. My instinct was to try and wriggle away. But he had me pinned. My pussy went straight into rocket-assisted launch mode. I gasped and gasped and gasped. I creamed and screamed. I came so hard and so fast my brain went stratospheric. My pussy exploded over and over. He carried on. I couldn’t come down. The only way was up. I screamed again. I came again, tears escaping from behind the mask, and again, forced to orgasm until I didn’t know which way was up.

It stopped. I stopped. He stopped. I collapsed, flying; waves of incredible ecstasy still rippling through me as he stroked my hair now, kissed my back.

‘It’s not over. You know that, don’t you?’

I was incapable of responding. He just laughed. He took out the gag. My jaw trembled.

He got up and left me draped over what I could now see was a leather covered storage box all padded out. I heard him open the door. ‘Come in, Janine’.

My lover. He’d invited my female lover over. The bastards had planned it all. I smelled her perfume as she came closer. ‘Now, my pet, now we both have you. Now you’re ready for us,’ she whispered. I turned to him, smiled shakily and said ‘Fucking bastard, thank you.’


More from Velvet? There’s a short story in a different vein, Tropical Paradise, in a short collection of five stories and simultaneously in a full-length 20-story collection, both by Xcite. And more to come soon from the same publisher…

Tuesday afternoon, comic store – free erotic fiction by Fulani

I wrote a piece a couple of days ago that I decided to keep back for a collection. Thought I’d do a 500-word short to keep you entertained instead but I got over-enthusiastic. It’s around 2400 words… I have changed some details. The story is set on a Tuesday, but actually it was yesterday. No baboons were harmed during the writing of this story. For those who know their pulp history – no weasels were used to rip any flesh!


You may not have caught up with this, but there’s been a resurgence of interest in men’s adventure mags.
They were big in the fifties and sixties, which is to say before I was born and up to the time I was in kindergarten. So all I knew about them, really, was from the internet. And that wasn’t going to be enough to write a story about them.
These magazines were a type of pulp fiction, cheaply produced sexploitation and violence. Key themes: World War II, gangs, bikers, the occult.
Exhibit A, your honor, taken from the internet: an issue of Man’s Daring, with a cover picture of a woman in a white dress reduced to rags, kneeling, tied to a bamboo X-frame. Look of terror on her face. Approaching her is a Nazi officer who holds the leashes of two ravening baboons that are evidently intent on fucking her, eating her, or both. Maybe even at the same time. This relates to a story inside the mag: ‘Hitler’s Baboon Tortures in Mabuti’.

Man's Adventure, Oct 1967

Man's Adventure, Oct 1967. See below for details.

Exhibit B from the same source: Man’s Adventure, cover picture of a woman in ripped red dress, tied standing spreadeagled. Whip marks clearly evident on her torso. A bare-breasted female interrogator is standing by as two soldiers pull on the ropes to stretch her tighter. Stories trailed on the cover include ‘The Sex Show That Tricked the Nazis’ and ‘Women who Like Pain’.
The Nazi thing – I don’t know, but given the period when they were popular I guess a lot of the men who read them had served during World War II. Seen cruel, extreme stuff at first hand. Heard stories. Brothels were commonplace. These experiences defined their sexuality. World War II was still a big thing in films through the seventies but by then, porn was more photographic that art illustration. The mags faded away.
They were called ‘sweat mags’ or ‘sweats’. I don’t know – maybe because men got all sweaty reading them?


So on this lazy Tuesday afternoon I head off to a little independent second-hand specialist comic and magazine shop. I pass it occasionally and I’m always surprised it’s still there because I never see anyone inside. I’d guess it does most of its business on Ebay and Amazon?
I push open the door. The music coming from behind the counter is heavy gothic; it alone would be enough to make the merely curious walk straight out. The owner is a mumsy figure dressed in what might best be described as Victorian window’s weeds. Black, lots of lace, jet necklace. She nods at me kindly.
‘Oh, those,’ the owner says when I ask. ‘I don’t have any in stock. Actually they’re mostly collector’s pieces now, the kind of thing people buy and keep in plastic wrappers because the paper’s so fragile. And you’d be surprised how many of the collectors are women.’ She smirks. Like she’s a collector herself. Of mags? Of women?
Well, OK. But I browse anyway. Mostly what they have is contemporary manga, TV spinoff magazines for SF and fantasy, runs of old Marvel and DC comics. A few old copies of Analog and some other SF.
And then I get intrigued by another voice, a female one. Goth girl, twenties, old enough to be my daughter. Flame orange long hair. Black summer dress, strapless, the kind with a lot of net underskirts. Stockings, holdups, because I can see flashes of their tops when she shifts her weight from foot to foot. Big red boots.
The snatch of conversation I get is this.
Girl: ‘I have fantasies like that but you know what, I’ve never yet met a man who could carry them out.’
Owner: ‘Most men just aren’t skilled in being dominant. A good one is hard to find.’
I turn round and the girl looks at me accusingly, like I’ve crept up on her. I look at what’s on the counter between the two of them. It’s a copy of Men Today, featuring a woman in an extremely tattered and revealing red dress – almost every woman on these covers wears red – with wrists bound behind her back. A soldier holds her while an officer pulls at the hem of the dress and brandishes a whip. On the cover it advertises a story that may nor may not be related: ‘Nude Virgins for the Devil’. The thing is in a plastic wrapper, and looks like it’s not in great condition.
‘Clearing my grandfather’s house after he passed,’ the girl says defensively. ‘I want to get it valued. He had hundreds.’
‘Wouldn’t you agree,’ the owner says smoothly, ‘that truly dominant men are hard to find these days?’
She’s never seen me before. I’ve never been in here before. But that’s an introducer if I ever heard one.


I wear glasses. I incline my head to look at you, schoolmasterly, sternly, over the top of the lenses. It makes you squirm. You shuffle those big red boots and I can sense your stockinged knees rubbing together.
‘Kneel at my feet,’ I tell you, ‘and I’ll tell you how you can find one.’
You look at me quizzically. Big round eyes, lots of eyeliner. You look back at the owner, whose face is totally impassive, blank. And you kneel at my feet.
‘Interesting,’ I say. ‘You really want to be tortured the way the adventure mags depict it?’
‘Who are you?’ you ask.
I look at the story title on the magazine cover. ‘The Devil, evidently.’
You get it. ‘I’m not exactly a nude virgin…’
‘Perhaps not. But they’re in short supply, so you’ll do.’
‘Perhaps,’ the owner says in the same voice she’d use to offer a cup of coffee, ‘you two would like to use the stockroom upstairs?’
I look down into your big eyes. The pupils have grown wider. You’re breathing more quickly.
I take the belt off my jeans and loop it around your neck. When I tug gently you stands up, puts your hands behind your back submissively. Like you’ve done it before.


The stock room is packed with boxes upon boxes of old magazines, partly covering a worn brown carpet with a sixties pattern and grimy walls that were once cream. The storage rack against the far wall is robust, though.
‘The dress comes off,’ I you. You’re obedient. Stand there for my inspection in a thong, stockings, big boots. Then you’re standing there with only the stockings and boots. You’re not model thin. Carry a bit of spare weight, in fact, on your thighs and hips. Classic pear shape. The net underskirts would have helped to hide that, of course. Shaven to a thin landing strip.
‘You want me to tie you up, beat you and fuck you like you’re being tortured by a devil,’ I say. ‘But in the real world we do these things by consent. You know the meaning of red?’
You look at me blankly. ‘Saying red means game over,’ I explain. For a first-time meet it’s a useful let-out if you can’t handle what I’m doing to you.’
‘I don’t want it,’ you say. ‘Won’t use it.’
I yank on the belt. Pull you towards me. Exert a little power, get your attention. Smell your perfume. Patchouli. Very gothic.
‘You’d better shut up,’ I tell you. ‘You’ll only encourage me.’
You smirk.
I don’t exactly walk around carrying ropes and cuffs, and there’s not a lot in the room designed for bondage and torture purposes. There is, though, packing tape. I take you by that long orange mane, feeling the tremor on her body as I pull your head back. Have you kneel and use the tape to secure your hands, outstretched in front of you, together and to an upright of the storage rack. Stand back to admire my handiwork.
You’re good. Don’t look round at me. Don’t speak. Go into role.
‘If you want me to beat you,’ I say, ‘You’ll have to ask politely.’
That’s seems to disturb you. You shift uncomfortably on your knees. Breathe shallowly and fast.
‘Please beat me, master.’ Quiet, pleading voice.
I use my belt. I’m not gentle. I’m going to leave marks. I like the way your whole body jerks, reacts to the impact like a wave of shock rolling up your body. I like the hiss you make in response, like a provoked snake.
I take my time, leaving ten, twenty seconds between blows so you can compose yourself after each one.
Eventually, instead of hissing, you become more vocal. Your thong and more packing tape aren’t fully effective as a gag but stifle the loudest of your high-pitched yelps and animal grunts. The gag makes you look very damsel-in-distress.
You’re right about refusing to use red. Instead your body goes red: ass, tops of your thighs, and a large part of your upper back display an inflamed rosy hue with streaks of purple.
After a while I change my angle, swinging the belt so that the end of it wraps around your hips. While the earlier blows seemed almost to hypnotize you, the wraparounds make you squirm prettily. Display pain. And breathe more heavily.
‘Uckle en?’
‘You want me to use the buckle end?’
You nod.
I use the buckle end, twice, swinging metal harshly into the flesh of each ass cheek. It triggers something for you. A memory, maybe, that you’d repressed, or need to recreate. Tears on your face. Streaky mascara.
I run my hands over your body, feel the heaviness of your breasts, the heat coming off you. Pinch nipples until you take a breath in and are too shocked to exhale. Run a finger around your clit. It’s receptive. Attention-seeking, even.
I shift a couple of heavy boxes. Put them down in front of you so you can lean your breasts on them, your torso flat. This presents your ass and cunt very prettily and you’re intensely aware of it. Wriggle provocatively. Probably, wriggle to find a comfortable position but I find it provocative.
‘You have to ask, slut,’ I tell you.
You take a deep breath. ‘Please sir, master, Devil, I would really really like you to fuck me right now.’ No, not as clearly as that because the gag is still in your mouth and you have to pronounce each word separately and as clearly as possible. You say it like you’ve been rehearsing the line in your head.
No condoms. I’m not the kind of guy who carries them around in his wallet just in case.
I pull your head up by your long hair and whisper quietly in your ear.
‘I’m going to blindfold you,’ I say, ‘and leave you here waiting for me. I might be two minutes. I might be an hour. I might go and have a coffee before coming back. I haven’t decided yet if I want your cunt or your ass. Maybe both. I expect you to be in this exact position when I return, or I’ll take your styling red boots off you and use my belt on the soles of your feet.’
Your response is along the lines of ‘Mmmnngh!’
As I’m saying this I notice some elastic bands on the floor. Interesting. I double them up until they grip tightly on nipples and around your clit, compressing it until you squeak. The blindfold – well, some old newspaper and more packing tape.
When I go downstairs, intending to explain I need to find a convenience store, the owner is standing behind the counter. She has two condoms out next to the till.
‘Just in case,’ she says conspiratorially. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
She can’t tell me anything about you. You come into the store once every month or so, buy back copies of occult fantasy magazines.
‘So you introduced us to each other despite not knowing either of us and sent us up to your stockroom to play?’
‘Well, two people in one day asking about men’s adventure magazines. It was too much of a coincidence. And this place can be a little crazy-making sometimes. I mean, last week I had a whole porn shoot going on here after hours, and before that, a group of witches wanted to use the roof of the building for a rite.’

It’s maybe twenty minutes before I get back to you. By that time you’re whimpering, drooling, and the makeshift blindfold hasn’t stopped the tears staining your face. Your chest is heaving and you’re struggling to deal with the sensations of the elastic band. For all I know you’re struggling to subdue your raging emotions.
I do exactly what I promised: fuck you hard in the hole of my choice. You’re at a pitch now where you come very quickly, maybe within thirty seconds. I take longer and that’s how I find out you’re capable of multiple orgasms.
Fifteen minutes later you’re lying on the floor, splayed out, trashed, wrecked, shaking.
‘A true dominant,’ I say, ‘would probably make you kneel up and thank him for the experience. Then he’d slap your face hard, turn on his heel and leave you to take off the elastic bands, which in itself will be painful as circulation returns to your nipples, and sort out your clothes.’
You lever yourself into a kneeling position.
‘Thank you for the experience, master,’ you say humbly. And turn your face up to receive the slap.
‘May I,’ you whisper, rubbing your cheek, ‘have a way to contact you?’
‘With the owner downstairs,’ I snap, deliberately sounding annoyed.


Next day you text me pictures of your ass and back, with a message ‘I’m proud of these. Am I a sick pervert lol?’
I did a thorough job, evidently. More bruising came out overnight.
‘Yes,’ I text back. ‘Just let me know when I can do it again.’
Ten minutes later my cellphone bleeps. There’s a pic, something that looks like a screen capture from a retro fetish movie. A naked woman hanging by her wrists, legs wide apart, feet several inches off the floor. Probably caught mid-scream except a ballgag plugs her mouth and distends her jaw. Next to her is a bare-chested man in a torturer’s hood, wielding a flogger. There are stripes on her breasts, stomach and the fronts of her thighs. The message is: ‘Can u do this to me? Make me ur dungeon slave!! Am free whole weekend Friday to Sunday!!’
It’s going to be an entertaining weekend.


Footnote: classic pulp covers can be seen on the Men’s Pulp Mags blog, Fantasy Ink (which covers the SF/fantasy end of pulp), Killer Covers of the Week (for murder/detective pulp, mostly novel covers), Pulp International (check out the vintage Japanese porn covers), Stagmags, which is the source of the image used above and a seller of classic pulp on Ebay, and last but by no means least, Comic Book Bondage Cover of the Day which has a massive archive.

Or if you want to read something that’s a bit like pulp but not quite, and does have extensive scenes of bondage, torture, whipping and other diverse bdsm activities, you could have a look at The Secret Circus of Pain and Degradation, which is also now available on Kindle.

Have fun!

Burnout – free erotic story from Fulani

Firstly, if it’s a relevant consideration for you, we hope you’ve had or are having a happy Beltane or Bealtain (spelling according to choice).

The story below isn’t a Beltane story, and it’s somewhat experimental. You can decide for yourself whether it’s a true story or not. I will just say some of the practices described are inadvisable due to the chemical residues involved. And if you find it too strange – well, there are others on this blog and another one will be along in a few days…


Burned-out carI’m bored with erotic, the cock and cunt and bondage and thwap of the flogger of it. I’m jaded. What I need is some startling image that comes from nowhere and burns itself into my brain, my desires, causes instant addiction. What I need is a new mythos of erotica. Or a new psychopathology. Or something.
Everyday life is always capable of offering the unexpected, though. Out in the local woods on an afternoon stroll – we’d just released the mice we’d caught from the humane trap in the garden – we find a burned-out estate car. It’s still warm, the paint blistered and scorched, tyres burned off, seats and dash reduced to charred fragments. There’s a smell of scorched rubber and diesel hanging in the air.

I like the abandonment, the dereliction, the suddenly frail finality of the vehicle’s state. I like the way the flames have tinged what’s left of the shell, the seared basecoat of paint, a mottled pink that looks surprisingly fleshlike. I like the fact it’s evidence of a crime. Its form has twisted, halfway between the curves of a limb and the evidence of torture. But it’s that smell more than anything that pushes me over the edge, makes me take you by surprise, grasping the back of your neck and pushing your head inside the gaping hole of the rear door.

“Hey! What…!”

Burned-out carYou struggle in my hands, but playfully. You have no serious intent of escaping my grip.

“Just see,” I say, “whether there’s a body in there. Sometimes, you know, they torch up and all that’s left is fried bones.”

“Ewww…” But I’m reaching in over the top of you, pinning you down, and the baked electrical wiring on the rear door pulls away in my hands yet still has enough strength in it to slip over your wrists. I tie them to the metal frames of the rear seat, leaving you bent at the waist. I pull your jeans off. T-shirt and bra – well, I have a penknife in my pocket, always. Don’t often get to use it. First time for months.

The cool blade grazes your skin. Makes you squirm. Then you feel the flat of the blade against your labia and freeze like a mouse in the undergrowth seeking camouflage from some predator.

Your hips are swaying, a complex harmonic that means: “Someone might see us”, “We should stop”, and “I want it now”.

I stand back, admiring my handiwork. My moment of reflection, my making you wait, perturbs you. You twist, trying to see what I’m doing.

I gather up ashes from the ground, rub them into your thighs and ass, reach around to mark your breasts and face. I want you grimy, stinking of fire and diesel. I want you to become a part of the car, indistinguishable from it, grey and black streaks on your pretty skin.

That looks much better.

Burned-out carI climb in through a buckled driver’s door. Kneel on the blackened frames of the two front seats, pull my cock out. Instinctively you lean forward, lips apart, anticipating my intention is that you suck. You can’t get close enough. Instead I breathe the surreal sweetness of incinerated leather and pleasure myself, stroking, one finger pressed into the base of my cock against the vein there to force its engorgement.

You’re making little “Ah… ah…” noises as if they’ll encourage me to lean forwards and let you taste. A look in your eyes somewhere between a question and a request.

But what I do is this. I spurt on your face. Sticky semen plastered across your cheek, eyelid, forehead.

The mix of ash and semen on you. The shock on your face. It’s an almost spiritual, transcendental, iconic image.

I have to give myself several minutes to recover. You pull against the wire on your wrists, to see if you can release yourself. You only succeed in making angry red lines there. But that’s another fantasy, for later.

By the rear wheel there’s a silver puddle, probably an alloy wheel trims that’s melted. It’s paddle-shaped, heavy. As I turn it over I see glass nodules in it, the safety glass they use in vehicles that shatters into rounded pieces. I heft it in my hand.

When I hit your ass with it, you squeak incoherently. Protesting, yet liking it, yet wanting to not scream, to attract attention.

The small pieces of glass make angry bitemarks on your reddening ass cheeks. And since you enjoy being hit with hard implements, you’re soon squirming and hot. In fact, the repeated impacts can in themselves bring you to climax. And when you climax, you…


I give you my leather jacket to wear on the walk home. I like the way it looks on you, delinquent biker grrl style, unzipped and with nothing underneath. I like the fact you still have a smudged and spunk-plastered face.

“Don’t,” you say, “ever do that to me again.”

But a couple of days later you mention, in the casual tone you have that tells me you’re excited and really want me to pay attention, there’s a wrecked sports car that’s been burned out at the back of the industrial estate. You “just happened” to notice it, driving back from work.

Other offbeat stories? A couple. Try Scaplelfuck, from July last year, on my Fulanismut blog. If you want more fully-fledged auto-sex, there’s always JG Ballard’s book, Crash, and the David Cronenberg film of the same name, based on it… For stuff that’s maybe a little more conventional, there’s a ‘Stories Available Now’ button at the top of this page that shows you other published short stories.

Now why do I feel the need to go out for a walk with a can of paraffin…?

Rhavaniel – new free erotic fiction from Fulani

Has it really been a week since the last post? Oh well. The next novel is coming on nicely, thank you, though the story that follows is nothing to do with it. Whether this eventually becomes the basis for a longer piece, sometime in the future… anything’s possible.


Writing a novel requires imagination and dedication.

It also requires time, freedom from interruptions, the ability to dive into a character and a situation.

Livia’s solution was a cottage, rented for the summer. A mile up a dirt track road, five miles from the nearest small town. It had its own generator for electricity, water from a spring, but no telephone and no cellphone coverage or WiFi.

It was perfect.

The first chapters ripened. The plot thickened, throwing out new strands. Characters developed. Outside, cloudless skies meant hot days. Inside, there was no air conditioning. Livia wore a loose, flowing dress. But with no one around, and the heavy air making even a dress uncomfortable, she found herself almost unconsciously wearing nothing more than panties. And then, after a few days, nothing at all.

Her central character was Rhavaniel, a name meaning ‘The Wild One’. She was half-elven and half-human, the offspring of a human male pleasure slave kept by an elven warrior princess, for that reason disowned by her mother and sent to live in the human world. In rediscovering her ancestry she entered into the elf world, where dangers awaited.

Livia followed the well-known rules of writing set down by Kurt Vonnegut, among them the injunction to be sadistic to her characters. This, she followed diligently. Rhavaniel, navigating a world she did not fully understand, was quickly captured by brigands and sold into slavery.

Livia began to imagine the ill-treatment one might receive as a halfbreed female slave among elven lowlife. There would be casual brutality and severe punishments, probably of a sexual variety. There would be frequent, rough couplings with any man who wanted her. Probably, with her heritage, many would be curious to fuck her. They’d be ruthless in their use of force and application of discipline, uncompromising in their demands. They’d humiliate her for their amusement. Loan her out to acquaintances.

The chapters moved on, but Livia found herself wondering more and more about Rhavaniel. About how she’d learn from her situation. Learn to please men. Learn to accept pain as a constant in her life. Would she resist, or find a way to manipulate the situation to her advantage?

Hot, sticky nights afforded little sleep. Naked and without covers on her bed, Livia rediscovered pleasure at the end of her own fingers. Tossed and turned in the darkness, with no need to suppress her moans for the sake of neighbours.

Heading for the nearest town next day Livia drove three-quarters of the way there before chancing to look down and see she’d forgotten to wear any clothing. Drove right the way through town anyway, identifying places she wanted to go. Next day, in a more rational frame of mind, she visited the mom-and-pop hardware store, the filling station, the tiny supermarket, the delicatessen. Found the only coffee shop in town and soaked up the sounds of human conversation. Found it difficult to communicate with people and only later realised she’d begun to use the grammar and vocabulary of elven speech. In town they probably put it down to her eccentric city ways.

Back at the cottage, Livia stripped off. She donned the thick leather dog collar she’d bought at the hardware store, the kind intended for a guard dog of about the same weight as her. She attached it to a long chain, the other end of which she padlocked to a piece of ironwork outside the front door. Ate her dinner on hands and knees from a dog bowl. Sat watching the gathering darkness. Finally, she found satisfaction in masturbating, lying splayed out on the warm earth.

Livia slept in the collar, found it comfortable and strangely comforting. Next day the writing seemed to go quickly. When she flagged, she tried another tactic: sitting at her desk, she applied clothespegs to her nipples, breasts, the inside of her thighs. Then, finally, to the lips of her labia. She became astonishingly aware of every movement of her hands on the laptop’s keyboard, yet astonishingly unaware of what she was actually typing. Until later, when reading it back caused her to seek out something to relieve the need in her. Scrabbled though her meagre belongings, dismissed the deodorant, finally settled on an outsize carrot from the kitchen. It was cool inside her, but it did what she wanted it to.

She slept that night spreadeagled on the bed, the chain from her collar fixed to the iron bedstead, a scarf wrapped around her eyes. Rhavaniel would find the bed luxurious, she surmised, and to be placed on a bed at all – rather than sleeping in a cage, or simply chained to a wall, would imply some man could be expected soon.

She relished to sensation of being chained and blindfolded. She’d left the front door unlocked. Anything could happen.

Nothing did. But that could be fixed.

The chapters moved quickly now, but seemed much more focused on Rhavaniel’s experiences at the hands of her captors, and then the underground slave market, the unscrupulous merchant who bought her as a decorative feature for his shop, the aristrocrat who claimed her as a prize when his forces stormed the city – after, of course, the soldiers had used her extensively. She spent almost all her time naked, except perhaps for high heels, and in cuffs and chains – or alternatively, tied to some framework designed to expose her breasts, buttocks and pussy for either flogging or fucking.

A gag was, Livia discovered, a path to an inner core of submission. She improvised one from a thin belt, a length of material wrapped around it to force her mouth open. After an hour or so it made her drool, but that in itself added to her sense of helplessness.

The next time she visited town, Livia remembered to wear a dress. She’d paid attention to the conversations she’d had, and the ones she’d overheard, on the last occasion. And she was grateful that many people had very free in their discussion of one particular young man. ‘Happy to sleep with any of the girls in town, but he won’t settle with any of them. Says they’re too narrow minded. And you should hear the stories about the things he likes doing in bed…’ This from the two middle-aged guys who worked in the garage-cum-filling station.

Her destination was the delicatessen, which doubled up as a sandwich bar and impromptu art gallery. The name she’d heard was the same one she’d seen on the paintings.

She looked again at the paintings. They were mainly of women, and displayed a sensual, almost harshly sexual, gaze. The models were in clearly provocative poses. They were the kinds of pictures that Livia thought might have been cleaned up for public consumption. The artist probably had the originals, and they probably showed the women in an altogether more naked state.

Livia bought a sandwich, asked about the artist and was unsurprised to find he was the young man she was talking to. Handing the bills over, she passed him a folded piece of paper at the same time. And walked out of the door without a second glance, feeling excited and nervous at the same time.
Back at the cottage, she removed the dress – and found to her consternation she’d been wearing the collar all this time.

Oh well. It had certainly underlined the point of the note.

She ate from the dog bowl again, naked on the porch. Imagined herself splayed out against its ironwork, chained to it. And, when it was dark, went to the bedroom, leaving the front door open. Collar locked to chain, chain to the bedstead. She wore the gag, the blindfold. And waited.

The sex was everything she expected. Rough, ruthless, uncompromising. Marks on her buttocks from the application of discipline. He’d removed the gag for the insertion of cock in mouth, but left the blindfold on the whole time. She’d been humiliated, but the experience had pumped adrenaline through her system, created a craving she knew she’d have to feed again. Soon.

He wasn’t there in the morning. But on her desk was a page torn from a notebook, a pen-and-ink sketch of her that captured her in her sexual bondage. The title above the sketch was the same name she’d put on the note.