Something new, something old: End of Season

I was going to do an intelligent blog about writing projects. I have a few under way, including an erotic epic poem, a piece based on found text – pieces of paper found as rubbish in the street – and half a dozen others. They’ve been under way for some time, though, and I’m not sure when or if they’ll see publication. Sometimes as a writer, or indeed any other type of creative, you start something with no idea where it will lead or whether you’ll be able to bring it to a successful conclusion.
However I’m not feeling very intelligent today, so instead here’s a reworked segment of something I wrote last year that I never found a home for. If you like it I could post more…

 

End of Season

The east coast of England is a patchwork of caravan and chalet sites, like so many refugee camps butted up against each other. They were popular fifty years ago, before cheap air travel took holiday-makers away to the Mediterranean. Then they became ghettoes for those who couldn’t or wouldn’t travel abroad for their summer vacation. With the recession, they’re popular again.

It’s the end of the season, the holidaymakers have left and the family that owns the site is in Spain for a month. Ghislaine and Danny have the whole site to themselves. They’re cleaning, doing maintenance, mothballing the site for the off-season. But also, importantly, they have the whole site to themselves.

Ghislaine works her way around the site, cleaning the units for the last time this season. It’s fast work because there’s no need to ready the units for more occupants. Outside, as she moves from unit to unit, there’s a cool sea breeze but repetitive physical movements keep her warm enough, in her stripped-down choice of short shorts and skinny T-shirt.

She’s pretty sure Danny will be at the clubhouse when she’s finished. She’s pretty sure what he’ll have in mind. That thought, as well as her work, keeps her warm. Keeps her warm in special places. In fact, it’s that more than anything that gives her a glow of perspiration. Of anticipation.

Ghislaine also knows it will end soon. In less than a week she’ll be out of here. Danny will be part of her sexual history, she’ll be part of his. That’s just how it goes.

When they started this project of realising each other’s fantasies, she thought she’d be able to predict Danny’s preferences. The point of fantasies is of course that they’re deeply seated, transgressive, and not always in the best taste. That said, she suspected his fantasies were more conventional than her own. Fuck in every part of the site, the chilren’s play area, the pool table in the clubhouse, the middle of the big central lawn. A lot of blowjobs. Her acting out the part of a drunk teenager, a slutty barmaid, a burglar or a street hooker waiting to be picked up.

He did have those fantasies. They did act them out. But maybe she’d just thought her own fantasies were deeper, or more creative, simply because she’d had more life experience than Danny, had more education and was somehow more sophisticated. Whatever she’d thought, it’s wrong.

When Ghislaine finally walks back into the clubhouse, the tables are cleared away – except for one that is evidently for a teacher, and a smaller one for a pupil. She doesn’t have much in her wardrobe that’s schoolmistressy, but she can improvise. Hair up (it normally fell to the middle of her back), some lipstick, heels that gave her a catwalk prance, and she’s completely in character.

What she doesn’t expect is that Danny’s wearing a short pleated skirt, while his shirt bulges to accommodate a bra stuffed with old tights. His normally shaven scalp is hidden by a cheap blonde wig, the kind they sell in the tourist shops in town.

And on the teacher’s desk: a cane, a dildo and a bottle of lube.

There’s a small blackboard balanced on a chair – the one they use to write daily lists of site activities. On it, Danny – or Dani – has written: Tha teecher punised Dani wiv sicks stroks of a kane and then fuked her in the ars wiv a dilldo.

What had surprised her when he finally admitted it was that his deepest, most intense fantasy was being taught how to spell. Because, he said, he’d never exactly paid attention to reading and writing in school. He’d been too busy doing speed and stealing cars.

He genuinely can’t spell properly, and it takes many more than six strokes of the ‘kane’ to make him learn. Ghislaine creates a spelling test that includes the words blowjob, bondage, climax, dildo, erection, kneel, lick, orgasm, penis, punish, slippery, spank, spurt, strict, suck, teacher, thigh, tight, wet, write.

Dani doesn’t need to pretend she can’t remember the spellings, because she genuinely can’t. It’s as difficult for Dani as it would be for Ghislaine, for example, to remember the whole of the Standard Model of particle physics. It takes a while for Dani to pass the test – on the sixth attempt, she achieves fifteen of the twenty. By this time Dani’s ass is striped the same livid red and pretty pink as the sticks of rock they sell in the site’s convenience store.

After that, there’s a dictation test: ‘Dani has to wear the dildo and write down what teacher says. When Dani passes the test she can kneel between the teacher’s open thighs and lick her out.’  Dani wriggles uncomfortably with the dildo in his ass. The wriggling looks oddly girly and cute. But, surprisingly, she remembers the spellings. Ghislaine lets Dani lick until the teacher has an orgasm.

Only then does Ghislaine consent to Dani coming, the disciplinary aspect of this being that Dani has to achieve this by masturbating to a climax in front of her, with occasional encouragement from the cane.

Dani’s kneeling on the floor and she’s behind him, using the cane lightly on the back of his legs. Somehow, though, his spunk still manages to hit her face.

There are some unused words on the list. Bondage being a key one. Ghislaine tells Dani to go and find some rope, and be quick about it. There’s going to be an extra lesson.

 

Writing Voodoo Fetish

Voodoo Fetish cover picture You may have noticed the second novella in my Voodoo Trilogy was published last week. Since it draws, at least a little, on voodoo (or vodou, or voudun) practices I thought it would be worthwhile giving you some background.

Not being a practitioner myself, I drew on a bunch of sources – books and interweb stuff I’ll mention later.

The first thing they told me was that voodoo is a religion that probably started sometime in the mid-1600s but became more developed in Caribbean slave populations in the 1700s, based partly on Christian (mainly Catholic) beliefs and partly on older West African religions, generically labelled as vodun or voudun.

The second thing they pointed out was that there are several more or less distinct branches of voodoo, with both Haitian and Louisiana (or New Orleans) versions, plus santeria (in Cuba, and based largely on Yoruba rather than Fon and Ewe religious beliefs) and candomblé (Afro-Brazilian).

And the third thing was that the voodoo diaspora has spread worldwide as its adherents have migrated out of the Caribbean. So there are populations of believers in the US (particularly New York), Montreal, London and probably almost any other ‘world city’ you can name. Plus there are believers in West Africa where the original Fon, Ewe, Yoruba and other religions also still exist.

As it’s spread, of course, it’s become more varied. It started as a syncretic religion, putting together elements of other traditions. And it remains such, since it’s been taken up by a number of people who don’t (as far as I know) have roots or heritage in Haiti or New Orleans. So it’s still evolving, and that’s a feature I confess I’ve used to excuse a certain latitude in the way I’ve dealt with voodoo in the novella.

If you want to know more than Wikipedia will tell you, you should find (or at least I did) some books in your local library. Probably around shelfmark 299.67, which is where they are in my local library (you’ll find that shelfmark referenced in the novella).

I’d also recommend, from among a range of things I’ve read, Voodoo: Truth and Fantasy by Laennec Hurbon. You’ll probably only find it sporadically in Amazon’s ‘used’ lists, but the author’s written other similar books that I imagine are equally good. You’ll find this book name-checked in the novella too.

I can’t even begin to list the websites I looked at. A Tumblr blog, effyeahvodou.tumblr.com is a mine of information. Haunted America Tours is a page primarily for tourists to New Orleans and thus based on Louisiana voodoo, but contains a wealth of information and links. And in the UK, there’s a musician who’s also a voodoo practitioner whose blog is at www.doktorsnake.com. If you’re interested in visuals, the majority of stuff you’ll find on the internet is not of any serious interest. Some of it is Christian preaching against voodoo; some is deliberately sensationalist, and some is perhaps intended more for the low-end horror film market. However there’s one interesting documentary on Youtube that’s more anthropological in nature – Maya Deren’s 1945 ‘Divine Horsemen’ film of actual voodoo rituals, with a very open-minded take (it’s probably duplicated elsewhere on Youtube as well).

And so to the novella. Following on from part 1, ‘Ridden’ (also on Amazon.co.uk), our heroine Eloise finds herself back in London teaching English as a second language. Despite her change of location and culture, the lwa have a job for her. They don’t know the ultimate significance of it (which will have to wait for the third part of the trilogy) but they know it’s important. She’s nudged – in fact, thrown bodily – in the direction of doing their bidding. Eloise has certain supernatural powers that aren’t particularly flashy and spectacular in themselves, but only come into play in the course of sex that involves bondage and more. Hence she has to create the situations in which sex with very strong bdsm and fetish elements can take place. Which she does.

I’ve borrowed syncretically (i.e. mashed together) a number of real-life locations for the action, including a cemetery I know, and a magic shop (as in, it sold products for magical workings) that no longer exists but used to be close to where I lived in the days when I lived in London.

I might add that some of the scenes in the book are written from (ahem) personal experience, bearing in mind my connections with pagans who have been involved in sex magic. Not that I, or even they, have demon-battling experience or anything. But as a writer of imaginative erotica I’m entitled to stretch a point…

Find my novella Voodoo Fetish at Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk.

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]

Feedback?

Not much posting going on here recently, but that’s because not much erotica’s been going on. Our creative juices have been flowing in other directions. However, insofar as I’ve found time to write erotica, it’s been experimenting with some slightly different ideas. In particular, trying to move away from the rather tedious trope of dominants being immensely rich and powerful with their own castle or penthouse or whatever with its secret, custom-made dungeon. Also in particular, experimenting with bringing little dollops of social theory into stories in an explicit way, usually to show that the characters have lives outside bdsm, were paying attention in school (some of them anyway), and have some reflective capacity about what they’re doing and why they’re doing it.

So what follows is a short extract from a work in progress. It’s the start of a scene where a young woman who works in a home improvement store gets to see exactly what her favourite customer has been doing with the wood, screws, shackles and hooks he’s been buying. And ultimately how he’s modified the electric saw.

The question is, do you like the way it’s written? Does the self-reflective stuff intrude or add to the story? Comments welcomed…

 

***

 

Fulani opens the door, invites me into the hall. Hangs up my coat, puts my bag down in a corner. Inspects me, in my underwear and hold-ups and boots. Apparently he’s impressed I came stripped for action. Semi-stripped for action. Spins a finger to tell me I should give him a 360 degree twirl.

‘Very good,’ he says.

The side table has stuff on it. Stuff that’s been put there for me, I guess. Leather cuffs, wrists and ankles. Same with the collar. And this is the business, fits on with little padlocks. I won’t be getting out of these until he decides to let me go.

‘Only thing is, for the kind of party this is, you’re a little overdressed…’ The fucker has scissors there. Cuts off my best bra and sparkly G-string. That, right there, is him marking ownership. Your property is of no consequence and I am entitled to destroy it. Your skin is mine to display naked as I see fit. Symbolic, you see. Yeah, I did sociology at school. Symbolic interactionism and stuff.

‘I’m at work tomorrow,’ I remind him.

‘I’ll make sure you get a couple of hours sleep.’

‘It’s okay. I’ve gone into work before now on no sleep at all after being out clubbing.’

He just gives me a lopsided smile and sticks a leash on the collar. Makes me kneel down. I figure what’s coming. Open my mouth ready for it. I knew I’d end up sucking cock. Hey, I enjoy it. But I did think it’d be longer than thirty seconds before I had one in my mouth.

Not that it’s a problem. Not a problem at all. It’s just a mindfuck, a reversal of the usual drink-talk-kiss-pet-fuck scenario. Another bit of symbolic interaction, a prove-you’re-really-submissive challenge. So, on my knees, mouth open, I prove it.

After I’ve proved it, I make my entry to my first fetish party. Nude, hands cuffed behind my back, on the end of a leash, drying spunk on my chin and tits, feeling like a human sacrifice about to be thrown into a pit of wild animals.

Did they throw human sacrifices to wild animals? I don’t know, but that’s the thought in my head.

-F

The Museum of Deviant Desires – extract

Just posted over on the Fulanismut Tumblr blog – 4 minutes of Fulani reading the opening segment of his story ‘The Museum of Deviant Desires’, from the story collection of the same name. The collection is available from Amazon.com and a bunch of other places (listed on the ‘Our Published Work’ page, link at the top of this blog).

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.

Adult Ebook Shop now stocks ‘Secret Circus’ and ‘Hanging Around’

Just had an email from Adult Ebook Shop, a UK based site, announcing they now have agreements with both Pink Flamingo and Renaissance to stock my books.

The link for both titles is  www.adultebookshop.com/Fulani-all-titles.php.

This will make it easier for peeps in the UK to order and pay in sterling rather than dollars.

They also have a bio of me (admittedly patched together from back cover blurbs) at www.adultebookshop.com/Fulani-biography.php.

In other news – not been posting much here the last few days because both of us have been writing a lot and working on some other things that will hopefully see light of day (or light of electrons on computer screens!) quite soon. And no, I’m not dropping any hints. Just wait.