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

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.

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. 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 Amazon.com Kindle.

Have fun!