Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Sunday, 18 August 2013
Prevalence, origins and habits of post-decease animates ('vampires')
'Discovered' document sheds light on government involvement in managing the vampire population.
Weird enough stuff that it could be the basis of a story. Given the mention of sexuality and sado-masochism it could be an erotic story. Like this one (also on Amazon.co.uk).
Wednesday, 10 October 2012
The Museum of Deviant Desires: special offer
For one week, i.e. until Weds 17 October, my story collection The Museum of Deviant Desires is available at the lower price of $0.99 in the US (plus any applicable local taxes etc. which may put the price up a little) or £0.77 in the UK. Buy it from Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk before we remember to put the price up again!
What you'll be buying is a novella-length collection of 11 short stories ranging across men’s adventure magazines with their sleazy sexploitation and politically incorrect pictures of tortured women; sex and bondage in an abandoned building and a burned-out car wreck; sex, photography, and the internet, the technosexuality of vacuum cleaners, and what characters in bdsm stories think about the painful pleasures the author inflicts on them. The title story explores the late-night weirdness of sex, perversion, and fetish at a music festival.
The review on Amazon.com describes it as: "sexy and cerebral; breezy, thought-provoking, laugh-out-loud funny and utterly addictive … establishes fascinating new paradigms for the next generation of erotic fiction … a trenchant critique of contemporary erotic literature with its finger firmly on the g-spot of popular culture; a tasty treat, not to be missed."
It's published by 1001 Nights Press, which has been busy building a reputation for publishing mostly shorter collections and stories in various niches of erotica.
Monday, 25 June 2012
Transference
There was a condom, incidentally, just like the story describes. It's just out of this shot near the toe of the topmost shoe.
See what you think. Do you like it? Do you want more?
***
They won’t let you smoke on the steps of
the courthouse. You have to go to the back of the building, where there’s a
little grass area. If you want to smoke a last spliff before your case so you
don’t get caught with weed on you, you go a bit further, down an alley next to
where the prison vans come and go.
So that’s where I go. Rest my butt on a low
red-brick wall, kick off my ballet pumps and spark up.
I get about a minute with my own dark
thoughts before a guy turns up. I know instantly what the score is. He’s
wearing a suit and tie, which means he’s a defendant.
“Which court are you in?” I make it sound
like I’m in the same position. Because I am.
“Court three.” He swallows, looks
uncomfortable. “Pleading not guilty, though.” Pulls a pack of ciggies out of
his pocket, offers one to me.
“I’ll have one for later, but you can try
this if you want.” I hold out the spliff. “It’s resin, so it doesn’t smell as
much.” He takes a drag, passes it back.
“They got the wrong guy, then, like they
always do?” But I’m smiling, mocking just a little but open to being told I’m
wrong.
“Yeah. Came out of a club, there was this
big ugly guy laying into some dude half his size because he’d looked at the
guy’s girlfriend. I thought it was out of order, because the club bouncers were
just looking the other way. So I just tried to stop him, got knocked out and
then the cops arrested me instead of him.”
Well, what do I know? Could have happened
that way.
“Yeah, I’m pleading not guilty too. But I
think they got too much evidence.”
Well, I did trash my boyfriend’s car.
Smashed every window, slit every tyre, and it wasn’t enough and it felt good so
I did the cars parked next to it as well. Taking speed probably didn’t help.
He deserved it, though. I went to his place
and he was there fucking this bitch who’d been hanging around with his mates.
And his excuse was “She likes anal and you don’t.”
That last bit I didn’t mention, though,
talking with him.
He looks me up and down. Hoop earrings, red
jacket, over a tight white T-shirt top, black power skirt – the kind that’s a
wide elastic bandage, you can wear it with the top at the waist to the hem is
just above the knee, like I will in court, or with the top just under the bust
so the hem is miniskirt length like I’m doing now.
“Well, you look cute,” he says. “And if you
were my girlfriend I wouldn’t be cheating on you.” That’s his idea of a
compliment, I guess, because he doesn’t know me.
“Yeah, well. I doubt you’ll get the chance
to cheat on me. I reckon if they find me guilty this time they’ll give me
custodial.”
That makes him pay attention.
“I’ve got a history.” That’s all the
explanation I’m going to give.
“Does that scare you?”
“Only the bit about not getting any sex.”
“What about all those lesbian prison
movies?”
“Yeah, well. If that’s all can get, that’s
what I’ll have to do.”
He’s got a stump on thinking about it. I
guess he’s got a mental image of watching me with another woman. Or maybe it’s
just me telling it like it is.
But then I think about it. I get off the
wall, plant my ass against it, legs braced wide.
“If that’s all I’ll be able to get, I
should have a memory to keep me warm.”
So right then, right there, bend over,
reach out, unzip him and flick his cock out of that nice-looking suit.
See, that’s me not doing well on impulse
control.
It’s not exactly a strength of mine.
I’m looking into his eyes and he says “You
can’t do that here!”
“Why fucking not? What are they going to
do, send us to jail?”
He laughs. And then he moans, because I’ve
got one hand round his balls and I’m squeezing them gently, with my forefinger
pushing the sweet spot just behind the balls where the pumped-up vein is a hard
bulge. Plus, I’m brilliant at deepthroating. You don’t have to take my word for
it, there’s a dozen guys will back me up on that. And that’s not counting the
ones whose names I can’t remember and the ones I don’t know cos I was
blindfolded at the time…
Taste: insipid and clean, like he’s
recently showered. No nice man-smells. But he’s a handy and mouthy
not-too-small not-too-big size, fits my throat nice and slippery.
Only problem is he’s going to spurt soon.
Condom in my clutch bag. I may not be good at impulse control but I do remember the condom thing. Tiny G-string that
moves aside like it’s just a single thread of cotton. I’m glad I made than
choice this morning, even though I only made it to avoid a panty-line with this
skirt.
And then my skirt’s round my hips, my legs
are wrapped around his hips, I’ve got
my back up against the wall and most of my weight is bearing down on his cock.
Which drives it deep.
“Don’t you dare,” I say breathlessly, “come
quickly and leave me hanging on.” Because I know what’s in his mind. All the worry
about being in court, and then the sudden shock of a random blowjob and fuck
from a complete stranger. I’m not just fucking him, I’m fucking with his head
and that’s going to be on a hair trigger.
I’m wrapped around this guy and looking
right into his eyes. Grey eyes. Big pupils. I see that’s flickering behind
those eyes, see into his brain, see the orgasm switch snap closed in a shower
of sparks, right inside there. Feel the jacked-up pumping of his veins, pressed
right against the inside of me. Feel the smack of his pelvic bone against mine.
Feel him as he comes and it’s almost too early for me but then I’m with him,
mouthing Gah! Gah! Gah! and then the
blast comes up from clit and slit to spine and brain, and I’m already on a
one-way trip to shameless raging fucking ecstasy.
When I’m finally able to see straight,
think straight, and straighten my legs, he lets me down and I have to cling
onto the ground because my legs won’t support my weight.
He pulls off the condom, flicks it into a
corner. Takes the packet of cigarettes out of his pocket again and this time I
accept his offer.
When I look round I hear applause. Couple
of guys there in hoodies and tracksuit bottoms. I don’t know if they’re
defendants, or just hanging out and maybe waiting for a friend.
I’d smile and curtsey but I’d probably fall
over.
“I gotta go. My brief will be waiting for
me.”
“Yeah.” Cough. Spit. That’s the thing about
deepthroating. It encourages your throat to produce a wad of mucous. Then by
the time I was coming, with the moans and all, I was almost gargling it.
Once my leg muscles have stopped trembling,
I stand up, adjust my G-string, pull the skirt down to above-the-knee
respectability. It’s dirty from the wall. Can’t be helped.
I finish the ciggie and go off to meet my destiny.
The guys who were watching me snigger, because I still can’t walk straight.
It’s only later I realise I forgot my shoes
and I’ve lost an earring.
Here’s the strangeness. I get a not guilty.
Maybe it’s the fact I look like shit, only one earring, and sound dippy and ADHD. Maybe it’s
because the figure on the CCTV, wearing camo and a balaclava, smacking the cars
with a hammer, doesn’t look or move like me. The girl I see on the video was
wired on speed. Even I have to look twice, and I remember doing that stuff.
And the guy I fucked – I ask around when I
leave, because frankly I’m so weirded out I could go another quick and hard
round with him. But he got a guilty and a custodial.
I don’t get to play with the lesbians and
he gets to be some tough dude’s bitch.
Makes me think. I have all the what ifs going round in my head. What if
the sex transferred the guilt from me to him, the innocence from him to me?
What if I stole his innocence from him? Or contaminated him with my fucked-up head-shit?
His name’s on the court hearing list. I
write it down. If I can keep the paper for more than a day or two I might mail
him. Might even visit him in jail. I’ll light a candle for him, anyway.
In the meantime, I’m single and very fucking available. I adjust the power-skirt up to miniskirt length and I’m going shoeless in search of a victory lay.
Wednesday, 6 June 2012
A reputation to maintain
This is a taster. Something like it, but longer, more elaborate and explicit, will probably appear sometime in the next few months.
***
We’re in the motel, this nameless fucking
anonymous place that could be anywhere. And I’m in bed with a girl, a girl whose
name I don’t even know, just like I am every night.
It’s not like I have Alzheimer’s. Just that
it’s a different one each night because that’s how it happens when you’re in a
band, there’s this revolving whirlwind of groupies. And it’s not because she’s
truly anonymous, but I don’t know her real name; just her groupie nickname. And
we weren’t technically in bed, but out on the room’s balcony.
But my, and hopefully our, enjoyment of
perversity is interrupted by shouting and sounds of destruction from the next
room. Raised voices. Tez is having a good time. Or maybe not. It just doesn’t
sound the same as the kind of destruction that takes place when he’s having a
good time.
I leave my girl handcuffed to the balcony
railing and put on a dressing gown to investigate what’s happening with Tez.
I don’t even need to bang on his door
because the girl he’s with comes flying out, wailing, wide-eyed and manic, not
wearing too many clothes. She disappears into my room, seeking – well, I don’t
know. Sanctuary?
What I see as I walk into the room is a
naked Tez. Tez, the vocalist, the front man, small in stature but fucking huge
on stage, taking up all of it with his ego. And now he’s about the size of a
pinhead, foetal position, naked, crying. He won’t look at me until I grab him
by the hair and force his head up, the stage makeup melding his face into
something roughly like the Munch painting, The Scream. And as empty.
It takes two fat spliffs and most of a
bottle of liqueur before I can get any sense out of him.
‘You know how we rate the groupies?’ he
sobs. ‘We give them one to five stars, take an average if we’ve all fucked
them, make notes on what they’re prepared to do?’
Yes, of course. We used to keep the details
in a notebook, but these days I have the database on my laptop. It’s a big
file, with pics and everything.
‘It’s horrible,’ Tez moans. ‘Just
horrible.’
‘What is?’
‘You know the groupies are doing the same thing? Except they're posting details of our performance online?’ His quivering finger points to an iPad on the bed.
I didn’t know, but it doesn’t surprise me.
The internet is a great equaliser in such matters. And I read:
Tez. Selfish egomaniac. Lazy. Four-inch
dick. Likes you to go down on him but he’s not even a mouthful. Difficult to
make him cum, probably because of his drug habits. You best bet is to
sixty-nine him and piss in his face while his cock is in your mouth. He won’t
bring you off; more likely to expect you to bring yourself off while he
watches. Rating 1/5.
Oh yeah – I’m on there too.
Quiet onstage.
Kinky as fuck offstage. Always has handcuffs, rope, whips. Likes to take
control, and whatever he does to you, you’ll get pain and pleasure and not know
which you prefer. He’ll treat you like trash and make you love it. Likes
threesomes. Rating 4.5/5.
‘I’ll sue them! Take their website down!’
He’s raving, in a self-pitying way.
‘That’ll work.' I'm being ironic. 'How many of them have taken
pics of you on their cellphones? How many of those pics do you want on the web?’
And then, darkly: ‘If they’re not on the web already.’ And then, frowning: ‘I
thought I knew you pretty well. How come you never mentioned the pissing thing?’
‘It’s not, like, every time.’
‘Yeah.’ Wearily. ‘Just, like, nine times
out of ten? We’ll talk more in the morning.’
Because I’ve got, apparently, two groupies
in my room now. And I reckon they’re both worth at least four out of five.
Afterwards I ask them what rating they’re
going to give me on the website. Evidently I’ve got a reputation to maintain.
***
Yup, there really are groupie websites that discuss the aftershow performances of rock stars and the like (and, apparently, basketball players and others as well). One easy-to-find site is groupiedirt.com.
I'm not sure if there's as much groupiedom around these days as there was two or three decades ago, but it's a good basis for a story. Especially given the true stories from that period, and the way groupies were treated. Def Leppard, famously, gave groupies backstage passes labelled 'Dik Likker' (though some sources say these were also for backstage staff). These days you can buy them on Ebay as rock memorabilia for around $25.
Oh yeah - and if you look at groupiedirt, you'll see that some rock stars have signed on there and actually reply to their groupie comments - often defending their poor performance after the gig!
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
Erotica's coming of age
Recently a friend of mine, Sharazade, was involved in a radio programme on copyright theft (which is prevalent in the erotica field but that's not what this blog is about). At the beginning of the programme the interviewer asked her what her books were about. Sex, she said; but she started thinking about it later, and of course even erotica isn’t purely about sex. As Sharazade says in her blog,
In other words, erotica often addresses themes that can be found in a lot of other fiction, from history to fantasy to family sagas and ‘chick lit’. In some cases it addresses themes you might find in other genres too, from crime to horror to westerns. It just does so in a particular way. In fact, it often turns the question around and asks ‘what is sex about?’, or ‘what’s the driving force behind our fantasies?’
Of course these questions won’t be new to many readers of contemporary literature. Anyone who’s read Thomas Pynchon, for example, will remember passages dealing with intense and often rather fetishistic sex, and exploring different dynamics of desire. There are plenty of examples in Gravity’s Rainbow and Against the Day. Then there’s Hubert Selby Jr., with Last Exit to Brooklyn. And if you’re familiar with French literature, much of Alain Robbe-Grillet’s work, such as Project for a Revolution in New York, revolves around extended and hugely detailed sadistic torture fantasies – though the intellectual justification for them is that they push at the boundaries of narrative structure and expose the linguistic tools from which narrative is constructed (often, actually, by deconstructing narrative into small fractured parts with minor variations in repetitions – not that you really needed to know that). And then of course there's the long tail of books prosecuted for obscenity in the past, some well-known (Radcliffe-Hall's The Well of Loneliness, Miller's Tropic of Cancer, Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover, and maybe some surprises there as well - have a look at this list, or the Wikipedia article on obscenity (which is mainly US-based and contains a few interesting observations that aren't particularly relevant here, such as the FBI's interest in online erotica).
But while eroticism has made appearances from time to time in ‘high literature’, it’s also now emerged from the shadowy interior of ‘adult bookshops’ and broken out of plain paper packaging to become a major genre in its own right. Erotica seems to have come of age.
The internet has helped, and so has Kindle. All the evidence is that people are prepared to read stuff electronically that they wouldn’t buy in physical form (Antonia Senior has an article about this in The Guardian). If you look at genre listings on Kindle the three biggest categories are, on the UK Amazon site, romance (about 18% of titles), crime/thrillers/mystery (15%) and erotica (12%). Other categories – fantasy, science fiction, horror and even ‘literary fiction’ have many fewer titles.
This is a rough guide because some books are tagged in more than one genre category, the categories themselves can be arbitrary (‘crime’, ‘thriller’ and ‘mystery’ aren’t always the same thing, but they constitute a single category) and what counts as a ‘title’ can be immensely variable – from a very short story to a thousand-page novel, with many erotica titles being on the shorter end of the spectrum.
It’s difficult to make an assessment based on sales because publishers don’t like releasing sales figures. When they do, erotica tends to be lumped in with ‘romance’, ‘general fiction’ or some other broader category. But all the anecdotal evidence suggests erotica is now one of the major areas of – what shall we call it? Textual consumption? – especially in ebook format.
However, erotica has had a sudden and unexpected boost in its public profile since two erotica titles, EL James’ Fifty Shades of Grey and Fifty Shades Darker, reached numbers 1 and 2 on New York Times fiction bestseller list in March 2012 (these positions were correct as of 25 March 2012; here a BBC News article about the books).
Plus, HarperCollins has decided to launch a new line of ebook erotica under the Mischief imprint, while Eroticon, a recent conference for erotica writers, ended up being reported in the mainstream press – see for example the report in The Independent and The Guardian. (I wasn't there, unfortunately - it was a busy weekend for me in other ways.)
If there’s a lot of it about, and that’s not purely because everyone’s looking for wank material. There is a lot of wank material out there, but there’s also a lot more than that. Erotica speaks to its readers about their lives and their concerns – their fears, uncertainties, doubts, desires, fantasies, fetishes and so on. And it doesn’t do that purely by talking about sex. It uses sex as a way to address all these other issues. It uses sex just like crime fiction uses murder, and science fiction invents alternative universes, to address the same kinds of underlying issues.
My own erotic stories, incidentally. often have underlying themes that revolve around topics as varied as philosophy, social theory, inequality and economics, and art and literature. The very first erotic story I wrote, believe it or not, was an exercise in phenomenology. Erotic Review Magazine liked it and published it (it's no longer on their website but is likely to be republished in another format soon!).
But for now, the key thing is this: erotica is no longer in the shadows it was once forced to hide in. It's out and proud, it's clear that it strikes a huge chord with a lot of the reading public, and the best of it does what any good literature does - address the personal, emotional and social complexities of the world we live in.
Sex is the vehicle, the conveyance, yes; but my stories are about desire, or attachment, or doubt, or adventure, or growth, or any of the many things that other novels and short stories are about. I almost always have a core idea that I wish to explore: Is it wrong to need reassurance of one’s attractiveness? What role do observers play in defining a couple? How does being covered (physically and metaphorically) affect your view of yourself? What circumstances drive us to ask directly for what we want? and so on.
In other words, erotica often addresses themes that can be found in a lot of other fiction, from history to fantasy to family sagas and ‘chick lit’. In some cases it addresses themes you might find in other genres too, from crime to horror to westerns. It just does so in a particular way. In fact, it often turns the question around and asks ‘what is sex about?’, or ‘what’s the driving force behind our fantasies?’
Of course these questions won’t be new to many readers of contemporary literature. Anyone who’s read Thomas Pynchon, for example, will remember passages dealing with intense and often rather fetishistic sex, and exploring different dynamics of desire. There are plenty of examples in Gravity’s Rainbow and Against the Day. Then there’s Hubert Selby Jr., with Last Exit to Brooklyn. And if you’re familiar with French literature, much of Alain Robbe-Grillet’s work, such as Project for a Revolution in New York, revolves around extended and hugely detailed sadistic torture fantasies – though the intellectual justification for them is that they push at the boundaries of narrative structure and expose the linguistic tools from which narrative is constructed (often, actually, by deconstructing narrative into small fractured parts with minor variations in repetitions – not that you really needed to know that). And then of course there's the long tail of books prosecuted for obscenity in the past, some well-known (Radcliffe-Hall's The Well of Loneliness, Miller's Tropic of Cancer, Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover, and maybe some surprises there as well - have a look at this list, or the Wikipedia article on obscenity (which is mainly US-based and contains a few interesting observations that aren't particularly relevant here, such as the FBI's interest in online erotica).
But while eroticism has made appearances from time to time in ‘high literature’, it’s also now emerged from the shadowy interior of ‘adult bookshops’ and broken out of plain paper packaging to become a major genre in its own right. Erotica seems to have come of age.
The internet has helped, and so has Kindle. All the evidence is that people are prepared to read stuff electronically that they wouldn’t buy in physical form (Antonia Senior has an article about this in The Guardian). If you look at genre listings on Kindle the three biggest categories are, on the UK Amazon site, romance (about 18% of titles), crime/thrillers/mystery (15%) and erotica (12%). Other categories – fantasy, science fiction, horror and even ‘literary fiction’ have many fewer titles.
This is a rough guide because some books are tagged in more than one genre category, the categories themselves can be arbitrary (‘crime’, ‘thriller’ and ‘mystery’ aren’t always the same thing, but they constitute a single category) and what counts as a ‘title’ can be immensely variable – from a very short story to a thousand-page novel, with many erotica titles being on the shorter end of the spectrum.
It’s difficult to make an assessment based on sales because publishers don’t like releasing sales figures. When they do, erotica tends to be lumped in with ‘romance’, ‘general fiction’ or some other broader category. But all the anecdotal evidence suggests erotica is now one of the major areas of – what shall we call it? Textual consumption? – especially in ebook format.
However, erotica has had a sudden and unexpected boost in its public profile since two erotica titles, EL James’ Fifty Shades of Grey and Fifty Shades Darker, reached numbers 1 and 2 on New York Times fiction bestseller list in March 2012 (these positions were correct as of 25 March 2012; here a BBC News article about the books).
Plus, HarperCollins has decided to launch a new line of ebook erotica under the Mischief imprint, while Eroticon, a recent conference for erotica writers, ended up being reported in the mainstream press – see for example the report in The Independent and The Guardian. (I wasn't there, unfortunately - it was a busy weekend for me in other ways.)
If there’s a lot of it about, and that’s not purely because everyone’s looking for wank material. There is a lot of wank material out there, but there’s also a lot more than that. Erotica speaks to its readers about their lives and their concerns – their fears, uncertainties, doubts, desires, fantasies, fetishes and so on. And it doesn’t do that purely by talking about sex. It uses sex as a way to address all these other issues. It uses sex just like crime fiction uses murder, and science fiction invents alternative universes, to address the same kinds of underlying issues.
My own erotic stories, incidentally. often have underlying themes that revolve around topics as varied as philosophy, social theory, inequality and economics, and art and literature. The very first erotic story I wrote, believe it or not, was an exercise in phenomenology. Erotic Review Magazine liked it and published it (it's no longer on their website but is likely to be republished in another format soon!).
But for now, the key thing is this: erotica is no longer in the shadows it was once forced to hide in. It's out and proud, it's clear that it strikes a huge chord with a lot of the reading public, and the best of it does what any good literature does - address the personal, emotional and social complexities of the world we live in.
Monday, 30 January 2012
Over on DeliciouslyDeviant...
... there's another short story on the theme of moving house. It's 1100 words, snuck in while trying to complete a couple of longer pieces.
Here's the link to it.
Okay, so it's not perfectly edited but I don't have time at the moment!
There will be, I think, two more on this theme of which the next will be on this blog, but give me a week or so...
Here's the link to it.
Okay, so it's not perfectly edited but I don't have time at the moment!
There will be, I think, two more on this theme of which the next will be on this blog, but give me a week or so...
Tuesday, 19 July 2011
The Museum of Deviant Dreams (Part II)
We're back from a short break. More info and some pics, once the pics are Photoshopped... Meanwhile here's the second part of the story I started earlier. This section follows Dee's experiences when she goes through the second of the two doors, the one Jake didn't take.
***
Dee had slipped through the door marked “Enter at Your Own Risk”. What she found there was startling, certainly, but didn’t seem risky in any sense that she understood the word.
She was on a narrow walkway, fenced in on either side by wire mesh, lit from below by a chain of small lights. In the semi-darkness beyond the mesh, creatures surveyed her with interest. It wasn’t easy to tell what kinds of creatures they were supposed to be. Insectoid, she thought. Some appeared to be mannequins or, from the occasional movement of a head or arm, robots. A few, though, were human. They wore black latex bodysuits and hoods that might have started life as gas masks but now featured mandibles, antennae and strange balloon-like protuberances. And they had phallic members as well, though not all projected from crotches. They grew on chests, arms, in one case out of the top of a head and also from where she’d expect to see eyes. And how many phalluses end in a star, flower or fringe of small tentacles?
Hands and antennae reached through the mesh, stretched towards her. Dee dodged several before thinking it would be cool to give herself the experience. They stroked her gently. Dee giggled and turned, expecting Jake to be on the walkway behind her. Maybe with some insect appendage feeling between his legs.
Nope.
Dammit. He was always doing that. In a shop, she’d spot something she wanted to look at. In a bar, she’d bump into a friend and say hi. He wouldn’t even notice, steam on without looking back and they’d lose each other for a few minutes, maybe even an hour or two. But she was used to him, he was used to her, it was just something different about the ways their brains worked.
She couldn’t even see the door she’d come through now. Just looked like a blank wall, too dark to see details. Decided it didn’t matter anyway. He must’ve gone through the other door, the “Museum” one, but they must end up in the same place because there was only one beat, one track, coming from somewhere up ahead. So there’d just be the one dance floor and she’d see him there anyway.
Meanwhile, insect feelers rubbing against her legs, stomach and ass were disturbing and disturbingly arousing in equal measure.
The human insects kept pace with her as she moved along the walkway, capering on the other side of the mesh and setting up barriers of waving antennae and phallic-looking feelers for her to walk through.
They tickled.
At the end of the walkway there was a door. It opened as Dee reached it and she stepped through, expecting to find herself on a dance floor.
Nope.
She was in a small cage.
That moved.
As it rolled away from the door, one whole side shuttered down so she was completely trapped. She fell to her knees and clung to the bars as it rocked and bucked its way a short distance to a small podium. There was a crowd around her now, watching expectantly. Some were insect-like, some in zentai - head-to-toe spandex bodysuits that made them anonymous, humanoid rather than human. Some, conversely, all-too-human and wearing nothing but mud and streaks of body paint.
Dee would have wondered how this process worked if there were lots of people coming through the door. Did they roll another cage into position? Only use cages for punters coming through on their own?
She would have wondered this, except that many hands reached through the bars, fondling and stroking, with no way for her to avoid them. Dee’s first instinct was to draw back, push them away... But she couldn’t fight them and the switch had already flicked in her brain, back on the walkway. They were invasive, yet their gentle persistence was hypnotic.
Back of her brain, Dee wondered about the insects and zentai figures and mud-people. Was there a connection or was it just random? The insects she could figure, because there was a whole latex fetishist thing where people dressed in insect costumes. You could even see it on Youtube. The zentai thing reduced people to blank-faced anonymous figurines, though she’d tried a suit once and the feel of it against her skin was pretty fucking cool, clinging in all the right places, turning her on. As for the mud-people – she and Jake had been to Prague a while back. Encountered the story of the Golem, the artificial human made from mud. And at a festival, one thing there was plenty of was mud… Did they represent different types of sex? Metaphors for kinds of sexual experience?
The back of her brain didn’t process much after that, because the air was heavy and humid, layered with incense and noise, hot with unspoken and complex desires.
One of the chthonic, mud-covered beings – androgynous, she couldn’t even tell its sex – made her understand in mime, then by tugging at her skirt, that Dee should strip.
It wasn’t like she was enthusiastic. Just playing along with the whole scene, wondering where it led, how far it would go. But the weirdly exotic, almost non-human sexual ambience was compelling. And mud-covered T-shirts and skirts quickly get cold and slimy, while skin can be washed clean so much more easily. Then it wasn’t so much a case of stripping as relaxing into the moment, allowing her clothes to be removed, to dissolve away.
The beat was heavy and insistent. It drove into Dee’s spine, her pelvis, her thighs. It made her hot. It made her squirm.
It dawned on her that not all the figures surrounding the cage were performers. Many, especially the muddied ones, were an audience. And she was the entertainment.
Though by the time she’d figured that, Dee no longer really cared. The music, the smells, the close-packed bodies and her own nakedness in the cage all merged into an intense, dreamlike and yet visceral state. A state similar, in fact, to taking a mild dose of acid. And Dee had stayed away from drugs that night in case the festival’s night city turned out to be too freaky to handle.
Something not dissimilar to a dildo came at her face through the bars of the cage. Well, not dissimilar, and similarly veined, even though the tip was in the form of three stubby bulbs. On a whim she took it into her mouth. After a few seconds she was surprised to feel some pulsing, vibration, in it - and the bulbs filled with air, or fluid, to the point that her jaw was stretched and she couldn’t release it from between her lips. It was, in effect, both a gag and a form of bondage, because Dee had to use her hands to support herself against the cage bars. Which meant she couldn’t prevent other stuff happening, like fingers or tentacles exploring her thighs and labia and pussy.
Whatever warm and greasy organ invaded her sex, Dee didn’t know and was now past caring. All she knew was the slide and slither of it felt good inside her, despite the strangeness of its dimensions.
Insectasex? Dee had the fleeting thought that when they were finished with her she might be eaten. Surely it was the other way round, though, big female spiders eating the smaller male ones, praying mantises eating the males?
Was the organ inside even identifiably male? Or weirdly alien, and fucking accomplished with sexual rites she wouldn’t understand?
Didn’t matter. Felt good. Better than good. Climactic.
Dee closed her eyes and allowed the feelings and weirdness to flow through her body, fire and ice playing through veins and doing the pleasure/pain thing with every nerve she possessed.
The thing in her mouth muffled her screams, seemed almost to block the sensations leaving her, bottled them in, amplified them. Orgasm was sudden, a ravenous feeding on every part of her, all-consuming. And it went on for much longer than she’d thought physically possible. A freaky, trippy climax that was more like a full-body erotic violation.
There was more, but Dee’s senses were overloaded and her perceptions skewed. She couldn’t explain, even to herself, exactly how she’d come to be splayed on top of the cage rather than inside it. How things like tentacles wrapped round her limbs and torso, holding her down. What liquids had been drizzled or spurted onto her body. How many hands had stroked and massaged her. What sexual or insectual or muddy golemic members had been placed in her mouth, vagina or anus. They merged into a single extended moment in time, something that could truthfully be called a clusterfuck. Nest-fuck, hive-fuck, slippery mudfuck? All these and more...
Somewhere in the space between dream and oblivion, Dee felt warm water sluicing her body, a cleansing that she somehow associated with death. Were dead bodies washed ritually before burial? Had someone whispered that into her ear as it was happening?
At any rate, she felt a lightness of being, a sense of not-being-there. Of having been, not just fucked but all the proteins sucked from her body and replaced with strange forms of DNA that made her more than human.
It was, in its own peculiar way, a rebirth. Coming to the surface of life, experiencing it as an ecstasy, a dream, a surreal trance that was more than everyday reality could ever be. A proof that her own desires and instincts, however surreal they might seem, were the structure of her world.
And that feeling stayed with as she walked back to the tent in the early light of a new day, feet barely touching the grass, all her clothes vanished.
Jake was there, snoring into his sleeping bag. She curled up against him, wondering what had happened through the door she hadn’t taken. Feeling, nonetheless, his erection through the sleeping bag, even though he was asleep. Knowing that whatever she’d done, whatever he’d done, whichever doors they’d gone through, their future would be different. Interesting. Driven by fantasy and desire, by and sex way beyond anything she’d previously imagined as human.
***
Dee had slipped through the door marked “Enter at Your Own Risk”. What she found there was startling, certainly, but didn’t seem risky in any sense that she understood the word.
She was on a narrow walkway, fenced in on either side by wire mesh, lit from below by a chain of small lights. In the semi-darkness beyond the mesh, creatures surveyed her with interest. It wasn’t easy to tell what kinds of creatures they were supposed to be. Insectoid, she thought. Some appeared to be mannequins or, from the occasional movement of a head or arm, robots. A few, though, were human. They wore black latex bodysuits and hoods that might have started life as gas masks but now featured mandibles, antennae and strange balloon-like protuberances. And they had phallic members as well, though not all projected from crotches. They grew on chests, arms, in one case out of the top of a head and also from where she’d expect to see eyes. And how many phalluses end in a star, flower or fringe of small tentacles?
Hands and antennae reached through the mesh, stretched towards her. Dee dodged several before thinking it would be cool to give herself the experience. They stroked her gently. Dee giggled and turned, expecting Jake to be on the walkway behind her. Maybe with some insect appendage feeling between his legs.
Nope.
Dammit. He was always doing that. In a shop, she’d spot something she wanted to look at. In a bar, she’d bump into a friend and say hi. He wouldn’t even notice, steam on without looking back and they’d lose each other for a few minutes, maybe even an hour or two. But she was used to him, he was used to her, it was just something different about the ways their brains worked.
She couldn’t even see the door she’d come through now. Just looked like a blank wall, too dark to see details. Decided it didn’t matter anyway. He must’ve gone through the other door, the “Museum” one, but they must end up in the same place because there was only one beat, one track, coming from somewhere up ahead. So there’d just be the one dance floor and she’d see him there anyway.
Meanwhile, insect feelers rubbing against her legs, stomach and ass were disturbing and disturbingly arousing in equal measure.
The human insects kept pace with her as she moved along the walkway, capering on the other side of the mesh and setting up barriers of waving antennae and phallic-looking feelers for her to walk through.
They tickled.
At the end of the walkway there was a door. It opened as Dee reached it and she stepped through, expecting to find herself on a dance floor.
Nope.
She was in a small cage.
That moved.
As it rolled away from the door, one whole side shuttered down so she was completely trapped. She fell to her knees and clung to the bars as it rocked and bucked its way a short distance to a small podium. There was a crowd around her now, watching expectantly. Some were insect-like, some in zentai - head-to-toe spandex bodysuits that made them anonymous, humanoid rather than human. Some, conversely, all-too-human and wearing nothing but mud and streaks of body paint.
Dee would have wondered how this process worked if there were lots of people coming through the door. Did they roll another cage into position? Only use cages for punters coming through on their own?
She would have wondered this, except that many hands reached through the bars, fondling and stroking, with no way for her to avoid them. Dee’s first instinct was to draw back, push them away... But she couldn’t fight them and the switch had already flicked in her brain, back on the walkway. They were invasive, yet their gentle persistence was hypnotic.
Back of her brain, Dee wondered about the insects and zentai figures and mud-people. Was there a connection or was it just random? The insects she could figure, because there was a whole latex fetishist thing where people dressed in insect costumes. You could even see it on Youtube. The zentai thing reduced people to blank-faced anonymous figurines, though she’d tried a suit once and the feel of it against her skin was pretty fucking cool, clinging in all the right places, turning her on. As for the mud-people – she and Jake had been to Prague a while back. Encountered the story of the Golem, the artificial human made from mud. And at a festival, one thing there was plenty of was mud… Did they represent different types of sex? Metaphors for kinds of sexual experience?
The back of her brain didn’t process much after that, because the air was heavy and humid, layered with incense and noise, hot with unspoken and complex desires.
One of the chthonic, mud-covered beings – androgynous, she couldn’t even tell its sex – made her understand in mime, then by tugging at her skirt, that Dee should strip.
It wasn’t like she was enthusiastic. Just playing along with the whole scene, wondering where it led, how far it would go. But the weirdly exotic, almost non-human sexual ambience was compelling. And mud-covered T-shirts and skirts quickly get cold and slimy, while skin can be washed clean so much more easily. Then it wasn’t so much a case of stripping as relaxing into the moment, allowing her clothes to be removed, to dissolve away.
The beat was heavy and insistent. It drove into Dee’s spine, her pelvis, her thighs. It made her hot. It made her squirm.
It dawned on her that not all the figures surrounding the cage were performers. Many, especially the muddied ones, were an audience. And she was the entertainment.
Though by the time she’d figured that, Dee no longer really cared. The music, the smells, the close-packed bodies and her own nakedness in the cage all merged into an intense, dreamlike and yet visceral state. A state similar, in fact, to taking a mild dose of acid. And Dee had stayed away from drugs that night in case the festival’s night city turned out to be too freaky to handle.
Something not dissimilar to a dildo came at her face through the bars of the cage. Well, not dissimilar, and similarly veined, even though the tip was in the form of three stubby bulbs. On a whim she took it into her mouth. After a few seconds she was surprised to feel some pulsing, vibration, in it - and the bulbs filled with air, or fluid, to the point that her jaw was stretched and she couldn’t release it from between her lips. It was, in effect, both a gag and a form of bondage, because Dee had to use her hands to support herself against the cage bars. Which meant she couldn’t prevent other stuff happening, like fingers or tentacles exploring her thighs and labia and pussy.
Whatever warm and greasy organ invaded her sex, Dee didn’t know and was now past caring. All she knew was the slide and slither of it felt good inside her, despite the strangeness of its dimensions.
Insectasex? Dee had the fleeting thought that when they were finished with her she might be eaten. Surely it was the other way round, though, big female spiders eating the smaller male ones, praying mantises eating the males?
Was the organ inside even identifiably male? Or weirdly alien, and fucking accomplished with sexual rites she wouldn’t understand?
Didn’t matter. Felt good. Better than good. Climactic.
Dee closed her eyes and allowed the feelings and weirdness to flow through her body, fire and ice playing through veins and doing the pleasure/pain thing with every nerve she possessed.
The thing in her mouth muffled her screams, seemed almost to block the sensations leaving her, bottled them in, amplified them. Orgasm was sudden, a ravenous feeding on every part of her, all-consuming. And it went on for much longer than she’d thought physically possible. A freaky, trippy climax that was more like a full-body erotic violation.
There was more, but Dee’s senses were overloaded and her perceptions skewed. She couldn’t explain, even to herself, exactly how she’d come to be splayed on top of the cage rather than inside it. How things like tentacles wrapped round her limbs and torso, holding her down. What liquids had been drizzled or spurted onto her body. How many hands had stroked and massaged her. What sexual or insectual or muddy golemic members had been placed in her mouth, vagina or anus. They merged into a single extended moment in time, something that could truthfully be called a clusterfuck. Nest-fuck, hive-fuck, slippery mudfuck? All these and more...
Somewhere in the space between dream and oblivion, Dee felt warm water sluicing her body, a cleansing that she somehow associated with death. Were dead bodies washed ritually before burial? Had someone whispered that into her ear as it was happening?
At any rate, she felt a lightness of being, a sense of not-being-there. Of having been, not just fucked but all the proteins sucked from her body and replaced with strange forms of DNA that made her more than human.
It was, in its own peculiar way, a rebirth. Coming to the surface of life, experiencing it as an ecstasy, a dream, a surreal trance that was more than everyday reality could ever be. A proof that her own desires and instincts, however surreal they might seem, were the structure of her world.
And that feeling stayed with as she walked back to the tent in the early light of a new day, feet barely touching the grass, all her clothes vanished.
Jake was there, snoring into his sleeping bag. She curled up against him, wondering what had happened through the door she hadn’t taken. Feeling, nonetheless, his erection through the sleeping bag, even though he was asleep. Knowing that whatever she’d done, whatever he’d done, whichever doors they’d gone through, their future would be different. Interesting. Driven by fantasy and desire, by and sex way beyond anything she’d previously imagined as human.
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
The Museum of Deviant Dreams (Part I)
OK, I'm aware I haven't posted here for a while. I've been writing other stuff. Sometimes I don't have enough mental bandwidth, if I can put it that way, to write blog posts when I'm midstream in another project.
However, here's a bit of friction fiction. It hadn't escaped me that the music festival season is upon us again, so that's the setting. What's here is Part I, which follows Jake's experiences in the Museum. Part II, which I'll write probably in the course of the next week, follows the experiences of Dee.
Happy reading...
***
Any big music festival, there’s the surreal, sleazy, sexy all-night area. The weird block. Like this one. Jake and Dee, both dressed for sweaty fun and looking for the surreal, weird and sexy. Picking their way along the makeshift mud street in wellies. Functional black ones for him, delicate flowery ones for her. Crowd’s out in force, out looking for fantasies, for inexplicable strangeness to tell each other later when they’re sober. Bodies rubbing up against each other, slipping, sliding.
Jake and Dee hang onto each other, looking at the freak parade, the trannies who these days it’s better to call T-girls, Dee admonishes him; the muddy plushies, the rubber-clad dominatrixes, the fairies, the anime cosplay characters and the people who look like they just came out of a LARPwarp.
It’s not sex. Not quite. But almost. Jake’s glad he’s not drunk, Dee’s glad she didn’t do that acid tab. Feels like acid anyway, just walking in the crowd.
And here’s a place, The Museum of Deviant Dreams. Interactive exhibits, it says underneath. Lots of people hanging around, because a couple of cute women wearing not much apart from body paint are hanging from a kind of trapeze structure over the door at the front of it, just beyond the reach of drunk and stoned hands. Well, maybe they’re women. Hard to tell. If they are, they’re wearing strap-ons. If they’re not, they’re transsexual and massively erect. What they are, beyond any doubt, though, is very gymnastic and very sexual.
Flashing lights around the entrance, music pulsing through it from the back of the venue. The music’s tribal and primitive and electronic with a lot of sub-bass matched with vocals that could come straight from a magic ritual. Maybe they do. Maybe that’s what’s actually happening, inside.
Jake notices Dee’s skinny T-shirt is damp with sweat, her nipples engorged. He notices his cock is engorged. He holds her arm, her biceps, a little more tightly.
“This one? This looks good.”
She laughs and nods, the mingled noises of the crowd and the music making real conversation impossible. They push through the gaggle of people, his grip on her arm turning to handholding, and make it to the entrance. He turns to her and she smiles, he kisses her, turns to walk down the short corridor, is confronted with two curtains. One says “Museum” and the other “Enter At Your Own Risk”. Jake plunges through the Museum curtain.
And he gets an instant hit of darkness and depravity. Because he’s standing in a passageway with big glass windows, like the windows of giant fish tanks. No fish, though. The first window has a woman behind it, naked, kneeling on hands and knees. In fact there are straps on her wrists and forearms, calves and ankles, holding her in that position. She has a ballgag in her mouth and she’s looking at him with big, pleading eyes. Behind her is a rod connected to a set of mechanical gears and eccentric cams, run from a giant electric motor. The end of the rod is connected to a dildo buried in her cunt. In front of the whole display is a big red button the size of a dinner plate, sign above it says push the button. He pushes the button.
Motor rotates, cams and cam-rods push and pull, the whole fucking machine – because that’s what it is – thrusts the dildo, pumps it in and out of the woman. The woman screams soundlessly and her eyes roll up in her head. It’s not clear to him if she’s experiencing pain or pleasure. Perhaps both. Jake watches, fascinated, unable to take his eyes off the spectacle.
When the motor stops, he sees her drooling through the gag, beads of perspiration on her body. A faint trembling in her breasts as they hang down, in her belly and thighs. Only then does he see a notice, a placard inside the tank, explaining something about how a university lecture on sex once demonstrated a fucking machine to students and everyone involved got disciplined. A loaded word, in that context, Jake thinks.
And then there’s the next window. Here there’s a naked woman strapped to a wooden chair, blindfolded, pads attached to different parts of her body, evil-looking clamps like the ones for charging car batteries attached to nipples and labia. Looks painful enough to start with. There’s some text about Stanley Milgram and some psycho experiment. Jake looks closer. Psycho experiment? No, psychological experiment.
Push the button. She jerks and writhes in her bonds. Faking it, or real pain? Push the button again. Jerk, writhe. He can’t tell.
Push the button. Jerk, writhe. It looks hot. He suddenly likes the effect. Push the button. Her toes are curling, sweat dribbles down her face.
In the interests of sex equality, or something like that, the third window is a nude guy, stretched out on a big wooden cross. He has an impressive erection. There’s a thin chain wrapped round his balls, one end of the chain running to a pulley on the opposite wall and then hanging, tension on the chain caused by a weight. It’s not clear what the button will do to him.
One way to find out. Press the button.
Some kind of vibrator attached to the chain, making it quiver and pulse. Jake saw it shimmering under the lights. At the same time, some glass tubes he hadn’t noticed between the guy’s legs are now glowing purple and throwing out sparks. And the guy seemed to actually like it, judging by the way his erection jutted out proudly. Jake wasn’t unused to seeing cock, because he’d played football, been involved in horseplay in the changing rooms. The things men do in changing rooms, sometimes… he’d always wondered how sucking another man in that setting can be cool and later, in the pub, the same guys become total homophobes. That said, he wasn’t particularly into cocks, wasn’t what you’d call a connoisseur. It didn’t do it for him, sexually. Not like seeing the women. But then Dee would be enjoying this tank, these visuals.
Jake turns, does a doubletake. Because it’s not Dee’s hand in his. Instead his paw is linked to that of a fairytale/nightmare creature, a woman – he thinks – whose diaphanous neon yellow outfit hides much less than the red and black stripes of body paint on her face, arms and ribs, and who sports small silver fairy wings and much larger black bats’ wings.
“The last tank is still empty,” she points out playfully. “You’d be the ideal specimen to place inside it.” Her free hand rests briefly against his chest, delivering what feels almost like an electric shock, before crawling spider-like across his stomach to feel his penis and balls. “Oh, yes. Very definitely an ideal specimen.”
Jake doesn’t take this at face value. He expects it to be a rite of passage, an experience he must undergo in order to access the venue. A lot of clubs do it these days, try to give you a headfuck before you can make it to the bar and dancefloor.
And where did Dee go…? She does this to him a lot. In shops, in clubs, he’ll walk three steps and turn round to find she’s disappeared. Distracted by a seeing friend, a special offer, something shiny, she’ll just take a different aisle or backtrack a few paces and he’ll spend the next twenty minutes looking for her, to discover her somewhere obvious but unexpected, and probably even annoyed he’s taken so long to get to her – because “I’ve been waiting here for ages”.
He figures that when he walked through the “Museum” curtain she must have been suddenly moved to take the other door, “Enter At Your Own Risk”, assuming they’d lead to the same place. Which might or might not be a reasonable assumption. She should really backtrack and…
…but the fairytale nightmare has him by the cock now, literally, having unzipped his Bermuda shorts and yanked it out, all ten erect inches of it, using it like a leash to pull him on through the display. Which is some kind of indication she might have meant what she said about him being a “specimen”.
There’s a hidden door, just a plasterboard partition on hinges next to the fourth, empty, tank. Behind it, to Jake’s surprise, is a room that already seems crowded with three women, or he thinks they are but the lighting isn’t that good and the costumes are confusing and trigger weird associations in his brain – a zebra-striped alien, a dancer wearing wellies and a corset and nothing else but who has a long whip coiled in one hand, a psycho nurse like the one who treated him in hospital when he was a kid – except that nurse didn’t, as far as he can remember, have a pair of handcuffs and some chains hanging from the kind of tool belt workmen sometimes wear. And they’re surrounding him, saying things like “My, he’s a big boy” and “He’s going to be fun!”
And what the fuck is going on with the naked, blindfolded woman in chains who’s sitting on a small chair in the corner?
So next thing he knows, his clothes seem to have disappeared and with four pairs of hands roving over his torso and thighs he’s pulled through a little door and playfully chained to a wooden frame like an upside-down Y and a crossbar he can rest his arms on. Somewhere back of his brain, some piece of random knowledge, says it’s the shape of a Chinese symbol for ‘Tai” – “big”. And they’re telling him how big he is and how it’ll all be a lot of sexy fun.
Playfully chained, but effectively chained all the same. Jake can’t move. And he’s not only big, but he’s going to stay that way because the head nurse character produces and applies a very industrial-looking, tight-fitting cockring.
After than, the purpose of the naked chained blindfolded woman becomes clear. She’s attached to a whole other piece of furniture in front of Jake, something that looks like a chair except it’s on a hinged base and had a close-fitting headrest. She’s positioned exactly so her lips close around the tip of his cock. Someone presses a switch, and unseen machinery tilts the whole chair, with her on it, so she’s being rocked back and forth. There’s some messing with the length of travel on the chair, the speed if it, and so on.
Then they’re alone. The two of them, Jake and a woman he’s never seen before, in a glass tank, with her poised to suck him any time someone looks through the glass window and presses the button to find out what will happen.
This is a situation so random and surreal Jake has no idea how he should react. Can he assume the women on the end of his cock agreed to this? Is a performer? Because Jake himself feels he’s been entranced, seduced, into a situation which while pleasant, isn’t exactly what he expected. Is it nonconsensual? Well… now he’s actually in this position, not exactly, because it’s unsurprisingly pleasurable. What exactly is he concerned about? That Dee will walk past and see him there? Throw a stroppy fit because he’s being “unfaithful”? And what’s she doing by now, presumably somewhere else in this venue?
He tries not to think, to relax and be in the moment, and then that becomes a whole lot easier because someone pushes the button.
Just not quite for long enough that he gets to come.
Over the next three or four hours people push the button a lot. The thing about coming stops being a problem, because the nameless woman gets to cough, gargle and swallow the same amount of protein she’d get from a four-course dinner. And after that it starts to be a problem, because he can’t stop coming, his erection’s been held by the cockring for so long it’s painful, and he feels dehydrated from the amount of spunk he’s ejaculated.
So he’s pathetically grateful when the head nurse and the demon angels come back to release him. Them. And the relief of having the cockring removed is tremendous.
They don’t give him his clothes back, though. Instead, he finds himself part of a tangle of naked bodies in the back room. He recognises the girl from the fucking machine, the woman who was being electro-tortured, the guy from the third tank. The blindfolded chained woman stays blindfolded and chained, toyed with by everyone, fucked by the third tank guy who surprisingly seems to have a huge erection despite the stuff he’s had done to his cock. Maybe because of it. Jake can’t work it out. The woman seems to get off on staying like a prisoner, slave, something like that. Fuck knows what’s in her head.
He gets a drink, a smoke, time to relax and talk, hands moving on skin. At some point he’s having his feet massaged, a demon-angel is straddling him, riding his cock which amazingly has recovered from its treatment, and he’s eating out the woman who’s been on the fucking machine. It’s all very debauched. More than an afterparty, more like the exclusive post-afterparty hardcore sexfests he’s read about in clubbing and music mags. The ones where any bizarre fantasy is not only accepted but expected, where sometimes bodies need to be disposed of at the end.
Except it’s not quite as unrestrained as that because the head nurse keeps a check on the fantasies being enacted, and sharp things get quietly removed. She doesn’t want to have to dispose of bodies, evidently.
Finally the nude chained woman gets her blindfold and chains taken off, and everyone congratulates her on lasting the full twenty-four hours of sex slavery. Seeing her face, Jake remembers he’s seen her before, playing bass in one of the bands early on the first day of the festival.
He thinks it would be cool to talk with her and maybe fuck her. She’s already drunk a pint or so of his come and he’s already had several rounds of sex with the others here, but still.... Jake reckons he’s on a roll here, going for the male universal fantasy of non-stop sex for hours with a harem of willing females. Willing females who have arcane techniques to ensure he’s fully and massively erect time after time.
It doesn’t happen because… well, other stuff happens instead. And maybe that’s how it’s meant to be for the woman, that he remains a completely anonymous cock?
The efforts he’s encouraged, required, and proud to make, though, take their toll. He loses track of time, and of whether he’s actually fucking or just dreaming it, sleep-fucking or fucknotised so he’s in a deep hypnotic trance.
He has no memory of getting back to the tent. He half-wakes, a shaft of sunlight angling in on the canvas, and shifts position. Feels his clothes under him, though he’s not wearing them. Reaches out and can’t feel Dee next to him. Fuck knows where she went.
All his muscles hurt and his dick’s lost several layers of skin, it feels like. He needs to rest.
Next time he wakes up it’s almost dark outside. Still physically tired but mentally refreshed, if unable to comprehend what’s happened. Not only does he not know what time it is, he doesn’t know what day it is. He can remember snapshot images, moments of sensation, odd phrases. Despite feeling tender, his dick is again perversely erect. As though that is now its natural state.
Gentle snoring beside him says Dee came back at some point. He reaches out to feel her naked beside him. She stirs, still asleep. Grasps his arm, folds it around her, won’t let it go. They stay like that. His arm loses sensation but he enjoys the gentleness of it.
[To be continued...]
However, here's a bit of friction fiction. It hadn't escaped me that the music festival season is upon us again, so that's the setting. What's here is Part I, which follows Jake's experiences in the Museum. Part II, which I'll write probably in the course of the next week, follows the experiences of Dee.
Happy reading...
***
Any big music festival, there’s the surreal, sleazy, sexy all-night area. The weird block. Like this one. Jake and Dee, both dressed for sweaty fun and looking for the surreal, weird and sexy. Picking their way along the makeshift mud street in wellies. Functional black ones for him, delicate flowery ones for her. Crowd’s out in force, out looking for fantasies, for inexplicable strangeness to tell each other later when they’re sober. Bodies rubbing up against each other, slipping, sliding.
Jake and Dee hang onto each other, looking at the freak parade, the trannies who these days it’s better to call T-girls, Dee admonishes him; the muddy plushies, the rubber-clad dominatrixes, the fairies, the anime cosplay characters and the people who look like they just came out of a LARPwarp.
It’s not sex. Not quite. But almost. Jake’s glad he’s not drunk, Dee’s glad she didn’t do that acid tab. Feels like acid anyway, just walking in the crowd.
And here’s a place, The Museum of Deviant Dreams. Interactive exhibits, it says underneath. Lots of people hanging around, because a couple of cute women wearing not much apart from body paint are hanging from a kind of trapeze structure over the door at the front of it, just beyond the reach of drunk and stoned hands. Well, maybe they’re women. Hard to tell. If they are, they’re wearing strap-ons. If they’re not, they’re transsexual and massively erect. What they are, beyond any doubt, though, is very gymnastic and very sexual.
Flashing lights around the entrance, music pulsing through it from the back of the venue. The music’s tribal and primitive and electronic with a lot of sub-bass matched with vocals that could come straight from a magic ritual. Maybe they do. Maybe that’s what’s actually happening, inside.
Jake notices Dee’s skinny T-shirt is damp with sweat, her nipples engorged. He notices his cock is engorged. He holds her arm, her biceps, a little more tightly.
“This one? This looks good.”
She laughs and nods, the mingled noises of the crowd and the music making real conversation impossible. They push through the gaggle of people, his grip on her arm turning to handholding, and make it to the entrance. He turns to her and she smiles, he kisses her, turns to walk down the short corridor, is confronted with two curtains. One says “Museum” and the other “Enter At Your Own Risk”. Jake plunges through the Museum curtain.
And he gets an instant hit of darkness and depravity. Because he’s standing in a passageway with big glass windows, like the windows of giant fish tanks. No fish, though. The first window has a woman behind it, naked, kneeling on hands and knees. In fact there are straps on her wrists and forearms, calves and ankles, holding her in that position. She has a ballgag in her mouth and she’s looking at him with big, pleading eyes. Behind her is a rod connected to a set of mechanical gears and eccentric cams, run from a giant electric motor. The end of the rod is connected to a dildo buried in her cunt. In front of the whole display is a big red button the size of a dinner plate, sign above it says push the button. He pushes the button.
Motor rotates, cams and cam-rods push and pull, the whole fucking machine – because that’s what it is – thrusts the dildo, pumps it in and out of the woman. The woman screams soundlessly and her eyes roll up in her head. It’s not clear to him if she’s experiencing pain or pleasure. Perhaps both. Jake watches, fascinated, unable to take his eyes off the spectacle.
When the motor stops, he sees her drooling through the gag, beads of perspiration on her body. A faint trembling in her breasts as they hang down, in her belly and thighs. Only then does he see a notice, a placard inside the tank, explaining something about how a university lecture on sex once demonstrated a fucking machine to students and everyone involved got disciplined. A loaded word, in that context, Jake thinks.
And then there’s the next window. Here there’s a naked woman strapped to a wooden chair, blindfolded, pads attached to different parts of her body, evil-looking clamps like the ones for charging car batteries attached to nipples and labia. Looks painful enough to start with. There’s some text about Stanley Milgram and some psycho experiment. Jake looks closer. Psycho experiment? No, psychological experiment.
Push the button. She jerks and writhes in her bonds. Faking it, or real pain? Push the button again. Jerk, writhe. He can’t tell.
Push the button. Jerk, writhe. It looks hot. He suddenly likes the effect. Push the button. Her toes are curling, sweat dribbles down her face.
In the interests of sex equality, or something like that, the third window is a nude guy, stretched out on a big wooden cross. He has an impressive erection. There’s a thin chain wrapped round his balls, one end of the chain running to a pulley on the opposite wall and then hanging, tension on the chain caused by a weight. It’s not clear what the button will do to him.
One way to find out. Press the button.
Some kind of vibrator attached to the chain, making it quiver and pulse. Jake saw it shimmering under the lights. At the same time, some glass tubes he hadn’t noticed between the guy’s legs are now glowing purple and throwing out sparks. And the guy seemed to actually like it, judging by the way his erection jutted out proudly. Jake wasn’t unused to seeing cock, because he’d played football, been involved in horseplay in the changing rooms. The things men do in changing rooms, sometimes… he’d always wondered how sucking another man in that setting can be cool and later, in the pub, the same guys become total homophobes. That said, he wasn’t particularly into cocks, wasn’t what you’d call a connoisseur. It didn’t do it for him, sexually. Not like seeing the women. But then Dee would be enjoying this tank, these visuals.
Jake turns, does a doubletake. Because it’s not Dee’s hand in his. Instead his paw is linked to that of a fairytale/nightmare creature, a woman – he thinks – whose diaphanous neon yellow outfit hides much less than the red and black stripes of body paint on her face, arms and ribs, and who sports small silver fairy wings and much larger black bats’ wings.
“The last tank is still empty,” she points out playfully. “You’d be the ideal specimen to place inside it.” Her free hand rests briefly against his chest, delivering what feels almost like an electric shock, before crawling spider-like across his stomach to feel his penis and balls. “Oh, yes. Very definitely an ideal specimen.”
Jake doesn’t take this at face value. He expects it to be a rite of passage, an experience he must undergo in order to access the venue. A lot of clubs do it these days, try to give you a headfuck before you can make it to the bar and dancefloor.
And where did Dee go…? She does this to him a lot. In shops, in clubs, he’ll walk three steps and turn round to find she’s disappeared. Distracted by a seeing friend, a special offer, something shiny, she’ll just take a different aisle or backtrack a few paces and he’ll spend the next twenty minutes looking for her, to discover her somewhere obvious but unexpected, and probably even annoyed he’s taken so long to get to her – because “I’ve been waiting here for ages”.
He figures that when he walked through the “Museum” curtain she must have been suddenly moved to take the other door, “Enter At Your Own Risk”, assuming they’d lead to the same place. Which might or might not be a reasonable assumption. She should really backtrack and…
…but the fairytale nightmare has him by the cock now, literally, having unzipped his Bermuda shorts and yanked it out, all ten erect inches of it, using it like a leash to pull him on through the display. Which is some kind of indication she might have meant what she said about him being a “specimen”.
There’s a hidden door, just a plasterboard partition on hinges next to the fourth, empty, tank. Behind it, to Jake’s surprise, is a room that already seems crowded with three women, or he thinks they are but the lighting isn’t that good and the costumes are confusing and trigger weird associations in his brain – a zebra-striped alien, a dancer wearing wellies and a corset and nothing else but who has a long whip coiled in one hand, a psycho nurse like the one who treated him in hospital when he was a kid – except that nurse didn’t, as far as he can remember, have a pair of handcuffs and some chains hanging from the kind of tool belt workmen sometimes wear. And they’re surrounding him, saying things like “My, he’s a big boy” and “He’s going to be fun!”
And what the fuck is going on with the naked, blindfolded woman in chains who’s sitting on a small chair in the corner?
So next thing he knows, his clothes seem to have disappeared and with four pairs of hands roving over his torso and thighs he’s pulled through a little door and playfully chained to a wooden frame like an upside-down Y and a crossbar he can rest his arms on. Somewhere back of his brain, some piece of random knowledge, says it’s the shape of a Chinese symbol for ‘Tai” – “big”. And they’re telling him how big he is and how it’ll all be a lot of sexy fun.
Playfully chained, but effectively chained all the same. Jake can’t move. And he’s not only big, but he’s going to stay that way because the head nurse character produces and applies a very industrial-looking, tight-fitting cockring.
After than, the purpose of the naked chained blindfolded woman becomes clear. She’s attached to a whole other piece of furniture in front of Jake, something that looks like a chair except it’s on a hinged base and had a close-fitting headrest. She’s positioned exactly so her lips close around the tip of his cock. Someone presses a switch, and unseen machinery tilts the whole chair, with her on it, so she’s being rocked back and forth. There’s some messing with the length of travel on the chair, the speed if it, and so on.
Then they’re alone. The two of them, Jake and a woman he’s never seen before, in a glass tank, with her poised to suck him any time someone looks through the glass window and presses the button to find out what will happen.
This is a situation so random and surreal Jake has no idea how he should react. Can he assume the women on the end of his cock agreed to this? Is a performer? Because Jake himself feels he’s been entranced, seduced, into a situation which while pleasant, isn’t exactly what he expected. Is it nonconsensual? Well… now he’s actually in this position, not exactly, because it’s unsurprisingly pleasurable. What exactly is he concerned about? That Dee will walk past and see him there? Throw a stroppy fit because he’s being “unfaithful”? And what’s she doing by now, presumably somewhere else in this venue?
He tries not to think, to relax and be in the moment, and then that becomes a whole lot easier because someone pushes the button.
Just not quite for long enough that he gets to come.
Over the next three or four hours people push the button a lot. The thing about coming stops being a problem, because the nameless woman gets to cough, gargle and swallow the same amount of protein she’d get from a four-course dinner. And after that it starts to be a problem, because he can’t stop coming, his erection’s been held by the cockring for so long it’s painful, and he feels dehydrated from the amount of spunk he’s ejaculated.
So he’s pathetically grateful when the head nurse and the demon angels come back to release him. Them. And the relief of having the cockring removed is tremendous.
They don’t give him his clothes back, though. Instead, he finds himself part of a tangle of naked bodies in the back room. He recognises the girl from the fucking machine, the woman who was being electro-tortured, the guy from the third tank. The blindfolded chained woman stays blindfolded and chained, toyed with by everyone, fucked by the third tank guy who surprisingly seems to have a huge erection despite the stuff he’s had done to his cock. Maybe because of it. Jake can’t work it out. The woman seems to get off on staying like a prisoner, slave, something like that. Fuck knows what’s in her head.
He gets a drink, a smoke, time to relax and talk, hands moving on skin. At some point he’s having his feet massaged, a demon-angel is straddling him, riding his cock which amazingly has recovered from its treatment, and he’s eating out the woman who’s been on the fucking machine. It’s all very debauched. More than an afterparty, more like the exclusive post-afterparty hardcore sexfests he’s read about in clubbing and music mags. The ones where any bizarre fantasy is not only accepted but expected, where sometimes bodies need to be disposed of at the end.
Except it’s not quite as unrestrained as that because the head nurse keeps a check on the fantasies being enacted, and sharp things get quietly removed. She doesn’t want to have to dispose of bodies, evidently.
Finally the nude chained woman gets her blindfold and chains taken off, and everyone congratulates her on lasting the full twenty-four hours of sex slavery. Seeing her face, Jake remembers he’s seen her before, playing bass in one of the bands early on the first day of the festival.
He thinks it would be cool to talk with her and maybe fuck her. She’s already drunk a pint or so of his come and he’s already had several rounds of sex with the others here, but still.... Jake reckons he’s on a roll here, going for the male universal fantasy of non-stop sex for hours with a harem of willing females. Willing females who have arcane techniques to ensure he’s fully and massively erect time after time.
It doesn’t happen because… well, other stuff happens instead. And maybe that’s how it’s meant to be for the woman, that he remains a completely anonymous cock?
The efforts he’s encouraged, required, and proud to make, though, take their toll. He loses track of time, and of whether he’s actually fucking or just dreaming it, sleep-fucking or fucknotised so he’s in a deep hypnotic trance.
He has no memory of getting back to the tent. He half-wakes, a shaft of sunlight angling in on the canvas, and shifts position. Feels his clothes under him, though he’s not wearing them. Reaches out and can’t feel Dee next to him. Fuck knows where she went.
All his muscles hurt and his dick’s lost several layers of skin, it feels like. He needs to rest.
Next time he wakes up it’s almost dark outside. Still physically tired but mentally refreshed, if unable to comprehend what’s happened. Not only does he not know what time it is, he doesn’t know what day it is. He can remember snapshot images, moments of sensation, odd phrases. Despite feeling tender, his dick is again perversely erect. As though that is now its natural state.
Gentle snoring beside him says Dee came back at some point. He reaches out to feel her naked beside him. She stirs, still asleep. Grasps his arm, folds it around her, won’t let it go. They stay like that. His arm loses sensation but he enjoys the gentleness of it.
[To be continued...]
Friday, 10 June 2011
Voiceover
Part of a work in progress. Imagine what follows as a voiceover, a female voice, closeup on blindfolded face, mouth, lips... maybe in the background there's some very blurred action going on, candlelit, in what appears to be a fetish club or dungeon. Maybe the voiceover is interrupted at various points by the sound of a flogger, or moans from an unseen third party...
At some point I may actually get around to filming this as a piece of Nu Fetish... I have a couple of other ongoing projects to finish first, though. Well, about six other projects to finish first...
***
Then he tied my hands behind my back and put a blindfold on me. If you want me to play with you, he said, you’ll have to say exactly what your fantasy is – what you want me to do with you. You’ll have to ask me to do those things. Beg me. And then my mind went blank. I don’t know what I was expecting.
I don’t even know if he’s still here. Is he recording me? Filming me, so he can play it back later for reference? For evidence? For entertainment? I’m on my knees. Being on my knees makes me think I should open my mouth. Receive his cock. Suck him off. I hope I’ll be sucking him off. I’ll have to ask if I want to suck him off. But do I want to suck him off before he beats me? Is it a privilege I should earn by taking a whipping?
***
How can I ask to be transported, taken to another world? The things I want him to do – they’re just the ways to get there, to get into a different headspace.
I guess I want him to squeeze my nipples, beat me, bite my neck… He’ll ask, beat me how, and where. Breasts? Back? Ass? Cunt? All of them. With what? I don’t know. I want it to hurt. I want bruises to keep me warm. I want him to make me silent. I want him to make me scream. I want choices taken away from me. I want a gag. I want him to crush ice against my tortured, red skin.
I want to know it’s real. I want to see the video. I want to see me saying these things, asking, begging, while he squeezes and bites and whips me. I want to be inside and outside my own skin at the same time, seeing everything, feeling everything, until wanting anything is insubstantial and the pain is a furious dark euphoria.
***
PS - see what Wordle made of this text in terms of word-image over at my DeliciouslyDeviant blog.
At some point I may actually get around to filming this as a piece of Nu Fetish... I have a couple of other ongoing projects to finish first, though. Well, about six other projects to finish first...
***
Then he tied my hands behind my back and put a blindfold on me. If you want me to play with you, he said, you’ll have to say exactly what your fantasy is – what you want me to do with you. You’ll have to ask me to do those things. Beg me. And then my mind went blank. I don’t know what I was expecting.
I don’t even know if he’s still here. Is he recording me? Filming me, so he can play it back later for reference? For evidence? For entertainment? I’m on my knees. Being on my knees makes me think I should open my mouth. Receive his cock. Suck him off. I hope I’ll be sucking him off. I’ll have to ask if I want to suck him off. But do I want to suck him off before he beats me? Is it a privilege I should earn by taking a whipping?
***
How can I ask to be transported, taken to another world? The things I want him to do – they’re just the ways to get there, to get into a different headspace.
I guess I want him to squeeze my nipples, beat me, bite my neck… He’ll ask, beat me how, and where. Breasts? Back? Ass? Cunt? All of them. With what? I don’t know. I want it to hurt. I want bruises to keep me warm. I want him to make me silent. I want him to make me scream. I want choices taken away from me. I want a gag. I want him to crush ice against my tortured, red skin.
I want to know it’s real. I want to see the video. I want to see me saying these things, asking, begging, while he squeezes and bites and whips me. I want to be inside and outside my own skin at the same time, seeing everything, feeling everything, until wanting anything is insubstantial and the pain is a furious dark euphoria.
***
PS - see what Wordle made of this text in terms of word-image over at my DeliciouslyDeviant blog.
Saturday, 28 May 2011
Just published - 'Hanging Around' by Fulani
Yesterday it was Velvet Tripp's turn. Today it's mine.
Published late last night (UK time) - 'Hanging Around', a collection of 12 interlinked stories, out with Renaissance Sizzler Editions.
Book blurb:
There's more, including a table of contents and a couple of free short stories involving the same characters but aren't in the book (they were written later, including one to go with the cover which I only saw a day or two ago), over at my other blog DeliciouslyDeviant.
Enjoy!
Published late last night (UK time) - 'Hanging Around', a collection of 12 interlinked stories, out with Renaissance Sizzler Editions.
Book blurb:
It’s two in the morning, and Mariska is dangling from a rope and displaying a lot of flesh to her tormentors. And she giggles. She’s been looking for something new in her life, and being a film extra in a low-budget zombie horror movie is certainly new… Twelve stunning chapters follow Mariska’s journey from barista to member of a group of bohemian artists, actors and others. She’s inducted into their fetish-oriented lifestyle, and along the way she’s tied, whipped, fisted and more in situations ranging from a film set to a lesbian club to an art exhibition. Oh, and somehow she finds time to write a journal about it. Fulani’s erotic stories, often dark and with BDSM-based themes, have appeared in numerous anthologies and ‘zines.
There's more, including a table of contents and a couple of free short stories involving the same characters but aren't in the book (they were written later, including one to go with the cover which I only saw a day or two ago), over at my other blog DeliciouslyDeviant.
Enjoy!
Friday, 27 May 2011
Out now - Velvet Tripp's 'Go Find Yourself'
This blog isn't all about me. If you've read this blog for any length of time you'll have worked out I'm in a relationship with Velvet Tripp, who's also a writer of erotica (among many other thing).
I'm pleased to say her short story, 'Go Find Yourself,' has just been published in not one but two Xcite Books collections.
It's in Wanton Women, a 20-story collection of lesbian fiction.
It's also in the shorter, five-story collection Submission in Silk, which contains stories by Giselle Renarde, Velvet Tripp, Olivia London, Helen Dring and Alyssa Turner.
'Go Find Yourself' is story about a divorced woman who re-evaluate her life and begins to explore long-held but unrealised fantasies about sex with another woman. She attends a gay and lesbian organisation's annual camp where she meets Ross, who captivates her and ultimately seduces her.
Congratulations, Velvet!
I'm pleased to say her short story, 'Go Find Yourself,' has just been published in not one but two Xcite Books collections.
It's in Wanton Women, a 20-story collection of lesbian fiction.
It's also in the shorter, five-story collection Submission in Silk, which contains stories by Giselle Renarde, Velvet Tripp, Olivia London, Helen Dring and Alyssa Turner.
'Go Find Yourself' is story about a divorced woman who re-evaluate her life and begins to explore long-held but unrealised fantasies about sex with another woman. She attends a gay and lesbian organisation's annual camp where she meets Ross, who captivates her and ultimately seduces her.
Congratulations, Velvet!
Sunday, 27 February 2011
Xcite's new website
If you’ve already bought stuff from Xcite Books you’ve probably heard about this anyway – but from 1st March, Xcite is migrating its web activity from all its domains - UK, US, Australia etc. - to a new website, www.erotica-romance-ebooks.com.
Presumably the old links will be redirected to the new URL but I hope to have all the links on here updated by Tuesday when the new site goes live.
The new Xcite site is significant because it will be a one-stop shop for romantic and erotic ebooks and audio formats not just from Xcite, but also from other publishers and authors around the world. Their press release says: ‘It offers a unique, genre specific, shopping experience for romance and erotica readers because they can discover new authors and publishing companies alongside their established favourites.’
In other words it will be a sales point not just for Xcite’s own publications (including of course many of my own stories and some of Velvet Tripp's) but for other erotic/romance publishers as well. In addition individual authors will be able to upload their works to it and set their own sales price provided they have a valid ISBN.
That website again: http://www.erotica-romance-ebooks.com.
Presumably the old links will be redirected to the new URL but I hope to have all the links on here updated by Tuesday when the new site goes live.
The new Xcite site is significant because it will be a one-stop shop for romantic and erotic ebooks and audio formats not just from Xcite, but also from other publishers and authors around the world. Their press release says: ‘It offers a unique, genre specific, shopping experience for romance and erotica readers because they can discover new authors and publishing companies alongside their established favourites.’
In other words it will be a sales point not just for Xcite’s own publications (including of course many of my own stories and some of Velvet Tripp's) but for other erotic/romance publishers as well. In addition individual authors will be able to upload their works to it and set their own sales price provided they have a valid ISBN.
That website again: http://www.erotica-romance-ebooks.com.
Wednesday, 16 February 2011
Announcement imminent!
Some of you may have come across this short story on my 'other' blog, which has been reposted here and here.
The fun thing, really, is this. I wrote the stories, then wrote the intro in which I put myself as a character, and then wrote essentially the same story as a kind of semi-promotional piece from a different point of view in which the first person narrative was by the book's main character, with me and the publisher's editor as the other characters in it. Maybe. It could be that the protagonist is real and I'm the fictional one... You'll have to decide. How very poststructuralist and pretentiously literary of 'me'. Or of someone, anyway.
I was going to wait until the thing's actually out before doing a big announcement. In fact I still will - so this is only a pre-announcement and I'll have more to say in a couple of days' time.
Emails have been flying back and forth today sorting out the cover...
The fun thing, really, is this. I wrote the stories, then wrote the intro in which I put myself as a character, and then wrote essentially the same story as a kind of semi-promotional piece from a different point of view in which the first person narrative was by the book's main character, with me and the publisher's editor as the other characters in it. Maybe. It could be that the protagonist is real and I'm the fictional one... You'll have to decide. How very poststructuralist and pretentiously literary of 'me'. Or of someone, anyway.
I was going to wait until the thing's actually out before doing a big announcement. In fact I still will - so this is only a pre-announcement and I'll have more to say in a couple of days' time.
Emails have been flying back and forth today sorting out the cover...
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
Congratulations, Velvet
The more observant among you will have noticed that I live with Velvet, who is an author of erotica in her own right. Her latest story ‘Tropical Paradise’ is the first piece in the just-published Xcite collection Tropical Paradise: A collection of five erotic stories.
The collection was originally themed as a 'sex at work' collection, and still is, because Velvet's story concerns Ellie, who works in the tropical house of the zoo and her lover Sam who looks after the big cats. They meet after work for a night of lust among the exotic flora and fauna.
The contents are: Tropical Paradise by Velvet Tripp / Just Like Your Father by Sommer Marsden / The Salon Sensual by J Troy Seate/ Typing Pool by Honey Leigh / The Deepest Dig by Sylvia Lowry.
Priced at £2.99 for the e-book, part of Xcite’s normal ’3 for 2′ offer, and apparently with a print edition coming soon.
We were both amused, incidentally, by the communications from Xcite. As the collection was designed on a 'sex at work' theme, Velvet ended up with a bunch of emails from the publisher with subject lines like 'Contract for Sex at Work' and 'Payment for Sex at Work'. Which might in itself lead her - or me, or maybe both of us! - to write something in the future about what such a contract might look like.
Friday, 28 January 2011
Erotic Review - new story
It hasn't been quiet at Casa Fulani. It's been hectic, which is why I haven't done any blogging. I can report that I finished a collection of short stories, more news on which will probably take months to emerge but that how it is in the world of publishing. Some stuff made it onto Deliciously Deviant and you can see it there, I'm not going to repost it here.
I've at least started my next novel, with an SF feel to it since it's set maybe a year or two in the future though I have a nasty feeling that somewhere, the world is already pretty much as I'm describing it - so it could end up being more realistic than I anticipated. Fact is often stranger than fiction, etc.
And normal service will be resumed when I've dealt with some 'housekeeping' items and pressing commitments from what I laughingly call my 'day job', much of which seems to extend into the early hours...
Oh... but what I can tell you is that the January issue of Erotic Review (issue 117, the 'Free Love' issue) has a story of mine, 'Nostalgia, All over Again'. For some reason it appears on the cover under another name, but who cares, really? It's a kind of homage to a little bdsm scenario out of Oh, Calcutta!
Click the link, pay the subscription if you don't already have one, and enjoy. I mean it's not like it's just me in there. There are three other stories and a whole host of feature articles and provocative thinkpieces... plus you can tell it's classy because there's even an erotic crossword...
I've at least started my next novel, with an SF feel to it since it's set maybe a year or two in the future though I have a nasty feeling that somewhere, the world is already pretty much as I'm describing it - so it could end up being more realistic than I anticipated. Fact is often stranger than fiction, etc.
And normal service will be resumed when I've dealt with some 'housekeeping' items and pressing commitments from what I laughingly call my 'day job', much of which seems to extend into the early hours...
Oh... but what I can tell you is that the January issue of Erotic Review (issue 117, the 'Free Love' issue) has a story of mine, 'Nostalgia, All over Again'. For some reason it appears on the cover under another name, but who cares, really? It's a kind of homage to a little bdsm scenario out of Oh, Calcutta!
Click the link, pay the subscription if you don't already have one, and enjoy. I mean it's not like it's just me in there. There are three other stories and a whole host of feature articles and provocative thinkpieces... plus you can tell it's classy because there's even an erotic crossword...
Thursday, 16 December 2010
New story out from 17th Dec at Oysters and Chocolate
Just a quick announcement that Fulani's short story "Relieving the Stress" will go live on Oysters and Chocolate online magazine this Friday, December 17th. So it's a free read, probably in their "Liquorice Whips" story category (aka sensual BDSM).
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
Thursday, 9 December 2010
Deliciously Deviant
Velvet Tripp and I have set up a second blog for both our erotic stories - she has one out with Xcite at the moment and some others that will appear in 2011.
Have a look at Deliciously Deviant. There's even a free, previously unpublished story of mine on there to tempt you. It concerns a couple whose idea of a fun day out is to buy a new coffee table. Except it doesn't get used for coffee...
Friday, 29 October 2010
Free read at Xcite!
I've just noticed my story 'The Incubus Candle' is currently a free read at Xcite Books - OK it's intended to promote the Spirit Lovers collection of 5 paranormal erotic stories for Halloween. But it is a 3000 word story, by me and for free. Not sure how often they switch these over but it will be time-limited.
Teaser: The candle was a large and faithful representation of a phallus. It wasn’t the kind of thing Lauren would normally buy, but it would be a talking point for the girly evening she’d planned. The shop assistant told her to be careful when she lit it. ‘These things work really well,’ she said with a knowing smile. Lauren snorted, thinking the comment was flippant, and rose to the bait. She bought two. And lit them both at the same time. That was when the real fun began…
Sunday, 26 September 2010
The hours before dawn
I creep to bed in the early hours, the next chapter finally written. I undress quietly in the bathroom, move silently to open the bedroom door. The bedside light is on but you’re asleep already, wearing a ‘sleep mask’ – by any other name, a blindfold. The room is warm and somehow, somewhen, you’ve kicked off the duvet. I admire your body; not the conventional beauty of rounded breasts and shapely thighs, but the flaws and scars of a life lived against the odds.
Gently, softly, I pad around the bed and settle feather-like on my side, the left-hand side, stretch out an inch away from you. I feel the heat from your body. You stir, one buttock brushing gently against my… That slight contact, unconscious, unexpected, suddenly excites me. Then you roll onto your back, kicking out your legs, pushing them against mine.
I remember you in this position, legs wide, waiting for me. That time you were tied down, wrists and ankles roped to the corners of the bed. Are you dreaming of this now?
Slowly, stealthily I change position. I hold myself above you, on my elbows, your even breaths washing my face. Don’t you feel me pressing against you, massaging your labia wider to accept me?
You grind your teeth and mumble something. Have I woken you?
No, I think not, though you thrust back at me. And moan with quiet inarticulate dreaming.
Little by little, in time with your breathing, I steal your sex. Thief in the night, silently plundering your body for my gratification. I wonder if, maybe, at the end you wake suddenly to find your body glowing with pleasure, luminous in the darkness behind the sleep-mask.
I stay posed, statue-still, muscles locked, feeling the tremble in your belly and thighs until you sigh and shift your hips to curl up under me.
***
I wake early, in blackness. Remove the sleep-mask to see a single shaft of light squeeze through the curtains and take flight across the bed. I lay still, remembering my dream. Listening to you breathe easily beside me. Watching the light roll across your thighs, because in the heat of the night we have somehow kicked the duvet away.
Your erection is: endearing, impressive, delicious. At one time I’d have said alarming. Are you dreaming of me, or of some complicated scenario like the one we played out last week?
I’m feeling wicked. I curl up against the sheets, closer to you. So close my hair falls over your belly. You stir and stretch as if it tickles. Your erection wobbles from side to side, lithe like a snake sensing the air with its tongue.
I lick my lips and take it in my mouth. It tastes sweet. It tastes of me.
I lick me off you, gratified at the swell of your response and the little shudder of your hips. You push up, questing, looking for sweeter, tighter, more enveloping pressure. I apply it with my lips and tongue, hear you gasp sleepless in your sleep. And with careful, deliberate moves I spin and twist onto you, astride your hips, giving myself to you and taking from you at the same time.
I arch my spine flex my thighs moving on your shaft letting it find its way letting it flower inside me. That’s good that’s deep I feel I feel you fill me up the sex swells in me intumescent and hot like a volcanic…
… eruption.
Afterwards I lean forwards, nipples brushing your chest my hair on your shoulder and you stir sleepily put your hand on my thigh as if to reassure me.
And I steal away to the morning, to shower and coffee and office, thinking smugly about that private moment and leaving you to wonder if it was a dream.
Saturday, 25 September 2010
Vampire's New Plaything
It's been one of those weeks in which things have happened that, from a writer's point of view, are so improbable that if you made them up you'd think 'I couldn't possibly use that, it's too off-the-wall'. Since I know they have happened, though, I may well use them in a story at a later date. Because I'm like that. They probably won't be erotica, but you never know...
Meanwhile my story 'The Vampire's New Plaything' is out as an e-book, pdf or Kindle (epub) format, on Xcite (or, for the North American market, Xcite.com). A tad under 6000 words for 99p or $1.49 and there's even a special 3 for the price of 2 offer running at the moment. Vampire theme (obviously) and a nice cosy read for the long nights running up to Halloween, or Samhain, or however else you might like to style the end of October.
Meanwhile my story 'The Vampire's New Plaything' is out as an e-book, pdf or Kindle (epub) format, on Xcite (or, for the North American market, Xcite.com). A tad under 6000 words for 99p or $1.49 and there's even a special 3 for the price of 2 offer running at the moment. Vampire theme (obviously) and a nice cosy read for the long nights running up to Halloween, or Samhain, or however else you might like to style the end of October.
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