Fulani has been part of the fetish scene for almost two decades – early on he acquired the nickname ‘Fulani’ and decided to use it for his writing. He first came to erotica in 2008, when he spotted a call for submissions from Erotic Review. They took a piece called ‘The Phenomenology of the Whip’ and has been writing erotica ever since.
Then she’s rolling over, reaching for what turns out to be a button fly on his trousers. Ragnar starts to unbutton his shirt and she shakes her head.
“Not necessary.” Cerise wants to preserve the dynamic. The symbolism of being nude with a man who’s still dressed. She can already access the one piece of skin she needs. The sensitive erectile tissue. Licks her lips and wipes them across the tip of his ...
There’s metal against her teeth.
“It’s called an ampallang.”
Cerise’s brain does a sideways slide via fang to vampire.
“You can bite me later.”
Then she’s running her tongue around the head of his cock, exploring the piercing. Wondering how it’ll feel inside her. Liking the red wine taste of it and thinking that his red wine and her honey are a good match.
And it occurs to her she’s got his cock in her mouth and she hasn’t even kissed him. Oh well. The van isn’t that small, but with the folding table in place there isn’t a lot of space for her to slip off the sofa and kneel between his legs. The move requires contortion of limbs. It feels, just a little bit, like bondage. Not bondage with ropes, but mental bondage. Her partner tried it once: required her to pose on her knees, spine erect, arms folded behind her with left hand on right elbow and vice versa, head tilted slightly backwards. Mouth open. And of course he’d used her mouth, plastered his cum over her face—after he’d pulled and teased her nipples and slapped her breasts. She’d held the position, though, being the perfect slave for him.
She’d learned other positions too. On her knees, forehead to the floor, ass in the air, knees spread and arms extended to either side. Standing with ankles wide apart and hands behind her head. Her partner had been going through what they later described as his John Norman period, reading the series of Gor novels—and taking notes. There were even websites with infographics to illustrate the slave positions, with names for each. It had been fun, but there was a limit to how far it was possible to take that stuff without becoming obsessive and (hah!) fetishistic about it. She occasionally enjoyed floating around the house on a summer’s evening wearing nothing but a silk scarf around her hips and a chunky ankle bracelet, being a willing sexual servitor. But with time, they’d become less hung up on the positional thing. These days they were more eclectic and freestyle on the increasingly rare occasions when they played.
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