Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Designing Chastity Planet

Get Episode 2!

I'm working on episode three of Chastity Planet and I've just realised that BDSM doesn't exist in my far future. I mean, so far, nobody is a self aware kinkster.

Obviously, the whole planet is kinky. However, nobody explicitly realises it.

I can't decide whether this is a fail that I should put right, or a chance to talk about the pull of BDSM and how, shorn of the fetish, it's to do with basic human drives.

Perhaps this is the theme I needed to make it work. I guess Episode 3 is going to be pretty defining.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Imprisoned, Flogged and Enslaved for Valentine's (Bi Femdom Wife Book 2)!

It's here at last!
Click to download from Amazon!
Sealed into chastity, tormented by sexy flashbacks, Tristan languishes in his cell so his dominant wife can have some space. She releases him only for domestic service and ferocious discipline. He thinks he’ll get some “proper femdom“ if he can endure until Valentine’s Day. She, however, plans to go lesbian clubbing and cuckold him again. 
Eleven thousands words of Domestic Femdom, Male Imprisonment, Oral Service and brutal Corporal Punishment. 
You can also click here to get it in ebook format...

Thursday, March 02, 2017

Enslaved by Posh Totty 8: Lesbian First Time is here! (And a little about why I write what I write)

Click to Download!
At last, another episode of Enslaved by Posh Totty, my college chastity and femdom series!

In this one, the now liberated red-haired Audrey turns seductive with one of her posh female friends. 

Meanwhile, poor chaste enslaved Brett can only serve and watch, powerless to join in or even get himself off.

About this episode and writing FFm femdom in general

This episode gave me a chance to further explore the idea of male submissive slave as "participant voyeur". He gets to be in the room with the sexy action, even help out, but the girls don't behave as if he's there.

It's also another story where a chaste male sub serves lesbians - or at least bi women - while they get it on with each other. 

This is... unlikely to happen to anybody in real life (though there is a guy on a chastity forum who plausibly claims to have been the sub in a decades-long femdom threesome involving his wife, her best friend and himself). Most people prefer not to have an audience when they make love, and I doubt lesbians are queuing up for any sort of erotic relationship with a man, even a one-sided service-based relationship where he's permanently chaste!
...about deeply submissive men in deeply
subordinated roles where they really
aren't the centre of attention.
It's a great fantasy, though, to be the compliant slave of two gorgeous women who are having hot sex before your eyes.  Or at least it's my favourite fantasy for several reasons. 

For a start, the idea of spying on an intimate moment is hot, but as a straight male, I'm not really interested in watching another guy's heaving buttocks. Much better to make it two women.

Then there's the chaste submissive thing. Two women having sex really don't need male help. Being a slave in that situation is about as much on the outside as you can get.

Finally - don't laugh at me - there's a deeper emotional resonance. Growing up as a male submissive in pre-internet days, I have an empathy for people who harbour "forbidden desires". It makes me happy contemplating anybody having a (consensual) transgressive sexual adventure.

I also like writing about lesbians for reasons of erotic storytelling. 

My stories are about deeply submissive men in deeply subordinated roles where they really aren't the centre of attention. The problem with this is that the most of the action, and most of the story, can't then be about the hero. 

The whole point of his role is that he gets to live a simple life of service - some of it erotic - scary punishment and deliciously frustrating chastity. That's pretty much how our real life relationship works. Having one partner in charge means things go so smoothly that there's not much to tell other than a catalogue of whippings and lickings, which isn't really a story. 

Being a kinky slave is a bit like being on a yoga retreat - lots of cool stuff happens, but it does't generate many good anecdotes. 

My answer to this problem is to have mistresses who are engaged in lesbian relationships. That gives the story all the drama, erotic suspense, and unpredictability it needs, without putting the slave centre stage. 

My series Sex Slave of the Lesbian Flappers takes this to its logical conclusion - the women aren't really aware that their chaste male slaves are human. These, however, are surprisingly hard to write because I had to learn how to do vanilla romances! (Watch this space.)

As a man with feminist leanings, am I OK with writing all this?

After some soul searching, yes

It's OK to have erotic fantasies and to explore them as long as you know that they are fantasies. There's a whole industry around M/M stories for female consumption, and women in nerdy gothy circles are often quite open about enjoying yaoi. So I don't see what I do as being much different. 

I also write my F/F to a particular code. I always try to make the women real people, or as real as you can get in whoops-let's-get-it-on erotica. I don't idealise their bodies, the sex isn't always smooth, and it's rarely if ever for the benefit of the male slave. Apparent realism is part of the kink, but it's also an ethical stance.

Ultimately, I'm a man who likes women and likes them just the way they are, and my fantasies and stories revolve around that.

Monday, January 23, 2017

FREE THIS WEEK ONLY: Enslaved By Posh Totty #1

"No pussy grabbing, some pussy worship!"

Everybody seems so unhappy, so I thought I'd share a little joy amongst like-minded people. For this week only, the first episode of ENSLAVED BY POSH TOTTY is yours for free!

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Read the first few pages of "Bi Femdom Wife 1 Cuckolded by a Lesbian on New Year’s Day"

Eleven o’clock New Year’s Day. Tristan padded into the living room and hesitated, blinking in the daylight, the cool air shrinking his balls against his chastity device.

The party guests had long gone, and the river estuary beyond the picture windows was deserted except for a container ship sluggishly negotiating the drizzle. So, nobody could see him in his steel collar and the breathtakingly expensive Happy Happy Chaste Boi Purity Device(tm) clamped around — and inside! — his genitals. Even so, it felt… wrong to be “dressed” like this in daylight.

The rain rattled on the windows.

He shrugged.

That was the point. This was supposed to be a femdom adventure to start the New Year. It wasn’t like he had a choice anyway. Thanks to his time safe, he couldn’t remove either bondage device for 48 hours and his wife Hannah had only gone along with his kinky plans because he had promised to clear up after her friends.

It had been a good party, but now the minimalist modern interior was cluttered with party debris. Plastic cups and beer bottles littered every surface, the food trays had overflowed the long dining table, and dozens of dancing feet had ground crisps and pretzels into the patches of spilled wine. Worse, the smokers who’d gone out to huddle in the car park had trailed muddy footprints everywhere.

Tristan sighed and hoped the resulting Femdom would be worth it. He trudged into the kitchen to get a big black bag. The guests had also trashed the work surfaces and stainless steel splashbacks, or technically the exploding chili had. There was also a burned-out tray of nachos in the sink.

He yawned and wished he was back in bed next to his warm wife. The party had wound down at 3AM. However, it had taken him an hour to get into the imported Japanese chastity device — just putting on the base ring had gotten him too hard to install the mesh tube with its locking urethral plug. Then of course, he’d been too turned on to sleep, and when he had drifted off, Hannah’s wine-induced snoring had woken him.

“Fuck it,” he said aloud. “She’ll probably be too hung over to do anything anyway.”

But he was damned if he was going to lose the moral high ground.

After a heavy night, Hannah always liked to chill out on the couch, so he started on the living room first.

Painfully conscious of his taut balls bumping his thighs, he picked his way around the grimy floor, stooping to scoop up the debris, steeling himself to go near the picture window--

--which is why it took him half an hour to discover the pair of stockinged feet on the couch: Sleek feminine feet with slender legs, all wrapped in cosy knitted black woolen hosiery. The couch’s back hid the rest of the interloper, who sighed and mumbled something.

Tristan froze. Sweat broke out on his brow. He should sneak away back to the bedroom, tell Hannah to get rid of this uninvited overnight guest. However, he couldn’t seem to move.

The wind picked up. The sky grayed. Cold rain hissed on the windows.

The interloper yawned. She rolled onto her side, curling her legs. The woolen second skin made them seem unreal, as if Photoshopped to perfection.

Was these actually stockings? wondered Tristan. Hannah never wore stockings… except that one time on his birthday. His cock hardened and tried to erect itself. The Happy Chaste Boi Purity Device(tm) kept it pointing down, clamped down against his balls.

Tristan’s mouth went dry. What harm would there be in finding out?

He inched around the corner of the couch.

Now he had a clear view of her curled legs, the shallow curves pressed against each other like a playground for a caressing hand.

Tristan chewed his lip. He really shouldn’t be doing this.

A little further.


The hem of the woman’s burgundy velvet dress tented around her thighs, exposing everything: the place where a strip of black lace marked the transition from soft woolen stockings to smooth olive skin; the hollow where thighs met buttocks, and the black G-string with wisps of brown hair escaping its skimpy little triangle of fabric.

Tristan shuddered. His cock heaved against its prison. This was so much better than surfing porn. He was going to wank himself senseless. He started to back away.

His cock twitched forlornly to remind him; no masturbation for two days.

Panic rose up from the pit of Tristan’s stomach and the strength drained from his limbs. He gasped for breath while his lost cock beat like a second heart and suddenly he couldn’t move.

The girl yawned and rolled to her feet. The burgundy fabric cloaked off her thighs. Shoulder-length hair fell into place, covering her neck. She took a pace toward the window, moving like a ballerina, one foot in front of the other, stockinged toes then heels—

And Tristan knew who she was.

Not a girl. A woman. Zarah, another provincial girl made good like Hannah. She was also Hannah’s BFF and the person with whom she’d shared a Lesbian kiss at a high school party something like twenty years ago. She’d always treated Tristan with an indulgent contempt; a phase Hannah was going through. Posh twat, she’d called him.

Despite — admit it; because of — all that, Tristan had always harbored a secret crush on her...

Saturday, January 14, 2017

New Title!

I finally wrote a story about mature couples doing married Femdom! I wanted it to be darker and more realistic than my other novels... perhaps it is. However, it went off the rails pretty quickly and turned out much wilder than I'd planned...
Things get out of hand when Tristran persuades Hannah, his no-nonsense Geordie wife, to let him spend New Year’s Day as her chaste slave. Zarah, her vampy bisexual BFF, has slept over and plans to cuckold him. Meanwhile, sick of his demands, Hannah humiliates him by insisting he stick to the plan and slave for both of them!
Nearly ten thousands words of Domestic Femdom, Kinky Threesomes and Lesbian Cuckolding. If that doesn’t convince you, here are some spoilers…
He’s too convincing as a slave and they use him as a bridge, making out while he serves his wife orally. He leaks from his chastity belt, which earns him a brutal whipping. The excitement spurs the women to really make love while he looks on, ignored, chaste and in chains, powerless to join in or to stop them. Finally, his wife locks him in an improvised “cell” so she can enjoy a night of passion with her new lesbian lover. He expects to be trapped for a few yours, but she announces that he will spend days chained up while she “has some space”…
Oh, and the Happy Happy Chaste Boi Chastity Device(tm) makes an appearance...

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Dreamquest of the Unknown Kinkster

Three times I dreamed of the city where serene women rule and the men are slaves, and three times I was snatched away.

Each time, I stood behind the bars of the slave market in the lower town and watched the bejewelled women pass by. By custom, they were naked except golden girdles and flimsy bodices.

This was a city of languid Sapphic lovers. 

The long-limbed maidens would stroll hand-in-hand or with arms slipped around lithe waists. Sometimes a couple would stop off to kiss in the shade of my arcade. Lazy hands would slide over olive skin. Breaths would quicken and they would move on, bare legs striding away down the shady street in search of a more private trysting place.

And I would become hard and erect under my concealing leather kilt.

Then a woman who concealed her body in a long robe would notice me in my cage and rouse the dealer, who would fumble for her keys.

I would glimpse a cascade of dark hair, then awake rigid with desire. Self gratification would only leave me sordid and lonely.

So, I studied manuals of lucid dreaming, practiced visualization and abstinence.

None of this did me any good.

True, my nightly journeys still took me to the Virgin Lands where men are a furtive afterthought. However, though they populated a dream land, the women there were too normal, too much of flesh and blood. They could not compare to the living statues of that city, which now seemed lost to me.

I asked after my city,

I learned of other sinister wonders: the Plateau of Veneris where the sinister Abbey visits grim torments on the dreamer foolish enough to cross its threshold; the Ghlugs who will milk a man dry then sell him into slavery; the Cat Maidens who are your friend as long as you can satisfy them, but who will claw you till you bleed when at last you cannot; and the cruel City of Ooblet where the cries of tortured men serve to mark the passing of the hours.

However, none could tell me of the city where serene women walked while mute male slaves rejoiced to serve their every whim.

Melancholy took over my waking life and my sleep became more fitful, my visits to the Virgin Lands more fleeting.

One evening, as I wandered in the rain while motorcars hissed past and more normal men hurried home to warm meals and warmer bedrooms, I peered through the window of an antiquarian bookshop and spied a woman who boasted my dream mistress’s cascade of black tresses.

I went inside, but could not muster the courage to speak to her; a man who spends his nights in fever dreams of whips and chains loses the faculty for light conversation. I did, however, come away with a hastily selected Book of Dreams. This was a battered tome from past centuries that purported to teach the Art of the Dream.

As I dried off in my lonely dwelling, I was disappointed to find it contained not exercises, but theurgic rituals. I was too much of a materialist to give credence to the occult and put the volume aside.

Weeks later, the rituals became an attractive last resort, which is how I came to be standing naked before the priestesses Ash and Karmel in the Cavern Temple, not far from the waking world.

It was a dream but it was real.

The damp stone chilled my feet. The steps down beckoned, calling me to descend into the darkness. A warm breeze from the depths teased my skin.

And the candlelight danced on bare female skin, made gold glitter like fairy dust.

The priestesses were tall, statuesque, but not impossibly so. Each wore her nakedness like a suit of armor. Bangles and anklets served only to emphasize the hard curves of leg and arm. They kept their pubic triangles trimmed so as to expose long, fleshy inner lips that seemed to threaten an fleshy engulfment from which there would be no return.

My member reared as if in salute. I cupped it with my hands and blushed.

Priestess Ash, with the pale skin, favored me with an amused smile. “Declare your intentions, dreamer.”

I blurted out my quest, described the dream city of the elegant women.

Now Karmel, with the dark skin, spoke, her voice cold. “You speak of Lost Vestal. It is not of for mortal dreamers to find.”

“Then I will find the Dream Goddesses,” I said, “where they dwell in the Unknown Tower of Torment, and petition them.”

“No,” said Karmel. “They are angry with you. Thrice they granted you the vision of Vestal, and thrice you profaned it with self pollution. It is not for mortals to seek out their tower.”

I squirmed and blushed. Even so, I thought of the black-haired woman and set my chin. “Then I will beg their forgiveness.”

The priestesses exchanged smirks and nods.

At length, fair-haired Ash spoke. “If you can sate both of us while maintaining your lewd salute, then you may descend into the dream land and pursue your fruitless quest.” She draped herself on the low padded altar and spread her legs so that the tendons of her thighs stood out like ropes.

I took a step forward, mouth watering, manhood quivering in anticipation.

Karmel held up her hand. “Wait. Know that if you fail, there will be no return to the cavern temple, or to the dream lands. And know that you will be scourged as you make your attempt.”

I nodded and approached the flaxen-haired priestess, my gazed fixed on the fleshy lips that flourished between her pale thighs...

I know. Weird. Not quite parody. I could flesh it out, add more erotic detail, carry on the story. But who would want to read it?

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