Thursday, December 28, 2006
It would be nice to think that he'll get some vanilla dates during that time, expecially because he plans to buff up. But - hey! - who said life had to be like the erotic novel?
Would his adventure make a good erotic novel? Not as it stands. There's nothing forcing him to stay chaste, and nobody trying to coax him out of the chastity belt... hmm, now there's an interesting dynamic.
Friday, December 22, 2006
It would be nice to be part of that scene! However, as soon as a man turned up, the private girliness would be gone. In it's place would be reserve, flirtatiousness, or embarrasment .
It would be a different story in my Whips and Stockingtops world. A more or less identical scene could play out, told from the attendant slave's point-of-view. The girls simply wouldn't care if he was watching, though, later in the dunes, they might use his willing tongue.
(Of course, the scene would need more than that to work as fiction.)
Sunday, December 10, 2006
In the last couple of years, I've tinkered with some non-consensual chastity settings. One of these - inspired by Ruritania - is a former Eastern Block republic called Kolkislavia. On the whole, I like this one better than Chastity Planet because the power play is in earnest.
Kolkislavia is a fascinating country, well worth a backpacking trip if you can get a visa. The men were mostly wiped out in World War Two, so that by the time the next generation grew to manhood, the women were used to getting their own way. They are legendarily sexually forward, though somewhat demanding. There are however traps for the unwary male visitor…
I opened my eyes on blinding whiteness and tried to reach between my legs, only to find I couldn’t move my arms.
The white coalesced into dirty polystyrene ceiling tiles. I tried again. Still my arms wouldn’t move.
I shifted slightly and found my legs were also pinned.
My voice sounded hoarse.
“Hey!” I repeated and heard answering footsteps, the sound of high heels on linoleum. A nurse bent over me – a proper nurse; hair tucked up into an old-fashioned cap, white coat unbuttoned to the cleavage. She smiled and said something in a language I couldn’t understand.
Of course, I’m in Kolkislavia – hence the out of date uniform. The whole country was like that, not that I was complaining. Her cleavage drew my gaze. Her skin was a radiant golden white, like a Slavonic goddess. The curves seemed taut and firm.
I felt a swelling in my groin. Then a strange, stinging tightness in my penis and an ache in my testicles. I tensed my buttocks but couldn’t get an erection.
“What’s happened to me?” I asked.
She pouted and said, in a cooing voice, “Ataletik.”
She shrugged and rolled back the sheet as far as my waist. Now I could see that my wrists were held by hospital restraints.
The nurse produced a sponge and wiped my face, then my neck. She reached my chest and made some little swirls around my nipples sending little electric tingles to my groin. Now my penis felt as if it were being rhythmically squeezed by a mailed fist.
I had a flash of another nurse scrubbing me down, and an operating table.
Rising panic now, I tried to close my legs around my genitals. I strained against the restraints until my thighs touched. Nothing.
And yet I could feel them?
Unless it was like a ghost limb.
I had to know what had happened to me.
I remembered Christina meeting me at the run-down railway station, and our chaste kiss. Her simple summer dress made her look like a Pre-Raphaelite saint.
Then seven glorious days, walking hand in hand in the park, seeing the frescos she was restoring, and visiting the unspoiled country – not speaking, just basking in her company. She seemed to spend her days in a dream, an erotic daze.
The throbbing grew stronger.
Had we had sex?
Not a chance. In truth, I couldn’t even imagine it. When I kissed her she jumped like a startled rabbit.
And then, as I walked back from her lodgings and van pulled up. I remembered masked men and...
“Ah, Mr Carlisle. You are awake.” A woman’s voice, low and clipped, speaking in German, the official language of the Republic of Kolkislavia.
I raised my head and found a big Amazon of a woman standing at the foot of my bed. A peaked cap shaded her eyes. A long black leather coat flapped open, revealing a tight grey uniform and the tops of her knee-length jack boots.
“Captain Theda. I’m here in my official capacity,” she said. “This is Dr Olslova.”
A grey haired women with a clipboard nodded at the nurse who pouted then whipped away the sheet and held a mirror up between my legs.
There was nothing there.
I yelped, blinked then looked again.
Glass bars covered the space between my legs, forming a leaf shaped cage. It formed a ridge, like a stalk, over my penis. On either side, mesh flattened my scrotum. Stitches marred its delicate skin.
The doctor smiled. “Still there. Tucked up into their cavities.” She tapped the cage and I saw that the flesh bulged either side of the root of my penis. “They’ve taken some darts out of your scrotum. But it’ll stretch once the cage is off. It’s all quite standard.”
I sat back. “So when can you operate to remove it?”
The doctor glanced at Theda and back again.
Christina appeared behind the two women. The light from the window turned her hair into a red halo making her look like an angel. “Andrew, I came as soon as I...” Her green eyes widened.
Theda’s face became rigid, as expressionless as a mask.
I half closing my thighs, and felt myself blush. Even in this mutilated state, I was embarrassed to show her my genitals. Nothing
I expected her to flinch or look away. But her eyes softened. “Poor thing. I’m sure we can make it all better.”
Theda visibly relaxed. She cleared her throat. “In the bad old days, the State used these to prevent athletes from defecting.”
And then I remembered the Backpacker’s Guide entry. “But that’s just an urban myth...” The doctor’s eyes became pitying. “It’s booby trapped, isn’t it?”
The doctor nodded. “The tubes contain a powerful explosive. You need the unique Catalyst Key to defuse it.”
Theda coughed. “My government is most embarrassed that this should happen to a tourist. We will make every effort to recover the key and free you.” But in her eyes I saw a strange mixture of triumph and guilt.
“I’m sure you’ll do your best,” said Christina.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
So, I'm curious... who is actually reading this, how did you find me, and what do you want me to blog about most?
I can post polished pieces, muse about erotic writing in general, talk about my work in progress, or how I wrote The Chastity Belt. You tell me.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Thing is, I'm not really interested in the men - stylish though they are. What I really want is hot flapper-on-flapper action. But, that would just leave me with retro-Sapphic tales. Where's the male viewpoint? How about an enslaved male?
So, I've created a Sliders-style alternate Earth, which I call "Whips and Stockingtops World". It's a sort of Art Deco parallel world where all - or most - of the women are lesbians, and the men are all enlabed abductees, fitted with permanent chastity cages.
The idea is to use a slave as narrator, a sort of kinky Dr Watson to the mistress's Holmes. Here's my first attempt. It established the world nicely, but...
I'd like the slave should be a participant voyeur. Not really part of the story, though it might affect him. For example, if somebody breaks his owner's heart, he should have to put up with months of abuse.
He might - perhaps - have an inner journey. The Art Deco setting is close enough to our own world to give him the odd you-are-here moment. This is a chance to explore the boundaries of fantasy and grim reality.
The snag is that this will only work if I can write more or less vanilla love stories! It gets worse: since it's a Sapphic world, I don't even get to do a coming out story.
However, potentially, this could be really hot. Just think of the contrast? Tender flapper lovers making out, while hero nurses his welts and tries not to react?
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Here's a version of a test of concept for a 1930s Noir Femdom world I've posted elsewhere. I revised it after discovering these!
It was probably writing The Chastity Belt that got me into pre-war erotic photography. Poor Mark has a book called "1930s Ladies" which fuels his fantasies of unattainable retro Cassandra.
And... well there is something about all those vanilla ladies wondering around in stockings and well cut clothes. All that's needed is the whips...
Whips and Stockingtops: The Vamp by Giles English
As I sponge the inside of my slave collar, a light comes on in the cheap apartments opposite the kitchen window.
A girl in a fur-trimmed coat appears. She turns away and takes off her hat, revealing bobbed black hair.
My penis wakes inside its cage. I can’t help it; she’s the perfect vamp – icy promise wrapped in tailored elegance.
The coat slides off. Now a sequined evening gown glistens feebly in the light of the lonely bulb which hangs from the low ceiling.
Expensive gown, cheap digs. What is she? Hooker, fresh from the arms of a rich old woman? Or is the Vamp expecting a guest?
I lean over to press my face to the dirty glass. The movement drags my night chain over the edge of the sink, but the walls are too thick for the noise to disturb Millie, my owner – she’s as sweet as they come, but form must be observed between mistress and slave.
The Vamp turns to her dressing table and unhooks earrings. She slides the dress off her white shoulders and carefully steps out of it.
Stockings! Better yet; garter-straps stretch over pale flesh and vanish into lace-edged white silk panties.
My penis throbs uselessly against its bars.
The Vamp’s pert breasts quiver as she drapes the gown on a hanger, but my gaze is fixed on her long, nylon-coated legs and garter webbed thighs.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve seen stockings almost everyday since I arrived in this strange, alternate world: the sight forces the blood into my imprisoned genitals.
I should look away. Nobody cares if a slave watches, but voyeurism is its own punishment.
The Vamp sits on the narrow bed and –
-her panties come off.
Her garter-belt and stockingtops frame a strip of milky skin: thighs, navel and shaven crotch. The white flesh flows from curve to curve to curve except for the deep red crease between her labia.
The blood pounds in my ears.
It must be the novelty. Apart from the odd fling at an Academic Conference, I’m all the sex life poor sweet Millie has. It’s been three years since I’ve seen another woman naked.
Or perhaps it’s because I’ve always had a thing for silent movies vamps, even before I was kidnapped and dragged off to slavery in this alternate version of the Jazz Era.
Cold metal brushes my stomach. My shackled hand has crept under my pyjamas. Pretending it isn’t there, I inch my fingers through my pubic hair.
I really should look away now.
The Vamp kicks off her court shoes and flops back across the bed. Her ruby fingernails slide over the hairless mound and a fingertip vanishes into her slit.
Her hand blurs with movement. Her flesh quivers. Her stockinged legs bend.
My own fingers drift down and I feel the dimples where the surgical steel pierces flesh to root itself in my pelvis.
I cup the entire chastity cage. It’s almost flat, as if there’s nothing inside. But the mesh is warm with heat from my captive genitals.
And the sensation is there!
The useless throb of my cock, endlessly trying to unbend from between my thighs… the aching pulse of my testicles, forever tucked up inside their pre-natal pouches.
I must look away now, before it’s too-
The Vamp’s free hand slides under her bra. Her head shakes from side to side. Her cheeks redden. And still her fingers rub at her groin.
Pulse hammering in my ears, I stroke my chastity cup.
Her high-heels gouge the rug. Her back arches and-
Wait! Was that the slave bell?
Without looking away from the masturbating vamp, I strain my ears. I gave Millie a good licking earlier. I smile. The amount of noise she made, she must be asleep.
The Vamp draws up her legs and rolls onto her side, presenting her buttocks to the window – two glorious half-moons bordered by night-black stockingtops and garter belt. Her pussy peeks out from the arrow-shaped gap where they meet her thighs. A curled finger churns the flesh which now glitters with juices.
The bell on the kitchen wall rings…
…and the Vamp rolls onto her back, braces her feet on the floor. Her finger is a wet blur between her legs.
My cock ripples. Something thick and hot squirts onto my hand and I experience a flicker of pleasure. Nothing like an orgasm, but premature ejaculation is almost all I have.
Another squirt is building up inside my entombed balls. Perhaps Millie will fall asleep again.
A blush now covers the Vamp from face to the edge of her bra. As I watch, she pops one breast free and pulls on the nipple, stretching the delicate mound out into a long cone. Her other hand shifts downwards. Two fingers slide into her hairless slit.
I tense my thighs, willing the semen through the tubes and down into the base of my penis.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Millie! What’s she doing in the kitchen?
I twist away from the window and drop to my knees in a tangle of chains. Already, I can almost feel the whip sear my skin.
I look up.
My owner stands over me like a small Yeti - bushed hair and padded dressing gown turning her hourglass figure into a formless bulk.
The fear sends a little jolt through my imprisoned genitals. It’s as if she’s reached through the cage and squeezed my cock. “I was watching out of the window, Mistress.”
Millie rustles forwards and now the pale light illuminates her face. Her black eyes widen — she’s seen the Vamp. “Oh.”
I watch her, watching the vamp. I like it when we share a reaction. How would it be, to know each other as equals? I often imagine getting her back to my world and having the chastity cage removed so we can be proper lovers.
Her breathing quickens. Then she tugs open her robe. Her silk pyjamas gleam in the half dark. “Take off…” She draws in a quivering breath. “Take off my pants and lick my pussy.”
She’s never bashful with me. I like that. I can’t understand how Samantha could have been stupid enough to dump someone this sexy.
I reach up and drag the pyjama pants over her wide hips. I glimpse olive skin and dark pubic hair. My cock twitches in its cage and I’m glad that the gloom hides my grin. I hate that somebody broke Millie’s heart, but it does mean that I’ve had her all to myself for the last few years.
Millie she steps forward, braces her hands on the sink and pushes her furry sex into my face. It’s still musky from her bedtime licking.
I lean back, stretching out the night chain from throat to cuffs to plant my hands on the tiled floor. I crane my neck against the steel collar and I lap at Millie’s sex.
The first stroke of my tongue parts her curls. The second drawls her swollen inner lips. The wet folds of flesh open at my touch. My tongue finds the thick nub at their apex.
Millie whimpers and her thighs squeeze my cheeks.
I lick faster – perhaps I can give her an excuse to forget the whipping.
Salty juices flow into my mouth. Cramp claws at my folded legs and the cold seeps into my hands from the tiled kitchen floor.
I want get up and say, Enough. Game over. Let’s get these chains off. I want my orgasm now.
Millie moans and juices splash into my mouth.
This isn’t an S&M game. I can no more walk away than I can masturbate. But the upside is that I never have to worry that she’s faking.
The semen slowly forces itself into my penis. I whimper into Millie’s pussy. Any second now…
She shoves my head down from between her legs. I collapse back on my haunches, bumping my head on the sink unit.
She stands over me, dressing gown gaping, pubic hair slick with her juices. “You spoiled my damn orgasm!” She reaches under my chin and unlocks the combination padlock. The Night Chain falls free. “Into the Punishment Unit, slave!”
I bite back a whimper. I want to say ‘sorry', but that word is forbidden to slaves.
Slowly, I unthread the chain from my fetters. Then I strip off my pyjamas and, naked except for my fetters and cage, push the kitchen table aside and crouch at the Punishment Unit.
If I can resist crying out, I might just get my orgasm after all.
I pull two hanks of chain out of the floor. Above my head, a motor grinds, automatically lowering the chain from the ceiling.
My numb fingers wrestle the clip onto my right ankle fetters then I glance at Millie.
Her curved legs are bare below the hem of her quilted robe, a promise of later pleasure. But the longest of the slave whips trails from her hand, reminding me of what I must do to earn it.
I turn to the left fetter and my hands shake. What right has she to so casually brutalise me? She’s a head shorter than me, and soft-fleshed. Hardly the domineering Amazon.
A cold breeze tickles my inner thighs and coils through the empty space where my testicles should hang.
But who am I? An almost-sexless nobody. She doesn’t even know my name.
I straighten and, without looking at Millie, capture the dangling chain and clip it to my cuffs. Then I yank the chain.
The motor whirrs. The chains rattle and tauten. Without any fuss, the Punishment Unit draws my body out into an inverted ”Y” until my bare feet leave metal plate. It pauses for an agonising five seconds, then, with a clunk, loosens and the weight returns to my feet.
My penis swells against its cage. I can’t help it. This is my old fantasy made real.
The whip sears into my buttocks. Pain thrums through my taut limbs.
My penis throbs, reminding me what I must do.
The next blow lands. And the next.
I twitch, but I don’t cry out.
Millie grunts, “Useless slave!”
The blows drift down my thighs. The sharp pain deflates my abortive erection. It’s not erotic anymore.
My vision blurs. Tears trickle down my cheeks. I writhe and gasp for breath, but I don’t plead or scream.
Again and again, the whip lashes my thighs, each stroke like a knife in my flesh.
I give up and hang limp in my chains, trapped in the grim reality of my slave fantasy. The world spins and I have what we slaves call a You Are Here Moment:
An alternate Earth – an entire planet - every nook and cranny ruled by Amazons. A continent dotted with cities, among them New Minerva, a sprawling port with Art Deco skyscrapers rising at its hub. Each skyscraper, a hundred spacious apartments piled one on the other. In each apartment, a semi-neutered slave like me – endlessly serving and suffering, but never fucking.
The horror of it boils into my testicles where they nestle in their fleshy cavity, then oozes into my penis like molten silver.
No! Not when I’m so close.
Think about my job, back home sideways in time. Think about the office. My little cubicle. The roaring air-conditioning. About that date with the hot cycle courier I’ll never make. About never using my penis again.
The depression washes away any perverted pleasure. But that leaves me open to the pain.
I throw back my head and scream.
Millie pauses. I twist my head to glance over my shoulder. Her free hand is grinding at her crotch.
Our eyes meet and she lashes out, harder and faster. The whip scores my back, my thighs my buttocks. My breath comes ragged now. But, even as I writhe and sob, I know I’ve won. She’s lost her cool and now she’s turned on.
Millie cries out.
A sympathetic eruption builds behind my chastity cage. I clench my buttocks. Think. I’m a respected professional. A registered voter. A tax payer.
But she’s still torturing me for kicks.
Semen splatters on the zinc-coated floor plate.
The Punishment Unit whirs. I crumple to the kitchen floor to kneel in my own semen. Pain and frustration war for possession of my body. Ejaculating has eased the pressure, but it hasn’t really satisfied me.
Millie looms over me. “Clean up, then bring my prosthetic to the bedroom.” She pads out of the kitchen.
I lick my lips savouring her taste. Perhaps I will get my proper orgasm after all.
The soft sheet sooths my welts. I usually imagine the bed as the altar of my demanding goddess. But lying in it, it feels like a nest.
Millie’s hot hands part my thighs.
I draw in my legs like a willing whore. This is Millie’s nest, not mine.
She kneels between my legs, skin rainbow-dappled by the multi-coloured glass of her bedside lamp. A shiny black dildo casts a long shadow on her domed stomach. It’s J-shaped. The short end is rooted in her vagina so that it looks as if her clit has swollen into a slender black penis.
She shuffles forward. Icy lubricant drips from the tip. It splashes my cage and seeps through the bars to prickle my penis.
She drags her clammy hands over my flanks. “You like it, don’t you slave?”
I blush. It will take more than three years to get used to this. “Yes, Mistress.”
Her fingers clamp my right nipple. She tugs and twists. I yelp. But inside its cage, my sticky penis flexes. She laughs. “So delicate.” Her voices grows huskier. “You can touch me if you want.”
Gingerly, I reach out to her big breasts and gently squeeze the way she likes.
Millie’s face flushes. “Say it.”
My eyes water. I sob, “I love you Mistress,” and mean it.
Millie lowers herself on me, squashing her breasts against my chest. The cold dildo prods against my anus.
I tilt my hips and relax.
Millie’s artificial penis enters me. She gasps. It’d the device’s knobs rubbing her clit, but even so I feel used. I also feel a pleasant fullness, but no hardness in my chastity cage. If only I’d held back as she whipped me!
As she thrusts, Millie hooks her arms under my shoulders. Her breath comes hot on my ear. “Tell me about the girl. Talk dirty.”
“She was wanking,” I gasp. “But really she wanted somebody to lick her pussy. Her smooth, shaven pussy.”
Millie whimpers into my neck, just below my steel slave collar. Her moist mouth fastens on my skin. Her hips twitch, working the dildo faster.
Each violation pumps more blood into my penis.
“More!” she growls.
“Or to fuck her with a dildo,” I gasp. “Again and again.”
The dildo thrums in my rectum. Millie cries out. Her nails gouge my welts and – finally – I achieve an orgasm. I mentally claw at the sensation, trying to savour it.
But it’s gone.
Now my own semen lubricates the rubber shaft, stinging my delicate orifice.
Millie kisses me on the lips and rolls off.
By long practice, I wrap a handkerchief around the dildo and gently uproot its short end from her pussy.
She sighs. “Lie beside me, slave.”
I curl up around her, for all the world like her lover. This is how it should be; just her and me. No need for anybody else.
“Tomorrow,” she says sleepily. “You can find out who she is. It’s time I got laid.”
But what the hell did we just do?
The answer hits me like a punch in the stomach: We didn’t do anything. She was merely masturbating.
I start to weep. I’ve been lying to myself for the last three years. Millie enjoys playing at caring about me, but really I’m just a combination teddy bear, vibrator and domestic appliance. I’m not even a pet.
For some reason, my penis swells in its cage and throbs against the bars, sending pulses of blood to torment my bruised rectum. It feels as if my cock is going to squeezes itself through the surgical steel mesh like meat pouring out of a grinder.
I’m horribly turned on, and why not? Millie is intelligent beyond belief, witty, stunningly attractive in an old-fashioned pneumatic way, and erotically insatiable. Even sharing a bed with a sleeping Millie is sexy.
Then I realise. There’s no way that the old - free - me could have seduced somebody that classy. Even without the fetters and the chastity cage, I’m still a nobody.
Millie sighs and rolls over. Her warm, sleep-drenched breath tickles my cheeks.
I smile to myself. It’s worth being an unloved, semi-neutered slave just to be with this wonderful woman.
The snag is; what happens if she gets a new girlfriend?
Thursday, October 12, 2006
DASH HORDEN’S LAST TRIP TO DOMINAGO
I imagine doing the whole thing in black and white, with occasional speckles and lines to mimic old film stock – self consciously pretending to be an original 30s serial, and doing it “straight” rather than for laughs. I’d borrow the cast from the original and best Flash Gordon adventure, casting Jeans Rogers as my Gale http://www.flashgordon.ws/dale.htm.
DASH HORDEN’S LAST TRIP TO DOMINAGO
CHAPTER 1: THE WRATH OF AUREOLA
1939: MONTAGE OF NEWSPAPERS AND EXT. DASH’S ROCKETSHIP
Dash’s retro rocketship flies against a backdrop of stars, but shares the frame with a collage of newspapers:
WAR IN EUROPE!
DASH FLIES TO DOMINAGO
WILL PRINCE JARL HELP?”
INTERIOR PRINCESS AUREOLA’S BEDCHAMBER, ROYAL PALACE, DOMINAGO
We’re looking down on Princess Aureola’s bedchamber. It’s the Art Deco future: no visible ceiling, long, neatly pleated drapes, bold bracket-like detailing on the wall with dome rivets. Mute ROBOTMEN line the wall, all to attention. They look retro but not silly.
Near a handy TELEVISOR, ceiling-length curtains frame a huge bed on a raised dais against one wall. Surrounded by exotically dressed HANDMAIDENS, PRINCESS AUREOLA, lies sprawled on the bed, her skirt hiked up to her waist so that a kneeling HANDMAIDEN 1 can lick her pussy.
(DOMINAGISH FEMALE COSTUME comprises long, high-waisted skirt, and crop-top or bikini. It’s clingy, but just the right side of believable. (Think Arabian Nights.) The handmaidens have a plainer but more transparent costume. Aureola has striking Egyptian style jewellery and a skin-hugging boob-tube/crop-top to support her ample bosoms.)
As we close in, Aureola urges Handmaiden 1 on with a riding crop. We notice that the girls are bare-bottomed under their diaphanous skirts, but there’s something shiny covering their pussies.
Close-ups: Handmaiden 1’s back as the riding crop blows come faster; Aureola throws her head back; nipples erect; eyes widen; the riding crop draws blood; Aureola drops riding crop and forces Handmaiden 1’s face into her pussy; Aureola screams.
Handmaiden 1 flops back, exhausted but wide-eyed and flushed with desire. She weeps.
(Sitting up and cupping the girl’s chin, which is dripping with the royal juices.)
You’ve pleased me, my pretty.
(Reaches for the girl’s nipple. Holds out other hand to receive riding crop from offscreen handmaiden.)
(Whimpers. Recoils: She doesn’t want to be turned on.)
Aureola’s fingers pinch the nipple.
The girl’s eyes widen: she’s obviously frustrated.
Aureola rolls the girl over onto the royal lap.
Closeups: Aureola pops a breast free and toys with it; hikes up the girl’s skirt, revealing long sexy legs with high-strapped sandals; strokes between the girl’s thighs - there’s definitely something metallic covering her pussy.
A pity you shall have no pleasure for yourself.
(Turns to Robotmen)
Take her to the cells for a whipping! Perhaps that will teach her to address me properly.
(Close up on her angry face)
I have not forgotten that you all betrayed me.
(Bows low, cleavage-tastic moment.)
Y…y…your Majesty, Dash Horden has landed
Activate the Spy Ray! Then report for a whipping - never interrupt the Royal Afterglow!
INTERIOR: DASH’S ROCKETSHIP
Dash is at the controls, back to Gale who stands behind him in fashionable respectable 30s costume. She’s unfastening her skirt.
(Face set, grimly looking forward, sweat beading on his forehead. Just out of focus behind him Gale now has her skirt and blouse off, revealing 30s bra and silk underskirt.)
Don’t worry Gale, I won’t turn round.
(The under skirt drifts to the ground and we focus on just one perfect thigh: cami-knickers, garter belt and stockingtops.)
Oh Dash! You’re so stuffy! We’re not on Earth!
Pull back, and here’s Gale in Domagish costume, still looking fresh faced and big eyed.
(Still looking forward)
Can we get moving now? This is a diplomatic mission, you know.
You just can’t wait to get together with Prince Jarl.
(Bending and drawing up her hem to reveal a long, curvy leg.)
All the more reason to wear the local costume. Hang on, Dash.
Close up: She holds her knickers between finger and thumb – this girl’s going commando on Dominago.
INTERIOR: AUREOLA’S BEDROOM, AT THE TELEVISOR
Same image, but now on the screen. Aureola’s been watching the entire scene.
Close ups: she’s absentmindedly masturbating; the kneeling handmaidens watch enviously.
(Holding out her wet fingers for a handmaiden to suck clean in close up)
Seize them both. Prepare the Chastiser Ray.
EXTERIOR: DASH’S ROCKETSHIP, LANDED IN THE ROCKY BADLANDS AT THE BASE OF THE PALACE ROCK
Dash and Gale have only got as far as the boarding ramp before the Robotmen seize them. Gale is doing her trademark orgasmic scream.
(Apparently rolling over a tantalisingly erotic background. The first couple of lines are already “off screen”. The last lines are not on screen, but we don’t care about them.)
happened to Prince Jarl? Can Dash and Gale escape the clutches of Princess power-mad Aureola? What is the purpose of the evil-sounding Chastiser Ray? Will Dash win help for
(Again over an erotic background. Only the name of the artist and the writer are legible. )
Friday, October 06, 2006
Being stuck in a chastity belt makes Mark irresistable to the girls on his college campus. As the encounters get kinkier, the emotions darker, he must chose between wild sex, and having a proper orgasm again ever.
It's still in print, and I even get the odd fan-mail - one gentleman even sent me a sex toy! However, I've not yet got around to a second effort. Partly it's to do with time. Mainly, however, it's been hard finding another idea that's worth a full length novel.
I pretty much put everything but the kitchen sink into The Chastity Belt... male chastity, teasing and denial. F/F, F/M and M/F D&S, not to mention a good dose of voyeurism. I also floated my idea of chaste male as participant observer, and as ultimate sex god. Has anybody else ever published a bondage scene where the male top remains in a CB throughout?
Then there were the emotions. Though it's very much an erotic novel, it's also a 4-way love story, and an exploration of the whole S&M fantasy-reality balance issue... though I hope you wouldn't notice those themes unless you went looking for them!
There wasn't much room for a sequel! Worse, I'd used up a lot of my most powerful (to me) ideas.
However, I have tested the waters with the odd short story posted on forums. So, I thought it might be interesting to bring my work together in one place, and perhaps even float the odd idea. I might even discuss the novel I am working on. It all depends...
But for now: Hello world, I'm Giles English, erotic novelist!