Free cupcakes at San Francisco reading with Violet Blue January 28th at Booksmith

To those who were at our last fabulous reading, it was packed, and we signed lots of books and gave out lots of cupcakes. I hope to do so again so pretty please, tell your SF friends about this one. I'll be reading "Espionage" from Best Women's Erotica 2011 (and it'll soon be available for your listening pleasure). Plus I get to host Dusty Horn (who Violet introduced me to at Litquake in 2009!), Susie Hara and Donna George Storey, both of whom I met via working with Susie Bright. See you at Booksmith! (And Donna George Storey and I also read the night before, January 27th, at Good Vibrations in Berkeley.)

I didn't title it "Fisting: A Love Story" but I could have

From my story "Espionage" in Best Women's Erotica 2011 by Violet Blue. I used all sorts of devices I don't normally - second person, a tense I'm not even sure what it's called ("In a few minutes, you will emerge..."). It's dark yet it's a love story, for sure. When I'm feeling down about how my writing isn't going as planned, sometimes I pick up this story and reread it. I'm making my way through the whole book, too. It's a keeper, and a great holiday gift for that special someone. Kindof funny because the one I wrote for Obsessed (my 2011 erotic romance anthology) is not this intense at all. It's more lighthearted, fun, but the love is there too. It takes all kinds, I guess, to quote an Aimee Mann song.

You are ready, so, so ready, and you take them in greedily, followed by four. His other hand finds places to pinch you—inner thigh, belly—as you open for him, spreading your legs as far as you can, willing yourself to relax. You—the part of you that makes these decisions—want this, want this final time, this heat, this heaviness, but your body is more cautious, closing around his fingers as the thumb attempts entry. Your body, your cunt, knows he is almost too large to fit inside but you have overruled your body before, turning pain into the most dazzling of erotic highs. This is not like the times he’s held you down and shoved his cock inside you, shocked you with the bluntness of it, making you play catchup. He can’t hurry this along. Instead he rotates his fingers and adds more lube and you grunt and bite your lip and feel him get a little further inside.

He goes in, and in, and in, thumb curled up and then there it is, the ball of his hand, this giant inside you. You’ve heard that the human heart is actually the size of a hand, and wonder if, right now, he is giving you a part of his heart, a part that is only for you, a part you can treasure as you feel its outline pressing the tender, thin walls of your pussy wider and wider. The tears come—of fear, relief, pleasure, love—all at once, and you are grateful for the dark. He can hear them, that’s fine, but seeing them is another story. Seeing them is a little too close for comfort. You lie there on the floor of the closet, stealing more than your seven minutes in a kinky kind of heaven, as his massive heart of a hand reels you in and lets you go. His other hand finds your clit, so hard and aching it could be a cock, and you think you’ll hurt him when you come like that, squeezing so tight, the energy rushing all around, making your fingers tingle and your head so light it could float away. You see stars behind your eyes and have to drop your legs to the ground. His hand makes love to you, makes love appear inside of you even as you know this has to be the end. You want all of him, all the potential he has to love someone, and this is just a teaser.

“I’m going to pull out,” he says after what could be three minutes, or thirty. You want to protest, because once he’s gone, the emptiness will be so huge you know that sex will never be enough to fill it. You reach for his wrist and he lets you take it, lets you half sit up and keep him there. There’s a stillness to this all, a calm, Zenlike focus combined with the way it makes your pussy take over everything. You can feel him shaking, are sure he is sweating, and you take your fill of him, then lie back and let him leave. The silence is not deafening, but awe-inspiring. You break it by leaning against his chest, listening to his heart beat. You manage to block out all the noise outside the closet.

Violet Blue calls my "Espionage" "one of the most powerful stories I've ever read

Two very cool bits of news. First, editor Violet Blue has this to say about my second person story "Espionage" that she included in Best Women's Erotica 2011 (Cleis Press):

Not only famous in erotic writing, Rachel Kramer Bussel is an online media sensation. In one of the most powerful stories I’ve ever read, “Espionage” seems to pull from a very deep place to create a story I’ve returned to more than once. Here, we are the girl at the party who’s been having a torrid affair with the man of the house, seeing his wife for the first time as guests float in and out and finally mustering up the force to do something that dares him to be ours, even if just for that one intense moment that rips our fishnets.

Second is that I don't have my author copies yet, but I read that for free with my free sample I downloaded from the Kindle edition. Many Cleis Press anthologies, including my Peep Show, Bottoms Up, Fast Girls, Orgasmic, Smooth, Passion, Please, Sir, Please, Ma'am and Spanked (probably others too) now allow you to preview the book, reading the introdution and one story, sometimes part of a second. So check it out and read her sexy, ice cream-meltingly sweet and dripping and luscious introduction.



You can also order the paperback from Amazon or directly from Cleis Press.

Here's the start of my story "Espionage:"

You tuck your new pink and black coat, the one purchased earlier in the day just for this special evening, around your body, pull it tight like it’s cold out, except you’re indoors and the fire is roaring. You are cold, but it’s the kind of cold that can’t be heated by rubbing two sticks together or turning up the thermostat, the kind of cold that can only be vanquished once your heart catches up. Your heart is cautiously icy, watching and waiting; it isn’t safe to let it melt just yet.

Instead, you look—you could say spy, except you have an invitation, an elaborate listing of reasons this will be the party to end all parties, delivered right to your inbox. You’ve been promised bubble baths, servants, champagne, s’mores, drugs, debauchery. Those things intrigue you, sure, since you’re used to zoning out in front of the tv, quiet dinner parties, wholesome events like comedy shows and trivia nights, but you’d have shown up for gin rummy if it were held right here, in these rooms that hold a life that will never be yours, a life you’ve been given glimpses of but never truly peeked inside. Even better than any promise of party pampering, you’ve been granted access to this sacred space, this love shack you’ve up til now only imagined vividly. This is your chance to enter the inner sanctum, and you cling to it in the same way you hold your coat, and your heart—close. Still, despite the tacit permission, you feel like a spy, an Anaïs Nin emissary, as you walk through the rooms that make up their home, their urban house of love and lust and lasciviousness, a house you will never inhabit no matter how many times you fuck the master of it.

And while I don't necessarily "set out" to write bisexual protagonists, bisexuality weaves its way into many of my stories. In part, it's because I'm bi, and in part, it's because in erotica it adds all sorts of nuances and intrigues—you can definitely have those without it, but I like mixing things up.

You feel his eyes follow you around the room, feel his palms sweat as you tilt your head back and let the journalist whose byline you’ve read countless times tilt your head against her breast and slide her red lipstick over your lips, painting them as if she were making love to you. In a way, maybe she is, her fingers crushing your jaw, the not-quite-liquid, not-quite-solid of the waxy ruby pressing hard against your hips, hard the way he used to crush them, hard the way you like it.

She laughs an almost evil laugh that makes you wonder what else she could do with the lipstick, and feel a frisson of static pass from her small, bony hands into your cheeks when she pinches them, inspecting her work. You wonder, of course, if he’s fucked her, even though it shouldn’t really matter. Lots of things that shouldn’t matter take up space in your mind, fragments of jealousy on permanent repeat. You pucker up just to give your lips something to do, someone to make contact with who is not him. Her tongue traces the red, teases, darts but doesn’t claim you as her wicked laugh did. You let her know, with your lips, that she could have you, but she simply pulls back and smiles, her nails digging into your upper arm. Suddenly you want to pull her bleached blonde hair, tug hard until she can’t even make a sound, the feral domme inside of you wicking at your insides, aching to be let out for a moment. Instead you just smile wide and she slinks away to find another victim.

After, you think the lipstick will be smeared—that’s only right, isn’t it, after someone’s just fucked you with a tube from Mac?—but instead, it’s perfect. Redder than red, redder than you’d ever dare in your daily life. Fancy that. They should put that in an ad campaign. You go back to your spying-cum-ogling, your lips now signaling that you are the hussy you know yourself to be, the other woman come seeking vengeance, seeking something you will never have because it belongs to someone else.

Read the whole story in Best Women's Erotica 2011.

My story "Espionage" in Best Women's Erotica 2011

I told you about this when I first made the sale, but I'm thrilled that this book is out, and incredibly honored to be in it, especially because I pushed myself with this story, in a lot of ways. It's erotic but also more than that, I hope. Thank you to editor Violet Blue for including me in what I'm sure is a sexually sizzling collection (I don't have my copies yet but can't wait to read it). You can buy it now from Amazon or your local bookstore (click to find one). The Kindle edition will be on sale November 1st.



From the Cleis Press site:

"Suddenly this year, every single story is layered top to toe with explicit sex—hard and wet and mean and sweet, flowing with love and fused with characters who finally feel like us, with no apologies..." —from the Introduction

In Best Women's Erotica 2011, women are ready to stake their sexual claims like never before—with characters created by some of the most famous names in the erotica genre. Alison Tyler's naughty roommate threesome get more than they bargained for in the dangerous and delicious "Want"; an athlete in Sommer Marsden's "Laps" finds herself doing anything to please her trainer; and a mistress in Rachel Kramer Bussel's "Espionage" commands her lover for herself, if only for a searing moment, during a dinner party where she meets his wife.

With stories contributed by Alison Tyler, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Sommer Marsden, Jacqueline Applebee, Donna George Storey, Cecilia Tan, Louisa Harte, Louise Lagris, Chrissie Bentley, Alyssa Turner, Lana Fox, Amelia Thornton, Giselle Renarde, Valerie Alexander, Velvet Moore, Lola Olson, Kirsty Logan, Cynthia Hamilton, and Janine Ashbless.

For a little more of a teaser, here's the opening to "Espionage:"

“You tuck your new pink and black coat, the one purchased earlier in the day just for this special evening, around your body, pull it tight like it’s cold out, except you’re indoors and the fire is roaring. You are cold, but it’s the kind of cold that can’t be heated by rubbing two sticks together or turning up the thermostat, the kind of cold that can only be vanquished once your heart catches up. Your heart is cautiously icy, watching and waiting; it isn’t safe to let it melt just yet.”

and a bit from the middle:

"His fat fingers find your wetness, a wetness that surprises even you. You didn’t come here for this; you’re supposed to be an observer, a spy, a detached spectator, not a participant. In the dark you can barely see a thing, can only feel. He wants his fingers to hurt, to hurt the way they used to, to hurt the way you used to like it, so your pussy is sore long after they’re gone. He twists them and slams them deep inside you, and even though you’re wet there, it does hurt in its way. He drops your wrists to press his hand against your cheek, to pin you in place, digits digging into the tender skin of your face, landing wherever they may.

You squirm, and aren’t sure if it’s to get away or to get him in deeper. Actually, that’s a lie; he’s always known better than you what you want, a trait that’s either the hottest thing ever or the apotheosis of infuriating. You push against him and instantly the mood changes; you are no longer simply star-crossed lovers reuniting, but something darker, deeper. You press hard with your hands, your hips, to fight him off—but not really. He pushes back with ease, his hand twisting your head into the wall, covering half your face. The harder he holds you there, the deeper the ache in your pussy. You try to twist to the side, give him an elbow blow, something to make him feel the impact, but he is more powerful than you by far. Even if he weren’t, though, he would be winning, because this, finally, is what you’ve come here for: to struggle, to writhe, to argue with your body, to try to tell him, and yourself, that this is over, knowing all the while it will never be over, not really."