Email: rachelkramerbussel at gmail.com



 

Lusty Lady

BLOG OF RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL
Watch me talk about my debut as an author, Sex & Cupcakes: A Juicy Collection of Essays, in this Q&A with my publisher Thought Catalog Books

Thursday, October 21, 2010

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."

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