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.