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Lusty Lady

Watch my first and favorite book trailer for Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica. Get Spanked in print and ebook

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Ice ice bar, baby

Oops, wrote this the other day and thought it had posted (I can't access this actual blog in Dubai, like many sites, it's blocked, so I just noticed).

Whirlwind day in Dubai, the first day I've gotten up at a relatively normal hour, despite crazy insomnia that had me up finishing Valerie Frankel's hilarious 2004 novel The Not-So-Perfect Man (also hilarious is how dated references can be in just 8 years, which is not a knock on Valerie at all, I highly recommend the novel and it was a perfect, sweet, funny vacation read). Anyway, I did manage to get up and greet the day and visit a beautiful ice bar, Chill Out (my first time at at ice bar but certainly not my last), which I plan to write about, geeked out at a Sanrio store, used my new cell phone to set up some cool appointments and then visited another mall, where I learned that Borders isn't just alive and well, it's touting Fifty Shades of Grey. And I took photos of Ski Dubai, the indoor ski park. And being a good New Yorker, if not a good tourist, I went to Shake Shack. I even wrote some Skype erotica in between my running around. Also, I love the Dubai Metro. It's clean, easy to follow and they announce in text and loudspeaker what the next station is, in Arabic and English. That's all for now.

chilling out at Chill Out

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I rode a sand dune buggy and a camel in the desert!

It's my last day in Dubai, so there'll be much more about it this week, and have had a great time and done some scary things, like ride a sand dune buggy. I almost refused because I'm scared of cars but it was exhilarating and fun and a little scary. The second photo I took myself while I paused after a big dune. And I rode a camel too. And got to go on a gorgeous boat cruise that was the best thing I did in Dubai. The water felt amazing, hot and soothing and wonderful. If you are ever in Dubai, check out the boats leaving from the Dubai Marina Yacht Club, and get a group together. The breeze and sun and views were all stunning and perfect. I felt so lucky that someone I met who was celebrating her birthday just invited me within thirty minutes of meeting me. Dubai is like that, in my experience; a few people went out of their way to be nice to me (and others did so in an icky way, which I will be writing about shortly).

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Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Hear me read from Fifty Shades of Grey Tuesday, October 2nd in NYC at 50 Shades of Banned

I'll be reading from Fifty Shades of Grey Tuesday night in celebration of banned books. All the details are on Facebook and at Comic Book Legal Defense Fund.
On October 2, celebrate Banned Books Week with an evening of stirring readings from erotic classics at Fifty Shades of Banned: A Celebration of Erotic Literature. The event starts at 8 PM at the Village Pourhouse on 64 3rd Ave (11th Street Entrance, across from Webster Hall) and benefits New York free speech charities National Coalition Against Censorship and Comic Book Legal Defense Fund.

If one thing attracts the attention of the would-be censor, it’s sex. Depictions of sexuality in books, comics, art and film have drawn the eager attentions of Vice Squads and Morality Police since long before the days of Anthony Comstock. Those censorship challenges continue to this day, and are fought by the important work of NCAC and CBLDF.

Fifty Shades of Banned will take place at the Village Pourhouse on 3rd Avenue in the East Village on Tuesday, October 2 at 8 p.m. The event will feature dramatic readings from censored lit including The Story of O, Joe Blow, Howl, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and Fifty Shades of Grey by sexologist and author Dr. Logan Levkoff, erotica author Rachel Kramer Bussel, comedy group MURDERFIST and more.

Come for the classic smut, stay for a chance to win a signed copy of Fifty Shades or other exciting raffle prizes courtesy of Babeland. All door donations and raffle proceeds will go to benefit free speech defenders NCAC and CBLDF and therefore ensure that we all have access to stimulating lit for years to come.

Who: The Comic Book Legal Defense Fund & the National Coalition Against Censorship
Where: The Village Pourhouse, 64 3rd Ave in the East Village
: Tuesday, Oct. 2, 8 p.m., doors open at 7:30
How Much:
$10 suggested door donation, includes raffle ticket
Featuring: Banned Books, 2 for 1 Abita Beers, $5 Fat Tuesday menu of hurricanes, hand grenades, po’ boys and jambalaya.
For more information, visit Blogging Censorship (,

Interestingly, there've been articles saying that while Fifty Shades of Grey was available in the UAE (United Arab Emirates), Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed weren't for sale until recently. I have seen them in multiple stores, including Kinokuniya at Dubai Mall, and Borders and Virgin Megastore (which live on in Dubai).

Fifty Shades of Grey at Borders at Mall of the Emirates

Fifty Shades of Grey at Kinokuniya at The Dubai Mall

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Putting the me in atonement

I barely know what day it is, let alone what date, let alone what holiday, but it didn't escape my notice that I would be in Dubai during Yom Kippur, nor that I spent Rosh Hashanah at a TV show taping. I'm not fasting, and I'm not doing all that much formal atonement, not in the way my religion would have me do it. But as I walked along the sand and let the waves at Ocean Beach wash over my feet, so warm and soothing, while the call to prayer sounded not far from me, I realized how clearly the person I most have to atone to and for is myself. That's not to say there aren't plenty of people I owe apologies to, but part of why I came here was to try to get away from, if not myself, since that's impossible, the impulses inside me that lead me toward behaviors and ways of being that don't serve me.

I already had it in mind to come to Dubai, but a few weeks before I booked my ticket, I realized how much I treasure my ability to go anywhere, anytime. I know it's a privilege, not a right, and I know that in the grander scheme of all sorts of things going on in the world, this was a meaningless incident. I would truly much rather forget it ever happened and yet I can't exactly, because it encapsulated so much about a particular time in my life, about consequences and choices. It's not my place here to get into all the details, but suffice it to say, being asked to change plans I'd made wasn't so much a financial hardship as a mental one. My reaction was immediate, cutting and vicious. I felt pretty devastated, so much so that even later, when I realized it would have been the right decision for the most selfish reasons, I still couldn't quite accept that status quo. I'm getting there, but I think that was part of what propelled me to travel almost 7,000 miles away, to go through with what still seems like a little bit of a crazy idea.

I'm not exactly known for my moderation, so tell me I can't go somewhere, and I want to go everywhere. Childish, perhaps, and as I face what feels like a big birthday and try to think about what it might be like to raise children myself, I am working on being a little bit less childish. I feel like this year rather than having a lot of specific, concrete things to atone for, I'm more about trying to figure out what feels much harder and more daunting, which is the daily act of living in a way that I can, well, live with, in a way that doesn't have me reaching for the nearest panacea, whatever form that might take. I had no intention of starting a relationship this year, and in fact pictured my trip to Hawaii as another escape, a respite from all the noise in my head and seemingly everywhere I went, and I have a feeling if I'd been looking for a relationship maybe I would have found one, but not this one. It sortof found me and the thing I fear the most is mishandling it. We've had probably only one real disagreement, and one other silly one about candy, but in that one, I was upset and I was already planning to go for a walk so I just left. He asked me if I wanted to talk and I really really didn't, that was the last thing I wanted to do because I knew I was about to cry, and so I walked and I cried and I came back and I was less upset. But I know that leaving, whether the room or the house or the country, is not a permanent solution to any problem. Sometimes the distance does help, and that's something I've learned about myself. I like solitude, especially when I'm upset. I like it when I'm not upset too.

Today, the water was so perfect and warm and comforting; it was the first time since I've been here that I'd felt the heat break a bit. There was a breeze and waves and people being happy, as they tend to be at the beach. I wasn't so much happy or sad as peaceful. I was a little bit lost, more so than I'd realized, about to walk a mile in the heat in search of the spa that brought me here in the first place, but not having to be anywhere at any appointed time, not having anyone asking where I am or demanding I be or not be anywhere, being utterly unfettered, to stand as long as I wanted and try not to get the hem of my dress wet, was a gift I gave to myself. It was, in its way, my own little act of atonement and forgiving.

I know that I don't have all the answers, and probably never will. I'm one of those people who gets paralyzed by choices sometimes. I want to do X and Y and Z, not to mention A-W, and when I can only pick one, or even two or three, knowing that by actively choosing those options, I'm leaving behind others, feels like such a colossal burden sometimes I would rather not make any choices at all. At the same time, I've learned over and over again, so many times it should be second nature, but every time it feels like I'm learning it for the first time, that I can't be responsible for anyone else's actions or feelings, only my own. For a ridiculously long time, I think I thought the point of "working on myself" was so that I could sortof show off this new improved me and as a result would get these external kudos. I'm not going to pretend I don't care about external kudos, but there's nothing like being somewhere totally new and doing so on my own to remind me that I can and always have been able to take care of myself and that at the end of the day, I'm the only one I have to answer to, and if I can't, what anyone else thinks is so irrelevant they may as well not exist.

That's one of the first things I tell people about writing erotica; you can't have anyone else's judgment in your head, because that will automatically color your writing. Whatever you plan to do with it, your words are yours to do with as you please and I can say that for me, the times I've felt most okay about myself are the times when I've dared to write things that if I let myself overthink them I know wouldn't meet with person X or Y's approval.

While I was waiting for my plane to board at JFK, I read a Frank O'Hara poem and plane travel, "Sleeping on the Wing," and there's a line in there: "Once you are helpless, you are free, can you believe that?" It stood out to me as this perfect description of the thrill of bondage and submission, plucked apart from the rest of its brethren, and I may still quote it in a story, but it also struck me again as those beautiful waves crashed against my legs. The gift you're given when you crash into an uncomfortable situation, an unpleasant reminder, an unwelcome intrusion, is one that sometimes takes a while to process. For me, it was and is a reminder that life isn't always pleasant and that it's up to me to choose how to react and to learn what works for me and what doesn't.

It's now actually the next day, here; I couldn't think of a proper conclusion, nor could I sleep. I do know that constant, daily berating, obsessing over my flaws and mistakes, is not the same as atonement, and doesn't help me or anyone else. I know that those immediate, cutting and vicious reactions are as human as the sheer bliss I felt in the water. I also know how many pieces I've left to die on my computer because I "couldn't think of a proper conclusion." I know some people might think I'm fearless but I actually think the opposite; I have so many fears, big and small, and I'm not going to atone or apologize for them, or anything else that makes me me. I can learn to manage them, to pause and examine and ponder, to figure out why I have those reactions, be they fear or ecstasy or what have you. And yes, I know this is utterly self-indulgent, and perhaps has nothing to do with Yom Kippur, and I'm okay with that. And even if I'm not, I will be.

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Friday, September 21, 2012

From one oversharer to another

Sometimes, I sit down and actively think about story ideas to pitch, and sometimes they come to me when I am doing something else. I had one recently that's about, well, my sex life with my boyfriend, and I do think it would make an interesting essay, but before I go forward, I basically feel obligated to go to him and ask, "Hey, are you okay with me writing about ___?" In this case, it's not about anything sexually "out there" in any way, but it's still personal. I'm aware of that, and I'm also aware that he's much more private than I am. If he had to pick, I'm sure he would prefer I not write about things that involve him.

Since I wrote this essay for The Frisky, I've been thinking about that ongoing conundrum, and I realized that he's not the target audience for a piece like that. Largely, women are, in my mind. This other idea i have isn't as gender-related, but more about what we prioritize when it comes to sex, what surprises me about how sex plays out in our relationship, and other observations that are indeed personal but that I think say larger things about our culture's take on sex. I always try to give a little more context than just me me me.

On the other hand, part of why I gravitate toward first person writing in my own work and reading material is that I know what happened, for me, because I was there. I'm not saying I have a perfect memory or that what I write on day 1 would be the same as on day 11 or that my take is the only take, but nobody can ever tell me I didn't feel something or that my feelings are "wrong." By definition, they can't be wrong. Of course, we can all be wrong about lots of things, and I learn from writing about some of the most intimate aspects of my life. Sometimes that's actually how I handle interpersonal communication too. It's something I'm working on, the talking thing, but it's not always my first or best way of getting my point across. I get flustered and frustrated and lose track of what I wanted to say. When I'm writing, I have more time and more ways to figure out what I actually think and feel.

It's tricky, though, to write about your own life and maintain personal relationships. Here's what Mandy Stadtmiller has to say about writing about sex and dating over at xoJane:
There is a dirty little secret about writing about your dating life. (And I've heard it from several other much more mainstream girl sexytime writers than me, including ones who are currently on Bravo.) What people don't tell you about doing the whole personal memoir thing -- or "oversharing" if you want to be a reductive hipster dick about it -- is that many dudes live in fear of being written about. Like, when I had a dating column at The New York Post, I started showing the boyfriend I had at the time the columns that I would write three months into dating him. He is un-Google-able with me. As is my ex-husband. As are the majority of men I've dated. Aren't I good girl? I keep secrets. Good job, Mandy.
It's a puzzle I am constantly trying to find new ways to solve, and it's not one that's going to go away, not because I make my living by writing these days, but because even if I weren't getting paid, I would feel that need to make sense of my life in words, and share those words with other people. It's one of the reasons I loved CatalystCon, because people there get that, inherently, but also that whether you have sex as part of your job or incorporate sex in some other way, you also have a private life, feelings, thoughts, that are separate from what we put out into the world. That goes for us writers too. I'm half joking when I call myself an oversharer, because whose decision is it what's "over" in "overhsare?" For me, most of the time, it's more about survival and self-knowledge.

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Dubai bound

I'll be in Dubai on vacation from September 22nd to October 1 so may be slow in answering non-urgent emails. If it's urgent, put "Urgent" in the subject line and I will do my best. Much to do to get ready and I will be working, blogging, reporting and posting photos while I'm there, but a heads up. This is both a chance to explore somewhere I've never been and a chance to have some solitude and stay in one place for longer than I have all year. I'm hoping it will also help me break into some new markets.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

I interviewed Girls star Jemima Kirke

I interviewed Jemima Kirke, who plays Jessa on the HBO show Girls, for Flaunt magazine, and they got some gorgeous photos of her to aspire with her artwork. She is a total inspiration, was completely down to earth, and is an artist and a mom, someething I aspire to be (well, writer/mom).

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Tuesday, September 18, 2012

My master

It seems like much longer ago than November 1st that I sent an email saying "I want the word 'heart' on my left inner arm, I guess as tall as possible and going maybe from an inch or two in from my elbow toward my wrist but not actually on my wrist." Last November feels like a lifetime ago. As we inch toward November and a birthday that's kindof freaking me out, I know for sure that this is one of the best things I've ever done. When I feel like I'm losing my path, I look down, and remember. Thanks, Sanctuary Tattoo.



The song on the new Aimee Mann album Charmer (which I keep wanting to call Crusher, because I'm reading Niall Leonard's novel with that name) I've listened to the most today is called "Crazytown." It's incredibly catchy and while I think there are way more than fifty shades of crazy, as someone who's tried to manage my various crazy aspects, especially in this last year, even while doing things some people might think are crazy, like traveling alone to Dubai where I don't know anyone and basically kindof winging the whole thing, it seems fitting. Certainly one of the things I'm looking forward to is quiet; I won't be using my phone and while I'm sure I'll meet people, probably mostly I'll be on my own, in my head. Sometimes that's a dangerous place to be, and sometimes it's the only place I want to be.

When I get back, I'm celebrating my cousin's third birthday by buying him a custom made Plex cake (Plex is his favorite Yo Gabba Gabba! character) and then later in October I'm visiting a friend and her two kids in Texas, and I realized that I miss my weekly visits with them a lot in part because letting little kids climb all over me, raid my iPhone and laptop, and be utterly ridiculous makes me just a little less crazy. It reminds me that while kids can be super smart, they don't overthink every detail of their lives. They are utterly in the moment, in part because their sense of time is such that the moment is all there is. That's not something that comes naturally to me. I'm constantly making notes, reminders, to do lists. I have this overlying sense of guilt about the work I haven't yet done that often impedes the work I'm in the middle of doing.

My boyfriend is very good about not being the overthinking kind of crazy. I love that about him. I found out it was National Cheeseburger Day this morning and told him, and the first thing he said was, "I want a cheeseburger for dinner." So we went to Red Robin in the driving rain and ate jalapeño coins and elaborate burgers. He regularly makes me laugh so hard I feel like I have to pee, and usually it's over something totally ridiculous that I couldn't even try to explain it. I still need a lot of time on my own to explore and wander and think and be alone and figure things out. There have been times this year where all the craziness reached such a fever pitch I lost control a little. I wanted so badly to just be out of that headspace that I was willing to do some pretty out of character things. Now I'm trying to work on things like self-care and responsibility and communication and owning up to all my craziness and as it turns out, even the worst things, the rock bottom situations that looked so abysmal I never would've imagined I could dig my way out of them, can change. There are days when things still feel incredibly precarious, when all I want is to escape. And I'd be lying if I said flying 17 hours to a country utterly different than anywhere I've ever been isn't a form of escape; of course it is. But I also know there's a reason beyond Sanrio that I was drawn to going there. That's what I'm going to be exploring, and that's the kind of thing that even ten guidebooks wouldn't be able to tell me how to do. That's all on me.

6 Awesome Women I Met at Catalyst

I was in Long Beach, California for the first time this weekend at CatalystCon and a full summary will have to wait because I have 3 days to get ready to go to Dubai. But I met some amazing women, who totally inspired me. A few I'd met before, but I was so impressed with these ladies and highly encourage you to follow them. Catalyst will now be hosting Catalyst East and Catalyst West conferences, the former taking place March 15-17 in the Washington, DC area and the latter I believe in fall of 2013, so check their site and follow @CatalystCon on Twitter for details.

Megan Andelloux (@HiOhMegan) - Megan is a sexologist and sex educator and runs the The Center for Sexual Pleasure and Health in Rhode Island. She told a story at Bawdy Storytelling involving her first fisting, gone very, very wrong, and did it so flawlessly that she had the whole room agog. I can't even do it justice by summarizing it because it was just one of those brilliant live moments where nobody could figure out what was going on and the room was utterly silent waiting to find out.

Jessica Drake (@thejessicadrake) - Jessica is a porn star with Wicked Pictures and sex educator and this was the first time at one of Dee Dennis's conferences a porn company was a sponsor. Apparently, some people didn't love this idea, but I thought it was great and I caught Jessica on a sex education panel and she talked about how her audience has changed from mostly men to lots of women and couples. She is the force behind the Guide to Wicked Sex line of educational DVDs and was also incredibly nice. If you are going to CatalystCon East, I highly recommend you go to any panel she's on and if you want to know what a smart, sex-positive porn star actually thinks, ask her.

Amanda Hess (@amandahess) - Amanda was covering Catalyst as a journalist (check her out on Slate) and we had lunch and talked books and freelancing. I've been impressed with her writing since she was blogging at Washington City Paper; she writes smartly about sex and current events and porn; one of her more famous pieces profiled porn star James Deen for GOOD.

Lidia-Anain (@SexLoveJoy) - I met Lidia-Anain at Bookshop Santa Cruz earlier this year when I read there with Susie Bright, but had no idea she was such a powerhouse and awesome person. She runs the show Sex With Others with Jamye Waxman, is involved with Bawdy Storytelling, and I look forward to reading more of her work and meting her again. She also, I must add, had on a killer black and white dress and amazing heels at Bawdy Storytelling. I'm not saying you should go to Catalyst East for the fashion, but there was a lot of awesomeness inthat regard.

Allison Moon (@TalesofthePack) - Allison is the author of the lesbian werewolf novel Tales of the Pack and is working on a sequel. We'd met briefly before and I'd heard her tell a story at a Bawdy Storytelling event in San Francisco, but we got to actually chat about the ins and outs of self-publishing, which was fascinating and she told a story about a furry lesbian orgy that was utterly hilarious. Also, she was wearing, and is selling on her site, "Eat Fuck Howl" t-shirts!

Sex Nerd Sandra (@SexNerdSandra) - Sandra produces a podcast called, yes, Sex Nerd Sandra. She also spoke on the sex education panel and told a hilarious story about oral sex, dental dams, and the pressure to live up to society's, and her own, expectations at Bawdy Storytelling that was brave and wonderful.

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Monday, September 17, 2012

Fifty Shades of E L James and Katie Couric live tweeting!

Follow #50ShadesKatie where I'm in the front row live tweeting as @raquelita along with @marymac as Katie Couric interviews Fifty Shades of Grey author E L James on her new ABC show Katie!, airing today at 3 on ABC. People are here from Australia (Brisbane), Seattle, and Salt Lake City! Katie Couric is all over social media, find out more at and coming later today, an article I wrote there about Fifty Shades. Here we go! And yes, I know you can see my bra in the second photo. Trying not to have a wardrobe malfunction.

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Sunday, September 16, 2012

On being at a sex conference without your significant other

I was spoiled at Momentum this year, because my boyfriend was with me, doing a public art project. I kept walking by and saying hi and kissing him and if people asked me about my dating life I'd tell them that's who I'm dating. It was our first little adventure out of the tri state area, and since most of my travel is on my own, it was nice to unwind after a long day with him. While I will probably never not enjoy a hotel stay. I would be lying if I said seeing couples just being couply at Catalyst didn't make me a little jealous, and I don't get jealous very easily.

At the same time, when I haven't been conferencing, I've been working trying to cupcake blog and sex diary edit and basically do a lot in advance of my trip to Dubai and an utterly unexpected opportunity came up Monday (yes, I do know it's Rosh Hasahanah, but I'm a far better media whore than I am a Jew, sorry, not to mention, I don't want to have to atone for not doing everything I possibly can to sustain this haphazard so often feels crazy career) that meant I went to Nordstrom rack to buy a brightly colored dress and the shoes seen below. I never want to jinx things (learned that lesson long ago) so if it happens, I will let you know tomorrow, but anyway, I've had a lot to occupy my mind and my time and am not sure how much alone time we would have actually had, but still. What's funny is that for the most part I enjoy being alone and that's how I spend most of my time when I'm in NYC or traveling, and I love the freedom to change plans at the last minute and rearrange and follow whims, which you can't do as much with someone else by your side. It's how it is, but I definitely miss my guy and maybe if he hadn't gone to Momentum his absence wouldn't have seemed so prominent. I know, I should get used to it, like the heat, as I prepare for my 10-day trip, but still, I am looking forward to seeing him and being utterly boring and suburban as we go get my eyes checked at Costco. And in all honesty, he would've detested the heat, not to mention the plane ride, and I wouldn't want to subject him to those, but that doesn't mean I can't miss him.

my utterly cozy if a little lonely hotel bed

Hot tub!!

I don't know why palm trees make me happy but they do

public art also makes me happy

and foundtains!

I've eaten several huge and delicious meals at Potholder Cafe Too

Catalyst does NOT mess around. They fed us fried ravioli and made-to-order pasta on Friday night, and at my erotic writing workshop, which gave me lots of ideas and I hope people enjoyed, there were notepads and pens at every seat! That's a sign of a well organized conference.

my new shoes that I broke in at Bawdy Storytelling (catch them October 25th in NYC and regularly in the Bay Area) last night, where I told the story of how writing my first erotica story, "Monica and Me," way back in 1999, led me to one of the best relationships of my life. You truly never know where writing something down will lead, and that's part of writing's magic, in my opinion. Catalyst, baby!

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One of the most beautiful cupcakes I've ever seen

It's a Swarovski cupcake from Magnolia Bakery in Bloomingdale's in New York (I will soon have a report on the Dubai one!) and it sparkled and was gorgeous, though the edible jewel was more like a sucking candy and more pretty to look at than tasty to me. Read my review of the bakery, including their exclusive Bloomingdale's cupcake.

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Women in Lust Kindle ebook on sale for only $1.99

I don't set prices on my ebooks or paperbacks, so I have no idea how long this Kindle ebook sale will last, but as of this posting, at 7:24 a.m. PST on Saturday, September 15th, my anthology with the super hot cover Women in Lust ">is only $1.99 in Kindle ebook form! I've included the table of contents and a teaser from my back to school spanking story "Hot for Teacher" below; read more at And for the record, anywhere you buy my books from as long as they're not used gives me royalties, so I don't care if it's an ebook or a print book per se, but when I notice these sales, I like to let people know who might try a book for $1.99 they wouldn't for more. Also, you don't need a Kindle to read books on Kindle; you can read them on your computer or phone. Click for details on Kindle for Mac and Kindle for PC and Kindle for iPhone.

Table of Contents

Introduction: Ladies Who Lust

Naughty Thoughts Portia Da Costa
Guess Charlotte Stein
Her, Him, and Them Aimee Pearl
Bayou Clancy Nacht
Smoke Elizabeth Coldwell
Bite Me Lucy Hughes
Ride a Cowboy Del Carmen
Queen of Sheba Jen Cross
Hot for Teacher Rachel Kramer Bussel
Unbidden Brandy Fox
Something to Ruin Amelia Thornton
Guitar Hero Kin Fallon
Ode to a Masturbator Aimee Herman
Orchid Jacqueline Applebee
Cherry Blossom Kayar Silkenvoice
Rain Olivia Archer
The Hard Way Justine Elyot
Strapped K D Grace
Beneath My Skin Shanna Germain
Comfort Food Donna George Storey

From "Hot for Teacher" by Rachel Kramer Bussel:
When she reached Professor Arthur’s office, she knocked on the closed door, while looking around the quiet hallway. The school took on a different tone in the early evening, without the rush of students to and fro, their newly freed hormones practically bouncing off the walls. She could pause and look at the actual building, appreciate its history and her place in it. Meredith rounded her shoulders, feeling, for just a moment, like she was heading to the principal’s office. Just then the door opened and a tall, slim blonde girl walked out, giving her a shy smile. Professor Arthur looked up at her and smiled. For a second, her mind went to the two of them; had they been in there enacting the scenarios she’d conjured in her head? “Meredith, welcome.”

“Hi, Professor,” she said.

“Ralph, please,” he corrected her, and before she could say anything, he added, “I just want you to know I’m glad you’re in my class. I think it’s wonderful that you’re coming back to school. Too many people think that once they’ve hit a certain age there’s no point, or that it’s too hard.”

She was tempted to ask what age, exactly, that would be, but she didn’t. Instead she smiled, trying to beat back the nerves, aware that her outfit was a far cry from her classmate’s casual pink T-shirt and jeans. “It’s definitely challenging. I’m finding that some of the concepts are over my head. Supply and demand I get…” She trailed off, her throat caught as she watched him watching her, watched his eyes behind his glasses, watched him fidgeting with the pencil in his hand. Who used pencils, anyway? She waited for him to say something, but he just walked closer to her until he was right in front of her. “You get supply and demand, Meredith?” he asked, looking down at her. She stood, and they were right in front of each other. “Like you’re here to supply something to me, like your pussy, and I’m here to demand that you give me more?”

Oh, god. The words were crazy, over-the-top⎯and they made her instantly, achingly wet. She suddenly didn’t care that he was younger, that she was his student, that she wasn’t in some preppy uniform or casual chic, but instead, basically naked, save for a dress that did little to hide the nipples pressing against its red fabric, threatening to spill over the purple edges.

“Yes, like that. I want to give you…whatever you want.” As she said it, she realized it was true, because in giving to him, she was gaining so much. She’d been giving and giving and giving ever since she gave birth and now, finally, it was her time to take. Taking orders, taking spankings, taking cock⎯that’s what she wanted. “I’ve had my eye on you, Meredith. The way you sit there in class, so attentive when almost everyone else has their heads in their phones or computers. The way you look at me. I want to give you everything you deserve. But first I think you need a spanking. Put your hands on the desk,” he said, sounding far older than whatever his actual age was. When he lifted the dress and saw her she wasn’t wearing panties, he whistled.
Order Women in Lust from:


Kindle edition (ebook)

Barnes & Noble

Nook (ebook)



IndieBound (search for your local indie bookstore)

Cleis Press

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Thursday, September 13, 2012

Spoiler alert: I'm not pregnant

But I did recently take a pregnancy test and wrote about it at The Frisky.

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Monday, September 10, 2012

Why I'm Pro Life but Not "Pro-Life"

I saw a sonogram on an iPhone for the first time the other night. My friend fiddled with her screen and then slid the phone, complete with cracked case and leopard print cover, across the table in between our frozen banana and chocolate desserts at Soft Serve Fruit. She told me about what I was seeing, one part of which was, I think, the placenta, but I don't totally remember because I was listening to her voice, filled with so much bubbly excitement, it made me excited.

It's not my place to talk about someone else's body, but I am here, a little, because I wish I could convey how different, how animated, how happy my friend looked. Everything about her was lightened, from her hair to her skin. We talked about the comparison of fetus size to fruit, about whether she's finding out the gender, about how we both want to be moms. It was such a joyous conversation, and so full of life and passion and excitement.

I know plenty of people who've been faced with unwanted pregnancies. I've seen the way the carrying of that literal and figurative weight can drain, drown, overwhelm a woman. I've seen an unwanted pregnancy wreak havoc, threaten to utterly undo someone's life.

I just read an excellent YA novel, My Life as a Rhombus by Varian Johnson, about two teenagers faced with unexpected pregnancies who deal with them differently, and become friends. In one case, the woman's mother does everything she can to try to force her daughter to get an abortion. The mother had one when she was a teenager, and thinks any other choice will derail her daughter's future. Said daughter has other plans and doesn't care what anyone else thinks, and while I could tell that for her that would be a hard road, I couldn't help but cheer for her because she was strong, even when she was scared. She knew what was the right choice for her.

The truth is, no matter what choice a woman makes about a pregnancy, there will very likely be someone—friend, family, stranger—to tell them what they are doing is wrong. Kindof like there is always someone out there to tell us that so many of the things we are doing are wrong, whether it's what we're eating, who we're dating, how we're dressing, how much time we spend online, what career choices we're making. I shouldn't be shocked, but I continually am, how instinctive it seems to be to believe that whatever way you've chosen to live your life is, for many people, a default model for how others should live theirs. I have that instinct in me too, but I fight it with everything in me, because I abhor it. I have enough trouble trying to figure out my own life; I would be hypocritical in the extreme to try to pretend I know what's best for someone else. I don't, and neither do you.

And that to me is at the heart of what shouldn't even be an "issue." I hate that anyone would tell a woman she is "wrong" for choosing to terminate a pregnancy, or to keep one, yet both happen, all the time. "Fuck them," I said, losing any semblance of eloquence at the idea that someone would tell my friend not to go forward with her pregnancy. It's not that I don't think other people are entitled to an opinion; of course they are. But to profess to care about someone and not respect their decision to do something that so clearly is what they want to do baffles me.

What also baffles me is the idea that because I believe women should be able to make their own decisions about their reproductive lives I'm somehow out of the group who cares about "life." Fuck that too. I care deeply. I don't think you have to love babies or children or even your fellow humans to be pro-choice, but I do, and I am. In my head, I am already bringing my friend's child toys and I've offered to babysit as much as I can. I don't think it'll be an easy road, but the joy I saw on my friend's face, radiating out of her, was so beautiful, I know it will be worth whatever hardships she has to face, and I know she knows exactly what she's doing.

I believe life is like my friend's iPhone, with its splintering cracks and fashionable case, messy and beautiful all at once. Sometimes it's hard to know where one stops and the other begins. Sometimes there are catastrophes, and sometimes they feel insurmountable. But I don't think they ever truly are; we make decisions and we learn from them and maybe, if we're lucky, help other people in making their own. I forget sometimes to appreciate the messy alongside the beautiful, the lows along with the highs, the cracks amidst even the most serene transcendent experiences.

I think sometimes about what I want to teach my own kids, should I be lucky enough to have them, and while of course I'd love to say I never want them to experience any cracks, ever, that's unrealistic, unreal. That's not what life is about. Life is about finding the beauty amid the messiness, or making beauty happen, by any means necessary. In my opinion, that's what my friend is doing, and I couldn't be happier for her. That's not to say I wouldn't have supported her had she made a different choice; that would have been a different kind of beauty, and that would have been okay. Life is about self-determination, about forward motion, about knowing that we wake up every single day with, well, a whole day ahead of us to make, or remake, ourselves.

We adults don't grow in increments of fruit like my friend's fetus, but we do, hopefully, grow. I've done things this year I never would've imagined I could, or would, and some have been messy, some have been beautiful, some have simply been lessons that I'm still learning from. And I'm so incredibly grateful I get to keep on learning, every single messy, beautiful, life-filled day.

Sunday, September 09, 2012

Fifty Shades of Grey: A XXX Adaptation porn parody trailer, to be released September 20th

Yes, it's true: on September 20th, Smash Pictures will release Fifty Shades of Grey: A XXX Adaptation starring Allie Haze, Alexis Ford, Julia Ann, and Jaslene Jade. To me it begs the question of how the mainstream version of the film about a bondage and BDSM-themed novel will approach sex once it's all out there and on the table, though something tells me the hardcore (pun intended) E.L. James fans won't necessarily be watching the XXX parody version. A while back, I'd wanted to write about porn parodies vs. theatrical parodies in light of David Adjmi's play 3-C and its legal woes, but I didn't get all the answers I need to properly write about it, but it is an interesting comparison, in my mind, anyway. My review of the parody DVD is coming (another pun, ha!) as soon as I watch it!

Allie Haze starring as Anastasia Steele, via Porn Valley News

And the official trailer with its own take on Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey and "kinky fuckery:"

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Saturday, September 08, 2012

Incorporating the catastrophe of my personality

As I approach the one-year mark of my layoff and introduction to full-time freelancing, I'm finding that I am learning so much, yet there is so much more to learn. I often feel like I'm flailing, crouched behind the staid projects I've been doing for years, the ones that are almost rote, even when they are frustrating, the ones that make a little bit but not too much money, the ones that are fine but not moving me to the next level. I forget that sometimes you have to get accustomed to one thing before you leapfrog to the next. Or maybe I just need to take more risks.

Speaking of which, I met with my accountant, who recommend that I incorporate. I get all the reasons that makes sense, but it unnerves me, even though I saw the numbers. I get the logic behind it but it feels like turning myself into a corporation means I'll be selling out my emotions in some way, that rather than help me make money, it will hinder me in the actual act of doing the work I need to do to earn money. Ultimately, that process of paperwork and making up a name and all of that feels so serious and adult, which seems at odds for someone who is about to visit a Hello Kitty Spa. More so, it feels like the antithesis of creativity, even though I know creativity alone does not pay my rent. Sometimes I'm not even sure what does, yet according to those numbers, I did well, better than I would have guessed.

I picked up Katie Roiphe's new book of essays, In Praise of Messy Lives, at the library, and skipped ahead to her Mad Men essay, "The Allure of Messy Lives." In it, she quotes Don Draper quoting Frank O'Hara's poem "Mayakovsky."

Don quotes this part:
Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.
That led me to reading more about the man, Vladimir Mayakovsky, O'Hara's friend and a Russian poet and playwright who committed suicide. Here's a little from that Wikipedia entry:
In 1938 the Mayakovskaya Metro Station was opened to the public. In 1974 the Russian State Museum of Mayakovsky was opened in the center of Moscow in the building where Mayakovsky resided from 1919 to 1930.[12]

Frank O'Hara wrote a poem named after him, "Mayakovsky" in which the speaker is standing in a bathtub, a probable reference to his play "The Bathhouse".

In 1986 English singer and songwriter Billy Bragg recorded the album Talking with the Taxman about Poetry, named after a namesake Mayakovsky's poem.

In 2007 Craig Volk's stage bio-drama "Mayakovsky Takes The Stage" (based on his screenplay "At The Top Of My Voice") won the PEN-USA Literary Award for Best Stage Drama.[13]
The poem I found so beautiful, so stunning, so striking, that made me relate, like Don, to the catastrophe of my personality that seems to get me in trouble with its impulsivity, seemed trite after I read more about Mayakovsky, but still powerful. I am now carrying O'Hara's Meditations in an Emergency in my bag, a slim, potent volume. Maybe there will be more revelations.

So back to me. At the same time as I feel a little bit odd about turning myself into a business, it's exciting, and the fact of the matter is, it already is a business. I just submitted an essay on spec about something that's extremely personal, but it helped to get it out, to write about it. It feels as surreal as anything that's happened in the last year. I feel like the least business-minded person ever and now I'm going to be a business, just by existing. That's probably the wrong way to think about it, but it's how it feels. The work I do, rather than me, the human being, is my business, and yet almost everything I do winds up as fodder for my work, sometimes in ways I could never have predicted. I don't know how to separate them, and I think if I were try to separate the "real" me from the "writing" me, I would fail at being both.

That is the real "issue," if it's an issue at all. The writing about my life part comes naturally; it's how I sort out the good and the bad and the confusing and the in between. It's a good reminder as I wonder whether to pitch an essay about one of the craziest things I've ever done to a new editor; my first instinct was, "What will she think of me?" And yet...I want to share it, to get it out there and make it seem, even marginally, a little less crazy, because I wrote it down, because I contextualized it.

I'm not going to pretend I have a thing in common with Frank O'Hara, save for the fact that words, trite as they are, are how I cope. I hope it all means more than writing off the cost of the O'Hara book, because that is precisely what I don't want to become, someone reduced to figures, numbers, facts that don't mean anything without feelings.

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Thursday, September 06, 2012

Free erotic writing workshop, Babeland SoHo NYC October 17th

I'm back at Babeland October 17th! No RSVP necessary but be on time; last time people were late and missed it. Short and sweet and free!

Easy Erotica Writing with Rachel Kramer Bussel
Wednesday, October 17, 7pm, Free
Babeland SoHo, 43 Mercer Street

Want to write your own sexy stories just like E.L James? In this mini-workshop, Rachel Kramer Bussel, editor of Suite Encounters: Hotel Sex Stories and Best Bondage Erotica 2012 will teach you her top ten tricks for getting your readers' knickers in a twist. You’ll be banging out your own book in no time!

Photos from last time:

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Wednesday, September 05, 2012

Want a free Cheeky Spanking Stories postcard?

If you're in the U.S., just email eroticspankingantho at with "Postcard" in the subject and your name and U.S. mailing address in the body, and as soon as they arrive I will send you a Cheeky Spanking Stories postcard! The book will be out sometime this month and if I get 150 likes on Amazon I will share my full nude hotel story "Marks" - click here to read a portion of it and here for the introduction and table of contents.

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Should every woman over 30 try being a cougar?

That's what this week's sex diarist thinks! She's 32 and with a 20-year-old guy.

Last week's diary was "The Lesbian Couple Trying to Scare the Straight People in Provincetown"

If these inspire you to write your own, either for the online series or to be considered for the 2013 book of sex diaries I'm editing for Ten Speed Press, email me at sexdiaries at and feel free to pass this on! To be considered for the book, I'd need your full 7-day diary by September 30th. Thank you for all your referrals, they've been very helpful.

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Tuesday, September 04, 2012

2 cozy mysteries I highly recommend

You may or may not know I'm pretty into cozy mysteries. Here are the 2 latest from series I am obsessed with, and I highly recommend both these mysteries and the series. Both are also on Twitter (@sueannjaffarian and @CleoCoyle) and are awesome.

Hide and Snoop by Sue Ann Jaffarian (Odelia Grey series)
Buy from Amazon, Kindle, Nook or IndieBound (for independent bookstores)

My review:
I've been a dedicated reader of the Odelia Grey series for a few years, so much so that picking up the latest mystery feels like revisiting old friends I haven't seen in a while. This book is my favorite so far, because it shows a lot of character and relationship development for Odelia and Greg when a young child enters their life. The office politics are ratcheted way up, as "corpse magnet" Odelia copes with not having her old boss Steele to, well, boss her around. Instead, she has the ultimate mean girl, who dumps her young niece with a horrified Odelia, but her heart is melted as fast as you can say "Cheesehead Squirrel" (the girl's nickname for Odelia). This is a fast-paced, exciting mystery that kept me guessing, as always, and tugged at my own heartstrings. Odelia is as gutsy, stubborn and outspoken as ever, but she also shows a new side of herself that reminds me why I am a fan of this series in the first place, because it's not just about murders, but about love and family and how far people will go in the name of them (and yes, sometimes that includes murder). An excellent read, and if you're new to the series, you can start with this one, though I'd recommend reading my way through the Odelia Grey series from the beginning.

A Brew to a Kill by Cleo Coyle (coffeeshop mystery series)
Buy from Amazon, Kindle, Nook or IndieBound (for independent bookstores, I'm linking to all Cleo Coyle's titles)

My review:
I'm a relatively new reader of Cleo Coyle's coffeeshop series, but it has everything I like about cozy mysteries: family, romance, small business, food and smart investigation. It also has plenty of coffee trivia and New York City ambience and in this case, food trucks, along with a dose of city politics and rivalry! The Village Blend decides to branch out with a coffee and dessert truck, which causes internal strife before Clare and her ex-husband Matteo, as well as external strife when her rival sees her as stiff competition. When her friend gets run over outside the Village Blend, it gets personal and Clare takes on a new mission to hunt down the hit and run driver, which includes posing as a wedding cake buyer. Once again, this series stays extremely current while also giving us insight into the Village Blend's and New York City's past, and ups the intrigue and personal drama between Clare, Matteo and Clare's partner Mike Quinn, when the three have to share living space. This is a fast-paced mystery with an amateur sleuth who proves she's tough but also has quite a heart, one that foodies especially will enjoy.

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Monday, September 03, 2012

I missed a plane and spent $345.60 but I hope you never do

Read all about my missed flight saga and travel tips I learned from it at Open Salon. Aka, I come out as someone who only now is learning all sorts of tech and travel and iPhone things and I am now a devotee of TripIt. Also, in other news, I'm on Instagram ("rachelkramerbussel"). Expect lots and lots of food porn.
Last month, I was supposed to land in Minneapolis at 3 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon; instead, I spent five and a half hours waiting for a flight at LaGuardia and eventually arrived at 10:40 p.m. Here's what happened. I checked my flight information a few days before the flight and remembered I had to be at JFK for a 1 p.m. flight. I didn't write down the details or check in online, which I normally do. In retrospect, I'm not sure why I didn't, probably because I was in a hurry and assumed I didn't need to. Instead, I figured I'd check in when I got there. I took the L train to the J or Z (I don't recall which) to Sutphin Boulevard, then paid $5 for the AirTrain to take me to my gate, but before I boarded, I checked to see which gate Spirit Airlines was located at, and discovered that Spirit doesn't fly from JFK. In a panic, since it was 11:32 already, I figured I'd take a cab to LaGuardia. If I was at the wrong airport, at least I had time to fix the problem.
Read the whole essay

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Sunday, September 02, 2012

Hello, September!

I'm waiting for the coffee cake my boyfriend and I baked to cool; yesterday we made blueberry muffins and he said, "This recipe is your kind of recipe," because you're supposed to serve them immediately. Waiting half an hour is not my speed, but I'm working on it.

I was going to post about all the travails of August, which had some fun moments but also had mean girls and missed flights and cancelled writing workshops (okay, really one of each, but it sounds better in plural) but I'm more focused on August, on the calm of baking, on finally going to DC next weekend, then Long Beach the next, then Dubai the next, of the books I'm reading and the one I'm re-reading, on wrapping up some book projects and brainstorming a big new one. On figuring out if I can afford my therapist, whose sessions I've greatly missed and am finding help me in infinite ways. I can't say anything about that one yet lest I jinx it, but I think I've been struggling with "my place" in the world of freelancing and writing/editing generally. I love that I have a name of sorts in the world of sex/erotic writing, and I don't want the universe at all to think I'm begrudging that. It's not only how I make my living but one thing I know I'm good at.

At the same time, I don't want to be boxed in and seen as "only" a sex or erotica writer. That wouldn't be worth it in any way. I want to write about politics and food and fandom and theater and travel as well as Fifty Shades of Grey. Of course, no one is stopping me. I have a journal, I have a blog, but I meant, get paid to write about those topics. I am trying to figure out that balance, to learn from those who do it all successfully, to make my life work in the ways I need it to. I also will probably always write about, well, me. It helps, it's cathartic, and sometimes writing is the only thing that works. So we'll see. I feel like anything could happen, and if I learned anything from the awful parts of August, it's that I can't predict even one minute from now, let alone one day or one week. I hope I get to go to all the places I want to. I hope the pieces I have floating out there in the editorial ether find their way to a happy home. I hope a lot of things, but I also know I have to sit, here, now, waiting, working, one word at a time, and that there's a hell of a lot of luck involved in anything that may or may not happen. I'm trying to wean myself a bit off social media, and will not be turning my phone on in Dubai lest a repeat of London's outrageous iPhone bill occur. I am antsy to get ready for that trip, but that is several weeks away. Before then, there are pieces to file and pitches to pitch and cakes to bake.

Free spanking erotica story and another one for you if I get to 150 likes for Cheeky Spanking Stoires

Here's a totally free spanking erotica story, my story "The Depths of Despair" from Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica. The "cost" is that I'm asking that if you like it, you head on over to my brand-new out-this-month anthology Cheeky Spanking Stories page on Amazon and click "like" - if I get to 150 likes, I will post the entirety of my story "Marks," about a couple at a nude hotel which pushes the boundaries of public displays of kinkiness. Click here for a sneak peek of "Marks." And for those who want your spanking erotica right now, below is purchasing information for my current collections Spanked and Bottoms Up. I will be in Dubai when Cheeky Spanking Stories goes on sale, but am very excited about its release and this amazing cover! Postcards will go out in early October, so if you're in the US and you want one, email eroticspankingantho at with "Postcard" in the subject and your name and mailing address in the body and I'll send those as soon as I can.
The Depths of Despair by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Evan is staring at me intently, waiting for the answer to his question, “What do you want?” whispered directly into my ear. Such a short sentence for the very complex response it opens up in me. I want a hundred million things from him, but at this moment, I want something I’m not totally sure either of us can handle.

“I want you to make me cry,” I tell him. I have to whisper it because the words, and the realization, are so intense I’m not sure I can own up to them. But it’s true; every time I think about his hands crashing down on me, his words berating me, his power keeping me in my lowly place, things we’ve done hundreds of times but that I still clamor for, I realize I don’t want something light and easy, something we can laugh about later. I don’t even want compliments like, “God, you can take a lot.” It’s not a competition for me; I know what my body can do, but I want to see what we can do together, if we can take spanking somewhere it’s never gone before, if we can make it propel us into a new place where we lose ourselves only to find people we’ve always wanted to be. I’ve wanted this forever, I realize, as I say the words, but had never felt close enough with a lover to go there before him. I want something altogether different from every other spanking I’ve ever gotten, the ones that were hot and kinky and nasty, but that shied away from even approaching the edge of oblivion. Only with Evan can I dare to approach that dividing line that could topple our over-the-knee pleasures forever, or consecrate spanking as the centerpiece of our relationship.

I’ve never had to use a safeword before, and most of the time, I’ve barely even had one I could use. I trust my lovers implicitly and have never felt the need for one. Buried within that trust, though, is a safety net I’m not sure I any longer want, a safety net that suddenly feels altogether too constricting. I’ve never liked the word play used to describe kink, or at least, my kink. There’s nothing playful about it, even though I know all about safe, sane and consensual, and that I can stop at any time. I can top from below with the best of them, but something in me has finally rebelled at this topsy-turvy state of masochistic affairs. I’m ready for the real thing, and am finally strong enough to take it, and Evan is just the man to grant me my wish.

If we were the marrying kind, I’d have a nice, shiny rock to flash around to all and sundry. We’re not, so I don’t expect that, but I married him in my heart a month after we met. He had his cock inside me, was fucking me doggie-style, and I moved, just slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Don’t move, Denise. Don’t ever move. Stay with me forever,” he said. I could’ve dismissed it as pillow talk⎯most women would have⎯but somehow I knew he meant it. We’ve had our ups and downs in the year we’ve been together, but I’ve always known that he was the one. Not the One, the mystical, magical, phantom lover meant to fulfill a woman’s every need and fantasy before she can even think of them. Not that One, but this one, my special one, the one who makes my heart beat like we’re on a crashing airplane, who makes me smile when he wakes me in the middle of the night with a particularly loud snore, the one whose eyes and cock compete for best feature. The one who’s made me relearn what submission is all about.

Yet even after a year of me naked over his knee, or up against the wall, or bent over holding my ankles, or any number of other positions we’ve tried to perfect our spanking regimen, we still haven’t reached the heights, or depths, I know we could. I haven’t cracked the surface of his sadism, haven’t pushed him to bring out the truly mean top I know lurks inside, haven’t let myself sink into the glory of sub space so fully I wonder if I’ll ever come out. My fantasies have gotten more and more twisted, perverse, unreal. But I don’t want an army of lovers or community-wide kink; I want Evan, just Evan. It’s through no fault of his, or mine, that we haven’t gone there, I’ve just always surrendered to the lure of his cock when the pressure seemed unbearable, right before I went over the edge I’m afraid I’ll never return from. What if after this I want him to make me cry all the time? What if he takes that as a sign I need therapy? What if we become one of those couples where the man gets off on fucking his wife but not in the way that makes him rush home to her? What if he thinks I’m crying because I’m sad or in pain or don’t love him anymore? I have no answers or crystal ball, I only know that the tears are demanding an exit, and won’t take no for an answer. They aren’t tears of sadness, that much I know for sure; what these tears signify I don’t yet know, but I am convinced Evan can help me understand. He grabs me by the scruff of my neck, and I whimper, just like I have before, but there’s something different in his eyes. They’re feral, wild with a kind of desire I’ve never seen before, and that sight unleashes a wave of want inside me. My entire body goes tight, then limp. “Be careful what you wish for, Dee,” he says. “Very, very careful.” When I make a move to open my mouth, he shuts my lips, pressing them between his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t speak until we’re done. You’ll know when we’re done. You can make noise, scream all you want, but no talking, unless you need to safeword. Your safeword is emergency. But I don’t think you’re going to come anywhere close to using it.” He lets go of my lips, then just stands there staring at me. At an even six feet, he’s got a good five inches on me so I’m looking at up him, my face just as serious as his.

Then, in a flash, he’s grabbed me and moved us over so can slam me against the wall. This is no gentle crash in which I’m just as complicit; he slams me, and it hurts, but I like the pain. A lot. My face smashes into the familiar white space, his hand against the side of my head. I’ve been up against countless walls since I met him, but never so close, where it’s like I’m inhaling the paint. I’ve murmured, prayed even, into wood and brick and paint. But now my lips aren’t so much touching the wall as merged with it. My body goes on red alert as he smears me into the wall. My pussy is pounding, demanding attention in much the same way my heart is thudding. “Stay there, whore.” He knows that word sets me off, but this time, his voice is gruffer; it’s not a playful term of endearment, and I almost feel like one. I wonder what I’d do if I really were a whore with a client who wanted to treat me like this. I focus on the plaster against my skin, on his hand that has just stabbed me in the lower back. Okay, not stabbed, but the pressure there is exquisite, his palm digging into the spot where my back curves, his thumb resting against my anus.

Then his hand booms down against my right buttcheek. I’d thought I couldn’t sink farther into the wall, but I’d been wrong, because somehow, I become one with it. It hurts, and not in the way my ass does. My facial pain isn’t quite the sweet, stinging, arousing pain that spanking brings, but this pain still manages to feel good in its own way, reminding me what I’m capable of in the name of getting off. I know my face will be red later, probably my breasts, too. His hand keeps coming down against me, spanking me furiously in a way that surely has to singe his palm as much as it does my bottom. Then his teeth are sinking into the back of my neck and his four fingers are turning the backs of my thighs red. “Denise, now’s as good a time as any to tell you. It’s over.” He’s spanking me hard the whole time he speaks, and the smacks are so loud I almost can’t make out what he’s saying. “I didn’t know how to break it to you, but I’m moving out. I’ve found my own place, over on Larch. I’ve got two more weeks here, and I’ll try to be as discreet as I can. I was waiting for the right time to tell you, but now’s as good as any, wouldn’t you say?” He’s talking like we’re having some kind of adult conversation, while meanwhile my entire stomach has dropped, yet my pussy is still on fire.

So is my ass, where he’s still spanking me. I’ve had my hands up above me on the wall, but they start to drop. All I want now is to curl into a ball, wrapped around myself. Fuck spanking, I think, about to whisper, “Emergency,” when he presses his entire body against mine, lifting my hands back above me and pressing his palms to the backs of my hands, hard. “Keep those there, Dee. I said two more weeks, and don’t think I’m not gonna get the most pussy out of you I can before then. I don’t want to forget this ass,” he says as he pinches the skin there.

I’m not crying; I’m numb inside. Did I bring this on? This wasn’t what I wanted. I keep my hands above me just to spite him. Now I won’t cry, just to show him. “Stay right fucking there. Whore,” he says, and despite myself, I feel a shudder. He knows why it triggers me so⎯I used to be one, at least the worst kind of one, one who gave it away to anyone who so much as looked my way, succumbing to the word I’d been called since sprouting 38Ds in my senior year of high school⎯yet it also thrills a deep, secret place inside me. I was a slut who was so far gone she thought of herself as a whore, and even got off on the blasé way I could pick a guy up, bring him home, and chuck him out the door. But that nameless blur of men and cocks was nothing compared to the power I tapped into with Evan. Even the good guys, the ones trained in the art of BDSM, who worshipped my ass as much as they punished it, couldn’t come close to what we have. Had. I don’t know anymore. His hands are everywhere at once, firing off blows that make my whole body light up in recognition of my place, my role in this apocalyptic scene. I briefly wonder if he’ll offer me money that I have to take from him with my teeth, as one guy did when I did a brief stint stripping. Yet even with his horrific words ringing in my ear, the image makes me wet. I picture him shoving dollar bills into my cunt, into my mouth, gluing them to my body, marking me as a whore once and for all.

My mind goes a little quieter as he slips the blindfold over my eyes. “Get over here,” he says, grabbing me by my nipple, pinching it as he pulls me across the room. The point where our bodies touch stings, but a soothing, familiar heat travels lower. I’ve asked for this, I want this, we’ll deal with the aftermath later, I think, as I feel him bend me over the spanking bench we bought in our first heady, kinky weeks together. Who will spank me on it when he leaves? I wonder as he settles me over it so my ass is perfectly poised. I expect the spanking to start up again immediately, and perhaps because of that, it doesn’t. I can’t see, but I can hear him moving around, the flick of a lighter, the sharp inhale of a cigarette. I don’t approve, but I gave up lecturing him long ago.

“You’ll be rid of this smell soon enough,” he says, as if reading my mind. He blows hot smoke against my ass, and I tremble. I’m waiting, patiently, if you ask me, but he just strokes my asscheeks with the tips of his fingers, tickling me more than anything else. “I’ll miss this ass, Denise. I hope you believe me. It just has to be this way.”

“Is it Monique?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

“Does that fucking matter, Denise?” he snarls, this time pounding me so hard my stomach feels like it’s colliding against the seat of the bench, even though they’re already connected. He’s smoking and spanking, somehow, as if he has all the time in the world, as if he isn’t providing more than the tears I asked for, countless more. “Yes. No. I don’t know,” I sob, wanting to rewind to the start of this scene. I try to let my mind go black, especially when he moves around to kiss me hard, his breath smoky. He pulls back and I see him draw the cigarette right under my lips, close enough that I can feel the orange flame, before he moves aside and puts it out right on our bedside table. This is a mean side of him I’ve never seen before, something beyond sadistic, like he wants to hurt me all the way through, not just make my ass quake and smolder.

“Well it’s none of your business. Not anymore,” he says, and turns his back to me. He hasn’t shackled me, yet I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. The bench is my savior, my companion, my safety net. I keep thinking he’s going to bust out some exquisite new toy, a wooden panel, a ruler, a cane. He likes to make me scream and flinch, to mark me, render me as his fully and completely. He likes that I’m into spanking, but always finds ways to make me feel like an amateur spankee who hasn’t quite reached the levels of masochism his latest toy warrants. But this time, he goes back to that trusty favorite: his hand. He has ways of curving that body part that turn it into the sickest instrument around.

“Don’t say a word, Denise. For once, just keep your fucking mouth shut.” He sounds like someone else entirely; he’s put on an accent to go with his words, Queens blue collar instead of his usual clipped, cultured, Westchester doctor voice. Yes, he loves playing doctor with me, another thing that’ll have to end now, I suppose. “Good. I’m going to spank you until you’re all cried out, and I’ll be the judge of that.”

Strangely, even though he starts with hardly any warm-up, just raises his hand like a whip and strikes me smartly across my cheeks, I can’t cry just yet. I clamp my eyes shut, breathe through my nose, and focus on the pain. This I can process, this I can deal with, this I think I want. My pussy is getting wet and yet somehow I hardly feel it. “This not hard enough for you?” he asks, then digs his short but strong nails into my ass after one particularly rough blow.

This goes on for thirty-seven minutes. I know because he tells me; he’s been looking at the clock, must want to get this over with already. I’m wondering why he doesn’t just use a paddle or something already when I feel his hand hit me and then a burning sensation. He’s added something to his palm that makes it sting like hell. Next he shoves what I’m sure is our metal dildo into my cunt. He plunges it in without any hesitation, then goes right on with the searing smacks that really feel like he’s added chili pepper or something to his hand. It burns, and hurts, but I still open for him to fuck me with the toy, or rather, my pussy does. My head is still locked on what he’s just revealed.

When an hour has passed and only one lone tear has dribbled down my cheek, he stands me up and then has me kneel before him. He takes off the blindfold. I want to look into his eyes, but I don’t. I stare down at the ground, hardly knowing who he is anymore. Then he strikes me across the face. This isn’t a loving tap or even a sexual smack. He hits me, just once, across my right cheek. He’s a left, so it stings real good. “I got her a spanking machine. The one you always wanted. It’s spanking her right now, warming up her ass just for me.” He reaches for my nipple again, twisting it until I cry out. I wonder why he’s telling me these things, why he’s being so mean. I wonder if I’ll have to move to avoid seeing the two of them around.

I picture her, then, her ass, a good one third the size of mine, raised up on that sweet machine while it pummels her over and over and over again. Evan and I had gotten off watching women being spanked by those machines, and I’d been angling for one for months. Monique’s new in town, was, I thought, a new friend. He’s known her less than two months and already she’s usurped my place. That’s when the tears start, first a few on one side then a few on the other, weak little rivulets of saltwater. That’s when Evan takes me across his lap, my favorite. He used to do it before bed sometimes, telling me he loved me while using the meanest wooden paddle we owned. Now he does it and I just let the tears fall onto the ground. At first I put my arm in my mouth to stifle my sobs, but then I just let loose. His smacks are no harder than before, but they feel harder, somehow. We both lose track of time as the spanking seems to go on forever, my cries only ending when he shoves four fat fingers into my pussy and smacks my ass some more. Finally, I’m all done. I’ve come in a quick, almost rebellious burst. I don’t want to give him that satisfaction, but I can’t resist his touch. I look up at him through the haze of tears, searching his eyes for an answer as my throbbing ass welcomes the cool air from the window.

When it’s over, I try to sneak off to the bathroom, my face streaked with tears, my body seeming to sag under its own weight. I want to be alone, to curl up in the bath and merge into the bubbles. But he grabs me again, roughly, hugging me so tightly that at first I don’t realize he has tears in his eyes, too, tears that are slowly sliding down his face. “What are you crying about?” I ask bitterly, selfishly liking the comfort of his solid strength.

“Dee, my sweet Dee. I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours. Forever, remember? But you wanted me to make you cry, and I knew I had to go far, far down to somewhere foreign and scary to really make you scared. You’re a tough woman to crack, even though you don’t always realize it.”

I stare at him in disbelief, wondering whether he’s an evil genius or a truly sick bastard. I guess part of why I love him is that I’ll never truly have the answer to that, I just have to keep lowering myself to the depths of despair, and seeing if I make it through.
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