I Know Where You Live, Guest Post by Raki Kopernik

Content warning: this story contains being groped in public, stalking, being followed home, restraint, hands on the throat, force, knife play, offensive name calling, and fisting. All characters are consenting adults.

I’ll be on a crowded bus traveling south down MLK. At 6:15 pm, you will get on the bus, walk past me, make eye contact for a quick moment, then step behind me. I will be standing, holding the overhead bar. You’ll have to stand too. I won’t be able to see you, but I will feel you looking at me from behind, at my ass and the back of my neck. The bus will make a sudden stop and you’ll almost fall into me. One of your hands will land on my ass. I’ll feel it, but I won’t turn around. When you catch your step, you’ll stand closer to me, behind me. Your hand will stay on my ass and faintly rub up and down, creeping between my legs. I’ll feel the heat of your breath on the back of my bare neck. I won’t do anything. The bus will stop suddenly, again, and your hips will press into mine. You’ll stay there, reach your hand around to the front of my body, and rub my crotch, pressing your pelvis into my ass with the rhythm of the bus. A few people will notice. They will look, trying not to stare, but no one will do anything about it. I won’t make eye contact with any of them, embarrassed. Your breath will get hotter on my neck and you’ll whisper in my ear that you’re going to follow me when I get off the bus. The next stop will be mine and I will push you away, simultaneously pushing other people out of my way to get off the bus. You’ll barely make it off the bus behind me.

It will be already be dark out. I will walk fast toward my house. I’ll feel you behind me, turn to look, but I won’t see you. I’ll start running and I’ll hear you running behind me. I’ll turn but, again, I won’t see you. When I get home, the house will be dark and empty. I’ll forget to lock the door behind me. I will go upstairs and light candles to calm myself. I’ll hear a noise downstairs but will convince myself it’s the cat. I’ll look out the window toward the bed, away from the door and the stairway. I’ll see my reflection in the glass, rub my face and my eyes. Suddenly, your right hand will be pressed over my mouth. Your left hand will be tight around my chest. You’ll whisper in my ear not to move or make a sound. I will wince.

If you scream, you say, I will hurt you.

Then you will let go and push me hard onto the bed, belly down. Stay there, you’ll say, and I will not move, in fear and anticipation. I’ll hear you open your bag and rustle around in it quickly. You’ll straddle my ass and tie my hands together above my head, firm with a black nylon rope, then fasten the rope to the bed frame. With the brown bandana you wear around your neck, you will tie my mouth. Bite this, bitch, you’ll say. I’ll wince again.

Then you will flip me over onto my back. There will be a small hole in my shirt, just above the chest, and you will put your index finger into it and tug, making the hole bigger. You’ll put another finger in, then another until the hole is big enough for all of your fingers. In one quick motion, you’ll tear my shirt apart and pull my pants down around my knees. Your right hand will rest at my throat. You will spit into your left hand and reach it between my legs, forcing your fingers, two, three, then four, inside of me. I will be wet and you will call me a slut for it. I’ll scream into the bandana. You will keep moving your fingers in and out of me until I get so wet you think I might come, and then you’ll stop. Again, I will wince and you will shake your head, no, and smile. You’ll flip me back over onto my belly and pull me up onto my forearms and knees. Then you will slap my ass several times, hard and quick, leaving bright red welts.

You’ll place your fingers back between my legs and say, Damn, you’re dripping, you can’t get enough.

I’ll push my pussy into your hand but you’ll pull it away. You’ll put your hands on my ankles to hold me in place while you breath hot air onto my pussy from behind. I’ll feel your tongue barely lick. I will almost come.

You’ll take out your pocketknife and run it along my back, down between my legs. Are you afraid, you’ll ask. I’ll flinch in fear and want. The tip of the knife will press into my inner thigh, then up around my cunt and ass crack. It will scratch the surface of my skin without breaking it. You will run it back up my spine and around my tits, down my belly, and almost to my pussy again. My breath will quicken and you will laugh. You will, again, press its tip into my inner thigh and this time, a tiny drop of blood will surface. Oh, sorry, you’ll say, condescending, then slap my ass again. And again. I will feel the redness of the skin around my ass and thighs, burning. For a moment, nothing more will happen. We will just breathe, me on my knees, you behind me.

I will hear you close the knife and put it back into your pocket. The bed will creak as you get up. You’ll start to walk away. When I no longer hear your steps I will think you’re almost gone, but suddenly, you will thrust your fingers into my pussy and fuck me hard and quick, from behind; three fingers, then four, then your knuckles, then your whole fist. I’ll scream into the bandana. I will be swollen and damp, yet still you will tear me open and it will hurt. Your fingers will move back and forth inside of me. I’ll scream into the bandana again and again. I’ll bite it, feeling like my teeth might break. I’ll pull my wrists at the rope, I’ll push my hips into your hand, I’ll writhe.

You like that, you’ll say. Yeah, I bet you do, bitch.

Your hand will quicken until I gush and collapse onto the bed. You’ll laugh, then smack my ass once more, for luck, you’ll say. You’ll untie the rope and the bandana and leave me in a pile on the bed as you walk away, down the stairs. I’ll hear you run the water in the kitchen sink and drink, then slam the door as you leave to catch the bus home.

When I’m sure you’re gone, I will wipe my pussy on a towel and get dressed quickly. Then I will go downstairs, drink a glass of water, and slam the door behind me as I run to catch the number 6 bus, the one you take to get home. I know where you live.

Show Me You Want It

I want you on your knees in the dark. Waiting. Unsure when I’ll come for you but knowing that I will. Of course I will. We both trust I will.

You know you have to be ready. Your knees are sore your back is sore your wrists are enflamed from the cuffs. Loose enough to be safe, but barely. You won’t use the buzzer affixed to you, the one that alerts me if you are in danger. You know it’s there. That is enough comfort for you.

You know you have to be ready because when I open the door I will not wait. It could be a blow to the face, a swift kick, knocking you over, shoving you to the floor. It could be a tight grip, lifting you to your feet. Don’t fall over don’t get thrown off balance keep your composure.

Impress me.

Maybe I’ll let you breathe. Maybe I’ll let you look at me, touch me. Maybe I’ll let you catch your breath, ease off of your red knees, work the kink out of your elbow.

The softest fingertip touch is a tease, is a curse, is even worse because of the pounding force that will come. You don’t trust it. But you trust me, underneath, under the pink of you, inside. You know I can hold this, hold myself and you, hold all of your autonomy and authority and sense of self, and I will give them back to you in morsels you can melt on your tongue. Close your eyes. Don’t bite, just suck. Good boy.

You will be lucky if you taste me. Open your mouth, stick out your tongue. Wider, further. Don’t make me get the gag that opens you too far. I could kneel over your mouth and drip into it, I could urge you open wider and watch you strain to lick, to suck. I like when you strain. I like when you want it.

Show me you want it.

I won’t give it to you, precisely because you want it. This isn’t about you getting what you want. This is about me. This is about my want, my ownership, my craving, my retribution, my dick. It isn’t personal. It’s about the ways my life is so far out of my control, both because that no human is in control of their surroundings and also because I am wired to be passive, to let things happen to me instead of making the things happen. But this, I can control. This is my deepest lust and vulnerability, the rawness at the heart of me, both the raw power and the raw open wound. It isn’t personal, but then again it is: it is the ways that we have grown together and changed

You will take all that I can give and more than I can give. I want it raw, just you and me: I use my fists. I catch you in the jaw, in the chest. One or two in the stomach to remind you of your place. To ensure that it hurts and is too much, sometimes.

I will hit you for so long and you will take it, just take it. Will you ever cry for me? You hold out for so long. You are so tough, so brave. Not so much a masochist, but capable of dispersing the intensity and absorbing the impact with your whole self. But you won’t outlast me. You will cry. You will break down for me. You need it. Maybe we both forget how you need it, but I remember each time you curl in my arms and finally heave sobs of relief and love.

Something in me releases when you do: Relief. I can still do it. I can still break you down to particles, put your puzzle pieces back together. I still have you. You are still, and always have been, mine.

I Want To Be Brutal.

This story contains some physical force, talk of ownership and dominance, the threat of choking, and somewhat forced orgasm.

I want to be brutal, but I want to be nice.

This is a constant conflict in my mind: I want to get that fire in my throat that comes when I see you wince and cringe and cry and beg, that thing that opens through the center of me and smiles when you hurt. And I want you to feel good, I want to touch you and for you to like it, I want to watch you come and give permission for pleasure and encourage you and embrace all the sensations of being in a body.

So maybe I don’t really want to “be nice:” what I want is for you to feel good. I want to be brutal, but I want you to feel good.

Sometimes you tell me that when I’m brutal is when you feel the best. That helps. But I also know that what feels “good” isn’t always loving, caressing touch; sometimes the rough, painful touch is an ordeal to conquer, an experience to withstand, and that too is pleasure.

Tonight, that’s the phrase that keeps coming up: I want to be brutal. I want to brutalize you. I feel afraid of my own desire for this, but I feel inspired by the lines of our contract and things that you’ve said and mantras that I’ve made going around in my head: “I want you to do whatever you want to me.” “I like it when it hurts.” “I want to cry for you.” “I want you to take it out on me.”

You’re working on your computer. I tell you to tell me when you are done, that I need you for something.

You come over to where I’m reading in the leather armchair. I have my reading glasses on and a little lamp next to me.

“Sir?”

“Mmm.” I don’t look up.

“I’m ready for you.”

I glance at you quickly. “Strip. Then kneel there.” I point. And I go back to my book.

It’s not a particularly good book, but it’s easy to read and I get engrossed. You slip off your jeans and tee shirt. You hesitate at your underwear, but I am not paying attention to you, so you don’t interrupt me to ask. You take it off. You kneel, there, with your hands behind your back and your eyes down, and you wait.

I turn pages. Mostly I am reading them, too. I’m waiting for the end of the chapter, but I already know I’m hard and wet and eager and starting to tremble at the sight of you I’m drinking in through my periphery vision. I never stop wanting you. It still feels like it did when we first got together and we had such limited time, that desire, that need to be inside you, to get so deep in you, to claim you, to own you. You press yourself up against me in the mornings with sleepy hellos or in the afternoon with frustrated work stress or in the evenings after coming home from out with friends, and when you kiss me, my desire for you stirs up and rises just like it always does. You are such a good kisser. Something about the softness of your lips and the way you use the sweet part on the inside and its slick and smooth but not too wet and it makes me shiver with pleasure. I want you. I feel embarrassed at how much you turn me on. I’m glad my hard-ons don’t show through my pants because you would know all the time how I just glance at you and it happens. My mouth waters and my cunt gets wet but you can’t see that.

I close the book. It makes a sharp, definitive noise. You were in a meditative state and you jump a little, your muscles tensing as you straighten up.

I stand next to you. I take a few steps around you. I see your chest rise as you breathe in.

I want to lavish praise on you, talk about how good you are and how well you serve me, and while it is true, it is also out of guilt. I want you to know how much I appreciate it when you can take the brutality I need to give, but that can happen after. I give too much praise. It softens the blow.

Tonight, I don’t want the blow to be soft.

I grab a fist full of your hair and I twist so you fall forward to your hands and knees, and pull you so you are crawling. I have some of your weight but mostly you are on your hands and knees. I drag you to the bedroom. I pull you up by your hair and throw you onto the bed with a shove.

“Sit up.” I whip the belt out of the loops of my jeans. You move slowly. You are so quiet, you get so quiet and still when I have you in my palm like this. You will do whatever I say. The noise is gone. There is only me and my commands, demands.

I pull the belt around your right forearm and thigh, binding them together. I grab another belt and do the same on the left.

I sit at the head of the bed, the pillows sweetly behind me, and pull you to sit in between my legs. I spread your legs open, pushing your feet to the outside of my knees. I grab the Magic Wand vibrator from its proper spot between the mattress and the wall and hold it to your cunt with my right hand, gripping your jaw with my left hand, with my mouth right next to your ear.

I turn on the vibrator and it rumbles. You whimper.

“This isn’t for you,” I growl quietly. I savor every shudder as your body starts to tremble and react. You’re so sensitive. I will overwhelm you quickly. That’s the point. “This is for me.”

I might kiss you, sometimes. My mouth is right there and your neck is so sweet and you moan and roll your head against me and I like that, so I might just kiss you again.

My hand covers both your mouth and nose. I take your air. I take your breath. I can have it if I want it. It’s mine.

“I take what I want.”

I let go and you inhale deep and you gasp and you moan when you exhale.

“Aren’t you lucky that you like this.”

I put my hand around your throat, but no pressure, just the touch. It makes you nervous, but there is no danger. Not yet.

“You may as well like it, I’m going to do it whether you want it or not.”

You are straining against the two leather belts. You are pressing back against me. I can feel your pulse in how you are shaking.

“I like to feel you all worked up like this.”

I kiss you again. Why not. You’ve earned it. Or you will.

“I like to remember all the things I can do to you, whenever I want to.”

Your voice is so soft I barely hear you, but you say, “Yes, Sir.”

My arms are in front of your shoulders, holding you back, holding your legs open. I put my fingers to your lips and you reach to have them in your mouth. I tease your mouth. I know how much you like to have your mouth filled, so I won’t give it to you. This torture is for me.

“I get so worked up. I just need to see you suffer. I need to remember my role, my purpose.”

You whisper yes, Sir again.

“It feels so good to see you this way.”

You whimper. You struggle and strain. I let you suck the tips of my fingers.

“It feeds me.”

My lips are on your ear, my voice quiet and low.

“You can do it for me. Go ahead and come when you’re ready. I’m just going to hold you right here and tease you and force you. You don’t have to ask. Just do it.”

You cry out and I let you have more of my fingers. They slip deep on your tongue. Your legs are shaking and you’re pulling against the leather belts, against me, kicking your feet, arching your back. I hold your jaw with my fingers in your mouth, I press the vibrator against you in pulses, softer then harder, feeling the thrust of your hips and the way you’re moving to get it to just the right spot, and I leave it there, and I wait, and I growl.

“Come for me, little toy.”

You do; you come hard, tensing everything, your stomach rippling, clenching your thighs and arms and toes and shaking until you collapse against me, still whimpering, almost crying, releasing.

I’m radiating. I’m giddy. I’m glowing. I’m so fucking deeply satisfied somewhere that I don’t know how to explain or how to touch but seems to only be sated when I force you to do hard things. And I’m so, so turned on. I will have you on your belly with my cock in your mouth next. I will fist your hair again and hold you against me until you can’t breathe. I will thrust my cunt up into you and fuck your mouth. I will come down your throat and you will drink it and swallow it and thank me for the privilege.

But first, I take the leather belts off of you, and you curl up in my arms, and I touch you with long soothing strokes, sweet and comforting, until I can be brutal again.

Back Seat Brat, Guest Post by Jack Stratton

All characters in this story are over 18 and consenting adults.

The first time I met Lola was in the backseat of my cousin Tommy’s black boat of a Lincoln Town Car. She was one of his friends. Tommy had a crazy crew of friends — hippies, stoners, punks, and musicians.

Tommy let me hang with him during the summer break before my senior year of college. As I sat in the back, he pulled up to a bar and a few of his friends jumped in. Lola opened the door I was sitting next to and climbed right over me to sit in the center of the back seat. She was this little firecracker. Around my age. Short, feisty, jet black hair with bangs, and lips that were always bright red. She dressed all rockabilly, like some modern take on one of the girls in Grease.

We drove around for a while. Visiting Tommy’s haunts. Picking up beer. She didn’t say anything, she just watched me. At around eight, we pulled up to a burger joint and she looked at me expectedly after tap tap tapping on her phone.

“My Daddy’s not here, so you have to pay for my fries,” she said plainly, looking bitchy and bratty at the same time.

“Is that so?” I laughed.

She didn’t laugh or even smile. She moved closer, sitting right on my hand, pressing her big ass down on it.

“Yeah it is. You have to or you can’t sit next to me,” she said threateningly. There was no irony there. It was a stupid juvenile thing, but it worked. She leaned back and stretched, pushing out her chest. I reached for my wallet.

Tommy left us alone in the car and went to talk to some friends inside. After eating her fries and most of mine, she chewed on her straw while she looked at me inscrutably. She unbuttoned the first few buttons of her navy blue dress, to expose a pink bra. I was hypnotized by her. She slowly traced the top of her bra with her finger, pulling it down a little, almost giving me a glimpse of more, all the time watching me.

“I think you like me,” she said with a self satisfied grin.

I laughed nervously.

“I bet you’d rob a bank for a taste of my pussy,” she purred.

I swallowed.

Her phone buzzed. She picked it up and read something, smiled, and then furiously typed a response. Then just like that, I was forgotten. She leaned over me, her hands pressing painfully into my shoulder and chest, rolling down the window next to me and sticking her head out.

“Tommy, we gotta pick up Frank!” she screamed.

With that, Tommy came back to the car and we headed for the bus station.

I saw him waiting there, leaning against a wall. Her “Daddy.” He wore a leather jacket, a white t-shirt, blue jeans, and boots. When we stopped he walked slowly to the car. He slid in the other side of the back seat, sandwiching Lola between us.

He was a little older than me. He had a chiseled jaw with some stubble. His hair was parted perfectly and slick with grease.

His hand went possessively to Lola’s knee. She turned and hugged him tightly.

“Hi Daddy,” she said almost breathlessly. Then she kissed him. I wondered if I should go sit up front, but we started driving. Lola and Frank whispered to each other. As they did, she became sweet and childish. Not the brat I had come to know, but some reflection of it. A brat who was put in her place.

“Him? The pretty boy?” I heard him ask her with a laugh as they both glanced at me. She cupped her hand to his ear and whispered more, with her eyes on me.

“Rob a bank, huh? I bet he would too,” he said with a chuckle. I blushed deeper, knowing what they were saying about me.

We drove to a pool hall at the edge of town and Tommy got out and went in. I got out too and took a few deep breaths of the night air. I heard Lola and Frank get out. I didn’t want to face them, but I couldn’t ignore them when I heard them whistle for me, as much as I tried. I turned to see them walking into the alley behind the pool hall. Lola was motioning for me to follow.

In the shadows of the alley I saw them making out. They stopped as I approached and looked at me expectantly. I walked to them, unsure of what else to do.

Frank grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and pushed me against the wall. “You been taking care of my girl while I was gone?” he asked, though he didn’t sound mad. “I’ll tell you what, kiddo, you want to play with her, you have to play with me a little first,” he said with bravado.

I looked around and laughed a little. He was joking, right?

He pushed me up against the wall again, the cold bricks against my back. His face was suddenly close to mine. “Come on, pretty boy, you said you’d do anything. She told me,” he growled into my ear. He smelled like aftershave and whiskey and cigarettes.

She was behind him, arms around him, lips near his ear, eyes on me. “Hit him, Daddy,” she begged and then bit her fat bottom lip.

He smiled at me, reached up and took my chin in his hand. It seemed like he was thinking about it, but then he turned away from me and grabbed her.

“What did we talk about, Lo? Good girls don’t make demands. What did we say?” he said, clearing his throat and walking towards her as she backed up and fidgeted with her dress.

“I’m not supposed to be a bossy little brat,” she said, looking down and fuming.

He grabbed her by the hair and spun her around. He flipped up her dress and smacked her ass. My eyes were glued to them.

He pulled up her dress a little more, exposing white panties with little hearts on them. He spanked her again, hard, and she let out a little yelp. A red mark the shape of his hand appeared immediately.

I followed his fingers on her skin, watching as he traced the mark he left, then the edge of her panties, slowly slipping just the tip of his finger under the thin material.

When his long fingers got to the crotch of her panties she arched her back and stuck her ass out as high as she could, standing on her on her toes. His fingers slipped between her thick thighs and I heard her let out a low whimper. I may have let out a similar sound.

I could see it, just barely. He pushed the fabric to the side just enough that a delicious little bit of pink was exposed and my heart was beating so fast it hurt.

“Well, kiddo, time to rob that bank,” he said, turning to with daring in his eyes. He slipped his finger across his bottom lip. I felt a scared little puppy whimper emanate from my chest.

My brain didn’t seem to command it, but somehow my body was moving forward.

He was tall. I felt small and clumsy next to him. He leaned down, then all I felt was stubble across my lips. It was embarrassing how much I wanted all of it, her taste, his mouth. He kissed me and I got light headed. My hand went up to his firm chest. I sucked his bottom lip and I could swear I tasted heaven.

He chuckled again as he let go of me and he reached up and grabbed my chin. He slipped one finger into my mouth and I sucked it greedily. His thick fingers pushed deeper into my mouth, two, then three.

“Look how much he take. Look at what a good boy he is, Daddy,” she whispered to him, right in my ear.

“What do you say, kiddo? You want to be my good boy?” he said, rubbing his hand through my hair.

“Come on pretty boy, don’t you want to suck my cock? Just think how much Lola would like to watch you. She’d probably do anything to see it,” he said pulling me closer by my hair.

I fought his grip a little, trying to pull away, but his hand tightened around the back of my neck. Did I want to suck it? It was complicated. It made me want to run out of the alley, but somehow I was sinking to my knees.

Lola was there with me, sounding excited. Then she was kissing my neck again. “Do it for me,” she whispered into my ear. “If you do it good, I can be your little girl tonight, too,” she promised

“Okay,” I choked out through a dry throat.

She rocked with glee and tugged at his belt. “You’ll be great, I’ll show you what to do. Maybe, you know, you can call him daddy too, if you want,” she said, and flashed a huge bright smile.

The smile of a spoiled brat that was getting exactly what she wanted.

The Brute and the Brat (Bean & Mickey #3)

Content warning: Rough sex, face slapping, dirty talk.

Bean fists Mickey’s hair, yanking hard, holding her motionless, before she throws her down onto the bed.

Mickey moans and lays still. Taking it.

Bean isn’t worried about what she wants. She is ready to take. Eager to trust her girl, eager to believe that Mickey can stop her or safeword or use her skillful negotiation to shift things if she really needs to. But Bean also knows that Mickey gets off on being used, abused, like property, like an object. She loves being a receptacle for that kind of pure, strong desire that Bean can dish out.

Every smooth surface she can find, Bean slaps. Ass, thigh, cunt. Throws her body around on the bed, just for a show of force, just so she can get used to being off-guard and off-kilter. Bean holds her down, bites into her shoulder, too hard too fast but Mickey likes it, she screams out, but she likes it. Her cunt is wet, wetter still. She’s along for the ride. She lets herself go, she turns herself over to Bean like a plaything.

Bean pulls her hair. Moves her closer to the edge of the bed.

That’s when Mickey starts to struggle. She bites Bean’s arm when she reaches. She wrestles against Bean’s weight, even though she has no chance. She’s fast, though—wily, and quick, and strong. She twists out of Bean’s grip and forces Bean to catch her again, to grab her harder, hard enough to leave fingerprint-sized bruises on her arms. She scratches. Bean pins her against the wall but Mickey ducks out of her arms, so Bean takes her down, hard, to the floor, knees hips wrist, but everyone is okay and so Mickey is pinned again. Bean takes hold of Mickey’s hair and drags her up to the bed.

Mickey smirks. As if getting to bed like this is her idea. As if it’s what she wants.

Bean smacks her in the mouth, wipes that smug look off her face. Bean has her attention now.

Mickey looks up, eyes and mouth wide, feeling a little wounded, a little shocked. She relents. It’s that moment Bean waits for, lives for. When Mickey gives up, gives in, gives herself over.

Bean leans over and growls in Mickey’s ear: “That’s right. I can fuck you any way I want, whenever I want. I can do anything to you. Because you’re mine, aren’t you. And you like it rough, don’t you, you dirty girl. You are such a bad girl. I’m going to have to teach you a lesson. You’re going to get it now.”

Bean puts her in her place.

Mickey stays there, and whimpers, and pleads, and begs, and opens her legs wide to her lover.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #48, Casey Grey & Tina Horn.

Devouring Magic: January Book Roundup

Little note: I use Grammarly’s plagiarism detection software because duplications, while sometimes necessary, are never as good as the real thing.

I read seven books in January! I’ve had such difficulty focusing on reading the past few years. I think at first it was because of my weird fogged-out grief-brain, but then this past year I think I was just out of the habit, going instead to my Facebook feed or Twitter feed or Tumblr feed if I wanted things to read.

I’ve also been realizing that the massive stacks of books that I read for work are sometimes really hard to get into and not exactly “pleasure reading.” While I love love love to read relationship theories and gender theories and gender memoirs & narratives and sex education things in general, I also don’t necessarily curl up with those before I go to bed. I used to—but I guess that’s the difference between doing that kind of stuff as a JOB and reading them all for fun.

So around the holidays, I put out the question to friends and started accruing a huge list of indulgent novels to try out and read. I wanted to start with some easy page-turners, those “unputdownables” that I bring to the dinner table and wake up wanting to read. I got some fantastic recommendations.

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I started with Divergent, the first in a YA dystopian trilogy. The narrator, Tris, is in a society that measures by value, and at 16 they are sorted into the faction where they will stay. They do have some choice, but they also take an aptitude test to determine where they would best fit. Excellent premise! I was into it, and excited about the story, and devoured it quickly, but the writing was not so great. Thin and definitely plot-based. I would absolutely watch the film, though, and I may pick up the other two books in the series, especially when I need to remind myself that books are easy to read and I can zoom through them in a couple days.

Tiny aside: Do y’all read through a Kindle or Kindle app? I think it’s kind of fascinating that it tracks how many hours you’ve spent reading any particular book, and then it also tells you how many more hours you have to go in reading it. I don’t track time very well, I am coming to realize, so that was really interesting.

After Divergent, I almost picked up book #2 in the series, but decided to try another YA fantasy-type series instead, and I picked up Daughter of Smoke & Bone by Laini Taylor. Holy crap, I thought that book was amazing. From the introductory chapters that normalize Karou’s strange life to her romance and the profound reveal toward the end of the book, I was hooked. I read the second,Days of Blood & Starlight, and then was so ready to pick up the third, Dreams of Gods & Monsters, when I discovered that it’s due out this spring! Noooo! So I picked up the #2.5 novella, Night of Cake & Puppets, which was charming and sweet and fun, and I am even more into Karou’s best friend Zuzanna. I hear it’s going to be a movie, and they are going to be big hits (if Twilight and Hunger Games have any precedence, which they do). I would absolutely cast Kenzi from Lost Girl as Karou, and if they cast anybody else I might hold a protest.

I took a little break from YA fantasy after that series, because I am not sure it gets better than that, at least for right now. So I picked up The Delicious Torment: A Story of Submission, Alison Tyler’s second in her recent trilogy. If you like Fifty Shades type of erotic romance fantasy novels, I highly recommend Alison Tyler. She’s the real deal, with actual experience and solid writing talent.

I picked up Night Film by Marisha Pessl on recommendation from an old friend, one whose fiction opinions I usually trust. I couldn’t put it down. It was more dense than the others I’ve been reading, but I got so deeply engrossed in the story of the eccentric horror film director and the narrator investigative journalist dead set on exposing whatever real horrors the director was up to. The strange cast grows, and I was so impressed with the world that Pessl built. I don’t usually read such suspense or mystery, but it reminded me of the years in high school where I used to read book after book of Christopher Pike and Dean Koontz. Maybe I should try some of their more recent books again.

That is precisely the kind of reading I’m looking for these days—something somewhat light, that I can devour, but with some magic underneath it that keeps me enraptured and entranced.

I finished off the month with Jeanette Winterson’s latest memoir, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?. I have read almost all of her books, I think I read everything up to The Stone Gods, though I’m a few behind now. I love her intense writing, her experimental style, the ways she is obsessed with love. Oh, and this book, this book. This book made me want to go back and read all the classics of English Literature A-Z that she talks about discovering, it made me want to theorize about love and loss and the lost loss and healing and grief and how we can ever recover from trauma. I marked all sorts of quotes and cried and wrote things down. I had to put it down and read some of it slowly, connecting deeply to the amount of feeling she is able to convey. After reading it, I feel like I just took a big deep breath. It made me want to pick up many more things of hers, or to re-read some of my favorites, like Gut Symmetries and Written on the Body.

Thus concludes my January book roundup! Follow me on Goodreads and see which books I’ll be reading in February.

What have YOU been reading? Anything amazing lately? Anything to recommend?

This month’s roundup is sponsored by Grammerly. I will receive an Amazon gift card in exchange for that link placed up top, but they had no say over the content that I posted. So that’s only half selling out, right?

Train Fantasy

Jiz Lee called Kristen to wish her happy birthday, too, and told this little fantasy about running into each other on a crowded train. Not so far off from the last time we had a drink with Jiz …

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Jiz & Kristen on the subway in New York; I snapped this from across the way
If you don’t know Jiz Lee’s porn work artistry, you are missing out. Check out her work on The Crash Pad Series, follow @jizlee on Twitter or check out her site, Jizlee.com.

with what and where? ‘spanked’ winner

The winner of the delicious new anthology by Rachel Kramer Bussel is saintchick, with this submission about a great time she was spanked:

My ex had to work late one evening at school, so I thought I would surprise her by showing up. Her fave black dress, no undergarments except for the black and red garter, and black patten leather stilettos. Knocked on her classroom door and walked in, she was expecting me and from the look on her face I was in for some trouble. We made some small talk, and by small talk I mean she grabbed my hair and brought me close to her. Her lips barely touching my ear, telling me the exact things she had in store for me. I had only one rule to follow since I had already been a good girl. It was not to look back.

With that said I pretty much flung myself onto her desk, knocking off books, term papers, paper clip holders. She lifted my dress just so my cheeks were visble. Then I heard it, the sound of her opening her desk drawer. My legs started to quiver. I knew better to look back, but I so wanted to see the look on her face. She then placed her hand on the middle of my back to hold me down, and I felt the ruler graze my cheek. She then began alternating between the wooden ruler and her hand. She has this way about her. She would bring me just to the edge when I thought I could not take anymore and then would bring me down gently just to work me up all over again.

Once she admired her work and let her fingertips move over the fresh red marks, she let me up. With one long deep kiss, and one perfectly placed hand I came. On her and her desk. It was one of the best times ever.

Once I straightened out her desk, wiped her desk off (Thank God for Clorox wipes). I kissed her goodbye and just walked out of the classroom. As my stilettos clicked down the hall, a smile on my face, the security guard just looked up at me and managed to say nnnnight ma’am.

Good lord that’s hot. Makes me want to fuck in a classroom, or buy a fabulous ruler, or perfect

(Thanks to the anonymous semi-famous guest judge, you know who you are.)

Sorry I was so behind last week! My ‘real’ work is getting hugely in the way of my posts here. (Want to help me make Sugarbutch my full-time job?) Many posts on their way, including, of course, some butch eye candy, the call for femme eye candy, writings about the architecture of femme identity or what I learned at the Femme Conference, a post about strap-ons, follow up to the Spanked review about the ick factor, more poems, and oh gosh just a whole bunch of stuff. If only the day had more hours.

what I would’ve done

Since we didn’t, since we couldn’t, let me tell you what I would’ve done.

First, I’d want you on your knees in front of me. I’d want the back of your head in my hand. I can still taste the back of your neck from when you sat in my lap, leaned back into me; still feel your haircut, those short hairs around the edges of your ears, under my fingers.

I’d want to unzip unbuckle unbutton slow and watch you watch me. Like you did on the couch, I saw you. Strawberries in your mouth. Bourbon. The shrimp I didn’t try.

Honestly, I’d want to know what you want. I’m a gracious top that way: my favorite scenario would be the one where you tell me what you’d want done to you, and I’d do it. I’d put my own flare on it, you can bet – but you’d get what you asked for.

So what is your fancy? What do you want? Here this is the quiet piece in me, the one that sits back and watches you, the one that takes photos and sucks the cap of my pen, that is all aflutter to know.

But I don’t know. You know I don’t. We operate communicate with a guise of lust and girl-intuition that takes us along the narrative just fine, but we’ve never had that kink/sex conversation over coffee. Likes, dislikes. Secret fantasies. Perhaps we never will, it isn’t really that kind of thing between us. And though I can have at you through your writing (honestly, what comes – ahem – to mind is cocksucking, something I would oh so happily oblige, you know, if I must) I still don’t really know what you love.

So.

Given that I don’t know, I will do what any top would do: improvise, and take.

It becomes about me, quickly, in this scenario then. But that’s okay (it works for me, at least). And I have found, underneath most fetishes, the underlying desire is often the same: we all want to be wanted.

And you know I’m a top. You know how I seek to take. I said it last night (to you) but I’d (eagerly) say it again: I know how to take you. And you’d want that, wouldn’t you? You’d give me your (eager) permissions, that look in your eyes in your face open willing coy submissive and that’s all I ask for, that’s all I need to set my own desire in motion, that tiny moment of permission and submission.

And oh what would I do to you?

Oh what I would do to you.

sunday scribblings: fantasy

She is the fantasy, and I am the dreamer. Or perhaps it is she who is the dreamer: she is the one who is always creating meaning from metaphors and analyzing the superstitions that are coming between us: bread and butter. Knocking the tree spirits awake and away we beg for forgiveness for being so presumptuous that we would know what is to come ahead of us. What nausea will pass and what we will be doing to ring in the next new year. How much of this will we weather? I already know how and where our great downfalls will come: flattery. Consumption. The great flaw of sunshine on a winter’s day.She is the fantasy, and I am the dreamer. She is the dreamer, and I am the magician with the magic hat who watches from the edge of the room after she cries herself back to sleep, never knowing which magic spell will bring her back into herself.

I have created a swirling romance around her. Sweltering inside a coil of smoke, a glass wall such that I cannot reach her. But that I did not place around her. Did not choose to erect such a barrier between us. She did, when she chose to dream me. I did, when I discovered the fantasy of her was more real than the real skin touch of her hand, her thigh, her kiss.

Is it only the dreamer who comes up with such fantasies? Perhaps I would rather be a writer than a dreamer, so I can write myself into something as solid as stones.