Posts Tagged ‘Rachel Kramer Bussel’

Great review of Peep Show by Lola at Hedo Online

October 28, 2009

Lola over at Hedo Online posted a review of Peep Show: Erotic Tales of Voyeurs and Exhibitionists.

Here’s part of what she wrote:

The beauty of Peep Show is that Rachel- the editor, found the perfect formula that resulted in a book filled with erotic stories that literally anyone can relate to. There is indeed, something for everybody. From stories about a husband watching his beautiful wife sleep, the thrill of having sex in a hotel window in Germany, a worker’s fantasy made reality in the Japanese ‘water trade’, to a virgin witch pushing her own limits, Peep Show covers a vast spectrum of sexually infused tales. The authors featured are both men and women. With all stories unique and independent of each other. I’ll admit there were times I became flush with excitement and had to tame my inner sex kitten a few of the stories evoked. Then other stories had me wanting to cuddle up with my hubby in a peaceful loving embrace.

Thanks, Lola! So glad you liked it…go to Hedo Online to read the rest.


Peep Show book trailer!!

October 22, 2009

I’m so excited about this trailer! If you like it too, please consider rating it on YouTube. Big thanks to Ida for letting me use their song “599.”

Peep show book review by Jason Frost

October 20, 2009

Love this review by Jason Frost on of Peep Show:

Everyone loves to watch and everyone DOES watch. This sexy collection tells both sides of the story. I loved this collection because the sex was everywhere and so were the opportunities to watch. I mean really, is there anything that gets our blood pumping faster than watching someone get the ultimate pleasure? No, not really. `Peep Show’ takes us into the world of both people who love to see and people who love to be seen. This is a very, very sexual collection and will arouse your emotions and your physical self. It’s not unusual to reread your favorite stories in a collection, but is it normal to memorize them? 🙂 Ah well… either way Rachel does another superb job of picking the perfect stories to go in this sultry, red hot, voyeuristic collection.

Kindle edition of Peep Show: Erotic Tales of Voyeurs and Exhibitionists

October 10, 2009

Coming soon to Kindle…

“USC’s Topless Professor” – from my Village Voice archives

October 9, 2009

Those interested in exhibitionism might want to check out an old Village Voice column I wrote called “USC’s Topless Professor.” I love that the Voice let me run the topless photos on their website. Yes, I miss writing that column very much but am proud of what I did with it.

Blaine had no intention of showing her tits to the over 100,000 people who’ve viewed them, but now that they’re public, she’s keeping the photos up to make a statement. “The fact that I can embrace my unmutilated breasts, and eroticize and enjoy them, is an act of resistance against patriarchy. That’s something I’ve achieved; it wasn’t handed to me and has taken a lot of work,” she says. Fittingly, Blaine’s at work on a book called Why I Won’t Get Breast Implants But You Might Want To.

USC has thus far stayed out of the fray, and the untenured Blaine does not expect to hear from the school. According to its website, “The University will not be held responsible for the content of personal Web pages. Personal Web pages shall not imply that they are representing or speaking on behalf of the University.” Perhaps Blaine will fare better than other women in similar positions, among them a Chicago Cubs ball girl fired after posing for Playboy and Marcie Betts, a corrections officer canned for baring all on alt-porn site Burning Angel prior to her employment (though Betts later won a legal ruling requiring her reinstatement with restitution of full pay and benefits).

Blaine argues vociferously in favor of her right to a public online life. “My website is not a professional venue of mine; it’s not linked to my teaching at USC. I’ve never assigned my site to students. I’ve never told them to go look and find images of me. It’s not been brought into my teaching at all,” she states. Fifty-one students who filled out surveys about Blaine’s teaching gave her high marks in all areas, offering praise such as “Blaine is without a doubt the most exhilarating whirlwind of feminist, socially conscious thinking I have experienced thus far at this institution.”

Of voyeurs and exhibitionists from the past

October 9, 2009

And by past, I mean the “prequels” to Peep Show, Caught Looking: Erotic Tales of Voyeurs and Exhibitionists, which I co-edited with Alison Tyler. It’s on sale now, while Peep Show will be in store any day now. These introductions give a little taste of what it means to be a voyeur and exhibitionists. And let’s not forget that Caught Looking was also the name of a seminal text in the feminist pro-pornography wave of activism. Where my tattered copy is, I will likely never know, but I read that back in college when I was still figuring out where I stood.

Confessions of a Confirmed Voyeur (Introduction)
by Rachel Kramer Bussel

I can’t lie — I like to watch. Looking at sexy people exuding in their sensuality, playing it up, flirting, flaunting it, gets me hot. Knowing they want to show off for me makes it all the better. I live in New York, the ultimate city for people watching, but only rarely to I actually get to engage in true voyeurism — watching other people have sex.

Sometimes I attend sex parties, where a giant room might be filled with all sorts of couplings. But the action that gets me hottest isn’t the most over-the-top scene in the room, but when I see two people so lost in each other that their bodies seem to give off waves of heat, a magnetism that’s enough to lure anyone into their web. Once, during a threesome with a private sex party’s host couple, I remember watching them kiss as all of us were entangled and being both awed and jealous of the passion their lips shared, until they opened their circle to include me, letting me peek, and join in. I also like it when lovers show off just for me, and have asked several to display how they touch themselves when I’m not around. Watching as their fingers stroke and pump makes me feel like I’m being let into a secret world, given a special lens to view the utterly private.

Like talking dirty, another sexual act I indulge every chance I can, watching uses one of my senses to enhance another. Seeing a lover strip for me, watching them run their hands up and down their body, making them display their masturbation techniques, showing off the bite marks or reddened skin from a spanking, checking out her cleavage or his ass from across the room when they don’t know I’m looking, gets me hot and makes my body purr. Time seems to stop as I soak in her curves, his tattoos, her strong back, his neck, her parted lips, his hard cock. Whatever position I’m in, I like to watch as our bodies melt against each other, and that visual is like a show-within-a-show for me, its impact spurring on my desire.

The authors who’ve graced us with their naughty tales here also share the thrill of watching — and being watched. I’m not so much of a spy as a blatant voyeur; I like the people I’m watching to know I’m looking, to feel my gaze as they bare their innermost selves to me. I like to watch people’s faces when they come, when every last shred of inhibition gets tossed out and they are naked, bare, caught in my glance. I like them to feel my eyes burning into them, warming them, knowing I’m getting off by absorbing whatever it is they want to reveal. When they’re strutting their stuff just for me, giving me visual cues that tell me they know I’ve got my gaze pinned on them, I’m in heaven, squirreling away those images in my mind to replay later, responding to their every move, whether they’re flirting from across the room, masturbating on command, or making love to someone else before my eyes.

Stan Kent knows exactly what I’m talking about, and shares his voyeuristic secrets in “My Finest Hour.” Once you read his story, I bet you’ll want to watch his protagonist’s lover, who knows just what to do to make sure you’ll stick around to see what she’ll do next. He puts us right at the heart of why looking is so alluring: “Notice how the word shower contains ‘show.’ Show and shower — the two go together like a wet pussy and a stiff cock. Our glassed enclosure is her stage . . . my luxurious private and personal peep show that satisfies my fundamental sexual need to watch my lover engaged in what would be private and personal moments if it weren’t for the fact that I was watching.” Watching someone in the throes of ecstasy, watching them surrender, fully and completely, to those stirring rumblings inside, is a powerful thrill. I consider it an honor, a gift, whether that means a breast flashed at me on the sly, or a private masturbation ritual that I’m let in on. I replay the memories of watching when I’m alone, a special erotic reel looping forever in my mind.

Other stories here also delight in the voyeuristic nature of sex. Tara Alton’s “Walled Lake Girl” likes to check out her naughty neighbor as he fucks countless girls, until the tables get turned and she’s the one in his bedroom while someone else (possibly) peeks in. Lisette Ashton’s voyeur, Sally, in “Curtain Up,” is a lot shyer than her counterparts throughout the rest of this book. She becomes “spellbound,” transfixed, mesmerized by the naked female flesh she glimpses backstage as her fellow dancers get ready to shimmy and shake. She’s not reluctant, just unprepared for the reactions such bold displays evoke within her. She’s a novice voyeur — perhaps the best kind, eyes wide with awe and eagerness.

Despite our title, you don’t need to be caught looking — you can unabashedly enjoy every second of these personal peep shows, taking you into a world where lovers light up their bedroom stages, creating dramas worthy of the big screen, whether it’s a slow reveal or an all-out erotic extravaganza. Join us — and look to your heart’s content. I know I will be.

Exhibitionist (Introduction)
by Alison Tyler

Watch me.

Put me on display. That’s what I like. Doll me up and take me out. I’ll be your pony girl, with glossy leather boots riding all the way up to my slender thighs. I’ll be your naughty schoolgirl, in a kinky blue-and-green-plaid skirt and shiny high-heeled Mary Janes. I’ll be your siren in shimmering satin, or your vixen dressed down in my favorite pair of beat-up Levi’s. Truthfully, I don’t care what sort of clothes you put me in. I only want you to dress me up and take me out, so that people can watch.

I’ve always been this way. Yes, I come across as shy at first, with my dark brown eyes cast down; my shoulder-length hair falling forward, hiding my face. I have a long-standing habit of biting my full lower lip when nervous or excited. But all of that’s an act. What I want most are eyes on me. What I crave is the excitement I feel when I know others are watching.

And they are. They always are. They’ve been watching from the very start.

There were eyes on me when Alexander backed me up against the wall behind the record store where he worked, sliding one hand along the lean line of my body, pulling my summery dress up to reveal my lavender lace-edged panties. People could see us when Jack and I had sex in the back row of the theater, my long leather jacket open, my short navy skirt hiked to my slim waist. And when Sam and I fucked in that club in Paris, we gave a thrill to every voyeur who strolled by.

“Open your eyes,” Sam said. “They’re watching you.”

And he was right. They were.

My heart pounded as I made eye contact with the other patrons. As they gazed at us for their personal viewing pleasure, staring at the place where our bodies met, then looking up into my eyes and letting me know that they saw.

I want to be seen. All the time. Everywhere. It goes deeper than that.

I need you to stare at me, to see me. To watch the way my face changes, my expressions shift. To see the subtle strength that pulses in my eyes. To see the defiance there, the power that makes me who I am — the real person behind the shy exterior.

Watch me.

But when you stop, when you tear yourself away, I’ll still be there, my back arched, my lips parted. You’ll feel me gazing at you — and you’ll look back, and then I’ll be the one watching you. We can take turns, like the authors in this collection. The voyeurs and the exhibitionists, playing hide and seek with the sultry characters in their sexy tales. From Thomas S. Roche’s delicious “Curtain Call” to M. Christian’s intoxicating “All Eyes on Her,” there are other lads and lasses here like me who need to be seen. And from Saskia Walker’s naughty heroines in “Room with a View” to the voyeur in Tenille Brown’s “Replacements,” there are other lovers who delight in doing the seeing.

I’m sure you’ll be won over with both — and I’ll know.

Because, just like you, I’ll be watching.

“Visually Aroused” by Angela Caperton – dedicated to Bettie Page

October 9, 2009

Visually Aroused
by Angela Caperton

Context is everything. I happen to think voyeurism and exhibitionism are hotter when they are forbidden.

In today’s world, exposed skin is easy to find. The most innocent Google image search produces pictures that would have blown the mind of the Marquis de Sade. It’s easy to forget just how short a time ago that even a glimpse of printed female pubic hair was enough to arouse the professional interest of policemen and prosecutors.

I set my story “Calendar Girl” (published in Peep Show) in the 1950s, because I wanted to play with the contrast between my heroine’s unexpressed sexuality and the expectations of that more repressed age. So I started with the premise that Desi finds a pin-up calendar with imperfect airbrushing, that the sight of a girl like herself, completely exposed and enjoying it, triggers her own desire to be seen and admired by men. I hope that readers find the resulting story hot!

The 1950s are such a decade of contrasts. Mainstream culture was Ozzie and Harriet, postwar prosperity and unthinking conformity, but popular culture boiled and sizzled with repressed heat – rock and roll, passion pit drive-ins, Beatnik orgies of free thought and free love. Pin-up art was lowbrow culture, although Playboy worked tirelessly to make sex sophisticated. In the rearview mirror though, we have come to appreciate the talent of photographers like Bunny Yeager and the entrepreneurial fervor of guys like Irving Klaw, who helped make the decade sexier and more fun.

I based the photo shoot in my story on sketchy accounts of 50s era “camera clubs,” where amateur models stripped for eager photographers, feeding fantasies both private and public, and I told it through the model’s viewpoint because I wanted to explore the feelings of liberation and power that can come from a woman brave enough to bare herself on her own terms with men who want to share the thrill of her exposure.

Not long after I submitted this story for consideration in Peep Show, I was saddened to read about the death of Bettie Page. While I didn’t have Bettie in mind when I was writing “Calendar Girl”, there is no doubt that she was the queen of pin-up girls. So much has been written about her and what her iconic image meant to a generation, that I really can’t add anything to the discussion except to say that I admired her courage and her astonishing beauty, and that “Calendar Girl” should rightfully be dedicated to her.

Born in Virginia and later raised on a sailboat, Angela Caperton (”Calendar Girl”) has traveled extensively and appreciates the world in all its forms. Her erotic fantasy, Woman of the Mountain, won the 2008 Eppie for Best Erotica, and she has short stories in Lust at First Bite and Girls on Top.

Read “Calendar Girl” by Angela Caperton in the new anthology Peep Show: Tales of Voyeurs and Exhibitionists. An excerpt is below.

You can purchase Peep Show at your local bookstore or:




from “Calendar Girl”
by Angela Caperton

Charlie appeared like a genie to take the roses and she stood and walked to the screen, her breath faster and the line between her legs sodden and dripping. Desi paused beside the screen, looking at the lurid curtains and the sofa, like something in a sultan’s harem. She thought of the Arabian Nights and the woman who kept herself alive by telling stories, by enchanting a man with her talents.

She thought of April and her nipples tightened.

She shed her blouse, camisole and bra without hesitation, and before she put the blouse back on, she looked at the costumes on hangers behind the screen. Some of the shining fantasies were no bigger than her hand, and her nipples grew as hard as marbles as she imagined herself in glossy black and white, shining patches of satin. She stole a glimpse of herself in the mirror, unable to look directly at her image, the rising curves with dark rigid tips, and her face that of the woman in Bobby’s photos.

She slipped on the sheer blouse and buttoned it to the place Mr. Bentley had asked for, aware of every place the linen touched her, its cling no more than mist, but intense as a warm finger. She stepped from behind the screen, her blood pulsing in her ears, her throat, and her treasure. Almost giddy, she walked toward the men and their cameras.

Peeps (excerpts) of the brand-new erotica book Peep Show

October 8, 2009

Below you will find sexy peeps at the 18 stories from Peep Show: Erotic Tales of Voyeurs and Exhibitionists, which will be in bookstores any day now from Cleis Press. I just got my copies today and it’s a gorgeous, gorgeous book. I hope you’ll enjoy it and wanted to give you a chance to see what’s inside it.

Here’s what some very smart ladies have said about it:

Peep Show takes you through the looking glass and into an erotic world of wonder where looking and being looked at creates hot encounters of the highest order.”
Audacia Ray, author of Naked on the Internet

“”Rachel Kramer Bussel has, once again, assembled a top-flight collection. This naughty gem will appeal to both the connoisseur and the curious reader who just wants a peek.”
Lily Burana, author of Strip City: A Stripper’s Farewell Journey Across America

Introduction: Hungry Eyes and Sensual Show-Offs (click here to read the introduction)

Showtime by Susan St. Aubin
Clean and Pretty by Donna George Storey
Superior by Monica Shores
People in Glass Hotels by Jennifer Peters
Indecent by Lolita Lopez
Ownership by Craig J. Sorensen
Audience Participation by Elizabeth Coldwell
Now You See Her by Andrea Dale
Watcher in the Shadows by Cheyenne Blue
Glass by Nobilis Reed
Sleeping Beauty by Malcolm Ross
The Theory of Orchids by L. A. Mistral
Missing Michael by M. March
Busted by Kissa Starling
Satisfaction Guaranteed by Sommer Marsden
Rosse Buurt by Geneva King
I’ve Only Got Eyes for You by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Calendar Girl by Angela Caperton

by Susan St. Aubin

Whenever Lesley talks about him, I have to restrain myself or I’ll drool into my latte or ice-cream soda or whatever we’ve decided to go out for on our afternoon breaks. She’s perverse, preferring ice cream in winter, saving hot drinks for summer. That’s one of the things I like about her.

“Ellie, he wears these bike shorts,” she says in a voice much tighter than I imagine his pants are. “You can see every bulge, like a dancer, except, well…” She moves her hands down as if she’s sculpting his body. “More unrestrained. He doesn’t wear a jockstrap, or underwear, just the tights. Short ones, down to about midthigh, with his muscles bulging over.” Her tongue clicks with disapproval. “He waltzes out to his exercise bike, which is right in front of his picture window, which faces mine. If I have the lights on, he knows I can see him, but he ignores me. He gets on slowly, shifting himself like guys do so his things won’t get caught between him and the seat, settles himself down and just pedals away, going nowhere. Sometimes he’s facing me, coming right at me, other times his back is to me so I can see his buttcheeks going up and down. It’s an invasion of my privacy, that’s what it is.”

She digs her spoon into her glass and scrapes out the last bit of ice cream, shoving it into her mouth.

I look down at the chocolate sauce pooled in the bottom of my glass, thinking how I wouldn’t mind an invasion like that.

“You don’t know how it makes me feel,” she says. “He’s like an intruder breaking into my house. Our windows are so close we might as well be in the same room.”

“Have you tried looking away?”

“Our windows face each other over a small courtyard. He’s so close I can practically hear him breathe. How could I not look?”

Clean and Pretty
by Donna George Storey

Is Hiro watching now?

My nipples tingle, and I feel a gush of wetness between my thighs. It’s not water, no, and it’s not for the man jerking off outside the stall. It’s for Hiro gazing at me through the hidden surveillance camera.

I squeeze out more soap, rub it over my breasts and push them together as if I’m wearing some obscene bargirl’s bustier. It’s time to move on to the “Breast Soap Show.” I lean forward and press my upper body against the glass. In spite of the heat and steam, the wall itself is cool. Yet, as I rub my nipples against it, the mild sting sends sharper pangs of arousal to my cunt. I shake my shoulders slowly, sliding myself along the hard, slick surface. This is no act. I am genuinely turned on.

And Hiro? Does he feel that chilly fire in his body, too?

A face emerges from the steam, inches from the glass, eyes fixed and bulging. I shimmy faster. A tongue darts out, desperately flicking at the glass. I moan. Hiro’s tongue would be just like this, cool and unyielding. He’s a cool man in every sense of the word. He never touches his girls, he told me. Mixing work and pleasure dirties things.
But I want to be dirty. I want to be touched.

by Monica Shores

“Be quiet.” I said. Your jaw was clenched and your eyes were flashing. This was the most you’d ever said to me at one time. My pussy was throbbing because of your desperation. Just seeing your nostrils flare was enough to keep me going. “Take off your pants.”

You looked at me, your face falling as distress dissolved into something like fear. I watched the crotch of your pants swell steadily and again you made a move, this time as if to shield your hard-on from view. Your cheeks were a hot red, and I noticed that the hair against your forehead and temples was curled wet with sweat.

“I won’t say it again. Your boxers, too.”

You pulled off your shoes and fumbled with your belt until your trousers were dropped and kicked to the side. Under your shirttails, your cock was hard and drowsing out toward me, sleek and long. It had a sharp upward curve and a prominent head with a shiny, defined ridge. I wanted to put my mouth on it, but instead I said:

“Start jerking it for me.”

People in Glass Hotels
by Jennifer Peters

Felix made the next move, and before I could look away from the glass, he’d pushed me up against it. My breasts were flattened against the cool, smooth surface, and when I looked down, I could see several people looking back up at meæor at least I told myself they were all looking at me; it was hard to tell which window had captured their attention, and I was a bit distracted. I sighed as I stared down at them, and then Felix was pressing his body against mine, his stiff dick nestling between my asscheeks as he kissed my neck and ran his hands up and down my body, eventually wrapping his arms around me and letting his hands wander down toward my pussy. When a finger brushed my wet pussy lips, I moaned and pressed my forehead against the window, my eyes closed tight. When I opened them, however, there were still people staring up at me. And this time I was sure it was me they were watching, because the handful of people from a minute earlier were still there and were now joined by others, some of them pointing up at the window.

“They’re watching us,” I breathlessly told Felix, and he mumbled something in my ear that sounded a lot like, “No, they’re watching you,” though his voice was so rough with passion that it was hard to make out his exact words.

by Lolita Lopez

Hips sensually swinging, Trini lowered herself into a wide-legged crouch and then slowly rose to full stature. She flung her top hat into the crowd before carefully turning and shaking her tight ass for the crowd’s delight. Her fingers worked the loose knot of her garish yellow and turquoise tie. Facing the crowd again, she let the tie flutter toward the ground. Trini grasped the exaggerated lapels of her jacket and spread the fabric wide, showing off her glittery gold push-up bra and tan tummy. The jacket sleeves whisked down her arms. She twirled the jacket overhead before launching it into the crowd.

Like a belly dancer, she slowly gyrated while running her palms over the full curves of her breasts and along the gentle slope of her rib cage. Her fingers danced across her belly and hooked into the sides of her skimpy black shorts. With a forceful tug, Trini broke the Velcro side seams and crotch. Excited cheers and whistles resounded. A group of frat boys fought over the fabric scraps raining down upon them.

Trini strutted confidently along the ledge, showing off her gleaming, toned legs and the shockingly scant swatch of gold material covering her immaculately waxed sex. A cool breeze buffeted her body, highlighting the dampness of the material pressed up against her cunt and hidden between the cheeks of her ass. Her body hummed with arousal, feeding off the vibrant energy of the crowd. The hardened peaks of her breasts poked against the thin material constraining them. Trini wanted nothing more than to slip her fingers beneath her G-string and strum her stiff clit.

by Craig J. Sorensen

Troy scooted closer to Kendall and handed the other beer to her.

Her eyes were the deep slate color of storm clouds when a small shaft of sunlight had managed to peek through. Her cheeks were bright red with a bit too much blush and her slim lips were slivers of vermilion. Soft blue eye shadow shimmered like mica in a cool riverbed.

Kendall’s body language remained shy, but her full hip pressed his. The aroma of mint and beer crossed the tiny divide between their faces. She accepted Troy’s first, soft kiss. He moved his lips slowly side to side against hers, and her mouth finally opened a little. His tongue could barely fit in. The tip of her tongue was rough and tasted of malt and honey. She received the kiss awkwardly but a deep moan promised great passion. Troy’s cock was hard as a girder. He kissed along her full cheek then gently licked her ear. She moaned, and her soft curves conformed to his skinny frame like a fitted sheath to a balanced blade.

Kendall pushed him gently away and took another drink. He nuzzled her neck until another breathy sigh issued from her chest. Troy unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. Her hand started to rise as if to push him away again, but relaxed and stroked his forearm as he nuzzled again and moved down the blouse. It fell open. Troy pulled off his T-shirt. Kendall combed his chest hairs with her fingers while he untucked her blouse and peeled it from her shoulders. “Umm, just because we took off our shirts—I mean, I don’t want you to think we’re going to—” Kendall covered her bra with one arm.

“Oh, sure, sure.” Troy smiled reassuringly. His cock pushed at his zipper like a lifer on the verge of a prison break. Troy was a skilled fisherman, and knew the essential value of patience.

Audience Participation
by Elizabeth Coldwell

Tony had pressed his companion up against the wall and was kissing her while he tugged her sweater out of her skirt.

“They’re not,” I said, unable to mesh my knowledge of my straight-laced, work-obsessed–and, most importantly, very married-æboss with what I was seeing. “They can’t be!”

“Looks to me like they are,” Chris replied. He was behind me now, staring at the PC over my shoulder, and his body was tight against mine, a hard, unmistakable lump in his jeans digging into the cheek of my bum.

We shouldn’t be looking at this, I told myself, not if things were going to go as far as I suspected. Indeed, my hand actually snaked out toward the mouse, ready to break the Internet connection. And then I stopped, weighing the morality of the situation. Which was worse–having sneaky sex with someone who definitely wasn’t your wife, or secretly watching that sex take place? From the rapt expression on Chris’s face, reflected in the computer monitor, I knew he was equally intrigued by what was about to happen.

On-screen, Denise’s sweater had come off. She had big breasts, confined in a plain white bra, and Tony had his head between them and was nuzzling into her cleavage. My own nipples tingled and pressed against the fabric of my thin cotton top, suddenly aching for the same treatment hers were clearly getting. Almost unconsciously, I pushed my rump back against Chris’s groin, grinding myself against his erection.

Now You See Her
by Andrea Dale

“Her main thing is exhibitionism. She likes to show off, likes to show off her partners. Likes to humiliate them a little bit, but not in a mean way.” I was having trouble thinking, between the aftereffects of the martinis and Shane’s skillful hands making my blood rush from my brain to pool in my groin. “Am I making any sense?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “You definitely are. Keep talking.”

“Don’t want to,” I said, reaching for him.

He braceleted my wrist with his fingers, pulled me away. “Yes,” he said. “You’re enjoying this just as much as I am.”

I sighed, tried to focus through the haze of pleasure. “She likes to have sex in front of mirrors, to have her girlfriends watch themselves as they come. Or in a semipublic place, where someone might see. In front of a window. Nothing turns her on more than knowing her girlfriend is walking next to her in a short skirt and no panties when it’s breezy. She won’t let them reach down to catch the skirt when it fluffs up…”

Watcher in the Shadows
by Cheyenne Blue

“Please don’t.”

He paused, unsure if he’d imagined the words.

“Please don’t pull back the curtain.”

He waited, one hand on the dusty cloth. “So, I should let you spy on me?”

“I’m not spying. Not exactly. I just don’t want you to see me.” The voice was low, the gender blurred by the husky words.

“That’s spying in my book.”

The pause stretched. Billy imagined his unseen watcher in the shadows; mortified maybe, embarrassed at having been caught. But when the intruder spoke again, the voice was challenging. “So, say something. Do you like the idea of being watched? Do you like the thought of me watching your body, watching you take your clothes off? Peering to see if–”

“Enough.” Billy yanked hard on the curtain, and a cloud of dust and hairs billowed out. “Tell my why I shouldn’t call security?”

“But you haven’t. How long now? Five minutes? Ten? You’re still here, falling into your whiskey with your makeup smeared across your face and I’m still here, watching you.”

by Nobilis Reed

The glass dildo, this time. Yes, definitely the glass. Mira unlocked the bottom drawer and selected the hard transparent shape from the jumble of torpedoes and plastic phalluses and laid it on the desk in front of her.

A gentle curve, a pleasant shade of blue, a few tiny bubbles trapped inside: it could almost pass for a work of art. She smiled at the thought of just leaving it on the shelf alongside the walkie-talkie and the heavy ring of keys. Would anyone say anything? She doubted it.

The couple on her monitor stopped kissing and pulled at each other’s clothes. Mira looked up. It wouldn’t be long now, but where was that damned lube? Bit by bit, their bodies came into view. They were beautiful, both of them. Every Friday they showed up, performed their pas de deux, and left again. She had invented a hundred stories to explain their presence in the depths of the darkened parking garage. Not for the first time, she thanked the nameless engineer who’d invented night-vision video cameras.
She leaned back in her chair, pulled open two buttons of her blouse, and moved one hand into the gap.

Sleeping Beauty
by Malcolm Ross

I knelt down, my dick rising in my boxers as I peered at the crack of her ass. I’d been inside her there a few times over the years–neither of us was all that into anal sex–but had never really gotten up close and personal. I had to take my cock out of my shorts then because it was getting painful to wait. She’d never know the difference, right? Oh, I should add that Inez is a very heavy sleeper. She’s slept through arguments, sirens, meals, even an earthquake once. Like everything else in her life, when she throws herself into something, she throws herself 100 percent. My ex before her, Tracy, she of the T-shirt as sleepwear, had been such a light sleeper that every little noise woke her, and consequently, me as well. But my Inez had to be shaken awake or blasted into the day by her blaring alarm, which she’d set to sound like a barking dog, a noise I’d never fully gotten used to.

So I knew she wouldn’t wake up suddenly and find me beating off. And if she did, what harm was there in what I was doing? She was my wife, not some stranger, and I knew she masturbated in the shower, while she knew I usually got myself off at night if we didn’t wind up fooling around. It was never an issue for us, so I only had the mildest pang of guilt as I pumped my cock while letting my eyes dance over her sleeping form. Her body rose high and fell, and twice she let a few mumbled words of Spanish slip out. Her parents are Chilean immigrants; she grew up speaking both Spanish and English. Though she considers English her first language, after a few drinks or when she’s very tired, she sometimes reverts to Spanish; she apparently did the same when she was asleep.

The Theory of Orchids
by L. A. Mistral

Now, on the Metro, she glanced up for a moment. Two or three people, two men and one woman, she recalled, were still staring at her. Polite, to be sure, they glanced down when their eyes met. The strange thing was that the more they stared the more excited she became. Her heart quickened its pace and her breath seemed to bang out of her breast. Then Gina looked down at her skirt. The hem had caught on a rivet in the seat and raised way up her thighs. Her skirt had risen so high that the crotch of her evening blue panties was clearly visible, bulging with the high mound of her hyacinth pussy. She blushed immediately.

Then she did something totally out of character. She slumped down in her seat and spread her legs even farther apart. Her panties were so wet, they were translucent, and her pussy blossomed like an orchid big as the moon between her legs. She felt shamed all right, but that wasn’t all she felt. She was so aroused, her whole body hummed. She also felt strangely strong, vibrant. She unfastened the skirt in a leisurely way and smoothed it down. She almost felt let down, disappointed, except that she liked it way too much. Except that her panties were soaking wet.

It wasn’t even as if they were leering. Their gazes seemed more appreciative than exploitive. They didn’t want to control her. They just wanted to cherish her.
It was the looking that aroused her. She couldn’t deny the shame she felt at exposing herself, but she wouldn’t deny the euphoria either. Maybe we shy girls are simmering inside, she thought. She felt like she had accidentally lost her virginity. She was stepping into a new country.

Missing Michael
by M. March

I’ve just gotten a monster erection.

It happened when Gym Boy took off his shirt. I got this terrible craving to pinch his hard, red nipples and then my dick got huge, swollen beyond belief. I was scared someone would notice it, so I went into the bathroom to take care of myself.
And now as I touch my cock, I can’t help but see Gym Boy in swimming trunks. He is kissing me and sticking a finger up my ass and covering my prick with his mouth and I am getting so hard and I am screaming and stroking myself so fast I may have a heart attack. A part of me hopes I will. I need to see Michael again.

Oh God, this feels so good. No, not just good; I am mad with pleasure. I feel like strutting around the gym–no, all of New York–with my giant cock out for every man to see and suck.

I spy a hole in the wall and think it’s the perfect size, and before I realize how ridiculous it is, I’m putting my dick in there, and thrusting my hips, and smacking my bare ass. I am not thinking about moving out of our house. I am not worrying about how to turn down that great guy my sister wants me to date; I am not wondering how I will manage to visit my husband’s grave without having yet another nervous breakdown.
All I am doing is thinking of Gym Boy.

by Kissa Starling

“What are you wearing?” My man is such a perv. No wonder we get along so well.

“Everything that you requested. Why don’t you let me drive and then you can see what I’m wearing in person?” She laughed into the phone but Andy stayed silent. At times she wondered what she was doing with such a serious lover, but then she remembered the way he made her feel when he…

“Lydia. Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.” She squinted against the glare of the car traveling opposite her.

“Tell me what you’re wearing.” Lydia swerved to the right to avoid going over the yellow line.

“A short skirt…” So short that my ass peeks out.

“No panties, right?”

“Of course not. My black thin silk shirt…”

“No bra, right?” Why can’t I ever finish a sentence?

“No, Andy, no bra. Listen I have to drive.”

“Don’t hang up that phone.” Silence. “Tell me about your bush.”

“Again, just as you like it. I haven’t shaved in weeks.” Ten million men like bare pussy and I get an Indian guy who loves hair!

“Mmm. I can’t wait till you get here. You have me hot already. Now get off of that phone. You shouldn’t be talking and driving at the same time.” Just thinking of the night ahead spurred tingles throughout her body.

“Really? Well than maybe you shouldn’t be calling me. See you soon.”

Satisfaction Guaranteed
by Sommer Marsden

He was close enough to call out a Howdy! but it died in his throat when Chuck came up behind her and pressed the flat of his jeans to the back of her skirt. Chuck and Dana had just purchased Jimmy’s. They were only the third owners. The original Jimmy had died ages ago. Tom Streat had sold them the diner about three months back. Chuck shoved his big hands under his wife’s skirt and lifted. As she cleaned the counter, he tugged at her pale aqua panties. Definitely not a thong, these were a throwback to the days when dames wore real undergarments. And somehow the bigness of them by today’s standards made Jared’s cock go hard. Harder than the morning wood that haunted him now that sex was just a pipe dream.

Or maybe, he thought, rubbing his fingers hesitantly up the rigid length of his hard-on, it was the yards of pale leg that unwound from the leg holes of those panties. Dana had gams, that was for sure, long muscles that were pale like milk. He caught the flash of a brown birthmark at the top of her thigh, part of it hidden under the aqua elastic. He wondered if Chuck ever traced it with his tongue before eating her pussy. Or during. Did he take breaks to tongue her birthmark? With that thought, Jared took a giant step back into the protection of the copse of trees.

Was he really going to do this?

Rosse Buurt
by Geneva King

De Wallen is Amsterdam’s infamous Red-Light District, or rosse buurt, as they say in the native tongue. Working girls–and guys–strut their stuff in windows before an audience of serious customers, and many gawking tourists, the latter trying to decide if they’re turned on or bothered by the display. At least, if they’re anything like me they are.

In a city as beautiful and scenic as Amsterdam, the Red-Light District is a shock even to those of us expecting it. During the day, Amsterdam is a quaint city. But at night, the rosse buurt beckons.

Finding De Wallen is easy enough. I just follow the crowd, some of them men with sheepish looks and upturned collars and expressions that say, I don’t normally do this. Really. There are women too; we hate to be left out. I, like the rest of them, get the once-over from people wondering what side we’re on. Pro or customer? Tourist or activist?

The Dutch make it obvious you’ve arrived. If the buildings don’t give it away, the artwork will. On one street, I step over a bronze breast. Farther down, I see a statue of a woman selling her body from a doorway.

One side of the crowded street is a sea of lit windows. There must be dozens, all filled with people. For a moment, they look like half-dressed mannequins, but then I see one move, hitting the window to attract passersby.

I’ve Only Got Eyes for You
by Rachel Kramer Bussel

I smiled as best a woman with her own panties stuffed in her mouth can, letting the camera, the viewers, know how much he turned me on. “Okay, we can take those out,” Troy said. “I want them to hear you scream.”

I blushed again because I do tend to scream, loudly, so loudly that hotel security has been summoned to our various rooms on more than one occasion, and I’ve had to peep out the door with my hair disheveled and face flushed and know that the man standing before me is picturing me getting hammered in the most depraved way possible. “What do you want, Lindsey?” Troy asked me.

He knew exactly what I wanted, but he wanted to hear me say it. “I want your cock. I want it all the way down my throat,” I told him, then started to suck his cock, so hard and ripe and ready for me. I couldn’t imagine any woman watching this would see it and not want to suck it.

He let me go down on him for a few minutes before easing me off. “I think you need a little spanking first,” he said.

I smiled, because I always want a spanking from him. He had me lie across his lap, so I could feel his erection pressing up against me. He tilted me toward the camera to show off my ass. Then he brought his hand down hard on my right cheek, followed by my left. “What a pretty handprint,” he said, while I just buried my face in my arms.

Calendar Girl
by Angela Caperton

Charlie appeared like a genie to take the roses and she stood and walked to the screen, her breath faster and the line between her legs sodden and dripping. Desi paused beside the screen, looking at the lurid curtains and the sofa, like something in a sultan’s harem. She thought of the Arabian Nights and the woman who kept herself alive by telling stories, by enchanting a man with her talents.

She thought of April and her nipples tightened.

She shed her blouse, camisole and bra without hesitation, and before she put the blouse back on, she looked at the costumes on hangers behind the screen. Some of the shining fantasies were no bigger than her hand, and her nipples grew as hard as marbles as she imagined herself in glossy black and white, shining patches of satin. She stole a glimpse of herself in the mirror, unable to look directly at her image, the rising curves with dark rigid tips, and her face that of the woman in Bobby’s photos.

She slipped on the sheer blouse and buttoned it to the place Mr. Bentley had asked for, aware of every place the linen touched her, its cling no more than mist, but intense as a warm finger. She stepped from behind the screen, her blood pulsing in her ears, her throat, and her treasure. Almost giddy, she walked toward the men and their cameras.

Read all 18 stories in their entirety in Peep Show: Erotic Tales of Voyeurs and Exhibitionists.

Peep Show book trailer outtake

October 5, 2009

Martha Burzynski shows us just how sexy reading in public can be in Central Park for the Peep Show book trailer shoot!

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October 5, 2009

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