The following excerpt is from "Girona, 1960," by Stella Sandberg.

Then Charlie kissed her insistently and pressed her against the wall. It felt odd, but not unpleasant. The kiss soon made her breathless, and the grinding of Charlie's jean-clad crotch against her own made her clit swell. Charlie didn't waste any time before she undid Jamie's belt buckle and button fly and stuck her hand in her jeans. Charlie's fingers tugged slightly on the damp tuft of dark hair, out of recklessness rather than any studied sadism.

Jamie winced a little when Charlie touched her sensitive clit, and Charlie perceived it and avoided direct contact. Instead she let her hand slip and slide in the hot wetness of Jamie's cunt. Before Jamie knew it, Charlie had shoved a finger inside her. Jamie never let anybody do that, not even Doris. That was simply not the way it went. But she let it happen now, surprised at how easily she succumbed to the bittersweet pleasure of being taken. She'd thought her armor more solid than that. But it only took one cocky tomboy, unlike any she'd met before, and she was done in.

Charlie fucked her with her hand for a bit, kissing and biting Jamie's lips. She had her other hand around the back of Jamie's neck, tickling the short, downy hair there and teasing the nerves, making goose bumps all the way down Jamie's back. Jamie had hardly known she had such a sensitive neck. There was a lot she hadn't known about herself. Like how she longed to lose control, for instance.

Charlie turned her around, making her face the wall, still fucking her with her hand. The other hand had left Jamie's neck and was pinching and kneading her pale, muscular buttocks instead. Then the hand left her arse and fumbled with something else, presumably Charlie's own fly.

Something slid into Jamie from behind, something larger and smoother than a finger. Though not cooler-it must have been warmed to body temperature inside Charlie's slacks. Jamie was shocked. Not even she had one of those! Charlie's cruel mistress must be well equipped.

It stung ever so slightly but that was to be expected, since technically, she was-had been- Anyway, she was not the one to whine about a little pain. It felt right somehow, like penitence. She knew she had no other choice than to relax and receive. Bracing herself would only make it hurt more, and she wasn't sure she needed to repent that badly. Charlie wasn't going to stop. She'd seemed like a sweet enough kid, a bit forward but no match for Jamie. Or so Jamie had thought. But she must have some pent-up frustration from being that lady's toy-Jamie could tell from the determined way she thrust into her.

So she relaxed and received. Charlie had her in a firm grip around her leather-clad waist, both her hands pressing on Jamie's clit. With each jerk of her hips the pressure of her hands increased too. Now Jamie had an awfully sensitive clit. She used to get off just from riding her motorbike. She suspected Charlie did, too, from the way she was panting as she rubbed against Jamie's arse. Anyway, that meant it didn't take much for her to come, but she was unprepared for what the orgasm felt like with the cock inside her too. Normally, she felt the contractions as vague spasms, but now her muscles had something to grip and every time they contracted the pleasure intensified. It beat the breath out of her so that she couldn't suppress a groan.

Apparently pleased with her accomplishment, Charlie let herself go and came, as well. Jamie could hear her gasp right next to her ear. Her red curls tickled Jamie's neck as she momentarily rested her head on Jamie's shoulder, then her head was gone and she was all buttoned up before Jamie had the chance to collect herself. When Jamie turned around to face her, flushing cheeks and somewhat rapid breathing were the only signs she showed of any illicit activity. As for Jamie, she leaned heavily against the church wall, still fumbling with her button fly. She, who was always so cool and collected!

Excerpted from Best Women's Erotica 2010, an anthology edited by Kathleen Warnock and published by Cleis Press.

The book is also on sale at Amazon.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Cleis Press.

If you're an author or a book publicist and you want to participate in the Fleshbot Book Club, send email to Lux Alptraum.

Even though the Indian government isn't too keen on the mellifluous MILF, French publisher Editions Blanche felt the horny housewife would fit right in with their brand of erotic literature. The first book is "Bollywood in Love- les Aventures de Savita Bhabhi," 96 pages of glorious, glossy comic book porn. While Amazon.com may not carry it, their French counterpart does. Oh, France. You're so helpful!

· Savita Bhabhi finds asylum in France! (hindustantimes.com)
· Savita Bhabhi's new internet home: Kirtu.com (kirtu.com)

The following excerpt is from "In a Handbasket," by Alison Tyler.

The heat surrounded us: Santa Monica in the summertime, melting popsicles and no lights on; that electric smell of hot asphalt and salt breezes. And Cal's mouth working me, tongue ringing my clit, those warm strong hands opening me up now, drumming, strumming in a heady rhythm along the crack of my ass.

"You said you were a believer," I remembered suddenly, gazing down into his coffee-brown eyes, seeing the humor that I always saw when he looked at me-realizing in a flash it was because this was the first time I'd ever looked down at him, first time I was ever above.

But then he hosted me up, lifting me in his arms so I had to put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself, feeling his muscles through his seat-dampened T-shirt. I could have put my palms up flat on the ceiling if I'd wanted to. Instead, I gripped into his arms, knowing he was going to-what was it?

"Fellowship of light with darkness," Cal murmured, letting me feel the head of his cock at the split of my lips. Letting me steel myself now for the first taste of him.

"Does fellowship mean fuck?" I asked innocently.

"Only someone who wears a sinner on her chest would ask a question like that," Cal teased. And then he got quiet, because he'd felt me squeeze him. Tight. Once again and then release. He responded by plunging forward, driving firmly inside for me. And sweet Jesus, right then I started to think I might become a believer for real.

A believer in me and Caleb.

Forget Cain. We were able. Able to fuck like a dream. His hands moving, holding, lifting me so that I felt weightless, as if we were fucking in water, fucking in heat that's both breathable and surrounding. Flames licking our skin. the sound of fire crackling.

Caleb's strong, hard body pinned me to the wall, held me firmly then brought me down over and over on the length of his shaft. The pleasure floored me. Or lifted me up. I couldn't comprehend the sweetness, sparked with pain from his size, from the way that he stretched me. I'd heard of being fucked hard, fucked until you could feel that cock hammering against the back of your throat. But I never had that feeling until Caleb brought me to the bed, set me down and got behind me.

Here we were, bringing that picture to life, becoming the image that all of those dirty-minded people pictured when they saw us walking, when they saw two friends together. This was the culmination of all those stares. And they were right, those filthy-thinking people. Being fucked by Caleb was transcendent, shattering in that way that makes you flutter inside, every nerve ending alive-every fiber on fire.

Caleb gripped my hair in one fist and pulled as he fucked me, as he sealed himself into me, whispering sweet words the whole time. Not scripture, but promises, or rather confessions: how he'd wanted to do this from the start. How he was one of those dirty-minded people who imagined what I'd look like naked whenever he saw me.

"Like a sinner?" I whispered.

"We're all sinners," he sighed, as he came.

I slid one hand on top of his, pumping against my clit, showing him the way to take me there, letting his finger do the trick, so that I climaxed right after him, melting with him into the heat.

But he recovered quicker that I did, gripping me into his arms, holding me against him as the breeze barely stirred my lacy curtains.

"You know," I told him, turning to look into his eyes, "we're going to hell."

He laughed, that rumbling baritone laugh that I've always loved. "At least, chicklet, we'll be there together."

Excerpted from "Best Women's Erotica 2010," an anthology edited by Violet Blue and published by Cleis Press.

The book is also on sale at Amazon.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Cleis Press.

If you're an author or a book publicist and you want to participate in the Fleshbot Book Club, send email to Lux Alptraum.

A few nights ago in Chicago, the Naked Girls Reading group sat down to read the classic tale of ghosts and giving, and they plan to repeat the event every year. Yay for new holiday traditions! You don't have to like Christmas, Santa Claus, or even hot chocolate, but everyone loves the promotion of naked literacy.

·: More photos at Naked Girls Reading: Photo gallery (timeoutny.com)

Burlesque performer Jonny Porkpie wrote the pulp tome (we covered Christa Faust's "The Money Shot" last year) and the book will be feted at the fetid Bleecker Street Theatre on November 21 and 28 with a stage presentation of "Corpse"'s plot performed by burlesque hoofers Dirty Martini, Jo Boobs, Madame Rosebud, and Clams Casino, as well as the book's cover models, Nasty Canasta and GiGi LaFemme.

When is the last time you saw one of your favorite storybooks enacted on stage? And was there almost-nudity in "Shrek On Ice"? No there wasn't.

· Lurid Lunch (pinchbottom.com)
· "The Corpse Wore Pasties" (hardcasecrime.com)

It's books like these that really reinforce the importance of the fight for literacy...after all, if children never learn to read well, how on earth will they ever be able to appreciate the seductive curves of these sultry women? And what a tragedy that would be...

· Tricia Helfer Nude in Sante D'Orazio: Barely Private (egotastic.com)

The book captures the "sexy and carefree and wild" lives of boys and girls (mostly girls) living in Brazil. The notable nudes include Gisele Bundchen, Isabeli Fontana , Emanuela De Paula, Fernanda Lima, Aline Moraes, Ana Beatriz Barros and Guisela Rhein. So grab copy of the book, slip into a Speedo, and take that Brazilian vacation you've always wanted to.

· Brazilian celebs pose naked for Mario Testino's new book (nudography.com)

· Dania Ramirez Naked in Room 23 (egotastic.com)

After the bright moonlight of the roof the inside of the house seemed absolutely black, and Melody eased herself down to the floor cautiously and in complete silence. As her feet touched floorboards the lights came on, startling her despite her knowledge of more or less what was going to happen. She froze, allowing the man who had been waiting to one side of the window to catch her easily, twisting her arms behind her back and quickly cuffing her as he spoke.

‘What have we here then, a burglar, and a girl at that to judge by the feel of you.'

He had taken a grip on the back of her mask, which was pulled roughly down, and as Melody turned her head she found that she was looking up into the face of a tall, dark haired man in full police uniform with a sergeant's stripes on his sleeve. A badge gave his name – Stern – and she immediately thought of the brat spanker of Metrocity. Not that it mattered who he was, because she was helpless, while his voice had been cool and amused with not a hint of mercy. Already her choice seemed insane, and yet her body was responding for all the rapidly building emotions in her head.

‘Let's have a look at you then.'

She was hustled into the middle of the room, an attic completely bare save for a plain wooden chair set close to one wall. Melody swallowed, already sure of its purpose and her bottom cheeks tightened in anticipation of a spanking. He had folded his arms across the breadth of his chest as he stood back, his mouth flickering into a cruel smile as he took her in.

‘Well, well, very nice, and so young. This is your first offence, I suppose?'

Melody managed a weak nod and he went on.

‘I guessed as much. No need to make this formal then, I don't think. In fact what a young girl like you really needs is a good old-fashioned spanking, which is exactly what I'm going to give you.'

She tried to answer, but all that escaped her lips was a whimper. He wasted no time, stepping forward to take a powerful grip on her elbow. Cuffed and helpless, Melody could do nothing to resist as she was frog-marched to the chair and placed across his lap in spanking position. She'd known it was going to happen, and she'd known she needed it before her fucking, but now that she was going to get it her stomach was fluttering and her muscles were twitching in apprehension as he laid one huge hand across the seat of her cat suit.

‘Yes, a good old-fashioned spanking, and then …'

He didn't finish the sentence, but Melody knew what he meant and a sob escaped her lips at the thought, her bottom spanked pink before his cock was inserted between her rosy cheeks, only not up her bottom this time, but into her virgin sex. Not that he was in any hurry, fondling her cheeks through the taut material of her cat suit and applying only the occasional gentle slap to make her cheeks wobble. Suddenly her legs had been hauled wide, to show off the bulge of her pussy, every detail of her lips outlined in tight, wet, black cotton. A finger touched and he'd begun to trace the outline of her sex, setting her gasping and wriggling in helpless response. He gave a low chuckle.

‘Horny little one, aren't you? But you needn't think you're going to get away without a spanking.'

Melody shook her head, very sure she would be spanked, and hard. Again he began to caress her bottom, and to smack, only harder now, with firm, stinging slaps that made her yelp and kick her feet. She knew she'd soon be over the pain, her bottom hot and ready, but that did nothing to dilute it, nor her sense of humiliation as he spoke once more, his hand now resting across the meat of her cheeks.‘

Excerpted from Slave to the Machine by Aishling Morgan, published by Xcite Books.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Aishling Morgan.

If you're an author or a book publicist and you want to participate in the Fleshbot Book Club, send email to Lux Alptraum.

Short of that, though, we're pleased to see that photographer Rankin has chosen to celebrate Heidi in an upcoming photo book, "Heidilicious." Though it won't be out until next month, you can catch a sneak peek in the trailer above. Short of our aforementioned museum idea, we can't think of a better celebration of Heidi's beauty (unless maybe it were also a scratch and sniff book?).

· Buy "Rankin's Heidilicious" (amazon.com)
· Heidi Klum shoot with Rankin (youtube.com, via nudography.com)

The following excerpt is from "Urgent Message," Rachel Kramer Bussel's tale of inflight cybersex.

Brandon brings out the dirty girl inside me, the girl my straight-A, choir and track team member former self could never have imagined. Even now, I retain so much of my good-girl polish, at least on the outside. Before Brandon, I dated guys who would never think of wanting a lady on the streets and a whore in the bedroom. "Whore" probably wasn't even in their vocabulary, whereas Brandon loved to taunt me with it, whispering it in my ear as I teetered on that perilous, wondrous brink of orgasm, knowing that the prospect of being a woman of the night would send me crashing over the edge.

Where are your panties, young lady? was blinking on my screen-in red. Next thing I knew, he'd be going to all caps.

Just a sec, I typed, feeling a rush of wetness soak said item of clothing.

My panties were already skimpy to begin with; I like to travel wearing my sexiest undies to remind me that while I may not have my man with me, I have something to look forward to when I go home. In fact, most of my plain-Jane, boring cotton panties have gone by the wayside in favor of silk, satin, lace and mesh in a rainbow of colors. Brandon has made his mark all over my body, and in my dresser drawers.

I pondered how best to go about this. Removing my bra in the locker room in college without showing my tits was easier than this maneuver would be. I placed the laptop on the tray in front of me, then undid my seat belt, trying to be as silent as possible so as not to attract attention. I reached into the waistband of my skirt and pushed one edge of my panties down one hip, then did the same with the other.

I had to get them down far enough so that I could wiggle them the rest of the way with my legs. My face was hot, and surely blushing, as he continued to type away, the screen refreshing as I squirmed. I wish I could see you slithering out of those panties, wish I could see between your legs to what they were covering. Even though I just tasted you this morning, baby, I miss you already. It's just not the same without you, but I'm trying.

Tell me what you're doing. I have my panties halfway down my thighs, I typed back in a flash, grateful for all those years of temping that had gifted me with the ability to type one-hundred words per minute, or one-handed, if need be. I wiggled against the seat, shifting one leg and hip, then the other, as I felt my panties move slowly down my legs.

Excerpted from "The Mile High Club," an anthology of plane sex stories edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel and published by Cleis Press.

You can read reviews at Erotica Revealed and Adult Friend Finder.

The book is also on sale at Amazon.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Rachel Kramer Bussel.

If you're an author or a book publicist and you want to participate in the Fleshbot Book Club, send email to Lux Alptraum.

Buy Scott Caan Photographs (amazon.com)
Lake Bell Gets Naked For Scott Caan (egotastic.com)
Buy Scott Caan Photographs (amazon.com)
Lake Bell Gets Naked For Scott Caan (egotastic.com)
Buy Scott Caan Photographs (amazon.com)
Lake Bell Gets Naked For Scott Caan (egotastic.com)

We Did Porn

"Then I would call it 'Who Killed Tina DiVine?' or 'Who Killed Max Clamm?' and all my observations about porn could be wrapped around that death and loaded with the sexy intensity of true crime," Smith writes.

Tina DiVine, who shares certain characteristics with Joanna Angel, is one of dozens of second degree pseudonyms Smith employs in the book. He uses this method, he explains, to remind readers and himself that "there is probably more to them than I managed to see or record."

But, save for some anonymous porn performer in Berlin, no one dies in this book, and so the reader struggles with Smith (nom de porn: Zak Sabbath) on an as-it-happens examination of this "detour" through the pornimondes of Los Angeles, Brooklyn, Vegas, Berlin, and Barcelona, as the narrator serves up judgment on what he's figuring out.

Smith's perspective as a porn tourist (we are all porn tourists unless we are Jack Fuchsmore/Max Hardcore) is one of such precision, wit, and education that one can coast through most of "We Did Porn" before realizing that it can be as heartless and passionless as an episode of "Family Guy" or a fucking machine.

Take this observation of attendees at the annual Adult Entertainment Expo:

These bumblers in lines, programmers, two-handed clutchers, these bloggers with their pictures near breasts, these meatstacks, sad-sacks, these weezing mouth-breathers, nodding Cro-Magnons, ghost-costume-sized hip-hop shirt roamers, these collectors, these enthusiasts, pederasts, Ozzytees, these waist-touchers, wasted brokers, jokers, grinners, tit-seekers, watchers, these bulky humans and beanpoles processed in bulk, these barn-door-sized target audiences, these red bosses and red employees and simultaneous electronics-convention attendees, these men, these fat-ass motherfuckers in their bloatiness and massy fat pants. Whatever, civilians.

Smith spends most of a wildly entertaining discourse on porn and art and pornographers and/as opposed to artists masturbating over the heads of masturbators with deft references to Cthulhu, Boba Fett, and "Blade Runner."

It is only as Smith/Sabbath encounters - and falls in love with - Candy Crushed/Mandy Morbid and Osbie Feel/Benny Profane, and learns to admire the work of Gina Giles/Kimberly Kane and Rob Chuckle/Bob Coulter that we find a little humanizing joy in that (as Smith describes a late night Vegas Coco's discussion with fellow travelers such as Auspicia Clay/See If You Can Guess) "sauna of listless hate" that might have been this book.

Not that a memoir of a pornographer's life should be touching. "We Did Porn" accurately describes America in the Zeros for a lot of people, and Smith can go from macro (the 2008 election) to micro (naked girls on his collapsing bed suggesting goddesses of a 1500-year-old sculptor's wet dream) as fast as the burst of pleasure and relief that is the backbone of an industry that employs thousands and serves millions.

"We Did Porn" is a satisfyingly weighty 500 pages of Taschen-textured text and art that name-checks (sort of) many people beloved of Fleshbot readers ("Tasha Rey," "Monty Pentagram" - I was there for Smith's first movie) and does a great job explaining Zak Smith (and his friends; remember the "We" in the title) to himself and their world to you.

· Zak Smith (zaksmith.com)
· Buy "We Did Porn: Memoir And Drawings" (amazon.com)

(Don't worry, we'll have a review of the book for you soon. The porn monkeys are feverishly digesting their copies as you read this!)

· Barely Legal Whores Get Gang-F***ed (therumpus.net)

Often found on the walls of London's iconic red phone booths, these advertising cards have been around since the 1980's—and have evolved over time, as changes in printing technology have allowed them to become more sophisticated and complex. "Tart Cards" has collected more than 350 of these works of art, providing some background on how they came about, how they've evolved, and what, exactly, "a-levels" refers to. Curious? Take a sneak peek inside in the gallery below.

Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)

Based in Melbourne, Prior travels to international burlesque shows and photographs the dancers on and offstage, capturing the joy of performance as well as the athleticism involved in keeping those pasties from launching into the crowd.

His new book "Titzen Blitzen!" is an available-light travelogue through London's week-long Burlesque Festival, which drew an international roster of dancers. Sado vamps to naughty maids play to crowds that range from elegant to rowdy, which says a lot about burlesque's place as a living art form, as a "body type"-neutral treat, and as a mirror of class structure.

And that's all well and good, but I liked the women.

Prior's site also contains a wealth of studio shots of burlesque performers without those awkward nipple-obscuring impediments.

· Michael Prior (michaelprior.com)

No, you're not imagining things: you've just entered the world of furries, documented in Michael Cogliantry's "Furverts," a whimsical board book with twelve photos of hot fursuit action. Depending on your inclinations, the book is either an amusing look at an oft misunderstood sexual subculture or a Kama Sutra for the furry set; either way, we invite you to take a peek at the action inside.

· Buy "Furverts" (amazon.com)