The Big Book of Submission by Rachel Kramer Bussel Review

7 out of 10
Price:
£12.99
Publisher:
Amazon
Materials:
Paper

The Big Book of Submission by Rachel Kramer Bussel Review

By A Winter

The Big Book of Submission by Rachel Kramer Bussel boasts a meaty 69 stories (I wonder why they chose that number!). Even though they are shorts, with some feeling more along the lines of flash fiction, it is a vast amount and it’ll be hard for you to go through it and not find something you like. You will in fact find a little bit of everything. Straight, lesbian and gay sex, along with both male and female submission.

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I enjoyed reading many of the shorts in this book because it was just so easy. I could read one when I had five or ten minutes (think waiting for the bathroom to be free or for water to boil) but there are several things that could have been improved.

If the reader is looking for something specific, say straight sex with male submission, there’s no way of finding that quickly and easily. Gay, straight, lesbian, male or female submission, they’re all lumped together so you never know what’s coming up. I would have much preferred categories in place so I knew what I was about to read and this would make rereading your favourites easier.

Something that personally turned me off and I believe gives the wrong impression is the quote on the back suggesting that if you liked Fifty Shades of Grey, this is the book for you. They are not really alike at all, looking outside of the basic ‘BDSM’ label.

Overall, the shorts in The Big Book of Submission by Rachel Kramer Bussel are situations many people might not find themselves in, making them a nice way to escape reality. Some may even open your mind to new ideas and possibilities, allowing you to acquire a few more fantasies along the way.

– A Winter

Free Excerpt

I have also been sent an exclusive free excerpt from The Big Book of Submission to share with Cara Sutra readers. Enjoy!

“Brazen” by Kathleen Delaney-Adams

I want you to hurt me.

I am kneeling in the parking lot of the bar, already in agony after mere minutes on the asphalt. Although we have been loving and fucking for years, I still dress to impress you (read: make you hard) and tonight I went all out, femme guns blazing, before you swung me up on the back of your bike and drove me to the dyke bar for a poetry reading. Now my slinky dress is hiked up high somewhere around my thighs, surely my pussy is showing and my new heels are no doubt scratched to bits. I hear the chatter and curious mutterings of passersby on their way to the reading. I feel anxious, for I am supposed to be performing at the open mic, and you grabbed my upper arm in your hand and dragged me out here before the andro-mistress-of-ceremonies called my name.

I feel anxious, for I have no idea what you want.

Every time you touch me, my need expands beyond me, outside of restraint. Incapable of controlling it, I dissolve into liquid desire that cannot be quenched unless you hurt me, use your hands on me with a violence I recognize as your love. I am left waiting for your fist to soothe me and break me and bring me back down to this earth. Gravity. Your fist is my gravity.

Your face looks more than slightly dangerous with need, and relief washes over me when I see the smile lurking behind your eyes. That mix of dark and sweet in you had me, claws in deep, from the moment we met. Bad boy with brutal hands or irresistibly charming butch—no matter, I was a goner. Still am. You cup my head tenderly in one hand and unzip your jeans slowly with the other, savoring the sudden gleam in my eye. How I love the sound of your zipper. I tremble as much from anticipation of what is coming next as from the sharp pain in my knees and legs.

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