Erotica Archives - Violet Malice

11 November 2023

The Raunch Review: Book 30

Quality Street have started wrapping their chocolates in paper instead of shiny plastic. When you open up a tub now, it feels like a bit of a let down. All those dull pastel shapes dumped into a purple plastic octagon waiting to be scoffed. Maybe, they should get rid of the fucking tub and melt it down into something useful. Like a bendy bottom smacker. The tins used to be well good for keeping cakes alive, but they got shot of them long ago. The plastic tub is another sort of single-uselessness and it feels like they are putting the blame on us, the chocolate eating public, for being too greedy. Those fucking tubs can’t be ‘easily recycled’, which basically means they can’t be bloody recycled. There must be something you can use the empty shell for. I Googled it and some dodgy looking website says that you can use your empty tub as an ice bucket or to put clothes pegs in. How wonderful!

Violet’s monthly (let’s be honest) adult book review looks at a bottom smacker of a dirty book. The aim, as always, is to attempt to answer that cracking question: can a good book ever be as stingy as a good fuck?

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Book title: There’s a Whip in My Valise
Author: Greta X
Introduction: John De St. Jorre
Publisher of this edition: Delectus Books
Copyright: © Delectus Books 1995
First published: 1961
Cover design: image engineering

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: Two Swedish hitchhikers tie up an aristocrat in a wood and whip him until he’s in a pretty bad way and then fuck him. This sadist and nympho combo then leave this dude prostrate in his Rolls-Royce on the hard shoulder and go off to visit their friend who is also a dominatrix and full-time nanny for this rich submissive Danish guy. Meanwhile, this German pain expert and her assistant travel to see this Danish gentleman to give him a going over. It culminates with all five sadistic women thrashing this man like dog until he breaks his chains.

Title: This book is all about flagellation, so whips are pretty useful for you know this purpose. The sadists in the book have special cases for their whips and crops and spanking paraphernalia, giving the impression that they are professional purveyors of pain for pleasure. Much like doctors with their big leather bag of tricks. The title is pretty good, because it’s colloquial and casual, almost like ‘just so you know’ there’s a mile long whip in my rucksack if you fancy it.

Cover image: Just wondering why her skirt is so high. Her arse is probably hanging right out. Great thrashing pose. Menacing and yet sexy.

Best sentences in the book:

No pain could interrupt an ejaculation once it had begun.

I don’t want you whipping him into impotency.

He raised his hips and pulled his now flaccid penis out of the blonde’s vagina.

His penis, with its violent thrusts, seemed to reach up as far as her stomach.

He felt it nose against the mouth of her passage.

The tip of the whip curled round him and bit into a testicle.

She felt as though a hundred fingertips, each charged with electricity, were caressing the whole of her sexual nervous system.

“And if you look at his trousers as he comes into the room you’ll see he has an erection.”

“Be careful,” he said. “I may be a high-heel fetishist as Marlene says, but I don’t want to be permanently injured.”

She did not know which she wanted more at that moment – to whip, or to push her dildo into someone.

“Tie up his ball-bag,” said Marlene.

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Overall sexual content: Very moving in the nethers.

All that bum smacking and arse whipping is pretty sizzling. It seems to go on for ages, which like climbing a mountain gets you all light headed and wobbly kneed. The women are sexual predators, but it tastes very strongly like the book is written for men to wank over, which spoilt it for me.

Overall conclusion: 7 out of 10.

Titillation station: There’s a really good bit where all the five sadists and the Danish host are having a slap up meal around his big polished mahogany table. They wrap cord around his big ball bag and cock and yank on this string while he’s trying to eat his soup. It’s pretty fucking funny. And I’ve always had a bit of a thing about fine dining with all those dinner jackets and no trousers. Under the table is where all the raw meats and fleshy thighs are being fingered.

Food for thought: Sadly Greta X was actually an Englishman of some status and you can tell. The book would be out of this world if it had actually been written either by a woman or for a general delicious reader rather than directed at men. For instance, it’s annoying that there is a great focus on how attractive all the women are, which really isn’t necessary. It also spoils it that all the men are seemingly going along with the submissive thing, they are not totally sold on it. In the end, the Danish guy rips off his shackles whilst he’s been thrashed and starts brutally attacking the women. This is a total no-no. They should have fucking killed him dead. That’s how I wanted it to end.

P.S. The guy in the Rolls-Royce goes to the police and says he was throttled and sexually assaulted by two men rather than two women. He ends up getting a taste for ‘unusual’ sex because of what happened to him that cold afternoon. I’m not sure it really works like that.

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24 September 2023

The Raunch Review: Book 29

I bought some body mist the other day, for obvious reasons, I was smelling particularly fruity and didn’t have access to cleaning facilities. This bottled stuff is supposed to smell like ripe plums and electrical wiring, for that, and I quote, ‘unexpected and yet reassuring’ odour. Now, I’m pretty broad minded but what the hell?! What does that even mean? I haven’t been able to think about anything else since. Stepping in dog shit is unexpected and appalling. Catching a whiff of bacon and onions frying is reassuring, especially if you’re hungry. But what exactly is unexpected and yet reassuring, a lottery win or maybe food poisoning. I sniff myself and I am reassured.

Violet’s weekly (give or take) adult book review looks at a hairy hand grenade of a pocket rocket. The aim, as always, is to attempt to answer that stupid arse question: can a good book ever be as comforting as a good fuck?

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Book title: I’m For Hire: The Memoirs of a Prostitute
Author: Marie Therese
Introduction: Robert Kramer
Publisher of this edition: Brandon House
Copyright: © Brandon House 1966
First published: 1966
Cover image: Unknown

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: A French prostitute called Janet tells us all about her sexual activities with lots of different men and women, on both sides of the conflict. She finds herself flitting from pillar to post peddling her fleshy treats, pursued by lovers, pimps and the fats.

Title: Capitalism and the body collide, yeah. In a time when women had to do anything and everything to survive and thrive. That included a serious wedge of the filthy paper money stuff for a serious wedge up the arse by a power hungry cock swinging uniform with a fragile body hidden inside.

Cover image: Sultry lady plus French flag and a swastika. In other words French prostitute shags members of the Nazi party.

Best sentences in the book:

There was one who shot off while he was putting on his rubber.

And I still had a guy on my belly who hadn’t finished coming.

To get out of sleeping with him, I had a doctor fix me up with a paper saying I had something wrong with my plumbing and had to lay off for a while.

I had to suck him off, keep his gismo in my mouth, spit it back into his mouth, and wind up by poking the handle of a toothbrush up his asshole.

My cunt was numb.

Since he was a Nazi and kept yattering about that fuck-in-the-ass Hitler, I was afraid to ask him for dough.

Well, Suzanne goes to find some butter, sticks a wad in her pussy, calls the Pekinese and has him get down to work licking her clean.

The officer pulled him close and squeezed the kid’s head between his thighs and pushed it against his belly as if he were fucking him three feet deep in the mouth.

Since the old guy kept sticking his finger in her pussy to feel if there were any results, I had to keep spitting the whole time so the old shit-in-his-pants would think she was coming like a broken water main.

An old bucket-cunt veteran from the Rue Saint-Denis did her best to comfort me.

Whenever I was pregnant I’d haul out the scraper.

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Overall sexual content: Disappointing and not in a good way.

The sex is briefly described and although there are some funny metaphors the writing lacks pizzazz. The premise promises a lot but fails to deliver any sort of satisfaction. It feels rushed and unfulfilling, which maybe is the point.

Overall conclusion: 4 out of 10.

Titillation station: I wanted her to fuck Hitler, but alas she doesn’t even get her teeth into a member of the Gestapo. She avoids high ranking officers. She fucks on both sides of the lines and doesn’t make much of it. She falls in love pretty quickly with her various pimps, which again is lazy and cliched. She fucks women for pleasure, which is promising, but all details are lacking.

Food for thought: I was hoping that this book would be a tour de force from a prostitute that laid out the Nazis, one by one. Took some power back. Trampled on some hard dicks in prick heels. I feel as though the historical context was just used to sucker in readers and that actually the content is poor and forgettable.

Uniforms are sexy. Power is sexy. Sadly. War is all about the abuse of power. Sex is about power. Paying for sex is about power. Maybe it would have been better written from the third person, as a voyeur to all that action.

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4 September 2023

The Raunch Review: Book 28

I just had the old helium balloon treatment. It was that time of year again: my birthday. Poppers (of the party variety) were pulled. Fluorescent fizzy drinks and icecream dribbled down throats and filled up bellies, right to the top. Some people thought I was older than it says on my records, which I took as a compliment. Age is a good thing after all. Everything tastes better with age, including my third runway and the small strip of bacon between the brown wire and the pink switch. Nobody blew me (my candles out), or crowned my wobbly jelly with squirty squirt squirt cream, so overall it could have been better.

Violet’s weekly (give or take) adult book review looks at another hunk of steaming meat and it’s an oozing pyramid of hot fluids. The aim, as always, is to attempt to answer that stuffed crust framed question: can a good book ever be as buoyant as a good fuck?

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Book title: Wetlands
Author: Charlotte Roche
Translator: Tim Mohr
Publisher of this edition: Fourth Estate
Copyright: © Charlotte Roche 2008
First published: 2008
Cover photo: ballyscanlon / Getty Images

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: Helen is in hospital having arse surgery (haemorrhoids) and she is just 18 years old. So, the question on everyone’s lips (top lips): is what the hell has she been doing with her arse? Well, you are about to find out. The book goes into intricate details on exactly what she has been doing down there, and needless to say she’s been pretty rough with it. In the meantime, she is trying to get her parents back together by being in the hospital as long as possible, which involves her gouging her own wounded rectum by sitting on the metal brake attached to the wheels of her hospital bed.

Title: Wetlands are distinct ecosystems that are saturated with water. Helen is obsessed with bodily fluids, particularly discharge from her vagina. She is always daubing fluids everywhere, this includes wiping her slit and crack all over toilet seats, and leaving homemade tampons in unusual places where people will find them. I reckon that this is the link to the title, as the term is not used at all during the book. I kept my eye out for it.

Cover image: Half an avocado, length ways. A nice view of the stone. Helen grows avocados, which is pretty difficult. The stone needs to be treated in a particular way to get it to sprout (I’m an expert, having sprouted over 50 of my own avo stones for pleasure). The stones actually go very slimy before they germinate. Obviously, Helen puts them up her cunt. She’s been sterilized, so she treats these avocado stones like her babies.

Best sentence/s in the book:

The thought of anal incontinence worries me.

I’ve experimented with long periods of not washing my pussy.

For me, the smell of plain old shit or piss is better than the disgusting perfumes people buy.

I dip my finger into my pussy and dab a little slime behind my earlobes.

Like another thing I get a kick out of: when I’m alone in the bathtub and I have to fart, I try to get the air bubbles to glide up between my pussy lips.

I root round like a squirrel down there, and just as I’m falling asleep I have the impression there’s a log of crap poking out of my ass.

I’m appalled at my own asshole – or rather, what’s left of it.

I really like to smell and eat my smegma.

Sometimes it’s like cottage cheese, other times like olive oil, depending on how long it’s been since I washed.

I’d love to eat a pizza with sperm from five different guys on it.

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Overall sexual content: There are some hot bits. There’s a bit where she describes masturbating, which is erotic. But sadly most of the sex stuff is more funny or grotesque than sexy. I mean, she uses the word slime to describe pussy juice, which is pretty hideous.

Helen visits this fella who shaves her. It has the potential to be titillating. But it’s just not. Possibly because the central character is so strange. She takes great pleasure in doing stuff that most people would never want to do, even within the realms of fetish. For example, she eats someone’s sick because it has undigested drugs in it and feeds her own tears to this nurse she fancies by carefully pouring them into individual grapes that she has stuffed with a cashew nut. What the fuck, as they say??

Overall conclusion: 2 out of 10.

Titillation station: It’s not sexy. It’s fucking boring, really. When someone just spews out the most extreme thing they can think of to get a reaction, it quickly gets pretty mundane. The whole way through it just feels like the author is trying to win the Guinness World Record for the most shocking/obscene/disgusting book and that makes it insincere and farcical. What happens is that nothing feels authentic or relatable. It is all an exercise in fake tits and teeth. I suppose it could be a parody or something, of the modern young woman, but if it is then there’s no pay off.

Food for thought: This book is a tough one for me. It’s explicit, big tick. But, the problem is that it is gratuitous.

It’s so easy to be gross. I can think of a million horrible things, but what’s the point. Especially when we are all so unshockable now, why not try something genuine? However boring that might be, it would be less boring than this horse shit.

People are massive on avocados. Smashed. Sliced. Creamed. All smoothied up. The cover alone probably got all those avocado-on-toast people going.

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The Raunch Review: Book 27

A red throbbing sausage sits next to a pickled egg. The sausage is pretty bloody chuffed at its luck. It’s not everyday that pickled eggs are properly appreciated in a main meal plate-based context. Some people think they’re better than pickled eggs. Scoffing them in the street on the way back from the chippy. Tonguing the dry sphere of yolk after four pints of diesel oil down the Bucket of Blood (a real pub in Hayle). EAT more pickled eggs. Otherwise they won’t exist. Yeah.

Violet’s weekly adult book review looks at a short story in this instalment and it’s a subtle hand grenade. Akin to a handsome piece of man meat hiding behind some net curtains. The aim, as always, is to attempt to answer that ball boiling question: can a good book ever be as spineless as a good fuck?

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Book title: Who Do You Think You Are?
Author: Alice Munro
Publisher of this edition: Vintage
Copyright: © Alice Munro 2021
First published: 1978
Cover photo: Ernst Haas / Getty Images

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: Wild Swans is the short story under the microscope. It’s a extra strong mint of a story. Quick and nose bleed inducing. A woman travels to Toronto on the train by herself for the first time. Her friend gives her some advice about who to watch out for, so she doesn’t get into any trouble. And then, as the big metal shaft pulls out, a man asks if she wouldn’t mind if he sits next to her. That’s when it happens. The so-called minister fingers her without consent, whilst the train hurtles towards its destination, as she stares out of the fucking dirty window.

Title: It’s an interesting choice. Swans are wild, it goes without saying, so why isn’t it just called swans? A short story makes every word count, right. It’s an exercise in economy. Wasted words isn’t a thing, especially by a Nobel Prize winning master of the short story. So, wild must be necessary. Swans are magnificent birds. Words that come to mind when I think about swans: the heart shapes that they do with their necks, white, aggressive, virginal, massive wing span, mate for life (i.e. they don’t shag around).

Cover image: Love a wood panelled room. Not a particularly memorable cover image. More or less everything else would have been better.

Best sentence/s in the book:

He drove the old hearse all over the country, looking for women.

She had a considerable longing to be somebody’s object. Pounded, pleasured, reduced, exhausted.

The hand began, over the next several miles, the most delicate, the most timid, pressures and investigations. Not asleep. Or if he was, his hand wasn’t.

Spongy tissues, inflamed membranes, tormented nerve-ends, shameful smells; humiliation.

His hand, that she wouldn’t ever have wanted to hold, that she wouldn’t have squeezed back, his stubborn patient hand was able, after all, to get the ferns to rustle and the streams to flow, to waken a sly luxuriance.

A stranger’s hand, or root vegetables or humble kitchen tools that people tell jokes about; the world is tumbling with innocent-seeming objects ready to declare themselves, slippery and obliging.

His perversely appealing lack of handsomeness.

They glided into suburbs where bedsheets, and towels used to wipe up intimate stains, flapped leeringly on the clotheslines, where even the children seemed to be frolicking lewdly in the schoolyards, and the very truckdrivers stopped at the railway crossings must be thrusting their thumbs gleefully into curled hands.

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Overall sexual content: The story is challenging given that the woman does not consent to the sexual activity. She freezes when she feels something like a hand and tries to work out whether it actually is the weight of a hand or not. She even thinks he might be asleep. He has made sure that his newspaper overlaps her coat so that his hand is invisible.

What actually happens is couched in metaphor and the woman is unsure of her feelings. It seems to happen in slow-mo – watching the countryside flash by and feeling something alien down there. The weight of the unspoken. Not altogether against it. But not totally for it, either. The narrator says that she could have shifted the newspaper or removed her coat, implying that she chose not to, that somehow she is complicit.

Overall conclusion: 8 out of 10.

Titillation station: It is sexy, to a degree. Maybe not full burn, but it is nervously drawn in a way that is reminiscent of young fumbling first sexual experiences and the conversations that are had in our own heads. This does not make it right, what happens. And the story does not firmly push the reader either way on this. It is intricately balanced. The titillation comes from the underlying feeling that the woman enjoys what happens, immensely. That she wants it. But that’s a hard swallow, today. It is abuse. Not saying no is never a green light.

Food for thought: The narrator frequently describes his hand: the hand did this and that hand did that, almost like the man had no control over the hand or that it alone is responsible.

The man tells the woman, when he first sits down next to her, that he saw some Canadian geese on a pond the other day, and when he took another look there were some swans in amongst the geese. A flock of swans. He said it looked lovely and that he’d never seen anything like it. There’s nothing like the banality of men talking to women they don’t know. Lovely is probably the worst word in the English language. Much like nice. I’m not really sure what this guy is saying to her. Maybe it’s “I’m a nice man because I like birds. I’m not a threat. Please don’t raise the alarm when I invade your body.”

As an aside, trains are hot. They feature in lots of sex metaphors. Is there any research on why I wonder? Aside from the phallus shaped carriages, pushing and pulling, blah blah blah, penis.

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12 May 202312 May 2023

The Raunch Review: Book 26

Missed me? Yeah, right. I’ve been waiting for you to notice my absence, that’s why I’ve not been about for a while. Thought I’d toy with your feelings. Watch you. Partake in a little voyeurism. See whether, you know, one day, you might miss me. Feel a hole somewhere between your legs. I caved in the end. Couldn’t be bothered to wait any longer. It’s obvious that you couldn’t care less and that’s understandable. I completely understand. You have a lot going on. Who’s going to eat all that pasta and polish all those horse brasses. Both my legs went dead at week two in hiding, but I’ll spare you the details.

The world doesn’t seem to have got any sexier in my absence. I think maybe it might have become smaller and more tense. More fucKING shaped – the stamps anyway. (I’m still looking for a 50p with his majesty’s boat face on it so I can shove it up my bear’s arse.) Summer is almost on top of us. We all remember what that feels like: thighs and lollypops. Fingering food. Squinting. Water sports. Thrush.

So, here she blows! Violet’s weekly adult book review is back and it’s a pretty rough pile of horse shit that went down like cold treacle. A hard slap of voyeurism. The aim, as always, is to attempt to answer that succulent question: can a good book ever be as raw-chicken-like as a good fuck?

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Book title: The Voyeur’s Motel
Author: Gay Talese
Publisher of this edition: Grove Press UK
Copyright: © Gay Talese 2016
First published: 2016
Cover photo: Brooklyn Underground Films

THE RAUNCH REVIEW: Violet’s Verdict

Quick synopsis: Supposedly a true story, journalist Gay Talese was contacted by self-proclaimed voyeur and motel owner Gerald Foos about his experiences as a rogue sex researcher. Foos claimed to have bought the Manor House Motel just outside Denver and installed viewing platforms in order to observe the motel’s guests having it off (sex and all that). He kept detailed records of what he observed, a pen in one hand and his engorged penis in the other.

Title: A voyeur who owns a motel. What could possibly go wrong? The question is if they don’t know they’re being watched, and nothing ever comes of it (like no one posts footage on the internet or uses the information to extort money from anyone), does that make it alright? Are privacy and perversion at odds or can they be fully satisfied bedfellows? Most people in hotels end up masturbating to the sex soundtrack accompanying what’s going on in the hotel room next door anyway, right? Then, eyeballing the perpetrators over the croissants in the restaurant the next morning. They never look how you imagined them from their grunting sounds.

Cover image: A photo of the classic US looking motel where the action supposedly took place. Humble and unassuming, exactly the sort of place for sordid activities and voyeurism. Hot sheets for hot pockets – you know – look sheepish, pay, just fuck, don’t even stay the night. Janet Leigh wrapped in a shower curtain.

Best sentence/s in the book:

Finally after kissing and fondling her, he quickly gained an erection and entered her in the male superior position, with little or no foreplay, and orgasmed in approximately 5 minutes.

The next morning at 9 a.m., I observed her giving him oral sex to completion, with the sperm running down her cheek.

For a while they all three laid quiet on the bed and relaxed, discussing vacuum cleaner sales.

Unfortunately, the majority of men I’ve observed are concerned with their own pleasure rather than the women’s.

The wife proceeded to unhook his catheter and masturbate him to erection.

The male subject then withdrew his mouth and fingers and said, “I’m having difficulty making my car payment.”

Immediately he grabs her drink and takes his penis out of his pants and urinates in her drink.

Her hair is messed up and she has been releasing gas at random and without shame.

After observing many subjects, my survey concludes that women have a tendency to masturbate more out of depression than anything else.

The voyeur observed one man, a married rather of two, having sex with one of the many teddy bears he had brought into his room.

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Overall sexual content: The book is supposed to be an actual account of what this peeping tom saw his hotel guests doing, so it reads very dry. Sometimes they pick their nose and wipe it on the sheets. Sometimes they piss in the sink. All in a days gawping for the voyeurism expert. He also makes lots of conclusion about what he’s seen over the years, which is pretty fucking repulsive.

It’s not sexy. Just like a book on the anatomy of a big bellend is not sexy. There’s lots of descriptions of sexual activities and how they have changed over the years, but I’m not sure how much we should value the opinion of some festering hotelier who wanks through an air vent whilst writing down an account of what he’s seeing. He gets so desperate one time when a hot couple start having it off and then turn the lights out that he gets into his car and parks it by their window and turns the headlights to full beam so that he can see them doing the old in-and-out. Voyeurism at full throttle. He’s an unreliable perv without any redeeming features or self-awareness that’s what I’m getting at.

Overall conclusion: 3 out of 10.

Titillation station: Although it’s supposed to be based on true events, I really think it might be a sack of shit. Some guy’s fantasy or at least some guy’s need for attention. Owning a motel and watching people. It’s a cold fish. Detached and gobbling for less of what’s in its mouth. Maybe that’s how the voyeur feels – lonely and isolated. Both part and apart from the actual action. Something that becomes an obsession. He can’t live without watching, without the thrill that voyeurism invokes. He sees a murder and keeps wanking off – lots of it just doesn’t ring true.

Food for thought: His conclusion that women only masturbate when they are depressed is a pretty fucking big generalisation. It made me momentarily throw the book into a quarry and set it on fire. This guy is not the Office for National Statistics even though he thinks he is. He thinks that he can explain why and what is happening. That he understands desire. What a fucking idiot. It would be great for him if women only masturbated when they’re depressed. If the sexual desire of women is based on lack and loneliness. That they only do it because they are desperate, a man isn’t around, after they’ve cried themselves to sleep. How fucking boring.

Needless to say I’m glad he didn’t get to watch me wank all over his curtains.

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