C.E. Hoffman’s “Sluts and Whores” Slated for Release

Past contributor C.E. Hoffman, who penned Bloom (Blowjobs) is set to release her collection of short stories February 14, 2021!

Go to her website for more information.

Here is an interview with the author:

PL: Please start by telling us a little about yourself and how you began as an artist.

C.E. Hoffman: I’ve felt the creative urge as long as I can remember. My parents will tell you I used to narrate stories minutes long (often longer!) when I was  wee. I wrote my first full-length novel (over 400 pages) at eleven years old, and the muse has remained ever-loyal- if not demanding! 

PL: What does the art express or mean to you personally? At the same time, what kind of thought or feeling are you trying to evoke from your audience?

C.E. Hoffman: Writing is my liferaft. Some seek inspiration to write- I seek methods to stop! Expressing myself via written word is a balm for my mental illness, which bodes for a highly-charged life experience. 

I’d love my writing to be a liferaft for others, too. To be that friend a shy person can carry around in their pocket. Through being heard, I want others to feel heard, too.

P.L.: Please describe your creative process (i.e. how do you work, stay up for days at a time or do a little here and there?)

C.E. Hoffman: I love having a project. When absorbed in a short-term task, like editing a finished manuscript, I may indeed work for 1-2 days non-stop. For longer endeavors, like plotting or writing a new novel, I try to take little steps every day. Either way, I work best in the morning, and often find myself bored by 11AM. 

P.L.: Who are some of your main influences?

C.E. Hoffman: Zadie Smith!! (NW- read it? If not, do so immediately!) Irvine Welsh. Martin Millar. C S Lewis. And many more! (Inspiration is everywhere!) 

P.L.: What is it you are trying to accomplish with your writing? Is it purely an expression of desire or more premeditated? 

C.E. Hoffman: I want to inspire people to heal their past and shape their future. In a time of division, I seek to unify. 

P.L.: Do you have a specific “type” of piece you enjoy creating more (i.e. an “energy piece” or a kind of pithy or quirky piece?) Is it more serious or fun stuff?

C.E. Hoffman: I love experimental thoughtstream narratives, wherein little is certain but feeling. I have a lot of fun with quirky dialogue, too! 

P.L.: What turns you on, personally and professionally?

C.E. Hoffman: People who respect me, and respect themselves. Oh, and Taron Egerton. 

P.L.: From poets to erotic bloggers, online communities such as FetLife to pure fiction, writers and artists are making their “personal” business public in one form or another. How do you feel that, are sex experiences all public or all private or somewhere in between? Can they be both? Is sex meant to be a shared experience (beyond of course the literal meaning)?

C.E. Hoffman: I explore this theme in I Could Have Danced All Night (My First Orgy), a story found in the collection! 

Sex is, in some ways, the most public thing that exists. Any human is a walking testament to sex and birth. In that essence, sex is life, which is all at once totally private (isolated, even!) and absolutely universal. 

P.L. In that sense, in the private world, pornography has a wide audience (and outsells regular movies) but most won’t admit to watching. Similarly “erotica” is greatly marginalized both as a creative art form (writing, art, etc.) Do you see it ever changing from this mold, becoming accepted or even normal?

C.E. Hoffman: Great question! Something divisive occurs in the human mind when sex enters the picture. Even Sluts and Whores has been mistaken for an erotic collection given its title- as if sex workers and sexually-active humans have nothing to offer outside eroticism! If we are to come to a healthy balance with sex, sexuality, and pleasure, acknowledging these forces as natural, beautiful, and powerful, I reckon we have a while to go. I hope this collection can do its part to bring that change forward. 

bathhouse [poem] by Jack Henry

it’s an exchange of glances
gestures and smiles to communicate
desire, lust, need;

it’s our code of conduct,
a secret language;
i understand implicitly,
when he looks at me;

i obey,

without careful consideration,
momentary reflection,
i make my way to him;
the room dark, air heavy;
the smell of masculinity
and desperation mixes with
strange fragrances of spice
and jasmine; and the sounds
of fucking;

we kiss hard, bodies press together,
both naked, erect, tangled intimacies;
no time for introduction,
pleasantries, normal correspondence that
might lead to consecration;

the concrete floor is hard on my knees;
his cock in my mouth, his hands holding
my head, his hips moving;
it doesn’t take long;

he walks away, sated, leaves without speaking;
the room is not empty, others move in closer;
blood in the water;
four, five, ten;
roll around, penetrating, stabbing flesh;

high and careless, each takes their turn,
adds their emission; i find my own release
in a corner, alone; used and useless;

the night is cold as i exit,
footfalls ring out against concrete;
i light a cigarette,
realize there’s no sun to warm me,
no light to guide me,
only gray clouds and a sudden rain,
and sense of drowning in a gutter near mid-town;

jack henry is a california based poet living in the fringes between real and terror. more of his mutterings can be found at jackhenry.wordpress.com.

Love 1 [Poem] by Frederick Foote

I love the golden enchanted forest between your legs
My intrepid tongue, my greedy lips explorer for the hidden ore
You sigh, grow wet, creamy, explode in sweet delights
You pull my head roughly into your gushing vagina
I grab your ass pulling you tighter to me forming an unbreakable seal
Later, I lick your hairy bush, your sticky thighs clean of cum

Hundreds of miles apart I dream of invading those slumbering thighs
In my sleep I kiss those welcoming wet lips, lick your pussy, suck your clit
You call me groggy, moaning, groaning, pleading for more
I plunder you in our dreamscape until morning calls me
to switch channels to daydreams of you and I

Since 2014 Frederick Foote has published over two-hundred-fifty stories and poems including literary, science fiction, fables, and horror genres. Frederick has published two short story collections, For the Sake of Soul, (2015) and, Crossroads Encounters, (2016).

Besties [Poem] by David Sprehe

sometimes i play and think about you
you quiver
my shiver is never good as yours 😦
i penetrate myself with thoughts of you
i groan, stuffed,
my tongue in your pubes
our nipples touch
your finger in my cunny
juicy my panties
you fuck my ass
choke me
semen rolling in pulses down your throat
our testicles press, smeared in expulsions
fingers eager for buttholes
spit, spit on my stomach,
my back,
push our dildo far as it will go
share taste
share oxygen, heart
your finger burns my clutching butthole
you sniff your finger
we laugh
you wipe your finger on the sheets
rolling together
i like it
so do you
legs up and smiling
i expel, pushing in
you fart, when I pull out,
fart the love I put in

David Sprehe types in SoIL, US

Happy Holidays from Pink Litter!

We’ve been “virtually” silent these last few months but we’ve rededicated ourselves to the task and the honor it is to bring you the best “stuff”…whatever that happens to be. We have a great stockpile of writing that we’re working on getting out. So, we appreciate your continued interest and wish you all the best in the future. Stick around will you? Better yet, drop us a line. We’d love to hear from you.



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Squirt [Story] by Kristan X

I am fucking her from behind when she squirts for the first time. Just a little spurt. She contorts, curves her back. Reaches back to put a hand on my hip. Grips my skin and, with a shudder, releases. The liquid is surprisingly hot. A warm spray of it, direct and close into my thighs and groin. Her voice pitches up into silence as she squirts. I hear drops of her liquid pattering onto the mattress.

Afterwards she is mortified. Blushing, she chews her lip. We lie, naked, on either side of the blot on the sheets. “That’s never happened before,” she says.

“It felt good?”

“Well… yeah. But…”

“But what?”

Her blush deepens. “But… isn’t it… you know…”

“Isn’t it what?”

She sighs. “Isn’t it piss?”

I shrug. “Maybe. Does it matter?”

Doesn’t it matter?”

I think about this for a moment. And then, on a momentary impulse, I push myself down the bed, bury my face in the wet patch and lick the mattress cover. It tastes cottony, still warm, hot wet and a little sweet and there’s the smell of her, a hot girl smell half sweat and half skin. I look up at her. She looks shocked for a moment, then giggles.

The second time she squirts I am underneath her, fucking up roughly into her while she squeezes her own breasts. This time, unrestrained, she comes copiously – three long, wet gushes that drench me completely.

Kristan X
Blog | Twitter | FetLife

Mango Woman [Poem] by Noel Negele

Mango Woman

Last time I heard
beach bar waiters
and bartenders
were pulling her out of the waters
naked, in a manic state,
her gorgeous pale skin
bare against the blue light of the full moon
and, against her will, were dressing her with their own clothes
because her lips had turned blue
and because, as they said:
“We have sisters ourselves…daughters…”

Manic-depressive, mad-crazy, gorgeous Anna
thick black hair, straight and down to her waist,
a snake-ish body,
gift of her pill addicted diet–
her Animus perfectly engulfed by my Anima,
her Masochism hand in hand with my Sadism,
and it was so lovely for a while,
so lovely indeed, before the trouble came
before the downslide steepened.

Gorgeous, faded, mad-pussy Anna
stealing pills and all sorts of injection caps
I’m too uneducated to know about,
from the hailing ambulance taking us to the hospital
because of my lumped up skull
and my fractured ribs
because I’m the kind of stupid
to pick a fight with a wall, let alone
six to seven scumbags hitting on my beautiful Anna.

Psychotic, angry, dangerous Anna
chasing people with a knife she’s used before
because the sight of seven scumbags stomping
on her man is too much a sight to take–
and when the punks disappear like roaches
in pavement cracks
she turns her fists to street lamps until they explode
and the glass shatters into her knuckles
dousing her sexy clothes with her own blood.

Sweet, compassionate, flowery Anna
tying my shoelaces for me while I sit stiff
and nauseous in the wheeling chair in the hospital,
waiting for the results of my X-rays and angry
because I was promised mad fucking that night,
and as she kisses my shin in adoration
I tell her:

“Did you see how I dropped that first motherfucker
with a single swing? What type of man gets laid
flat on their ass like that, with a single punch? Did
you see Anna? Did you see?
Even the second one couldn’t handle me at my feet, Anna.
That’s why they wrestled me to the ground, Anna.
I wish I had another pair of hands, I’d fuck ’em all up
if I just had another pair of hands, I know it, Anna.
If I just had another pair of hands.”

Clever, emotional, pharmaceutically educated Anna
arguing with the doctor
about the type of prescription I need for my rib pains.
Trying to get good drugs out of a bad situation.

“Ibuprofen and Algofren my ass. He needs codeine and you know it.”

Soft finally, tamed, relaxed and beautiful Anna
lying next to me in a king size bed
after a long day at the police station,
feeding me codeine pills and beers
until I can barely remember who I am
let alone feel any pain in my body.

Pill junky Anna,
gobbling five to six codeine pills at the same time
after already having taken as much or more with me,
after getting fucked by me for what seemed like hours
while her heart still throbs in her chest–
finding her after my shower
with a yellow color on her face, laying there with her
tits barely moving.

Slapping her to keep her awake
because she didn’t want to go to the hospital
because she only needed me to keep her
awake for about three hours, until the danger was gone
but I kept  her up until dawn, just to be safe,
completely dozed out of my mind myself,
slapping her hard, bringing water, bringing fruits
which she sometimes took a bite out of
and half chewed for a second
before her eyes would turn sides
inside her sockets
and I’d lift her straight up, standing her on her two feet
threatening her with an ambulance phone call
to bring her back from the shadow realm for a while.

And when we finally decided it was safe to fall asleep
I put her head on my chest
and with one hand held her wrist,
feeling her slow pulse against the tip of my fingers
and with another hand around her gorgeous tits
I told her to finally sleep, that I’d watch over
her life as she rested,
and I hearkened to her breathing
and I prayed that she remained alive
because she is magnificent
and I prayed that I, myself, don’t fall asleep.

It was time to go
in the morning.
I had to go.

“I have to go,” I told her.
“I’m too heavy myself
to be able to lift another person.”

I hugged her and gave her half my money
because she didn’t have any homes left
to turn to–
such a beautiful woman with no friends–
imagine the bridges burned–
imagine the ways they were lit on fire.

When I limped out of the hotel
the sun was unforgiving, the heat
unbearable, and my foot
was bruised like a balloon that
barely fit in my shoe
and I walked without knowing
where to go
and the passerby’s stared at my bloated face
and at a foreign intersection I stood still
for a while, not knowing where each road would
take me.

But I knew I had to get out of there
and so I did.

I will remember the sensation
of your tiny trembling body
while I spooned you and
felt you with my hands to see
if the flame was still burning,
while I lied to you and tried to
convince you
you are strong enough to be on your own
just so I could convince my own self
that I wasn’t leaving anyone behind.