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Reverse Harems – what the heck are they?

What the Hell Is a Reverse Harem? Let’s Talk About It.

First things first: A reverse harem (RH) is a subgenre of romantic or erotic fiction where one central woman is in a consensual relationship with multiple men. Think: queen bee energy, where the honey comes from more than one comb.

Unlike a traditional harem setup (typically one man, multiple women), the reverse harem flips the script — because why shouldn’t one woman have all the attention, orgasms, and emotional support she wants, huh?

But it gets even juicier, because there’s a whole taxonomy of dynamics under the RH umbrella. Let’s break it down:

The Core Formats of Reverse Harem

RH with No Sword-Crossing (aka “Only Her”)
This is your classic reverse harem setup. Each male partner is intimately and/or romantically involved only with the central woman. The men are often emotionally bonded as “brothers in arms” but don’t touch each other sexually or romantically.
Think:

  • “She’s mine.”
  • “No, she’s ours, but I won’t touch you, bro.”
  • “Group hug? No homo.”

This is often seen in series tagged RH without additional acronyms like MFM or MMF.

MFM (Male-Female-Male)
 This configuration involves two men and one woman. The men do not engage sexually or romantically with one another — their attention is solely focused on her, either one at a time or as a team.
It’s not quite a harem, but it’s a stepping stone, often featured in erotic romance.
Think: She’s the center of the sandwich, and the bread doesn’t touch.

MMF (Male-Male-Female)
 In this delicious format, at least two of the men are bi or pan and interact sexually with one another in addition to their relationship with the woman.
Think:

  • Bisexual tension.
  • Mutual pleasure.
  • A little “you look good with her, but damn, you look good with me too.”

This can be a standalone dynamic or part of a larger harem, the key is the sexual connection between the men.

MMFM / MMMF / MMMMF (You Get the Idea)
 These acronyms show the number and gender of players involved.

  • MMFM means: Two men have sexual interaction with each other and both are involved with the female; the third man may or may not interact with the others.
  • MMMF? Three men, at least two of whom are interacting romantically or sexually, all with the one woman.
    The more letters, the more flexible the dynamics. These are often polycules or polyam orgies with a center of gravity — Her Highness.

Sword-Crossing vs. Sword-Aversion

Let’s be clear, the “sword-crossing” term is fandom slang that just means dudes gettin’ it on with each other, either sexually, emotionally, or both.

  • In some RHs, it’s strictly platonic brotherhood.
  • In others, you’ve got shared touches, kisses, oral, penetrative play, and sometimes even full-blown romance between the men.
  • Gender can become fluid or unimportant in these stories, the emotional and sexual constellation revolves around connection, not identity.

Polyam vs. Harem vs. Orgies

Let’s not confuse terms here.

  • Reverse harem is usually relationship-based, it’s not just about sex, though the sex is chef’s kiss when done right.
  • Polyamory includes multiple loving relationships, some RHs fall into this category when feelings are involved.
  • Orgy scenes are a feature, not a genre, many RHs include them, but the genre thrives on ongoing character arcs, loyalty, and chosen family themes.

So Why Do We Love It?

Because power, baby. Power and devotion. A well-written reverse harem gives the central woman not just attention, it gives her safety, support, growth, and choice.

  • She doesn’t have to choose just one.
  • She doesn’t have to contort herself into a submissive shape to be loved.
  • She is the sun, and her men are the orbits.

It’s matriarchal energy in literary form.

Tag It Right, Babe

When reading or writing reverse harem, these tags are your treasure map. Here are the most common and what they mean:

  • RH – Reverse Harem, multiple men loving one woman.
  • WhyChoose – She doesn’t pick one. She picks them all.
  • MFM / MMF / MMFM / MMMF+ – Gender and interaction clarifiers.
  • Sword-crossing / Sword-free – Fan slang for guy-on-guy action or the absence of it.
  • Polyam / HFN / HEA – Relationship styles and endings (Happy For Now / Happily Ever After).

Want recs? Want the hottest RHs to break your brain and ruin you for monogamy? Oh don’t worry, darling, I’ve got a list coming that’ll melt your Kindle and your panties. Stay tuned, Book Slut.

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Book Review – Into the Fire – Sadie Hunt

GenrePagesSpiceRating
Reverse Harem3683 chili peppers3 stars

Review

They Were Bullied and Became Beasts? I Can Work With That.

You ever start a book and go, “Wait… this is the big emotional wound?”
Yeah. That was me. Right at the beginning of Into the Fire.

Sadie Hunt’s got a signature style: broody alphas with emotional baggage, fast-moving drama, and banter that hits like a shot of tequila on an empty stomach. I went in ready to be wrecked—and I was… eventually.

The central trauma starts off feeling soft. The kind of soft that makes you say, “You’re billionaires now, baby. Let. It. Go.” But then Sadie does what she does best—she drags out the pain, layers it with secrets, and suddenly the story opens wide and deep. It’s no longer about high school bullying—it’s about powerlessness, revenge, and rewriting the past on your own terms. Yes, please.

The MMCs? Possessive, flawed, and totally unhinged in the best way. I wouldn’t call them emotionally available, but I would call them emotionally obsessive—and who doesn’t love a little danger in their devotion?

This isn’t high art. It’s high heat, high drama, high fantasy. A dirty daydream that demands nothing more than your full surrender.

Will I reread it? Probably not.
Will I devour the next in the series the second it drops? Without hesitation.

Because Sadie Hunt doesn’t write to impress. She writes to own you.

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Book Review – Things I Wrote About – Kelsey Humphreys

GenrePagesSpiceRating
Contemporary RomCom336I don’t remember4.5 stars

Review

Deep breath in… push it out.

Some books cling to you long after the last page. This one? It’s not just clinging—it’s etched into me.

On the surface, Things I Wrote About is a witty, delightful second-chance rom-com. But underneath, it’s something deeper. More vulnerable. More real. It’s a meditation on grief, growth, and the ways we sabotage our own happiness in the name of duty, fear, or sheer emotional exhaustion.

What hit me hardest was how both characters—Shep and Sadie—hide their true selves behind expectation. Behind societal norms. Behind shoulds. And how that slowly breaks them. Watching them try to claw their way back to honesty, to vulnerability, to love—it felt like watching two people bleed and heal in real time.

The depiction of maternal loss is especially poignant. There’s no sugar-coating. Just raw, unvarnished truth. And through that lens, Humphreys maps the messiness of transition—how grief delays our choices, and how choices can deepen our grief.

But don’t get me wrong—this book isn’t just ache and introspection. The banter? Chef’s kiss. Shep and Sadie spar with that delicious enemies-to-lovers tension that I live for. Witty, sexy, smart. Kelsey Humphreys knows how to write dialogue that bites and soothes all at once.

I started it on Kindle Unlimited, then switched to Audible, and now I’m buying the print copy. I know I’ll come back to it. Not just for the romance, but for the reflection.

If you’ve ever lost something precious—if you’ve ever wanted a do-over with someone who meant the world—this book will feel like coming home. Uncomfortable, maybe. But real. And worth it.

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Book Review – Red Night: Xavier’s Delight by Kitty King

GenrePagesSpiceRating
Dark Romance2264 chili peppers1.5 stars

Review

Get really comfortable with NO consent, gaslighting, and Stockholm Syndrome. This was every kind of toxic BDSM. All of the horror stories I’ve told to newbie subs are basically the summation of this book. So if you have some very dark fantasies about rape, kidnapping, and nonnegotiated BDSM, then by all means read it. I almost didn’t finish it once he slapped her. The ending is atrocious. Definitely NOT a HEA in my opinion. So. Much. Gaslighting.

The Good

If you’re interested in some dark dirty talk and kinky scenes, it has those.

The Bad

Where to start?! The characters are loosely fleshed out. It all feels as if the author was desperately trying to find a plot and anything redeeming in any of the characters to tell this story of no consent. 

“How was I supposed to tell him this without using my words? I could communicate by being the best slave he could have. I would be obedient and compliant, which I knew pleased him.”

So that’s basically the jist – abuse her nonconsensually until she agreed to be with him. No. Just no. I’m willing to accept this as fantasy, as we all do with dark romances, but this one just soured my stomach.  Further, if you’re getting the audiobook, it’s entirely from the FMC’s perspective, and yet it’s a male narrator. It was weird because it’s not like he has an exceptional female narration voice. It’s all too low and manly, and there wasn’t much differentiation in the voices of the different characters. 

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Why an Open and Honest Book Club Like Book Slut is Essential in 2025

Because Literature Needs Liberation—And So Do We

It’s 2025, and yet, in the world of books, censorship is on the rise, gatekeeping is rampant, and “acceptable” discourse feels more restrictive than ever. Book bans, author scandals, and the never-ending cycle of internet outrage have made something as simple as reading and discussing stories feel like a minefield.

But books were never meant to be tamed. They’re meant to challenge, provoke, and awaken. And the people who love books? We deserve spaces where we can be just as fearless.

That’s why an open, unfiltered, and unapologetic book club and sisterhood like Book Slut isn’t just fun—it’s necessary.

🔥 Why We Need a Rebellious Book Club Now More Than Ever

1. Book Censorship is Growing—And We Need a Place to Fight Back

From classrooms to bookstores, books are being banned at alarming rates. Titles that explore gender, race, sexuality, and rebellion are being pulled from shelves under the guise of “protecting” readers. But who really benefits from silencing stories?

An honest, independent book club like Book Slut isn’t just about reading for pleasure—it’s about reading for power.
📚 We read what they don’t want us to.
📢 We discuss what others are afraid to.
💥 We refuse to be told what is “appropriate” to love, critique, or write.

2. Women’s Voices in Literature Still Get Dismissed (Yes, Even Now)

It’s 2025, and yet, women’s literature is still:
🚨 Marketed as “niche” instead of universal.
🚨 Sidelined in literary criticism unless it fits a neat, “respectable” box.
🚨 Ridiculed if it’s “too emotional,” “too romantic,” or “too messy.”

Why do male-written books about everyday life get praised as deep literary explorations, but when women write them, it’s “chick lit” or “domestic fiction”?

At Book Slut, we say fuck that.
🔥 We celebrate women’s stories in all their forms—messy, raw, romantic, dark, or wild.
🔥 We refuse to apologize for what we love.
🔥 We make space for stories that don’t fit into literary elitism’s narrow vision.

It’s time for a book club where we don’t shrink ourselves to fit the conversation.

3. Because Literature Should Be Fun—Not Pretentious

Why do so many book discussions feel like a test we didn’t study for? Why do some readers act like you need a PhD in literary theory just to talk about a novel?

At Book Slut, we read widely, discuss freely, and leave pretentiousness at the door.
📖 You don’t have to analyze every sentence to love a book.
🔥 You’re allowed to enjoy “lowbrow” fiction just as much as “highbrow” lit.
💬 You can read for meaning or pure indulgence—both are valid.

Books are not a status symbol. They are a living experience—and we should be able to talk about them however we damn well please.

4. Because Women Deserve a Sisterhood of Readers and Writers

In a world that constantly tells women to edit themselves, Book Slut is a space where we get to be loud, opinionated, passionate, and fearless.

💡 We discuss books honestly—even when opinions clash.
💡 We challenge literary norms that erase or minimize women’s voices.
💡 We celebrate storytelling in every form—whether you’re a reader, a writer, or both.

And we do it together.

📢 What Book Slut Is—and What It Isn’t

✔ A space for book lovers, writers, and literary rebels.
✔ A place for deep conversations, unfiltered opinions, and wild ideas.
✔ A judgment-free zone where all genres, from literary fiction to smut, are welcome.

❌ NOT a space for gatekeeping or literary snobbery.
❌ NOT just another boring, polite book club.
❌ NOT a place where women’s voices are silenced or sanitized.

🔥 The Future of Book Clubs is Bold, Unfiltered, and Unapologetic

The world doesn’t need another polite, passive book club where everyone agrees just to keep the peace.

We need spaces that challenge, excite, and liberate.

Book Slut is that space. And in 2025, we’re reclaiming the way we read, write, and discuss books—without censorship, without guilt, and without limits.

👀 Are you in?

Join the rebellion. Join Book Slut.

#BookSlut #NoShelfControl #UnfilteredBooks #ReadRecklessly

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What is it about trains?

What is it about trains?

The sounds of their wheels rolling on miles of tracks; creaks, squeals of metal, long, loud horns in the night… the sway and subtle rock of the car… it all rings of a promise. The possibility of adventure, romance, intrigue. A train is pure motion. They’re not meant to be idle, they bring you to places, some new, some old, all brimming with stories that have been and will be told.

What is it about trains?

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Veronica VanHelsing

Chapter One

“Would you like a glass of wine?” his voice is smokey. His apartment is dark, but welcoming in its own way. A relic of an older academic, much older than he appears. No, he’s the quintessential young, dreamy professor, with his dark brown tousled hair that he can’t seem to stop running his hands through. His eyes a warm chocolate brown, his skin almost pallid it’s so pale. A smattering of facial hair that never seems to grow beyond that, and that half smirk that must melt the co-eds. 

Fortunately for me, I was not one of those swoony co-eds, not that he knew that. That is the point, afterall. 

I nod as I look up at him through my eyelashes. Apparently that’s sexy, and that’s what I’m doing here, being sexy as fuck. Squelching the almost insurmountable urge to gag at myself I say, “I’d like that, professor.”

“Now, now, Veronica, didn’t I ask you to call me James? Tsk tsk.” His sole dimple reveals itself as he smiles then heads to the kitchen. And yes, he legitimately said “tsk tsk.” Jesus this guy was a douche, and he’s supposed to be the good one. 

I roll my eyes behind his back and follow him in then change my demeanor back to the flirtatious co-ed. “But what if I like calling you professor?” I look at him through my eyelashes, using the smolder that makes them all believe that I’m lusting for them. Why are men so easy?

He half smirks, that dimple peeking out. He was a genuinely attractive man, if only he wasn’t also certifiably insane and a menace.He’s pulled out two wine glasses and a bottle of Syrah. At least he has good taste in wine. 

Then again, he is utterly brilliant. No, he really is. He has two PhDs, an MD, and his JD. Genuinely brilliant. It’s just that he can’t control the other guy. And nothing he’s done in his demented labs has done anything to correct his “issue.” I have wondered if he’s not trying to fix it as much as control it so he can still use the other guy, as he wishes it. Regardless, they have to go. Both of them. I need to figure out how to make it happen. So often I wish I had different skills, but I don’t. My mother swore to me that the remnants of what our family did is out of our blood, but that’s impossible. If it was, I would be able to handle business the old fashioned way. Alas, here I am, attempting to seduce a super genius with massive issues.

He led me to a dark brown leather couch. His apartment screamed dark academia; bookshelves lined every wall packed full, with additional books laying down on each shelf. The only light was a dimmed lamp in the corner above a comfortable looking red-brown chair with a plaid blanket folded over the top. It was the quintessential professor pad. He nailed it for sure.

I sat down on the couch, which was more comfortable than anticipated, and he sat a little too closely to me. That actually helps me with my plan, but it’s irksome. I keep almost losing my game face. Just because he looks normal. Doesn’t mean I can treat him as such.

He begins prattling on about the art show we saw. I lightly begin tracing circles on his knee with my fingernails, holding his eye contact. His eyes darken at the touch and I know I’ve got him, it’s just a matter of time. 

I lick my lips and see his eyes flash down to them. I can almost see the difficulty he’s having with keeping his eyes on mine. It’s adorable. When my fingertips graze higher on his thigh his breath hitches. I bite my lip while dragging it closer to the hardness stretching his pants. Looking down at my fingers position I watch my nail lightly trace the outline of his now very hard cock. 

Only then did I notice he had stopped talking so I slowly raised my eyes to his. The heat rose inside me, I could feel his arousal inside my own chest. 

Our chests began to rise and fall in sync more rapidly. This is good. He’s more susceptible than I thought he’d be. Much more like a human than a supernatural. 

I throw my leg over his lap to straddle him, never breaking eye-contact, our breath becoming slower and deeper. In time with our breathing I begin to rock my hips slowly over his lap, feeling down the soft, fine fabric of his dress shirt, easily opening each button down his torso. Sliding my hips down and feeling his hardness against my own center. People think that when it’s a job then you no longer get aroused. Let me tell you, those people are wrong, well for me at least. I sometimes think it only works when I do become hot and bothered. It’s not a horrible job. And say what you will about the supernaturals, they have loads of sex appeal, even the hideous ones. I can’t explain it. Something to do with the blood I’d wager. 

Slowly rolling my hips on his surprisingly sizeable bulge, I’m desperate to stoke my own desire and make that achingly delicious climb over the summit of an orgasm. Oh I’ll get there, but he has to take me over the hill. One of the biggest pains in the ass about my ability, I can’t be the one to make it happen – my victim has to. It has a certain poetic irony or tragedy to it. 

Finding my groove I focus intention in my eyes and it begins to pull him in to me, not so much physically, but his soul was being drawn from his core.Pushing out my own to meet his soul, the searing heat that explodes inside me always takes my breath away, but I focus on the heat not the pain. It’s the heat that speaks to me. The way it ebbs and flows in concert with our shared breath. Linking us, our breath, and our souls allows me to reach inside him. 

The sheer intimacy of soul-touching is painful, almost too painful to maintain for longer than a second. Supernaturals can hold it longer than humans. I can hold it for longer, despite my humanity. From what I got out of my ancestor’s journals, our blood has been altered and we can withstand a great deal more than most humans. So I held his, feeling the colors and emotions that flowed between us both. You could know a person better than anything alive through this process; their darkest desires, their deepest regrets, their fantasies, and their joys. 

This one I knew would be different. I can taste his age, smell his power, and it’s making my arousal heighten. Breathing more deeply, I reached in to touch the enormous darkness he had pressed deep. It was made of chaos and anger, consumed with pain and rejection.

It felt like a hand gripped my throat, slowly applying pressure. It wasn’t trying to choke me or harm me. No, it felt exploratory, like this hand was doing what my mind was doing – searching for something. I felt digits move up my jaw, stroking up my cheek, and then combing through my hair, though it felt like wind blowing it back. 

In an instant it was gone and I was left with a desperate need for glory, for recognition for all of my work, all my deeds. I needed someone to acknowledge me. This feeling was closing in on me, making my heart rake spike and my breathing to falter, which broke the soul-touch.

The immediate release of a soul-touch feels like a catapult hit you center mass with a sharp and painful blow to the chest.

I gasped and sputtered, still straddling the professor’s lap. He shook his head and looked at me in confused surprise. “L – let me g – get you some water.” He stammered while removing me from his lap. 

Damnit. That didn’t go as planned.

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A flash of light

A flash of light. That’s all it took for humanity to crumble. A simple flash of light. It wasn’t even nuclear or from some warring country that was trying to prove its military prowess. It wasn’t even a meteor or a solar flare. It was really just a flash of light, that blinded the wrong person, who then accused a country, and then got their buddies together to start a war. But this wasn’t like any war the world had had before.

Before, the magick was hidden, everyone believed magick to be the product of genius scientists, but no, they were actually magicians, or warlocks, or witches, or whatever you want to call them. And they quickly became the superstars of our world. The superheroes from comics come to life.

Up until the flash they kept us safe, even teaching magick in most schools in industrialized countries. I guess that’s where the problems started. Maybe if teaching magick had been a global endeavor we would have been able to train the tribal groups of rural areas how to use the magick safely and wisely.

It wasn’t an assassination, or a threat, it was a kid stretching his magick, but that threat was enough that Warlock shut everything down. When I say everything, I mean everything. The entire planet was in complete blackness for 4 days straight – no sun, no moon, no stars, nothing.

In those four short days, humans allowed their true selves to be seen, and it was horrendous. After the four days, we had lost 30% of the population. It didn’t matter where they were from, their age, or even if they didn’t know magick, it was essentially four days of the purge, and it was the bloodiest 84 hours the planet had ever seen. The bodies haven’t even been buried. You can still see skeletal remains scattered literally everywhere.

And that’s where my job comes in. No, I’m not a skeleton removal person. I’m a Magick Marshall, and I hunt unsanctioned magick users.

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Dystopia Fiction Writing

The Garden

He had the urge to clear the ground, to look out and see nothing.

“Darling?” the familiar voice interrupted his thought.

“Hm? Oh, yes dear, you’re quite right. The garden has become quite the oasis.” he replied automatically.

More words tumbled from the woman’s mouth, but he stopped listening, only imagining orange flames licking each leaf of the garden before him. The corner of his mouth quirked up thinking about the charred remains of this magical place. Maybe then he’d finally have some rest.

The woman kept babbling. He was familiar with the words; he’d heard them countless times. Looking beyond the green of the garden, he could see the familiar figures watching them from the horizon.

The same thing was happening in every other garden on that street, possibly in that city, or maybe every corner of the world. Colin didn’t know how far it extended and he wondered how many others could see through the façade? Maybe none. Maybe he had to figure this out on his own.

The days repeated in this unrealistic loop for what seemed like ages. Colin never remembered eating or sleeping, just always watering the garden having this inane conversation with his wife. A wife he didn’t know – not her name, not how they met, literally nothing. How could she endure this never-ending mirage? If he could he would have frowned, but he couldn’t – he could only smile and be engrossed with watering the garden. He wondered if she was the same – trapped in this nightmare, but completely aware that it’s fake.

His mind wandered to the rows of garden fences stretched as far as he can see, up until the shadowy figures beyond. Was everyone here trapped the same way? How had they gotten there?

He tried to think back beyond the garden, beyond this moment in time, to see if there was something before. He saw flashes of a life outside of the garden. There was a body of water, he could remember lazy days on the sand, the touch of a woman, and an intense feeling of love and desire for her. Had he lived this life?

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Nonfiction Writing

What if I fall?

“What if I fall?” she said.

“Then you fall.”

She sighed, wiped the tears that were streaming down her face, looked up and took that first, unknown, terrifying step.

Nothing miraculous happened. No, she didn’t fall, but she also hadn’t made it across the white chasm.

“Will it be like this for all the steps?” she asked.

“Most of them.” the answers weren’t a voice, they weren’t really words, but feelings that she had translated in these expressed words.

She looked around at the expansive nothingness surrounding her. Standing on what felt like solid ground, but nothing underneath, breathing what must be air, but no feel of it. There were no sounds, no movements but her own.

It wasn’t an option to return to the comfortably numb place of sitting with her eyes closed, even though that still pulled at her. It beckoned her to return to the safety of stationary life, to the calm comfort being frozen. She had awakened, but she was so very afraid.

“You can go back, but it only gets harder each time you do.” the formless words filled her mind.

“Have I done this before?”

“Many times.”

“Then why don’t I remember?” this was said aloud, her voice was cracked with dryness, the sound a broken whisper that felt jagged in her throat.

“Because remembering is too painful.”

She swallowed painfully, her dry mouth unable to bless her throat with liquid comfort. “Do you tell me this every time?”

The answer felt like a warm, comforting hug wrapped around her entire body, filling her with compassion. Yes, every time.

Tears reemerged. She didn’t want to go back, but was so scared to move forward.

The comforting hug pulled her forward, urging her. She took another step in this nothingness and didn’t fall.

She wept with fear and hope mingled into a bittersweet cocktail and stepped again.