Red Circle Books
@redcirclebooks.bsky.social
A book club for divine deviants. We read what others burn — texts that moan, bite, and climax in revelation. Bring wine, abandon decorum, and don’t bother pretending you’ll stop at just one chapter. Come for the pleasure. Stay for the awakening. 18+ only.
Reposted by Red Circle Books
July 30, 2025 at 3:31 AM
#EroticMicroFiction
Part I: Ghost Trigger
It started in the subway — wool brushing my hand, then the scent: cedar, black pepper, and wet skin. His cologne, exact. My lungs stalled. I stood still, eyes shut, breathing it in like sacrament. Desire doesn’t die — it distills.
Part I: Ghost Trigger
It started in the subway — wool brushing my hand, then the scent: cedar, black pepper, and wet skin. His cologne, exact. My lungs stalled. I stood still, eyes shut, breathing it in like sacrament. Desire doesn’t die — it distills.
July 22, 2025 at 4:02 AM
#EroticMicroFiction
Part I: Ghost Trigger
It started in the subway — wool brushing my hand, then the scent: cedar, black pepper, and wet skin. His cologne, exact. My lungs stalled. I stood still, eyes shut, breathing it in like sacrament. Desire doesn’t die — it distills.
Part I: Ghost Trigger
It started in the subway — wool brushing my hand, then the scent: cedar, black pepper, and wet skin. His cologne, exact. My lungs stalled. I stood still, eyes shut, breathing it in like sacrament. Desire doesn’t die — it distills.
Reposted by Red Circle Books
Reposted by Red Circle Books
Still from Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome, a short film by Kenneth Anger from 1954.
The film takes the name "Pleasure Dome" from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's atmospheric poem 'Kubla Khan'. It reflects Anger's deep interest in Thelema, the philosophy of Aleister Crowley.
#KennethAnger #Thelema
The film takes the name "Pleasure Dome" from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's atmospheric poem 'Kubla Khan'. It reflects Anger's deep interest in Thelema, the philosophy of Aleister Crowley.
#KennethAnger #Thelema
July 21, 2025 at 4:38 AM
Still from Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome, a short film by Kenneth Anger from 1954.
The film takes the name "Pleasure Dome" from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's atmospheric poem 'Kubla Khan'. It reflects Anger's deep interest in Thelema, the philosophy of Aleister Crowley.
#KennethAnger #Thelema
The film takes the name "Pleasure Dome" from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's atmospheric poem 'Kubla Khan'. It reflects Anger's deep interest in Thelema, the philosophy of Aleister Crowley.
#KennethAnger #Thelema
Reposted by Red Circle Books
American Contemporary artist Hera Kim
King of Ghosts, 2016
(Mixed media on canvas)
#HeraKim #ContemporaryArt
King of Ghosts, 2016
(Mixed media on canvas)
#HeraKim #ContemporaryArt
July 20, 2025 at 3:43 AM
American Contemporary artist Hera Kim
King of Ghosts, 2016
(Mixed media on canvas)
#HeraKim #ContemporaryArt
King of Ghosts, 2016
(Mixed media on canvas)
#HeraKim #ContemporaryArt
#EroticMicroFiction Part I: Clockmilk
I taste time. Not metaphor — actual time. It drips from the spine of the clockmaker’s daughter, whose breath tastes like cardamom and cathedral dust. She fed me a thimble of it once, warm and lunar, and for thirteen seconds, I remembered being unborn.
I taste time. Not metaphor — actual time. It drips from the spine of the clockmaker’s daughter, whose breath tastes like cardamom and cathedral dust. She fed me a thimble of it once, warm and lunar, and for thirteen seconds, I remembered being unborn.
July 15, 2025 at 5:27 AM
#EroticMicroFiction Part I: Clockmilk
I taste time. Not metaphor — actual time. It drips from the spine of the clockmaker’s daughter, whose breath tastes like cardamom and cathedral dust. She fed me a thimble of it once, warm and lunar, and for thirteen seconds, I remembered being unborn.
I taste time. Not metaphor — actual time. It drips from the spine of the clockmaker’s daughter, whose breath tastes like cardamom and cathedral dust. She fed me a thimble of it once, warm and lunar, and for thirteen seconds, I remembered being unborn.
The shampoo spilled thick and slow into my palm — golden, viscous, indecent. I lathered it through my hair, fingers slipping over scalp like a stranger learning me by heart. The water ran clean, but I stayed dirty with want. Some rinses don’t purify — they awaken.
July 10, 2025 at 3:03 AM
The shampoo spilled thick and slow into my palm — golden, viscous, indecent. I lathered it through my hair, fingers slipping over scalp like a stranger learning me by heart. The water ran clean, but I stayed dirty with want. Some rinses don’t purify — they awaken.
I turned off the light but didn’t close the blinds. The neighbor’s window glowed across the dark like a slow inhale, one curtain drawn, one askew. I lay still, bare under the weight of maybe. Some nights, the ache isn’t for touch — it’s for being seen and not flinching.
July 9, 2025 at 3:01 AM
I turned off the light but didn’t close the blinds. The neighbor’s window glowed across the dark like a slow inhale, one curtain drawn, one askew. I lay still, bare under the weight of maybe. Some nights, the ache isn’t for touch — it’s for being seen and not flinching.
Reposted by Red Circle Books
Reposted by Red Circle Books
#GoodMorningEveryone 😊☕️
I hope you all had a good start to the week. Let's give it our best again this Tuesday. 😁
I wish you all a wonderful day 🥰
#AIイラスト︎ #hololive #AIbeauty #aigirlfriend #TuesdayFeeling
I hope you all had a good start to the week. Let's give it our best again this Tuesday. 😁
I wish you all a wonderful day 🥰
#AIイラスト︎ #hololive #AIbeauty #aigirlfriend #TuesdayFeeling
July 8, 2025 at 2:50 AM
#GoodMorningEveryone 😊☕️
I hope you all had a good start to the week. Let's give it our best again this Tuesday. 😁
I wish you all a wonderful day 🥰
#AIイラスト︎ #hololive #AIbeauty #aigirlfriend #TuesdayFeeling
I hope you all had a good start to the week. Let's give it our best again this Tuesday. 😁
I wish you all a wonderful day 🥰
#AIイラスト︎ #hololive #AIbeauty #aigirlfriend #TuesdayFeeling
The nightshirt slipped over my skin with the softness of a lie I wanted to believe. Outside, a siren wailed like it knew what I’d done. I turned to the cool side of the pillow, heart thudding — not from guilt, but from how much I wanted to do it again.
July 8, 2025 at 2:37 AM
The nightshirt slipped over my skin with the softness of a lie I wanted to believe. Outside, a siren wailed like it knew what I’d done. I turned to the cool side of the pillow, heart thudding — not from guilt, but from how much I wanted to do it again.
I watched the butter melt — slow and slow — into my toast like it wanted more of me than I wanted breakfast. It swelled in the heat, seeped into pores I didn’t know were there, and vanished without apology. That’s how desire gets in. That’s how it stays.
July 7, 2025 at 2:39 PM
I watched the butter melt — slow and slow — into my toast like it wanted more of me than I wanted breakfast. It swelled in the heat, seeped into pores I didn’t know were there, and vanished without apology. That’s how desire gets in. That’s how it stays.
The scent of crushed basil on my fingers lingers longer than it should — green and earthy, like summer kneeling on my skin. I press it into the sauce and watch it bleed, dark and sudden, like desire learning to speak. I used to cook to feed. Now I cook to be devoured.
July 7, 2025 at 2:44 AM
The scent of crushed basil on my fingers lingers longer than it should — green and earthy, like summer kneeling on my skin. I press it into the sauce and watch it bleed, dark and sudden, like desire learning to speak. I used to cook to feed. Now I cook to be devoured.