October 22, 2014

Go Ask Alison #4



We're back—see, for some reason I keep wanting to be a "we"—with another "Go Ask Alison" query. This one comes from Jenne Davis, who is also known as CliticalJenne. She has been putting together her first book, and she recently wrote to say:

I have so many emotions going through me as this project gets closer to the finish line, the main one being fear. I'm doubting myself more. I keep wondering what people will think, will people love it or hate it—you know, the usual roller coast that I would imagine all writers go though. Any tips on how to stop the doubt creeping in and taking over? 

Alison Answers: Welcome to my world. I question all of my projects. Seriously. Even after all these years, I worry with every single story. Will readers understand my goals? Will they appreciate my characters? Will the get the gist of my concepts? 


One way I've learned to combat fear is to find solid beta readers. People who like your style but will be honest with their reactions to your latest work. It's important, in my opinion, to listen only to readers who can be positive with their critiques. Early on, I asked a friend to read my novel in progress and he was so harsh with his criticism I never was able to muster the nerve to finish the book. I'm more selective now with who I ask for feedback. Super helpful readers have included Sophia Valenti, Vida Bailey, Helena Black, A.M. Hartnett, Oleander Plume, Jade A. Waters.

Also important to me—friends you can whimper to while you're slamming yourself against the project. Sommer Marsden has talked me off several writing ledges. Violet Blue has held my hand. Thomas Roche has ridden shotgun.

Finally, there are your fans. Readers who are happy to read and review your book early on, so you can have some happy stars up on Amazon. There's no special trick to getting these. I'm grateful for every one. Angell Brooks rocks my world. Jeremy makes me smile. Karen Blue makes me want to write just for her.

Now, I'm happy to toss this query out to other writers. How do you get over doubt? Tricks? Tips? Tequila?

XXX,
Alison

About the askee: Jenne Davis can generally be found working on her website Clitical.Com. Clitical is a site devoted to female sexuality but mostly the art of female masturbation. She is currently busy working on her new book, "The Clitical Guide To Female Self Pleasure," that is due to be released in May 2015. 

October 21, 2014

Two-Fer Tuesday Part Two: Saskia Walker


Yes, I'm back. (I keep trying to write "we're back," as if I am a plural noun, when really, I'm not.) The second part of today's "two-fer" is dedicated to Saskia Walker's sizzling collection of short stories: Unleashed.


This excerpt is from the seductive Sign Your Name:

Molly stared at the pen in his hand, immediately aroused and self-aware. The key to her kink was right there in his hand. She liked to be written on-in fact it aroused her to the point where she could come from that act alone. This was the time to show him, then she could see how he would react.
She took a deep breath. "Tell you what…" Her voice sounded shaky, and she hated that. She didn't want this to go wrong. She wanted him. Badly. "Why don't you give me your number? It'll be better that way. Really, I promise. "
Before he could question her, or show doubt about why she'd said that, she shoved her forearm out across the counter between them, pulling up the sleeve of her top. She ran her finger up and down the soft, sensitive skin on the inside of her forearm. "Write it…here. Please. "
Would he laugh at her? One corner of his mouth was still lifted and stayed that way. He toyed with the pen, his eyes assessing. Her breath was trapped in her throat. A moment later he slowly moved one hand and held her wrist down on the counter with it, while he began to write on the spot she had indicated with the other.
His hand around her wrist was warm and strong, sure. And then-oh. The pressure he applied through the ballpoint on her skin made her nerves leap, the sensation chasing itself up her arm and through her body, flooding her with arousal. She bit her lip.
He looked up from the place he was writing and back at her. She could tell he'd sensed this wasn't just about exchanging numbers. A needy moan escaped her lips.
He stared. One eyebrow lifted, the pen, also. "Did I hurt you?"
"No. "She could barely get that one small word out, and when she did, it was with a breathless, relieved sigh."I like it. "She shrugged."It makes me really hot. I'm wired weird. I just wanted you to know. Up front. "
She snatched her arm away, bracing herself for the disbelieving laughter, the snide remark. Tension hung in the air between them, seemingly endless. Then he looked down at the countertop. What was he thinking?
He glanced up. "Kinky girl, huh?"
She stared him directly in the eye, her heart beating fast as she braced herself for rejection. "Does it bother you?"
"Quite the opposite," he replied, and flashed her a grin. "If I know what turns you on, it gives me power… and it just so happens I like to be in charge."
Oh, that made her hot. It was so far from what she had expected him to say, so direct. And then he moved. In a heartbeat, he levered himself over the counter, jumping lithely down onto her side of it. For the first time, he had breached the physical divide between them-and he'd brought the pen with him. Holding it aloft in his hand, he put his free hand on her shoulder and walked her through the rails of plastic-covered clothes, backing her toward the wall behind those rails, out of sight of the shop front. He cornered her up against the wall.
Her body pulsed with the thrill of his actions.
He grasped her two hands easily in one of his, and lifted her chin with the pen under her jaw, an action that shot sensation down her neck and chest, right into her hardening nipples. She gasped for breath, her eyes closing and her head moving back to lean against the wall.
"Oh yes, it really does it for you, doesn't it. How bad is it?"
He still had of the pen under her jaw, controlling the position of her head and where she could look. Could she tell him? Her eyes were shut and she kept them that way. "I need it."Her voice was a mere murmur. "It's crazy, but I can't come any other way, not the way I do if…"
When her voice trailed off, he moved the pen just enough to apply pressure to the sensitive flesh beneath her jaw. Her eyes flashed open.
"Is this making you wet?"
"Yes."
He was close, staring at her, his eyes bright and focused. The curiosity she had sensed in him had multiplied. He was aroused by her responses; his body shifting close against hers, one knee pressed against the wall at the side of her body.
He gave a soft chuckle. "You know, Molly, I used to wonder about you when I came in here. I liked the way you looked, very pretty but different, and always thinking…always with the sexy eyes. There was something else though, wasn't there. You were always playing with your pen, always sucking on the end of it. Couldn't just be ready for the next customer, I figured. Couldn't quite work out what it was, but it made me hard just watching you play with the damn thing. "His voice turned husky, right at the end there.
"Are you hard now?" She flashed her eyes, her responses rolling out readily.
His grip on her wrists tightened and he moved the back of her contained hands against the zipper on his jeans. "Well, what do you think?"
Beneath the black denim he wore, his cock was rigid.
Her skin tingled with awareness when he brushed it over that spot. She nodded. He moved the pen, lifting it from beneath her jaw and taking it down to the hem of her miniskirt. Putting it under the fabric and between her thighs, he tapped it from side to side then up and down, making her thighs tremble with the need for a deeper mark, the pressure, and the stain-the written evidence on her body.
He let go her wrists, and lifted her skirt right up, exposing her. "Ooh, white cotton panties. Just like a blank page. "
She stepped from one foot in the other, wired. "You're torturing me," she breathed.
"Maybe this will help."He ran the pen down the front of her panties, pushing both pen and fabric into the groove of her pussy.
Her flesh blazed under that touch. She glanced down to look at the solid line he had drawn, but he was still moving the pen, pressing deeper into her groove, rolling over her clit. When she gave a sudden gasp, he paused and concentrated on the same spot, drawing back and forth over it. A jaggedy blue scribble was forming right over the spot.

###


Saskia Walker is an award-winning British author of erotic fiction. Her short stories and novellas have appeared in over one hundred international anthologies as well as several international magazines including Cosmo, Penthouse, Bust, and Scarlet. Fascinated with seduction, Saskia loves to explore how and why we get from saying "hello" to sharing our most intimate selves in moments of extreme passion. 

After writing shorts for several years Saskia moved into novel-length projects. Her erotic single titles include The Burlington Manor Affair and the Erogenous Zones trilogy. Her novels Double Dare and Rampant both won Passionate Plume awards and her writing has twice been nominated for a RT Book Reviews Reviewers' Choice Award. Nowadays Saskia is happily settled in Yorkshire, in the north of England , with her real-life hero, Mark, and a houseful of stray felines. You can visit her website for more info. www.saskiawalker.co.uk

Please stop by tomorrow for a new installment of "Go Ask Alison." I'm juggling so many themes right now, I can hardly keep up with myself!

XXX,
Alison

Two-Fer Tuesday: Saskia Walker


Last week I created (if "created" means "stole right off the radio") the concept of posting Two-Fer Tuesdays on my blog. I sort of madly love the idea of a double-shot from one author. Gosh, I guess I could have called it double-shot Tuesday—but where's the alliteration in that? Today, I'll be posting two pieces by the seriously talented Saskia Walker, an author I've been lucky enough to work with for more than a decade.

First up is a free story that she penned for one of my early collections. The piece is here for your enjoyment in its entirety. (How cool is that? It's like Christmas in October!) About mid-day, I'll be back to post the second part of this exciting event.

This story is one of my favorites by Ms. Walker. Romantic, erotic, flat-out filthy. The sex is searing, but the raw emotion matches the sensuality beat for beat.


Arran’s Lure
Saskia Walker

Alone in her bed, Juliet lay with her sheets twisted between her arms and legs, thinking about Christopher. Wanting him. Craving him. There was a point where her physical desire for him had turned into an all-consuming hunger. Since then, she had been continually restless with need. Finding sleep was no longer easy. The longing she felt for that one person whose shared passion would provide her lifeline, her relief, had long since become overwhelming.
“Christopher Bardsley, what on earth have you done to me?” she whispered into the night, and a smile passed over her lips.
She felt high at times, at others wretched. Her fierce physical desire also manifested itself in a painful, gnawing ache that emanated out from between her thighs, through her core, as far as her throat and mind, where she was tortured with memory and longing. Her fingers tightened on her rumpled sheets, as did her thighs, her body rolling restlessly. Masturbation just left her hungry for what she couldn’t have, a particularly cruel twist of fate. She needed to express herself to him, to join their bodies together again. And he was so far away. Over four hundred miles, to be precise. It might as well have been ten thousand, the way she felt.
She was at home in London, trying unsuccessfully to focus on her freelance journalism—her one and only love before she met him—and he was off the coast of Scotland, on the Isle of Arran. That’s where she’d met him, interviewing him as part of a series of features on unusual people who had forced their careers to fit their lives, instead of allowing the opposite to happen.
Christopher owned and ran a major Internet provisions company. He’d built it up from nothing, but when he’d inherited his uncle’s farming land in the south of Arran, he’d decided to up sticks and move there. He managed his Internet company from an entirely different kind of base, in order to maintain the traditions of his family line, making both aspects of his life work.
Juliet had traveled up by train and ferry to meet him, and found herself stunned by the beauty of Arran, even as she looked at it from the windswept ferry on the approach to the port of Brodick. It was this landscape that had motivated his monumental move, his choice to oversee the farm, meshing a long-standing farming lifestyle with that of a modern day businessman.
“I came to look at the place, and I experienced the lure of the island. I’d visited as a child, and I had very fond memories of the farm, but as an adult who has traveled the world, it just took hold of me.” He observed her as he spoke, turning a heavy tumbler in his hand, warming the rich local malt whisky it contained.
She nodded, feeling the place and its master instill their lure in her, too. Sitting opposite him on the sofa, sipping the fine scotch, her desire ran rampant. From his hand nursing the glass, to the strong outline of his thighs through his black jeans, he drew her attention in every way. Desire thrummed in her every pulse point, her blood racing, her lips eager to brush against the firm line of his mouth.
As soon as she saw him, she wanted him. He said it was the same for him, too. She’d booked into a B&B, but never spent a single night there. Arriving at his house, she saw him in action, instructing the land workers for the following day, answering a call from Denmark in the next moment.
“What drives you?” she asked, later that evening, as they sat in his comfortable sitting room after a dinner prepared by his housekeeper. It was a question she'd asked all the men and women she had interviewed for the series.
“The need to make the impossible work.” He paused, and the corners of his mouth lifted in an insinuating smile. “What drives you?”
No one had ever turned the question on her before, and it wasn’t something she had ever thought about, but still she knew the answer. “The need to express myself, I guess.”
He nodded. “I’ve read your work; you express yourself well. I’d like to see more than that, though.” His gray-green eyes twinkled. He asked her questions, found out things she didn’t even know about herself.
“Are you interviewing me now?”
He smiled. “Kind of.” He looked her over with an unambiguous stare. “I’m sure I could find you an appropriate position.” The expression he wore was filled with raw, uncompromising sexuality, that aspect of his personality just as forthright as every other.
            She gave a soft laugh. “I’m sure you could.” They both knew it was going to happen, but they talked on, savoring the rich sense of anticipation that built between them.
What was it about him?
She’d never met a man so intensely male, that was for sure. There was an inbuilt sense of power about him, and yet he wasn’t blatant or egotistical. It was a calm, self-assured way that he had. He wasn’t classically handsome, either. His dark hair was unruly, his body built large and strong. He’d had a rough childhood, but that only seemed to make him steadfast and sure of what he wanted in life. She ached to have him over her, to feel him thrusting into her.
“What’s life without a few risks,” he commented, and she knew he wasn’t just talking about business ventures. He put his glass down and reached out to touch her face.
She’d never been shy about letting a man know what she wanted. “I’m right with you on that one.” She turned her face into the palm of his hand, kissing it, opening her mouth to taste his skin.
Their kisses were raw, needy, while they stripped each other with eager hands. The first time was hard and fast, right there on the rug in front of the log fire. She welcomed the hard strength his body, hungry for it, her cunt hot and grabbing, holding him tight as he pulled back and lunged. As they got closer to the climax, he raised up on his arms, looking down at her with searching eyes, and she latched her legs over his shoulders, sucking him ever deeper. The climax hit her in a dizzy, wild rush, and he followed fast, one hand pressing her pubic bone down onto his cock, the pressure releasing a second wave of pleasure through her.
Her fingers knotted in his hair when he lay over her, holding him close. Something unstoppable had been set in motion between them. He’d kissed and touched her everywhere, before he carried to her to his bed and fucked her again, slowly, taking shallow strides, making her mad for it. He laughed softly when she begged him for more, looking at her in the light that spilled in through the large picture window. The sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs was all that had anchored her to the reality of the moment, when he drove the length of his cock inside her, filling her to overfull.
She’d phoned the agency, called in sick, something she’d never done before, lengthening her stay on the island, lengthening her time with him.
“Tell me now, what do you want?” he said against her ear, whilst he screwed her from behind.
“I want it to last and last,” she’d cried out, poised on the edge of her orgasm. “I want to feel your cock right through me.” Moaning loudly, she drove back onto him, spilling down her thighs as she came. He’d pulled out, pacing himself when he got too close, giving her exactly what she wanted. He possessed her over again, until she could barely move and her cunt was blissfully sore, riotous with sensation from fucking, her mind and body senseless with multiple, rolling orgasms. When she collapsed on the bed, he knelt over her, taking his cock in his hand. She caught sight of the pent-up ecstasy and pain of his held-back release in his expression. In that moment she saw it all, this was a man who got what he wanted, who worked for it, no matter how hard, no matter what the sacrifice. He came over her belly. Panting hard, he bent over her, rubbing his semen over her breasts and torso.
“Yes, yes,” she begged, “stain me, mark me.”
His expression was fiercely possessive as he marked his territory, the ritualized action making her feel gloriously proud as she lay sated in his arms.
They barely slept, afraid to waste the precious time together. Instead they fucked hard, then made love slow. They lay awake in the moonlight communicating with mouths, fingers, and tongues. They explored each other almost continually, talking endlessly, then rolling together, his mouth on her pussy and hers on his cock, devouring each other.
“Why did you come here?” he whispered with a dark smile, one night, in the midst of their passion.
“I’m not so sure anymore,” she replied, joyous laughter escaping her mouth.
She’d never expressed herself so thoroughly, giving everything, opening herself in ways that she hadn’t even considered possible. He confessed he was stubbornly independent, and she knew that alone made this hard for him. She recognized that was why he was alone. Too focused for his own good.
In the daytime, he drove her across the island to the rougher landscape of the north, where he took her down to the cliffs. The blustery autumnal winds nudged them up against shoreline. Their words and laughter were lifted on the whirling wind around their heads before disappearing.
“Come here, I have to be inside you now,” he’d said, and backed her against the cliff wall. He opened her coat and lifted her skirt, his hands moving fast into the heat of her. Over his shoulder she saw that the tide was coming in, the waves rolling over the sand in the timeless embrace between land and sea.
“Now?” she replied, weak with desire, emotion catching in her throat.
He answered by stripping her underwear down her legs, knocking off one shoe and lifting one leg in his hand, before plunging deep inside her.
She was acutely aware of the rough rock at her back as he rode her against the ancient cliff face, lifting her bodily with each thrust. “The tide is coming in,” she cried, her hands around his head.
“There’s enough time,” he replied, hoarsely, and she gave in to his overwhelming need.
She’d never been fucked the way he fucked her, like he was claiming her to the core, to the very soul. And now, lying alone in her bed in London, it was driving her slowly insane with need.
Now.
I want that now.
Flinging the sheet away, she got up and pulled on a T-shirt. Uselessly, she wandered to her desk, where she nudged the mouse. The screen flickered into life as she sat down. There was an email from the main news agency she took assignments from. She’d been ignoring it all day. They were asking if she’d finished the Arran article yet, and if they could have the title, ASAP.
Sighing, she clicked over to the unfinished document. At first, she told herself that when she finished up the article, she’d get over it. Only then would the pain and the intense desire begin to fade. Then, as she found how hard it was to finish, she realized she didn’t actually want to, because she didn’t want to break that connection with Christopher.
“Face it, girl, you’ve got it bad,” she murmured, as she looked over the copy. And the worst of it was that it hurt. Hurt bad. Being in love was a screwed-up painful thing, if you were apart from the one you love.
Her phone bleeped into life. Picking it up, her spirits lifted and she smiled at the name on the screen.
“I didn’t wake you did I?” His voice.
“Hey you,” she said. “Nope. I can’t sleep. Thinking about you.”
He gave a soft growl. “Good.”
“I can hear the sea. Where are you?”
“In the bedroom, standing by the window, looking at the empty bed, wishing you were in it.”
“Wanting to make the impossible work?” she teased.
“With a fury.”
His tone had a low intensity about it that melted her. She bit her lip, her head dropping back. She could just picture him. Reaching over, she flicked her monitor off, allowing the enveloping darkness to take over. If he were by the window in his bedroom, the moonlight would be at his back. In her mind’s eye, she touched his outline, reaching out for him with every atom of her body. Between her thighs she was hot and wet, her inner flesh clutching rhythmically, wanting him there.
“Touch yourself, now,” he instructed.
The pulse in her groin beat wildly in response to his words. Her free hand moved between her thighs, her fingers dipping into her well of slick heat, the palm of her hand crushing her clit.
“Do you want me there?” His tone was demanding, almost desperate.
“Oh, yes.”
“Make yourself come, let me hear you.”
She put one foot up on the edge of the desk, opening her legs wide. He was breathing close to the mouthpiece, and the sound fueled her.
“Describe it, tell me how it feels.”
“I’m swollen, I’ve been thinking of you all evening. My clit is hard, so sensitive.” Almost too sensitive, it stung as she flicked it. “Oh God.”
“Come, please…let me hear you.”
She moved her hand, her cunt locking on one hard finger, hips moving back and forth, palm rocking against her clit. Her moan of release was long and breathless.
            “I wish I was there.”
            She laughed breathlessly. “So do I, believe me.”
            “It’s not getting any easier, is it?” he commented, with a dry laugh.
            “No,” she agreed. “I’m going to finish the article tonight,” she whispered, before she said good-bye.
“That’s bad isn’t it?”
She couldn’t help smiling. He knew that she had been dragging her heels. How had he come to know her so well? A feeling of destiny surrounded her. “No. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I’m not going to let it be a bad thing, Christopher.” In the moment of silence, she sensed his relief.
“Remember what I said.”
Her heart brimmed. On their last night together they had lain silently in each other’s arms, talking whilst barely speaking, drinking each other in through their eyes. When dawn broke through, he’d fed her breakfast in bed before taking her out to walk across the land. On the hilltop, there was an early morning mist that seemed to hold them to the ground they stood upon. He told her then that he wanted her to come back, that he’d be there for her. Deep inside, she already knew that. She put her fingers to his lips and sank into his embrace, wishing they could stay shrouded in the mist forever. Far too soon, the midmorning sun broke through and it was time for her to catch the ferry to the mainland.
“I remember everything you said,” she whispered into the phone. “And you’re right. You always were. What’s life without a few risks? I want to be with you.”
“In that case, I’ll move back to London.”
For a moment, she was stunned. “No way. You belong there.” She paused. “Christopher, trust me, I can make the impossible work, too.”
            “Yes…?”
It was the first time she had ever heard any hint of vulnerability in his voice, and that told her everything she needed to know.
“Yes, love. You’ve made me braver.”
When they finally said good-bye, she poured herself the last measure of Arran malt from the bottle Christopher had hidden in her overnight bag when she left, and sipped it slowly, savoring its rich, full-bodied taste. Switching on her monitor, she typed a letter to the agencies she worked for, informing them of her upcoming change of location, flagging up her availability for assignments in Scotland and the north.
            Turning to the article, she rubbed her hands together and added her conclusion. Despite her earlier unwillingness, it took her only moments to complete the article. Now that the decision had been made, everything fell into place. Finally, she scrolled to the top, smiling to herself, and added the title: Arran’s Lure: making the impossible scenario work, despite the odds.
###
Tune in around noon for the next portion of today's schedule!
XXX,
Alison

October 20, 2014

Trollop with a Question #27


Out of the blue, this query fell into my consciousness yesterday:

What was your favorite ever skit on Saturday Night Live? 

I am so curious! I have almost too many to mentally organize. My knowledge of SNL probably ends in the early 90s, but a few years ago, I went back and watched several seasons from the beginning. So there are more in my head than I used to have. Simply the musical acts were worth absorbing repeatedly.

I'm very curious about what moments were stand-outs for you. Landshark? Cheeseburger? Jane, you ignorant slut?

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Answered last week's question? Drop me a note at msalisontyler so I can reward you with a wee little prize!

October 19, 2014

Alison on the Rocks


As you can see, I've been busy. Here is my second new collection of short stories—this one with a bar theme. If you gaze behind the handsome bartender—oh, gosh, I think he just winked at you!—you'll be able to see the stories up on the menu:

Last Call
Stirring Up Trouble
Cubed
Bastard
Sitting Pretty
Prix Fixe

The pieces have appeared in previous collections—although some are no longer in print and nearly impossible to locate. The kink—and there is plenty of kink—covers gangbangs, spanking, anal, bondage, menage, humiliation, punishment, and more.

I've pushed the envelope this time, with stories written from the point of view of a cocktail waitress, a bisexual male furnisher refurbisher, a wife on the verge of her first gangbang, a woman on a date with the type of sadistic man she's never run into before....

The book should be live by tomorrow, and I'm on the edge of my barstool to hear what people think. The cover is by the ridiculously talented Riendo who always makes my heart beat faster.

In other news, Publishers Weekly—which is the holy grail of magazines for writers—gave my latest collection a starred review. I'm so unbelievably pleased I cannot even say. The original spark for the idea occurred nearly eight years ago, and even with a title change, the reviewer was able to see my goal. PW said: 

"Most of the stories feature the realization of long-held fantasies—about a person, an act, or both—in ways that build a solid emotional basis for the splendid sex. This anthology is a must-read for anyone fancying a bit of play at work."

So authors, please give yourself a gold star for this one!

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Want to review "Alison on Top" or "Alison on the Rocks"? Give me a ring at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.

October 18, 2014

Alison on Top


Isn't it pretty? I'm so thrilled with the cover—photo by Riendo—and excited that people are buying Alison on Top. The little book contains: Broken, Plucked, All In the Wrist, and WYSIWYG, a brand-new femdom story that I'm seriously proud of.

Back Monday with a new question!

XXX,
Alison

October 15, 2014

42 Words

I just sat here for a moment, staring at the screen as if it was going to entertain me. Sing. Dance. I don't know. Then I realized—oh, wait. I have to entertain it! (Or something like that.)

Here we are at the end of the Smut Marathon Round 8. I totally loved this round. I'd been wanting to use that Bowie reference for awhile, and I was really pleased with the results. I've never made a list of 42 words of inspiration, but I do roll words around in my mind—and my mouth—all the time.

The winners for this round were:

Tie for first:

Oleander Plume who wrote Entry #1
and Angell Brooks who wrote Entry #3

Marie Rebell with Entry #2 came in second

Sadly, we have to say goodbye to Alison Winchester, who has been an ace player throughout the contest.

There will be one last challenge—and I'll be hitting the writers with the details shortly. Until then, please consider checking out my newest mini collection Alison on Top: FemDom Erotica to Make You Beg. This book contains four stories: Broken, Plucked, All In the Wrist, and WYSIWYG. The first three have appeared in different collections, but WYSIWYG (I have to double-check myself every time I spell that!) is brand-new, and I'm kind of dying to hear what readers think. The story was inspired by a man I know in real life. (One of my friends who works in miniatures says that miniature enthusiasts refer to real life as r/l.)

Any way you can help me spread the word for the book would be extremely appreciated. I have a second in the works right now. Photo is by the glorious Riendo who sees the world in a way that never fails to delight me.

XXX,
Alison

October 14, 2014

Two-fer Tuesday Part 2: Sommer Marsden


In my attempts to put up a new post, I nearly created a new blog. Then I messed up the formatting. So now I am going to move slowly here and make sure I get everything as close to correct as I can!

This is an excerpt from Sommer Marsden's delicious The Mighty Quinn.


If he showed up tonight, I was screwed. I was exhausted, stiff and sore. I was not even in the same time zone as a sensual thought. I was pooped. I covered another yawn and glanced in the mirror. At least I wasn’t red, sweaty and smelly anymore. That was a big improvement. I examined my face in the mirror. A glow, much like my post-coital sheen this morning, lit my cheeks and gave me a radiance I rarely possessed. “Not too shabby,” I told my reflection, then I whipped open my towel and flashed myself. This triggered a giggling fit. “Sicko,” I said to myself.

Intrigued, I dropped the towel and turned slowly in front of the mirror. I saw my naked reflection in a new light. Gone were the self-imposed criticisms and comparisons to other women. Now I looked at my body with a dancer’s eye. With the gaze of a sensual entertainer. Granted, I was gifted in the chest area but I’d never noticed the dramatic dip and swell where my waist met my hips. I turned some more, taking in the indentations on my bottom where the muscles flexed beneath my skin. I heard myself laugh when I spotted the dimple above my left butt cheek that had always vexed me. Now, I rather liked it. It was sexy. I wondered, briefly, what it would look like if I had a tiny tattoo placed in the center. A heart maybe. Or a butterfly. It could signify my transformation from old to new!

The doorbell rang and I let out a squeak. Oh damn. Frenchy had been right. I wasn’t even dressed. My face was naked, my hair was wet. I was completely devoid of any of my new found feminine wiles.

Another bong. Somehow it sounded desperate. I wrapped the towel around me as Pickle started his yipping that announced a visitor. I had no choice. I’d just have to answer the door au natural. Fuck.

I hit the bottom step and my left calf locked up in the mother of all charley horses. “Aarruh!”

I cried, not able to stifle it. Tears came to my eyes and I hobbled toward the door, still clutching my towel. I peered through the peep hole as the muscles seized up again. “Christ!” I yelled. So much for presenting a sane fa├žade. I couldn’t help it, though, it was excruciating.

“Quinn?” Keaton sounded worried.

“Coming!” I yelled, trying not to sound certifiable. I undid the deadbolt and the chain lock and opened the door. “Keaton, hi,” I said with forced cheerfulness. I tried to smile but it felt more like a grimace. I was walking in place, trying to loosen the charley horse. No luck, it locked in another painful contraction. “Fuck!”

His eyes widened and he gave a nervous laugh. Very similar to a laugh one would give while confronting an axe wielding lunatic.

“Quinn, what’s wrong? I’m sorry. You‘re mad because I stopped by again, aren‘t you? I normally don‘t pop in on people…it‘s rude. At least that‘s what my mother says.” Another self-deprecating laugh. Good to know that even Keaton was prone to nervous babbling. Nothing but concern lit his deep blue eyes and I felt like a flake. I had no choice. I could not fake my way out of this.

“No. I’m sorry. It’s fine. I’ll be fine. I was practicing with Frenchy and I have a—” The pain flared again, hot and greedy. With a sharp cry, I bent to massage my tortured limb. The sudden motion dislodged the towel and it slid from me with a muffled whoosh of fabric. Keaton was inside in a blink, shutting the door with a bang.

“Not to barge in without being invited,” he mumbled, scooping me up into his arms, “but I don’t see a need to give the neighborhood a show.”

The pain was so intense that I didn’t have time to be embarrassed about nakedness, wet hair or a lack of makeup. My body bowed in his arms as the cramp shot through me again. I hissed and jerked, unable to stop, praying he wouldn’t drop me from my erratic movements.

“Charley horse?” he asked, eyeing my pointed toe and bulging calf. The muscles were visibly tightening even as we watched.

My courteous answer was, “Fuck, yes!” as the muscle popped out beneath my flesh before our eyes.

With a brisk nod, Keaton laid me on the sofa, grabbed my foot and placed it between his thighs. He clamped down with his thighs and grabbed the muscle, working it with his strong hands.

“Ahh,” I relaxed a little as my calf muscle released a touch. I became aware of the fact that I was sprawled buck naked on the sofa and that Keaton had my leg between his thighs. My toes a mere centimeter from the fly of his jeans. I watched his tight jaw as he stared at the offending muscle with intense concentration. He kneaded my skin, forcing blood back into the area with fingers that seemed made of steel. “Oh, that’s working,” I sighed, my voice suddenly thick from a swift, sweeping flood of arousal.

Keaton heard the tone because his eyes found mine even as his hands continued to stroke and massage. “It’s easing,” he said. His eyes did a long, lazy sweep of my body.

“Sorry, I’m not dressed. And I’m all wet,” I added, feeling a pulse start between my thighs as his gaze traveled over my hips. “I just got out of the shower.”

His strokes were becoming softer as the muscle released. Relief shot through me as the pain dissipated. He must have felt it too because he now touched me with nothing but fingertips, sizzles of heat shooting over my skin where he made contact. I shifted on the sofa. My skin flushing with the pleasure of his touch. “I’m all wet,” I said again.

“I know,” he managed, his palms sliding along the length of my calf, up over my knee, grazing my thigh. I sighed out my happiness. “I like you like this. You’re even more beautiful all glowy and freshly scrubbed.”

My nipples tightened from an intense pleasure inspired by his words and I couldn’t help myself. I waggled my toes, still caught between his legs. I played them over his zipper, pleased to find him hard and ready. “Thank you. And thanks for the emergency massage. I’m glad you’re here,” I said and meant it. I boldly pushed the pad of my foot against his erection. “Really glad.”

Hopefully this new feature will work and I'll have a new "Two-fer Tuesday" for you next week!

XXX,
Alison