April 23, 2015

Free Spanking Erotica...

From now until Monday, Blushers is yours for free on kindle. The table of contents is right here. Photo by the fiercely fantastic Riendo.

Why am I giving away a book? Well, I had this concept in the middle of the night that instead of BOGO (buy one get one), readers might GOBO (get one buy one)! So if you enjoy Blushers, I'm hoping you'll consider sliding over to one of my latest indie titles, such as Alison After Dark.

I'm also excited because Blushers contains a preview of my latest novella The Spanking House, which I'm hoping to release shortly.

No more waiting on the edge of your seat. Go on. Try Blushers. It won't bite. But it might spank!


April 22, 2015

For a Good Flower, Call...

Sommer Marsden! Because she has sent me snapshots of my all-time favorite type of flower: Grape Hyacinths. I've adored them since I was little. And as I mentioned, some gardeners consider them weeds and do everything to get rid of them. But I love these little purple clusters. 

Sommer sent me these two images. I have more pictures to share, too, in my quest for 10,000 flowers. Please keep sending the pictures my way (msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.) I'll post the snapshots each week.

Speaking of flowers...Blushers (my collection of seven stories with a gorgeous flower cover by Riendo) will be free for five days starting tomorrow. I can't send each of you flowers, but I can give you this! Please let me know if you like the book!


April 21, 2015

Tuesday in the Dungeon

I've edited quite a few anthologies—and the dream is always the same. No, wait. That's a quote from Risky Business. The work is almost always the same. Or the way I work is. I read hundreds of stories, choose the ones that knock me sideways, and then spend hours organizing the way I want to present them. Puzzling the stories together takes the longest because there are no helpful interlocking parts like on jigsaw pieces.

Steel Reflections by Kathy Kulig is a story I selected for one of my future anthologies. The book has not been released, but the story (one of my favorites) is now available for you to purchase. Ms. Kulig was generous enough to allow me to post a bit of her piece here. London Dungeon Hire was kind enough to allow me to illustrate the story with a fabulous photo from their establishment.

Here's a tease...

Aroused by the needs she can no longer deny, Lindsey explores her taboo desires in a BDSM club. Under the Master of Steel's capable hands, her body experiences the pleasure and pain she craves, but the sexy Dom pushes her beyond her limits, giving her an ultimatum, and she discovers something completely unexpected.

Erotic Excerpt:

She’d bought the shoes especially for tonight and probably would never wear them again. Lindsey wobbled into the forbidden room on ankle-breaking heels, careful not to trip and shatter the last fragment of confidence she had. Distorted images of herself reflected back from the stainless-steel walls. The shifting shadows were a bit much to take in at one time. Even the ceiling and floor were encased, giving the room a cold, isolated, futuristic appearance like the interior of a spaceship. Silver leather straps, manacles and chains hung from dozens of eyehooks—thick, heavy metal promising secure restraint.
The contraption in the center of the room—part chair, part bed—and a metal table with more shackles attached added to the “Marquis de Sade in Outer Space” atmosphere. While anticipation aroused her body and mind, she staved off her first instinct to turn and leave. Maybe this was a mistake. Needs that had tormented her could no longer be denied. It had taken her months to find the nerve and opportunity to come here. When would she ever get another chance? She was not leaving.
The visual stimulus toyed with Lindsey’s fetish, creating a few fantasies to file away for later. She imagined herself captured by a Dominant space pirate, restrained with thick chains and steel cuffs, tortured in painful, yet sexual ways. Brought here against her will, forced to bend to his will, she would be used as his slave, or a plaything.

Inside the book, you'll discover a free link to a full-length BDSM romantic suspense book.

Reviewers are already praising the story: "I loved this short story." "This story has all the excitement that one would expect from a dominant and submissive encounter."

You can purchase the story on Amazon, on itunes, and at kobo.

I hope you enjoyed my first Tuesday in the Dungeon! More erotic adventures to come in the future...


April 20, 2015

Trollop with a Question #53

Metal Taboo is an ETSY shop I adore. And I have adored for yearsI even interviewed her for my Trollop Salon! Her word art makes me smile. I proudly wear several of her necklaces. (And the truth is that I want them all.) Delicate, almost innocent, the smut is in the details. Recently, she's branched into tee-shirts. And you know me and tee-shirts. (It's not just an addiction. It's an adventure.)

Her new brainchild is called Tart Heart, and she's given me a prize to give to one of you. How cool is that? No, that's not your Monday question. This is:

This fabulous t-shirt reminds me of the I Heart NY shirts. Which leads me to...

Name the city in which you had your very best (or at least most memorable) adult sexual experience.

For the bonus: Give a little info for my voyeuristic readers. 

I will randomly choose one respondent to win the shirt next Sunday night. So you have from now until then to answer.


P.S. I have to share because I'm so excited: Fab new review for Alison After Dark. Thank you so much! This made my week!

April 19, 2015

Books in the Wild: Psycho

Photo by Sommer Marsden
I love when people play my games. Sometimes my ideas work, sometimes they circle the drain. But this latest concept has already won me two pics.

My idea for Books in the Wild is simple. All you need is a camera and a book. I'm asking readers to send me pictures of the books their currently enjoying out in the wild. Or the urban. Or the kitchen. Wherever you're reading—take a picture and send it. Sommer Marsden is currently reading the book Psycho—and she staged this shot. Honestly, I had no idea there was a movie before the book. I'm totally interested in finding out which she likes better.

So far, I've featured:

I'd love to see what—and where!—you're reading.

Send snapshots to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com if you want to play along.


April 18, 2015

Follow Me. I'm Lost, Too.

Last night while driving, I remembered those old bumper stickers: Don't Follow Me, I'm Lost, Too. (Weren't they always adorning the back of VW busses?)

And I thought—that pretty much describes everyone in publishing right now. (Not the VW bus part. The lost part.) Companies blame dips in sales on the strangest reasons, rather than realize we're in a new stage. E-books didn't exist a decade ago. There's never been a way for every author to have a platform.

It's a brave new world.

If "brave" means really kind of terrifying.

But honestly, I'm excited. I believe that ultimately fewer publishing companies will be able to make the money they used to. Maybe some will disappear. Yet for the first time ever, any author can roll the dice. Write a book. Put it up. Find an audience.

Even more thrilling to me, authors and readers know exactly who they're supporting and where their money, time, and effort is going. Right now, Sommer Marsden has a sizzling-new release called Haunted. When you buy her $1.99 book, you're directly giving money to an independent author.

Violet Blue has three divine collections on the racks: Bisexual HusbandsFilthy Housewives, and Holiday Kink (with more in the works). She heads an indie press and is treating her authors with dignity and respect.

So while one part of the industry—the part where I no longer know who I work for, who owns my materials, who controls my words—is confusing at best and demoralizing at worst. The other part is intoxicating. Sometimes it's only a matter of how to find the time to do all the work I want to do.

At first, I was going to title this post: Don't Follow Me. I'm Lost, Too. Because the fact is that I don't know what I'm doing. But then I thought—Hey, who does? Who knows where this will lead?

So follow, please. Follow me. We can be lost together.


April 17, 2015

Free Smut Friday!

Oh, look. I remembered! It's Friday—I've got the panties on to prove it. And because it's Friday—I've got your Free Smut all hot and ready for you. (No, wait. Maybe that's my coffee!)

Tightly Tucked received the following review from Lucrezia Magazine: 

Alison Tyler's ‘Tightly Tucked’ is an example of perfectly plotted tension in the form of the anal retentive Sophie who represents a character we're all familiar with. She is uptight and fastidious to the point of annoyance, as indicated by her gesture of making the bed when there is no need to make the bed—tightly tucking the corners of the bedding. Tyler draws the reader into the relationship. In fact, it's the kind of relationship that puts one off the C word. In ‘Tightly Tucked,’ commitment is akin to incarceration. The reader wonders what Elian saw in Sophie, why he has come so far in the relationship to book a short stay away? But we are all aware of people that live within lackluster relationships all the time. Hell, some of us have experienced relationship drudgery, often living life in auto pilot until life/circumstance steps in. ‘Tightly Tucked’ resolves itself with hot sex, but sex aside, this story made me ponder the sexual psyche, how easy it is for people to actually ignore their sexual imprint and the consequences of such ignorance.”

Tightly Tucked
Elian used hotels.
He used them the way some meticulous people use up every last bit of toothpaste, pressing the metal flat and then rolling up the end to make sure not a smear goes to waste.
Elian used the mini bar, reveling in the tiny little bottles of liquor. He often wondered why drinks made from miniature bottles tasted better, more luxurious somehow, than ones poured from a full-size container.
He used the endless hot water supply, showering up to three times in a single day, filling the rooms with billows of white steam, not paying attention afterwards as to where he left the towels. Because without a doubt, one of Elian’s favorite things about staying in a hotel was using the maid service. This pleasure ran deeper than his little fetish for girls with feather dusters—no matter how obsolete he understood that image might have been. You see, the best part about hotel life to Elian was not worrying.
Did he leave those fluffy white terrycloth towels draped over the back of the armchair?
Or were they in a heap beneath the sink?
If he emptied the mini bar, someone was available at the push of a square red button to bring him exactly what he needed. If he abused every last towel, he could call down and request more.
At home, he was expected to refold the towels and place them back on the rack when he was through. This was called common courtesy by his brand-new girlfriend, and he understood Sophie’s point. She didn’t want to have to pick up after him any more than he wanted to pick up after her.
But on the road, one of the perks was that lack of consideration.
 Sophie, however, could not seem to get the hang of hotel life. She tsked softly to herself when she found a smudge in the corner of the large mirror. Elian had been hoping to fuck Sophie in front of the mirror, to strip her out of her traveling clothes and make love to her right on the center of the floor. He would have, too, if Sophie hadn’t been so damn busy. Busy tsking.
Elian had heard from a college friend that all couples ought to take a vacation before deciding whether they were destined for success. So far, Sophie hadn’t wowed him with her traveling abilities, but he had learned a few things about her. He learned that she was the type to unpack every last item in her suitcase before settling down, the type to stroke the remote with an antiseptic wipe she’d brought from home. The type who apparently couldn’t relax even when relaxation was the only item on the agenda.
By the time she was finished with her evening routine, she said she was too tired to move. Elian jacked off quietly in the bed at her side, imagining what he had wanted to do. Seeing Sophie stripped down on all fours in the center of the rumpled covers.
“They didn’t even make the bed right,” Sophie muttered before she rolled over. “I like my sheets tightly tucked.”
In the morning, Elian hoped to woo Sophie to what he considered the sweet debauchery of hotel living. He wanted to laze in bed for hours, to call room service for eggs Benedict and mimosas, to get French bread crumbs in the bed. Crumbs he wouldn’t have to worry about, because some nameless, faceless maid would magically produce fresh white sheets by the time they returned from sightseeing.
If Sophie could only see how fun eating toast in bed was, maybe she’d agree to munch on buttered scones every so often in his bed at home.
But by the time Elian awoke, Sophie was dressed and waiting for him. Not only did she seem anxious for him to get dressed, but to physically move, so that she could remake the bed. He didn’t understand at first what she was asking, but slowly the concept seeped into his pre-caffeinated brain: To Elian’s dismay Sophie was actually going to clean their room before the maid arrived.
“I don’t want her to think we’re slobs,” Sophie said, neatly folding even the few washcloths that she’d used.
“That’s her job,” Elian said softly as he pulled on a pair of jeans.
“To think we’re slobs?”
“To clean up,” Elian replied clenched teeth. He couldn’t even look at his girlfriend. Had he actually wanted to fuck her last night? Now, when she got close, he thought he smelled that antiseptic wipe she used on everything. Was there ever a moment when Sophie wasn’t clean-smelling, freshly-washed, minty-tasting?
“Let’s just go,” Elian said, hand on the door, watching while Sophie made the bed. He was enjoying hotel stay less and less, although he did have to admire how well Sophie was able to create those neat hospital corners with the sheets. She refused to be rushed, and when she was finished, the room looked as pristine as it had upon check-in. Even cleaner, Elian thought to himself, because Sophie had gotten on her hands and knees to pick up a few specks of lint in one corner.
He felt the beginning of a headache shoot through his temples as he watched her write a note to the maid, then place the folded square with a five dollar bill on the dresser.
If she was going to do such a thorough job, at least she could wear the cute little maid outfit he’d bought her for Valentine’s Day. But she’d told him the outfit—as well as the fantasy—was demeaning, and had brought the flouncy uniform back to the store.
When they returned from sightseeing, Elian discovered that the maid had left a note of her own:
Thank you very much for the tip.
You don’t need to make the bed since I change the sheets every day.
He showed the note to Sophie, who announced in her haughtiest tone that she didn’t care. She’d make the bed anyway. And she did. Every day. Tightly tucking the sheets, going on her knees to pick up any stray bits of fluff, creating a home away from home.
A home Elian wasn’t sure he liked.
On their final day, an unexpected downpour proved that weathermen are not omniscient. “We don’t have to sightsee every single moment,” Elian said. He could feel himself getting excited. The rain meant that they could stay in, order room service, maybe watch a little porn on the TV. “Part of the vacation is meant to be spent just relaxing,” Elian continued.
Sophie was having none of that. She had the same way of speaking as his second grade teacher, a teacher who’d brooked no horseplay. “None of that,” with a way of pursing her lips in disapproval that made Elian feel dirty.
“Just move, so I can make the bed,” she insisted, and rather than argue, Elian perched on the armchair and watched. Hospital corners. Sheets so taut you could bounce a quarter off the center. Tightly tucked, just the way Sophie liked them.
“I’m not going,” Elian said. If Sophie was going to act like a school marm, then Elian was going to respond by being a brat. He couldn’t help himself. He wished he had a slingshot.
Once she had the room spotless once more, Sophie took her camera and the rain slicker she’d brought just in case (of course), and left Elian alone. Oh, thank fucking god. Alone. For the first time in five days, he was by himself. Immediately, and with the glee of a kid playing hooky, he stripped off the counterpane and jumped on the bed. He bounced for a few minutes before rolling off the mattress like a puppy and rearranging all of the furniture in the room. He was gleeful, beside himself with the pleasure that he always felt when staying at hotels. Finally, he remembered exactly why he liked to travel. He pulled open the mini bar and made himself a Bloody Mary, then watched a good hour and a half of porn before falling asleep.
Elian was in a heavy dreamy daze when a knock on the door woke him. He decided that Sophie must have forgotten her key—although if he’d been all the way awake, he would have realized how unlike Sophie that would have been. Yawning, he stumbled to the latch, wearing only his gray sweats and sporting a sleep-hardened erection. In the hallway stood the maid, a pert and perfectly adorable blonde with short curly hair and clear, blue eyes. She took one look at Elian and said, “You’re not the one making the fucking bed each day, are you?”
Elian smiled.
This wasn’t a girl who would have said “no” to a French maid outfit. He’d only just met her, but he was sure. If he bought her vinyl, or leather, or schoolgirl plaid, she would have slid into any fantasy confection with no more hesitation than it took to shoot him a wicked grin. The same wicked one she was giving him now.
Elian took a step back and invited her in. Something in his attitude must have let her know what he wanted, and she obliged, leaving her cart in the hall. There was no discussion about what he wanted from her, no need to press the red square button to get what he was after. Bella came easily into his arms, a lithe, athletic body that he lifted in an automatic embrace. He kissed her mouth, then her freckled cheeks, then nibbled on her earlobes. He moved her with him into the bathroom and they stripped and took a shower together, getting warm and wet and soapy. Laughing as they dried each other off.
Oh, she was so different from Sophie. Sophie who wouldn’t get her hair wet, because the water would make her chestnut waves turn frizzy. Sophie who folded each towel neatly after patting herself dry. Elian watched as Bella dropped the towels in a soggy heap on the floor, and he wanted to go on his knees right then on the slippery white tiles and propose. Instead, the two were halfway to the bed before he grabbed her and threw her down on the plush, crimson carpeting that Sophie had picked lint off on her hands and knees. He moved Bella on top of him into a still-damp sixty-nine.
She might not have been aces with a vacuum, but the girl knew how to use her tongue, sliding the tip along his cock in a dreamy way while dragging her nails against his skin.
Elian followed her lead, tickling her inner thighs while keeping his mouth busy on her cunt. He breathed in deep, focusing on the way she tasted, clean from the shower, of course, but musky beneath. Earthy and real and delicious. Her fragrance was rich and heady and entirely unlike the antiseptic flavor of Sophie’s well-douched vagina. Sophie never really liked 69-ing. She would suck Elian when requested, occasionally when requested, but she pushed him away when he tried to go down on her.
How odd, he thought now, that Sophie seemed to prefer going down on her hands and knees to pick microscopic specs off the carpet rather than going down on him.
 He lapped at Bella with no thought of what she was doing to his cock. He was lost within the walls of her pussy, drinking each drop of her sweetness. When he felt he was on the verge of coming, he pushed thoughts of his own pleasure away, moving so that he was out of her reach, lying flat on the floor between her legs and concentrating totally on giving her pleasure. She wrapped her slim, strong thighs around him and let him work, whispering what she wanted, how she liked it.
“Harder,” she groaned, when she needed more pressure. “Faster, ohhh, please, faster,” and he made those spiraling little circles as quickly as he could until she pressed her hips forward and drenched his lips with the juices of her climax. The taste was sublime, like the first drop of whiskey from a tiny little mini bar bottle.
By the time Sophie arrived back at the hotel, Bella and Elian were on their second beer. Sophie didn’t know what to make of the scene, so Elian told her. “You’re doing Bella’s job. Cleaning. Folding. Making the bed. So I invited her to do yours... kick back, relax, make love.”
Only moments later, Sophie left with her very neatly folded suitcase. Bella and Elian had another beer, then climbed back beneath the tightly tucked sheets.

So there you have this week's edition of Free Smut Friday. Tell your friends!


April 16, 2015

A Kaleidoscope of Colors

Yes, I'm crafty. I have a yarn addiction. I don't care if there's a support group, because yarn makes me happy. I approach almost every activity the way I approach writing. I do drafts. The first infinity scarves I made were single colors. Then I branched out to two. Now, I'm working with a kaleidoscope of yarns. If I feel as if I'm getting low on my yarn stash, I get antsy.

I realized yesterday that's it's been some time since I last hosted a contest. Tying two loves together (writing and yarn), I thought I'd unravel this challenge...

Find me a colorful passage in a book or story and post the section in the comments. Follow this format...

How had he guessed that at night I fantasized about a man spanking me? That the thought of handcuffs turned me on? That the image of a dominant man in control was all I ever needed to get off... Vincent's eyes were such a pretty green. I stared at him and imagined him doing all those things to me. But then I remembered what he'd proposed. The thought of her getting pleasure from my pain made me shake my head. —Excerpt from "Want" by Alison Tyler from Skirting the Issue


My heart was racing crazy fast. I somehow saw what was going to happen right before it did.
"Then what?" I asked when we parted.
"Then nothing," Ryan said, but his cheeks were scarlet. His eyes were lying.
"Then...what?" I demanded.
"He put his hands on me," Ryan said.
"Frankie puts his hands on you lots of times," I countered.
"Not like this. He just let his hand wander down, and he squeezed by cock through my slacks."
—Excerpt from "Private Lessons" by Emilie Paris from Bisexual Husbands

I'll randomly select a submission and send an infinity scarf to the winner. What's the point? To share books and authors you enjoy—or promote your own work if you are an author. (You enjoy yourself, right?) The passage simply must have a color word in it. I'm open to different genres, not simply erotica.


April 15, 2015

Dirty Etymology: Tramp

I never plan ahead. The words I choose for these dirty etymologies simply make themselves known, falling into my lap, licking at my boots. I tripped over "tramp" enough times this week to become curious. Where did the term "tramp" come from?

Apparently, the verb dates to late Middle English. I didn't know that was a time. So hold on while I look that up. Aha. Middle English encompasses the dialects of the English Language after the Norman conquest up until the late 15th century. The Late Middle English period ended about 1470. Sadly, little survives from Middle English literature. (It was popular to write in French at the time, rather than English. All the cool kids were doing it.)

Although you might have thought otherwise, Shakespeare did not write in Middle English, he wrote in Early Modern English. There's a difference.

But wait. What about tramps?

The verb (late 14 century) means to "walk heavily, stamp." The noun is from the mid-17th century. Originally the noun referred to "a person who wanders about, idle vagrant, vagabond."

So in "The Lady and the Tramp," the tramp would be a vagrant.

A use in the 1880s was a "steamship which takes cargo wherever it can be traded" (instead of from a regular line). I think we're getting somewhere now. Ships are often referred to as "she" right?

According to one source, the first use of "tramps" as a pejorative noun was in 1872 in the Eighth Annual Report of the Board of State Charities of Massachusetts.

The film "The Tramp" was made in 1915—directed by (and starring) Charlie Chaplin.

One source says "promiscuous woman" was first used in 1922. Which seems pretty specific to me. I found a source that said female tramps were often thought of as prostitutes. (Insert that steamship definition about now.)

The Lady is a Tramp is a Rogers and Hart song (1937).

I found a comment saying: "A tramp is a man who moves from town to town. A tramp is a woman who moves from man to man." And: "A woman lies around and sleeps. A tramp sleeps around and lies."

As an insult to woman, it's apparently an American thing. I bet you didn't know this, but "tramp" falls one word above "trampoline" in the dictionary. "Trample" is in between.

I found a book called The Poorhouses of Massachusetts which features a chapter called "The Tramp Menace." But this term is about drifters.

I will admit failure here. I haven't found a first use of "tramp" as a promiscuous woman. I did slip into a study from 2013 that says men are more likely to approach women with tattoos. This study was used to give weight to the term "tramp stamp." The study stated men believed a woman with a tattoo to be more sexually promiscuous.

Oh, but wait. I forgot Supertramp! The band originally was called Daddy before renaming themselves in 1970. I thought you'd like to know that.

If you have any more info on the term to share, please feel free. And check out my other (more successful) forays into the word of dirty etymology:

Pardon my French


April 14, 2015

Books in the Wild: Tracks

Photo by Dan

I can't tell you how excited I am when people play with me. I come up with all these silly ideas (pretty much all day long), and every so often one will connect with readers. Last week, I invited people to send me pictures of their books in the wild—and look! Dan sent me Tracks by Robyn Davidson displayed against a beautiful background.

What hadn't occurred to me when I made the request is that my to-be-read pile is suddenly growing. I love memoirs. This is hopping up on my list!

If you want to send me a snapshot of a book in the wild, hit me at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com. I'm happy to post your write-up about the book, as well. Or anything you want to share about the place where you took the picture.

The point of the game? There is no point. Simply a fun way to spread the word about good books. And, um, going outside.


April 13, 2015

Trollop with a Question #52

So I did it. I made it a whole year of asking questions every Monday. You have no idea how pleased with myself I am! And last week, I came up with the best, most perfect question for today.

And then I forgot what it was.

I hate that. Sometimes I walk into rooms and forget what I was going to do in them. I told my mom about this problem, and she suggested, helpfully, "You should write things down."

Well, I didn't know I had to write something down between the kitchen and the living room.

Hopefully, my question will come back to me. Until then, here is a new question.

What book or story would you climb inside if you could?

For the bonus round: Why?

I've had this desire before. A story has swept me up so completely, I've wanted to close my eyes and become part of the plot. (Perhaps this is what fanfic is about. I don't know.) But if you had a chance, if I could wave my magic pencil and make it so, what story would you delve into? Literally. (Sorry, I couldn't resist!)


April 12, 2015

The Journal of Literary Sluts

I read extremely carefully when I'm editing. I can catch tiny missing words that your brain tends to insert automatically into sentences. But when I'm reading fast—or skimming on the fly—I often misread lines. Yesterday, my eyes transformed the bio for a "journal for literary arts" into "The Journal of Literary Sluts."

Honestly? I'm fucking in love with the concept.

No clue what the journal would contain. To me, a "literary slut" would manhandle words to make them behave. She'd be promiscuous in her selection of adjectives. She'd go to bed with any verb in town. And oh would she ever blow the right adverb.

Of course, another writer might have a different definition.

I thought I'd simmer this one and see who might want to play.

Truly, I adore stories about writers and writing. Since I spend so much time in bed with words, I appreciate reading about characters who do, too. So would this be a collection of stories about writers? Or would the writers simply consider themselves literary sluts for being part of my tawdry the collection?

Ideas welcome.


P.S. Soon to be released in my "Alison" series is "Alison Gets Schooled," which contains one of my editing stories—Edit Me—available currently as a single.

April 11, 2015

Books in the Wild: Remember the Moon

I am an avid re-reader. I re-read my favorite titles over and over again. I keep multiple copies of my go-to books so that if I lend one (or—god forbid—lose one) I'll still have a back-up. (Or two.) But this year, my New Year's resolution (one of them, anyway) was to read more new books. At least, new-to-me books.

Then, because at heart I'm really fairly silly, I thought I would like to photograph my books in the wild. Or as wild as I get. To casually snap pictures of the books I'm reading wherever I happen to be. I've done things like this before. (Remember when I invited readers to take my books to lunch?) But now, I'm the one shooting the pictures.

Remember the Moon is my first. The author is Abigail Carter, one-half of Writerly, if I've got my math straight. Her novel brims over with poetic descriptions and mystical, dreamy settings:

I drifted away from the boat, weightless, suspended in air that wasn't air. Engulfed in a silky whiteness, a kind of brightness that doesn't make you squint. I had the sensation of lying on a warm, sandy beach, the sun on my eyelids creating a kaleidoscope of a million colors performing dances of light and form.

 Juxtaposed with razor-sharp lines like:

This is what my life had come to. Christ.

I am savoring the work, reading the book in bite-sized bits between edits of my own. Carrying around a new novel is exhilarating. Somehow I forgot what that was like. And I've bought myself a stack of new (and new-to-me) books to read this year.

If you want to play along with me, send me snaps of your books in the wild, too. You know where I am—msalisontyler at yahoo dot com. I'll post here, there, and everywhere.


April 10, 2015

Free Smut Friday

I was trying to finish a brand-new story to put up this week. In the piece (called "Hot Commodity") the heroine is passed around from one erotic situation to the next. She doesn't always know her partners names. They don't always care what hers is. 

The story is my humorous take on what publishing can be like in the modern era. (The girl is a manuscript—but aren't we all open books?) Although I've been bought and sold since I first started writing, it feels like the situation happens more these days.

Unfortunately, I didn't finish by the bell. So instead, I'm going to give you The Super, which was originally published about a decade ago. 

The Super
His wife-beater T-shirt caught my eye first. The tight-ribbed cotton showed off his muscular arms and broad chest. I turned slightly to look at him, my hand on the small copper mailbox key, my whole body still like a deer appraising the chances of crossing the street safely. If he noticed me, would that be a good thing or a bad thing? The connection happened suddenly. His eyes made forceful contact with my legs, and I felt each moment as he took his time appraising my outfit: slim short skirt in a classic plaid, opaque black stockings, shiny patent leather penny loafers, and lace shirt with a Johnny collar that was probably a bit too sheer for work, but I paired it with a skimpy peach-colored camisole and nobody said anything. Maybe somebody should have.
He did.
“Wore that to work today, did you?”
I blushed, instantly, automatically, and pretended there was dire importance in the action of checking my mail. My fingers felt slippery on the multitude of magazines and catalogs stuffed inside the tiny box, and I hoped I wouldn’t drop the whole handful of mail. I could feel him moving closer, and now I could smell him, as well. Some masculine scent, mentholated shaving cream, or aftershave. Not cologne. Wouldn’t be his style.
His hands were on me now, thick fingers smoothing the collar of the shirt, then caressing the nape of my neck, his thumb running up and down until I leaned my head back against his large hand. Crazy, right? In the lobby of the apartment building, letting this man touch me. But I couldn’t help myself.
“A little slutty,” he said, “don’t you think?”
My mind reeled at the insult. Slutty? The entire outfit cost more than a thousand dollars. The skirt alone was worth nearly half of that. Now, his hand became a fist around my hair, gathering my black-cherry curls into a makeshift ponytail and holding me tight.
“Don’t you think?” he repeated, his voice tighter, as tight as his fist around my long hair. With his free hand, he pushed my mail back into the box and flipped shut the door. I dropped my hands to my sides, not needing to pretend to busy myself any longer.
“Yes,” I murmured, agreeing suddenly. It was slutty, the skirt far too short for a professional woman, the shirt sheer enough to be lingerie. The whole outfit was much more appropriate for bedroom games than boardroom politics. What had I been thinking when I got dressed that morning?
“Yes—” he repeated, his voice tighter still.
“Yes, Sir,” came just automatically as my agreement, as automatically as my feet began to move as he pushed me forward to the apartment at the end of the long, narrow hallway. I stumbled once on the blue-and-maroon colored runner, but he caught me, his other hand high up on my arm, so firmly gripping me that I could feel the indents of his fingers digging into my skin. I’d have marks; I knew it, dark purple bruises showing each place his fingers made contact, but I said nothing.
He hurried me through the door to the living room, then kicked the door closed and hauled me quickly to the sofa. I saw everything swirling around me. The chocolate leather of the sofa, the bare shiny wood of the floor. He sat down and looked at me, and I shifted uncomfortably before him. I knew better than to sit, knew better than to do anything but wait. Yet waiting was the worst. Waiting and wondering. And hoping.
Of course, hoping—
“Dressed like a naughty little school girl,” he hissed through his teeth. “Dressed in public like that,” he continued, shaking his head now, as if he couldn’t fucking believe it.
I looked down at my feet, head bowed, curls falling free now around my face, and all I could see were my polished loafers and his scuffed work boots, the dark blue of his jeans, the wood floor....
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asked. “Anything to say in your defense?” and I shook my head no. Immediately, he was standing, his hand around my hair again, my face pulled fiercely back so that I was looking up into his gaze. The way he held my hair hurt now, and I clearly understood the message he was sending me.
“No, Sir—” I said, quickly, but not quickly enough. He had me bent over the side of the sofa in an instant, my skirt roughly pulled up to reveal the lilac rosettes adorning the tops of my garters, then yanked even higher to show my black satin panties. I heard the whisper-hiss of his belt as he pulled it free from the loops, and then I felt the air—that crackle-shiver of moving air—before the leather connected with my upturned ass.
Fire. That was the instant vision alive in my brain. Fire. Pain like fire, so hot and hard that I gasped for air. The pain seemed to grow, spreading through me, flowing over me. He struck me six times with the belt over my panties before sliding his meaty fingers under the waistband and pulling them down. I closed my eyes now, knowing the pain would intensify without that filmy shied, and trying to prepare myself for this—even though I knew that was impossible.
“Say, ‘Thank you, Sir,’ after every blow,” he commanded.
“Thank you—” I started, but he hadn’t struck me yet.
His lips were against my ear as he hissed, “Are you messing with me, girl?”
“No, Sir!” Louder than I’d thought. Louder than I’d heard the words in my head. I sounded like a soldier. No, Sir! Punctuated fiercely with my inherent willingness to obey.
“Don’t mess with me, young lady,” he said, “don’t test me,” and then he kissed me, high up on my cheek, and I trembled even more. The feeling of his gentle lips pressed to me, combined with the knowledge that he was about to grant me a serious hiding, left me twisted and shuddering inside.
The thrashing continued, now with the belt meeting my bare ass, and I did my best to choke out, “Thank you, Sir,” after each blow. Didn’t do quite good enough, though, because he had to continually up the intensity of the blows to keep me in line. Until finally, he moved forward, grabbing my arms and using the belt now to bind my wrists behind my back. Against the couch, I balanced, body arched, waiting, waiting for what came next.
I’d thought about this moment all day, and it had been difficult for me to get any work done. Every time I tried to concentrate, I envisioned myself with my knickers at my ankles, ass in the air, submitting to the punishment I so desperately craved. Needed. Yearned for. Deserved. Every time I opened a new file, or clicked my mouse on a spreadsheet, I lost myself in forbidden daydreams. Now, those daydreams were coming true.
I sighed, inwardly delighted, when he tested between my legs for the wetness. I felt as if only one stroke of his calloused thumb against my clit would get me off. But he didn’t touch me the way I needed, changing my sighs to desperate mews.
“Not done, yet,” he hissed at me. “Not quite done, yet—”
Before I fully understood what he was doing, he had me over his lap, my wrists still captured, head turned on a sofa cushion, my body in perfect position for a bare-hand spanking on my naked behind. I was already smarting, so hot from the belt, but that didn’t stop him from delivering another series of stinging blows on my throbbing ass.
I squirmed my hips against his knees to gain the contact I craved, and this time, he didn’t admonish me. He let me leave a wet spot on his jeans before undoing the buckle of his belt, freeing my wrists, and repositioning me over the edge of the sofa. This is the way he was going to fuck me, with my ass so hot and red from the belt and his hand, with my pussy swimming in sex juices.
He slid in and I gripped him immediately, and then he placed one hand in between the sofa and my body and began to stroke and tickle my clit as he fucked me. The sensations were almost too powerful to handle. I closed my eyes and thought about how I’d spent my day. From the second I woke up, still in bed when I planned my outfit, I’d thought of this moment. At work, when he’d called to check and see if I had been a good girl or a bad girl, I’d nearly lost it—hurrying to the bathroom to rub and rub at my clit, but unable to make myself come without the pain that he so generously dispenses.
The pain and the pleasure.
Now, as I came, I thought about our arrangement. Whenever I wear my schoolgirl skirt out of the house, I know I’m going to get a spanking, know that I’m going to have to be taught me a lesson when I get home. That my man will have left his expensive suit in the closet and changed into the working class superintendent of our building, ready to dole out punishment to any needy young lady. Truth is, I can hardly get through a week without wearing something that will catch his eye and make him shake his head.
“I love it when you wear that skirt, baby—” Harry said.
I smiled as I looked down at the rumpled plaid, then imagined what I might sneak out of the house in tomorrow.
 Don't forget to stop by Monday for my 52nd Trollop with a Question! Can you believe it? I've been tossing out queries for an entire year!

April 09, 2015

Yeah, I'm Blushing...

I'm truly honored to be included in the Erotic Readers and Writers Association's new Awesome Authors  feature. I wanted to thank Lisabet Sarai for inviting me, and for holding my hand when it came to image sizing because I'm still pretty lame at making things bigger. (Stop that.) If you visit ERWA, you can read one of my stories for free. Be sure to check out the other authors in the line-up, too.

I also wanted to thank Violet Blue for this...

I love doing Free Smut Fridays—and I'm beyond moved by her words. I really do try. My goal has always been to spread the wealth. Violet has helped in innumerable ways over the years.

Finally, I wanted to thank everyone who's playing along with my #10000flowers concept. I can't tell you how excited I am when I sign online to see all the pretty submissions. I'm a horribly bad gardener, but I truly enjoy the fruits of other people's efforts. (Somehow that sounds dirtier than I meant.) You can keep sending me flowers here (msalisontyler at yahoo dot com) or surprise me with the blooms on twitter!