May 25, 2015

Trollop with a Question #58

Last night I dreamed I received a letter from a former boss. The letter offered in-depth, practical, and helpful advice for life. It was long and handwritten, carefully phrased to suit many of the different issues I find myself facing on a daily basis.

I was inspired after I read the words—totally lit up as if someone had given me a fabulous gift. And I guess she had. The gift of knowledge.

Unfortunately, although I've spent a few hours mulling, I don't remember what the letter said at all now.

Before you point this out to me—I realize that yes, I wrote the letter—or my sub-conscious did. I simply wish I could recall what it said. Seemed fairly intelligent. At least, to my sleeping self.

Which brings us to this edition of Trollop with a Question:

What is the best piece of advice you've ever received?

Bonus round: How did it help you? Did you follow the words of wisdom?

Extra-bonus round: Are you the type to give advice? Do you ask others for their input? Or are you a lone wolf?

Seriously random bonus round: Are there books you've turned to for advice?


P.S. Did you think I was going to quote the line from Rebecca? Because I almost did!

May 22, 2015

Free Smut Friday

When I was looking for a story or excerpt to share, I tripped over a file from eight years ago. The title of the piece: Strange Women. I'd begun the story and then (apparently) trailed off. Honestly, I have no recollection of this short at all. I don't know where I got the idea. I can't remember what I was writing this for.

So this morning, I challenged myself to tie this one up in 500 words (on the dot). I can see where I'd be able to turn the piece into a full-length. For now, here is my offering:

Strange Women
By Alison Tyler

            “I don’t usually pick up strange women in bars,” I said, sitting next to the crystalline blonde at the chrome-topped counter. “But I couldn’t help myself.”
            That’s your opening line?”
            “No good?”
            Carisa shook her head. “Try again.”
            I took a deep breath. This was her fantasy. Not mine. She hadn’t given me more of a clue than: “Meet me after work…Pick me up at the bar around the corner.” Shouldn’t she have offered advice?
            She turned away from me, and I realized she wanted me to start over. A flush crept along my law line. There were other people at the bar. Other people who had seen me shot down.
            I slunk back to my spot, and I stared. Taking in her short blonde hair, the way she looked so sophisticated toying with the stem of her wine glass. I felt like a waif compared to her. Felt like a na├»ve little hick chick, just off the bus from Hayseed County.
            Why the fuck was she doing this?
            Carisa didn’t seem to be having any of the same thoughts that I was. She sat there, poised, sipping her white wine. Then she began a conversation with the butch bartender, and the two laughed. Were they talking about me?
            What was wrong with my line, anyway? It had sounded fine as I’d rehearsed the words in my head. “I don’t usually pick up strange women…”
            Maybe that was the problem. She wasn’t really strange, was she? No, she was as normal as any slightly deviant, very domme woman I’d ever dated. Did it make her strange that she liked to tie me down? Did it make her strange that she spanked me in public if she got the urge, that she sometimes would tell me to take my panties off and hand them to her so she could breathe my scent?
            I wished we were home. I wished she had me over her lap. What I would have given to feel the sting of her paddle right now. But I could tell none of those things were going to happen until I made Carisa proud.
            I found my nerve and approached again.
            Now both she and the bartender looked at me. They seemed to be waiting for me to say something. Instead, I went on my knees and I kissed my lady’s boots. Then I stood once more. My face was flaming, but I didn’t care. “I don’t usually kiss women’s boots in bars.”
            “But you usually kiss women’s boots.” This wasn’t a question. I answered anyway.
            “Yes, Ma’am. Yes, I do.”
            She grinned at me and ran one hand gently through my hair.
            “Better,” she said gruffly, and she looked at the bartender who winked at me. “Don’t you think, Toni?”
            Toni nodded. “Much better.”
            “Now try again,” my mistress said.
            I could feel the wetness at my core. I could feel how hungry I was. I took a breath and returned to my seat, planning my next assault.


If you're looking for something seductive to read this weekend, please check out:

Bisexual Husbands edited by Violet Blue
Filthy Housewives edited by Violet Blue
The Spanking House by me
Haunted by Sommer Marsden

And if you enjoy what you read, please kiss us with a review to help us spread the word! In this topsy-turvy world of publishing, every little bit helps.


These indie-published collections are reasonably priced. All involved (writers and artists) are paid. Your support is so appreciated at this time.

May 21, 2015

Go Re-Read A Book!

I always have books on hand. In my car right now? The Godfather. Nickel and Dimed. In my purse? The Mighty Quinn by Sommer Marsden. By my bed? Time Bandit. Yes. You caught me. I tend to re-read almost as much as I, um, new-read.

Flavorwire recently posted an article on this topic. I appreciated the line:

"Re-reading offers something that few cultural experiences do, really: a mix of gentle stability and sharp new insight."

Bustle also has a seriously fun post on the topic.
So does Barnes & Noble.

One of my best reviews stated: "I finished this book, then went right back to the beginning and read it again."

I am a bit obsessed with the books I re-read. I own multiple copies of my favorites. So I'm pleased to see the concept taking hold. We play our treasured songs over and over. Why not replay our books, too? So go on. Go re-read a book. Then tell me which title you're savoring!


P.S. Sommer calls these books "slipper" books.

May 20, 2015

Turn on the light...

My world is drenched in leather. And before you say, "Leather's not liquid. What can you possibly mean?" I say drenched. My world is steeped in pain and pleasure. Power and submission. I have written about bondage and dominance, sadism and masochism, giving up and giving in, since I didn't know what I was writing about. A time when I didn't have the words to explain, I only owned the urges.

I'm not playing around here. I'm not dabbling. This isn't a game to me.

As a writer of erotica, I've been shunned. I've been insulted. Once upon a time, a movie producer took a meeting with me in L.A. He'd read an early BDSM novel of mine, and he tracked me down through my publisher only to tell me that he thought I was a slut. That he thought what I wrote was depraved.

And then he asked me out.

Now that kink is everywhere—now that you can go into almost any store and see the books on the shelves—is it better? Is it brighter? Are we all out in the open now?


Sure there are drawbacks. I think there's a sanitation that can occur when something goes mainstream. There's a squeak to the clean that rings false to me.

But oh, there is something so sublime about being out in the light. Only a handful of years ago, an L.A. Times writer could off-handedly insult bondage-spiked book writers everywhere.

Only a handcuff of years ago, a "friend" could call me up and say she wasn't surprised I had a book deal, but she was shocked...

Only a blindfold of years ago, writers of other genres (mainstream genres) could motion to the basement where we erotica losers could congregate. No shelf space for you here.

That's all changed. You can buy smut at the supermarket now. Seriously. You can purchase erotic titles in multiple languages at big box stores.

In the past, I might have said I didn't want my kink out in the bright buzzing fluorescent light. I wanted my kink in the dark. I wanted to be in the back alley. I chose this route for a reason. I had other opportunities as a writer. I didn't have to select the one in which people felt perfectly comfortable calling me a "slut" to my face.

I was fine in the back row, in the parking lot, in the alleyway.

But now I'm awash in pleasure. Truly. Kink is king—you can't hide from it. You can't turn your head without being slapped.

And you know what? Fucking can be so much more fun when you do it with the lights on.


May 19, 2015

Tuesday in the Dungeon

I was right. I said I was going to be late. And I am. But worth the wait, right? Because somehow I figured how to grab these moving pictures from London Dungeon Hire! How cool are these? Also, Go Deeper excerpted a bit from Those Girls today. So I thought I'd give you a little tiny dungeon taste from the piece...

I headed to the exit.

I could feel her move as she spun on her high-heeled boots to follow me. She reached for my shoulder and made me face her. We were in the hall now. I liked the fire in her eyes. “You don’t think this is all a bit… a bit misogynistic?”

What an idiot. I grabbed her wrist and took her to the next room, where my favorite dominatrix was in the process of binding a handsome young lad to a St. Andrew’s Cross. As soon as she had him properly bound down, she picked up a nearby device and went to work.

“You were saying?” I hissed.

She couldn’t look at me. Instead, she stared, wide eyed at Jonah as he accepted the powerful strokes of the woman with the whip.

“Back there,” she stammered. “That was.”

“You learned a big word in college, didn’t you? Mis-ogy-nistic. And you thought you’d try that out. I can hear your lead in my head: At a dark, New York dungeon, men do what they want with the pretty girls…. But what about this scene? Does she hate the boy? Is she getting out her aggressions on men—all men—by whipping his ass? Or maybe…” I took a step closer and I pressed my lips to her ear. 
“Maybe he likes it.”

She shuddered. I’d already put my finger on her little pulse.

“Maybe when he’s home at night, his hand on his cock, he thinks of nothing else than having a beautiful dominant woman like Deirdre whip the shit out of him.”

Her hand went back into her pocket. I grabbed her phone from her.


I rubbed my thumb over her screen, wormed my way easily over to her address book and entered my name, my number.

“Give me a call,” I said, “when you want to try something real. When you want to write about an actual experience and not make a judgment call about something you can’t possibly understand.”

For information about Those Girls, please check out:

Color Me Impressed
...vivid and authentic...
Team Sandy


May 18, 2015

Trollop with a Question #57

Oh, yes, I am late. But it is still Monday (so I'm not *that* late). Yet I have the feeling I'm going to be chasing my tail all week. Luckily, I can watch Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. in the evenings to unwind. No joke, I am a total convert. Or addict. The truth is I'm agog over Coulson, a swoon over Agent May, and deeply envious of Simmons' wardrobe. (And I haven't even watched season two yet.)

Which brings me to my question of the day:

What is your favorite TV show? 

(And, for the bonus round, why?)

I've had several favorites over the years. If you follow me on Twitter, you've seen me wax rhapsodic over Miami Vice, Saturday Night Live (circa 1970s), and West Wing. The thing is, I've never been good at watching shows when they were actually on. I didn't catch any Miami Vice in the 80s. SNL was way past my bedtime in the 70s. And West Wing didn't fit into my world until about a year ago.

I was spoiled for two years by Rome. Oh, Rome. Sweet Rome. I loved Deadliest Catch. But I'm gone for S.H.I.E.L.D.

Now you. What show rocks your rabbit antenna?


P.S. Yes, that's an Agent Coulson bobblehead!

May 15, 2015

Free Smut Friday

My free smut Friday is actually going to be sultry smut Saturday this week. (And sultry smut Sunday and even Monday.) I reformatted Gym Rat and added a few chapters stolen from a novel I'm currently working on. I'm very much looking forward to readers' responses to the novel, which is called... No wait. I'm not going to tell you! It's a surprise.

The story and bonus should be free for three days starting tomorrow (if I clicked all the buttons correctly).

Reviewers said, "There is a lovely aspect of consent in this story. The one person who isn't committed is given a choice. Yeah, the answer is obvious because we have a story, but I love that he was given a choice."

"A quick and intense scene of a highly charged erotic encounter..."

I hope that you enjoy the piece—and the excerpt from the erotic novel that is currently devouring my days. While you're waiting for Saturday...

Past Free Smut Fridays:
Any Lightness Between Black and White
A Loose Interpretation
Hole in the Wall
The Super


May 13, 2015

Got Indies?

Right now—and things change quickly, I know—but right now, the first four covers that show up across the top of my Amazon Author page are from indie presses. The titles are:

Bisexual Husbands
Filthy Housewives
The Spanking House
Summer Loving

I am so thrilled by this.

The issues I've been going through with mainstream publishing are enormous. Some publishers are too big to keep track of all their authors. Small authors disappear into the void. Other publishers have purchased rights to books and (in my opinion) may not think much of erotica.

This has happened to me throughout my entire career. So it's not new—the new part is that authors can take control and choose who we work with. Or if we want to work with anyone at all.

But deciding to do this and succeeding at the attempt are two different situations entirely. I cannot tell you how fucking happy I am to see the new titles making waves.

As indies, we are able to sell books at reduced prices and actually make more money than through the traditional publishing model. In the past, for a $15.95 book, an author (of my status) would receive $1.12. When you buy The Spanking House for $3.89, I receive $2.72. And I pay my artist for every sale. When you buy Bisexual Husbands and Filthy Housewives, all authors receive an equal cut of the profits. And when you buy Summer Loving all proceeds go to Sommer Marsden.

There is no red tape. There are no hoops. There's simply the writing—the pure, glossy writing—which we love and which is why we started in the first place.

So thank you. I appreciate readers taking a risk (and taking a ride) with us more than any of my filthy words can say.


May 12, 2015

Tuesday in the Dungeon

Today's Tuesday in the Dungeon comes from a story I wrote several years ago for Black Lace. My piece, Junking, appeared in the collection Liaisons (a word which tests my spelling abilities every single time).

My mind did a quick inventory of the items I’d seen him buy, and suddenly, I realized what he must be doing. He locked eyes with me, right as I thought: Dungeon. He’s outfitting a dungeon. Using only second-hand tools and toys. Items one might never suspect for X-rated activities. My cheeks burned the same red of the deflated India rubber ball lolling on a nearby table.
            I turned away, but he caught hold of my wrist and held me.
            “I’ll show you mine,” he said, “if you’ll show me yours.”
            “What do you mean?” my voice was husky.
            “You want to see the treasures I’ve found, don’t you?”
            I nodded. I couldn’t help myself.
            “I’ll show you mine,” he repeated, and now, I nodded. We didn’t leave just then. He stood in line and paid for his purchases, haggling over the amount for the padlock with no key. Pointing out the fact that the belt was broken, what use could this strip of leather have now that the buckle had broken off?
            But I knew. I knew in that heart-racing flash, like I knew when I pulled the blazer out of the rack at the thrift store that I was holding a genuine, made-in-Italy Armani. He was going to use that belt on my ass. Fuck the buckle, he had all he needed in that strip of leather, which the frazzled housewife sold to him for fifty cents.
            I followed his Ford to a bungalow on Mesa. Walked through the gate to see that the yard was filled with odds and ends, a roll of wire, a clawfoot tub. Generally, I would have wanted to spend hours poking around, but the man was opening up his garage, and a glint of brass caught my eye.
            He’d done precisely what I’d thought. Created a dungeon from spare parts. The Frankenstein of dungeons, in a way, yet beautiful in the starkness. A bit of a bed here, a length of chain there, all refurbished. One man’s trash, I thought as he started to help me out of my jacket….  

Liaisons received a few write-ups:

Coffee Time Romance      
Erotica Revealed     

Thanks to London Dungeon Hire for their use of the photo!


May 11, 2015

Trollop with a Question #56

I adore this photo by Dan Grogan. I flat out love neon. (Have you seen Enlighten the Unpredictable? I find the short film mesmerizing.) I'm grateful that Mr. Grogan allowed me to put up his gorgeous photo. I've been saving this picture for a special Monday question.

And here it is...

You have a free night. No pressures. No expectations. Whether you have to slip out the back door or can walk out the front—that's up to you. But this is your night. A car is waiting and it takes you to a movie theater. There's hot, salty popcorn with fresh butter. A soda over crushed ice. You walk into the theater and select the perfect seat. Red velvet. Reclining.

The lights dim. The curtain rises.

This is your night. What's playing on the screen?


P.S. This Paramount is a performance center rather than a cinema. I'm taking liberties!

May 08, 2015

Free Smut Friday

This is a story I've adored for years by Emilie Paris. The photo is one that I truly adore by Riendo. This story feels perfect for the start of summer. I can taste the freedom in the air... 
by Emilie Paris
My days are long and lazy. I hang out at the beach with the skate rats and the surfers, baking beneath the rays, not caring where the next rent check is coming from. The young sun gods all live together, crashed out in a big house by the ocean, thirteen or fourteen boys sharing one phone, mattresses on the floors and in the hallways. Their house needs a paint job, but they don’t care. The front steps are battered, broken, but they sit on them anyway, kicking their bare feet up on the wall and watching the sunset. The surf stars don’t seem to have visible means of support, but somehow they always manage to scrounge up the rent money by the end of the month. It appears, like magic, finding its way into the envelope they hand over to their bemused landlord.
I don’t worry about rent either, but I don’t have to. I’ve got a high-paying job, one that works me to a near-breaking point for months on end and then releases me for much-needed regrouping. If you live in Los Angeles, you know people like me. Movie people. We power-work night and day on a film, then relax until the phone rings again. But unlike the faces on the screen, I’m not well-known. I’ve never been linked in the tabloids to any celebrity. When I have free time, I can hide among the riffraff without being recognized. That’s how it is when you’re the eye behind the camera. Only those truly in the know can pick me out of a crowd.
So, in days after a movie is finished, I pull my favorite faded jeans from the closet, snag a tank top left by a long-gone lover, slip on my sunglasses, and hit the shimmering sidewalk at Venice Beach. I buy a soft-serve vanilla ice cream cone and lick it as I make my way to the ramp where the rats are jumping. When I get close, I find a shady spot beneath a palm tree and sit down to watch the boys do their tricks. From my favorite location, I can keep track of both the skate-boarders on their ramps and the surfers as they dive and dance among the waves. It thrills me, watching the kings of the beach kick ass on their respective slats, the skaters going upside-down over nothing but concrete, the surfers slicing through the waves.
Other girls gather around, too, summertime chicklets clad in brightly colored string bikinis or sheer, halter-style dresses. They “ooh” and “ahhh” at each fabulous trick, at each display of testosterone. These girls bring iced sodas and snacks and rub suntan lotion on the broad-shouldered backs of the weary beach boys. I never get quite that involved. If I want to make an impression, I leave the picnic stuff at home. When I see someone I want, I take off my sunglasses and wait.
I’m not as young as most of the gang. I’m 28, which is ancient by Hollywood standards, but I have a thin, tight-muscled body, can pass for a co-ed when I need to. My strawberry blonde hair is long in front, with bangs I peek out from under. I scrape it off my face and into a sleek ponytail when I’m working, but “off” times, I wear it hanging free, down to my sharp shoulder blades in back and to the tips of my eyelashes in front. In the summer, my hair gets lighter, bleaches out in streaks to give me that true California girl look. I don’t cultivate the image, but it serves the purpose when I want it to.
I have blue eyes, blue like the sky without any smog, clear and intense. When I take off my sunglasses, my eyes are what guys notice first. That is, if they haven’t seen me smile. My smile is a grabber. I have teeth like Bowie’s, small, animal teeth. Guys see me grin and instantly have visions of my teeth sinking into their naked skin. I know how to leave just the right marks, not too deep. Little reminders of a wild night, a whirlwind romance in the shadows of a sand dune. My love bites are souvenirs, and I think my partners are always sad when the last remnants of my incisors fade away.
Some of my friends would be shocked by my tastes. I simply don’t look the part of the dominatrix. I’m slight, but I’m tough. My lovers have always submitted to my needs. There’s never been a question about it. I call to them, the ones that like to bow down. I don’t seek them out, they come to me.
But I come to the boys of summer. I am drawn to the way they flip up in the air. Pulled in by the tricks they do. Captivated by their gravity-defying moves. I align myself with that free-flying attitude. These heavenly contenders don’t care about pain. If they fall down, they get back the fuck up again, and do it over. And over. They have scars on their slim bodies from accidents past. They have tattoos, like colorful birthmarks, wrapped around their arms, legs, decorating their skin like splashes of paint on tautly stretched canvases.
I appreciate them, and they know it. I’m different from the bimbos in bikinis. I have a power that they sense. I can make them blush simply by watching them play, and my presence somehow brings out their best. They land all their moves when I’m nearby, watching. They shine when I’m around.
I don’t take the daredevils the way I take other men. I have sex with them, sure, but I don’t conquer them. I let their moves steal over us both. I let them turn my bed into a playground, a jungle gym, and take over from there. Or I find myself in their beds, playing by their rules, which is infinitely easy because they have none.
That’s how I know about the mattresses in the hallways. It’s how I know about the single phone and the shared bathroom. I have found myself in an arched-back position on more than one of those mattresses, watching my reflection in a window at the end of the long, narrow hallway. No sheet beneath me, just the blue-and-white striped ticking of an old navy bedroll. None of the niceties you’d find in the apartments of the movie folks I work with. No bedside table displaying a fashionable artsy lamp. No signed and framed Nagel over the leather sofa in the living room.
I don’t like those things, don’t need them.
What I need is some nineteen year old, golden-skinned boy behind me, a twisted, faded friendship band around his wrist and nothing else on his perfect body. In the window-mirror, I see that his eyes are closed, but I watch. We do it doggy-style, with me on all fours and him on his knees in back of me. He holds onto my hips, impales me, moves to a beat he can hear in his head. I try to hear that same beat. I rock my body forward and back. I like the way his rough hands feel on my skin, like the way his tanned body looks against my pale figure. I can see that in the window, but I can’t see the color of his eyes, because they’re closed. And I can’t hear the music that he hears, because he’s young and in the groove of summertime and skate-rat dreams. And to him, I’m this little blonde chick he met on the beach that he wanted to go upside-down with.
But I’m a grownup, a voice says in my head, and I can’t lose myself in the moves anymore. I am present while he fucks me. My mind doesn’t take off on a fantasy trip. I feel his fingers digging into my skin. I hear his breath coming in a rush. I know that he’s trying to keep himself from shooting too soon when he moves back, when he turns me on the mattress so I’m on my side, and he’s in me from behind, spooning this time. Those callused fingertips find my clit and rub, getting me up to his speed, helping me to forget myself and learn the rhythm of his choosing. His fingers are knowledgeable. They sense to dart into my pussy and get wet and slippery with my liquid sex. They know to rub over my clit, over and over, then around and around. I am in love with the touch of his fingers. I lean back against his chest and shut my eyes.
In my mind, I can picture our bodies together. I see us like a painting, his dark burnished skin to my pale body, his short, scruffy goatee framing an impish smile, his light eyes an oasis shimmering in the heat. We could be a graffiti painting on the outside of one of the warehouses near the beach, a sprawling vision by some urban artist, combining colors and lights and shadows.
He moves me again, whispering something, his mouth pressed against my ear, saying, “How do you like it, baby? How do you like it?”
I roll onto my back and look at him, memorizing the lines of his face. I smile at him when he opens his eyes, green-gray eyes that seem glazed as he stares back at me. He asks it again, “How do you like it?” Then, “How do you need it?” Stressing that one word. 
I can’t tell him, so I say, “Just like this,” as he climbs on top of me, starts doing push-ups over my body, the muscles in his fine arms bulging. He teases me with the head of his cock between my lightly furred pussy lips, pulling out, all the way out so that I’m stretching, straining to reach him, and then giving me a shy sort of naughty grin and slipping just the tip back in again. I squeeze him with my muscles, try to drain him with my power. He’s good, though. He makes the most of the ride, whatever the ride may be, whether he’s skimming the surf on a neon-painted boogie board. Whether he’s doing those death-defying moves on a skate ramp with no safety net, or going upside-down with me on his mattress.
He says, “Talk to me, baby... tell me what you like.”
Could I tell him that I like him? That I like his spirit, and that I see it when he rides his board. I don’t think so. I would sound phony. I would sound old, trying to capture a bit of his youth and make it my own. But it is what I like. His strong body against mine. The way his hair smells of wind and sea spray and his skin actually tastes of summertime, of heat.
He croons, “Tell me, baby, talk to me.”
I shake my head, still trying to pull him inside me, to keep him inside me, my pussy making a juicy, kissing sound each time he rocks in and out. I turn it around. I say, “I like it like this. Just like this. But tell me. You tell me what you like.”
He’s got his answer ready. He was waiting the whole time. Still working me, without missing a beat, he says, “It sends me when a girl says my name as she’s coming.”
Then he bends and starts to kiss the underside of my jawline, the hollow of my neck. He tickles me with the pointy tip of his tongue, and I almost laugh. He takes hold of my wrists and pins them over my head and then moves down my body to kiss my small breasts, licking and sucking with his ravenous mouth. His cock is pressed up against my leg, slick and wet from the juices of my sex, but I can tell he’s not going to enter me again until I ask what needs to be asked.
I strain to see if he’ll hold me down, and he does. And then, awful as it may sound, I confess, “I don’t know your name.”
He says, “My name’s on my body. It’s like a treasure hunt... see if you can find it.” Then he lets go of my wrists and stands up, leaning against the wall, regarding me with a look of total satisfaction.
He’s like a statue. Still, absolutely still, his cock straining out and away from him. His eyes, half-closed, let me know he has all the time we need. I look up the line of his body, seeing the different tattoos, the different marks and scars. I sit up on my heels, begin tracing the designs with my tongue. He turns, slowly, his face to the wall now, and I see the black-inked word on his lower back: Eden. I start to say it, but he turns around again quickly, shaking his head at me, coming back down on the mattress, moving us so that I am over him, riding him, my body split at the middle, my legs pumping, keeping him deep inside me. I move without thinking, without planning. I am on him, sliding up and down his cock with graceful ease, not doing it because he wants it or I want it, but doing it because it’s right.
“When you come,” he says, his voice hoarse, letting me know how it’s going to be. “Say it when you come.”
I ride him hard. I don’t let his cock slip out of me again, but I pound myself on it, fucking him now. This is how I’m used to doing it, holding my partner down with my will alone, my body easy and light. But he’s different. He’s not in it to be overpowered. He’s in it to watch my face change when I come. He’s in it for the experience, for that heart-stopping feeling of reaching your peak and looking down from the sky above. Making love to him lets me see the world as he does, see what it would be like to ride the waves, to feel the board beneath my feet and duck through a tunnel of blue-green sundrenched water.
He trails his fingers over my cheekbones. He presses his thumb against my bottom lip. I lick it, draw it into my mouth, suck on his thumb while I fuck him. He sighs. His body shifts beneath me, my still-pumping legs, my sweat-slicked thighs. He grabs hold of my waist and moves me so that we are on our sides, facing each other.
And then I move my head, look over his shoulder, and see his roommates in the other room. There the whole time. I freeze for one moment, stop moving against Eden. I’m startled by their presence, but they smile at me, grinning to show how easy-going they are. Their bodies are tanned and strong. The five of them drink lemonade and inhale clove cigarettes, blowing wispy breaths of fragrant smoke toward the ceiling.
I don’t smile when I see them, but I feel elated. The group gazes at us as if we’re a movie put on for their sole pleasure. They view us in the same manner they watch other athletes at the beach, genuinely impressed with the show. Letting someone else entertain them. I come from seeing them there, from the audience, from the youth of the boys around me. It brings me down for just a moment, holds me under for just long enough to get off.
Eden feels those vibrations around his cock, and he starts to move his hands on my body, up my slender waist toward my breasts, stroking me all over, coming with me and playing me to make it last. I have seen him carry his skateboard with that same amount of gentleness, or roughness, or some combination of the two that shows how much he appreciates it. I come and collapse against him, the warmth of our bodies complimentary, the warmth in the room and in the glowing eyes of our audience a small fire of purity.
I’m underwater. His touch brings me back to the surface.
I’m not sure how much I like being up above, able to breathe free again, to see the crescent moon through the window, to see the hazy smoke clouds the skate rats exhale with each breath. I’d rather be under, held down, his body on mine, topsy-turvy in a slick and sweaty sixty-nine, his warm cock in my mouth, my pussy throbbing under his tongue. The sweet, sweat-salt taste of his skin a mixture of hard work and a bath in the sea after a long day’s ramping. I know the feel of him pressing into me, pushing me back down under the waves. I trail my fingers along the tribal design of a blue-inked tattoo that is a part of him, the ink like blood in the veins pounding under his skin.
I say, “I forgot...” but he just looks at me. I tilt my head back, arch my body on the mattress, wanting his tongue down there, between my legs, and he nods as he turns his body so that his face is between my thighs and his cock, wet and dripping from my sex, is poised just over my lips. Knowing that others are watching makes me shiver inside. I open my mouth and he slides inside. I suck on him, drink from him, roll my tongue around his straining rod, so well-oiled with my own wetness. I’m gone again, deep under his body, deep under water, pressed down into the mattress, loving him with my mouth while he plays in-and-out games with his tongue in my pussy.
I’ve had many different lovers taking me over the edge, but my mind never truly goes on hold unless I’m with one of the boys of summer. Someone like Eden, with the scars he wears like badges of honor, with the tattoos saved hard for and paid for in cash. He’ll never grow up. Maybe that’s what I like most about him. He’ll get older, but his heart will always be alert and alive, doing backflips off a homemade ramp without any fear of the ground rushing up from below.
I hear the waves outside, crashing against the sand. He hears the ocean, too, and uses the rhythm of the surf in the way he kisses me, finding my clit between his lips and sucking on it to that beat. Hard and then soft, lapping for a moment, and then suckling again. He knows how to do it. He knows just how to give the most pleasure, taking me upward until I have a view of the very top, before sliding me back down again. I break and crest. I ride the peaks and valleys. I forget who I am, what I do, what language I speak. I know only one thing, his name, and I say it over and over, his cock still in my mouth, the word slurred.
I say, “Eden,” just as he asked me to, just as he told me to. I say, “E-den,” dragging out his name, making it last. I’m underwater when I reach it. I hold my breath, hear my heart pounding in my ears. I feel faint, dizzy, spreading my legs wide apart, my head tossed back, my hips thrusting forward. I shake with the climax, letting out my air, finally, taking a deep, shuddering breath in, finding the surface and breaking free.
Emilie Paris' latest work can be found in Violet Blue's sultry anthologies: Bisexual Husbands and Filthy Housewives. Please support your indie writers and publishers. We are working so hard to bring you filthy fiction from our dirty little hearts.

May 07, 2015

Get Haunted!

Sommer Marsden is here with an excerpt from her latest novella, Haunted, which can be yours for only $1.99!

Two people lost and alone in life searching for answers…

Maddox visits abandoned sites to take photographs and figure out his future. He haunts the places that are monuments to the way he feels inside. Stark, empty, raw. And Olyvia searches for answers to her own painful loss by hunting ghosts. Trying to comfort herself by seeking proof of an afterlife.

One haunted amusement park with a dark history…
Maddox and Olyvia recognize kindred souls in one another. But a chance to fully explore their connection is a luxury they may not have. There’s a ghost stalking Screamland hell-bent on revenge. And it’s targeting them. 


“Wait,” he said. It killed Maddox to draw away from her. Her thighs were wrapped around his waist, her body hot against his. But he had to. “Right back.”

He moved across the room and found his bag. In the inside zippered pocket were condoms. He grabbed one and moved back to her, his socks whispering across the dirty floor. It had grown chillier in the room, but he didn’t care. Not a lick.

She leaned on one elbow watching him—her face a little less sad, her smile a little less haunted. “Always prepared, I see.”

“My dad wouldn’t let me join the boy scouts,” he said. “But I read the handbook.” He returned to her, pressing himself back against her and kissing her whiskey-tainted lips. 

“Wouldn’t let you?”

“Nope. Said I quit things too often.”

She shook her head. “Stupid,” she said. “I think kids should be allowed to explore and decide.”

He pushed her red-red bangs off her face and kissed her forehead. “Brilliant plan.” Maddox ground his cock against her, feeling the bite of the thick seam of her jeans. He imagined her, hot and wet and flushed beneath. His cock ached with the thought of her. With the idea of being with someone. Especially, this oddball, forthright, sensitive woman.

He’d never have given her a second glance in a bar. The whole dark clothes, bright hair, sad look…and she probably wouldn’t have even given him a first glance. On the outside they didn’t work. Not at all. On the inside, it was like finding a kindred spirit. A shadow the exact  same shape, darkness and density as himself.

She pushed his shoulders back, raised herself up slightly, and tugged her tee over her head. Beneath it, she wore a plain white bra with just a hint of lace along the tops of the cups, and he thought it was possibly the sexiest undergarment he’d ever seen. Simply because it was on her.

He worked the front clasp, and when it parted, he pushed back the cups revealing small, pert breasts with pale pink nipples. He stared at her for a moment, mesmerized by the small caramel colored freckles that dotted her chest. When he saw her take a shuddery breath, he shook his head and sighed. “You’re gorgeous, you know?”

Before she could answer, he sucked one of Olyvia’s nipples into his mouth. He swirled his tongue, feeling the soft skin pebble. He sucked and sucked again, and when she started to tremble he gently used his teeth. Her body arched up to meet his, her fingers tangled in his hair...


Haunted is already receiving rave reviews from readers, who say:

"I really enjoyed this story..."
"The sex was sizzling..."
"Scary good..."

So go on. Get Haunted with Sommer!


May 06, 2015

The Promiscuous Wife

I tripped over this title at a used bookstore and bought the novel before you could say "vintage porn." Almost as delicious as the cover and title are the pitches for more books at the back. My favorite is called The Wrecker: Small town... sin town—passion and evil lurking beneath respectability. That describes several stories I've written!

Copyright is 1968. The book reminds me of this conversation. Because no matter how new things feel, there are often earlier versions. This one sounds a little like the first novel I wrote for Black Lace—Learning to Love It.

There is something about the vintage porn that feels remarkably refreshing to me. The titles are so in your face. The write-ups are charming: "Women on the loose, with cravings hot enough to burn." "Ever step of her climb to success led her down the road to hell."

One of my favorite noir books was called: I Had to Kill Her, The Trouble Was She Wouldn't Stay Dead. These have the same flair to me. To match the cadence, I am working on a book called (no joke): My Husband Hates His Job So I Fucked His Boss. (That's the working title, anyway.)

But what really caught my eye with this was the "wife" part. Lately, I've noticed a theme in stories (and in real life to some extent) in which the wife is billed as the enemy. If only the wife wasn't in the way dot dot dot. It's an old trope, and honestly, I'm fucking tired of it. Which is truly why I love Violet Blue's latest collections. There are husbands and wives in these books and they're having sex and being kinky. And I support that in a huge way.

I'll be reading The Promiscuous Wife and hope to post a review shortly.


May 05, 2015

Tuesday in the Dungeon: Dante Davidson

Tuesday in the Dungeon is back with Dante Davidson. I've written with Dante since the early 90s. His latest work has been featured in Filthy Housewives and Bisexual Husbands, both edited by the incredibly talented Violet Blue. He is currently working on a solo collection of short stories. Here is a snippet from his piece, "You Don't Know Me," soon to be released as part of Office Sluts.

You don’t know me.

Yeah, I wear a suit. And I drive a fancy car. And I keep to myself. But that’s not because I have no life. I simply have a different sort of life than you might suppose. Come a little closer. Let me explain.

For work, I not only put on a bespoke suit and Italian loafers. I put on a mask. For eight or more hours a day, I play the role of the executive. At night, I am someone else entirely. Sometimes I go to clubs in San Francisco, where I wear all black and I use a whip or a crop or a wooden paddle on the backside of naughty girls who willfully misbehave in front of me.

Occasionally, I hook up with a woman and bring her home to my place, to the dungeon I have set up in my den, where I bind her to the wall and torment her with my mouth, my cock, and my toys.

I overheard you talking to your friend on the phone once. You types in the art department have such a different life. You called me a suit. I stopped outside your office and listened as you said, “I bet he wears that suit to bed. I bet it’s stapled onto his body. I bet he’s never been naked in his life.”

I’d like to get you naked. I’d like to strip you out of that polka-dot dress you wore to the company picnic, tie your hands over your head and eat your pussy until you screamed. Then I’d like to flip you over and lube your asshole with my fingertips, telling you the whole time about the butt plug I was going to slide inside you. Have you ever worn a butt plug out to dinner? Have you ever been spanked in a car before being taken to the fanciest restaurant in town? I’d love to watch you squirm and try to eat while you adjusted your ass on the seat, trying to find comfort that wasn’t there...

For previous Dungeon excerpts, please visit:

Tuesday in the Dungeon: Kathy Kulig
Tuesday in the Dungeon: Sophia Valenti

Art is courtesy of London Dungeon Hire.


May 04, 2015

Trollop with a Question #55

I have this note on my desk for this week's question. It simply reads: karaoke. Which is (thankfully) enough to remind me that I wanted to ask this Monday.

This question was inspired by Angell Brooks who is a writer I seriously admire and a person I deeply respect.

What is your go-to karaoke song?
(Or what would be your go-to karaoke song, if you're like me and have never actually sang karaoke!)

Photo is by Riendo.


P.S. Please visit Violet Blue's site for a fabulous selection of erotic titles. I am so honored that The Spanking House made her list!

May 01, 2015

Free Smut Friday

Oh, yes, it's Free Smut Friday—and I've got an opportunity to re-post this fabulous photo by Jennifer Peters.

This edition of FSF features a story I wrote several years ago at the request of an editor. By the time I finished the piece, the publication had evaporated. I believe this is my one and only glory hole story. (Should there be a book called Glory Stories? Just wondering.)

Hole in the Wall
By Alison Tyler     
            Alex almost missed the place the first time.
            The store was nondescript, a gray concrete hole-in-the-wall with black-shaded windows. Cheap glass door with chipped silver paint. Not even a neon Open sign. Hanging slightly askew was a plastic one you could buy at any local hardware store.
            The place seemed to disappear between the dry cleaners on the right side and the liquor store on the left. Alex took a breath, opened the door, and hurried through the black curtain, past the racks of magazines, tables displaying inflatable dildos, chintzy-looking cock pumps. The store was filled with stale, hot air. A glowing red heater perched on the counter to keep the customers malleable.
            The young, tattooed clerk gave Alex a quick once-over, before nodding toward the back.
            What had the clerk seen? A long dark coat with a collar up against the chill. Short hair slicked back. A strong chin, sharp cheekbones. Sunglasses hiding hazel eyes. Alex slipped past racks of DVDs, visions of fucking on four-color glossy display. Girls on their knees, eyes so wide and innocent, as if they’d never sucked a cock before right this minute. But oh, how they were ready to suck one now.
            The clerk’s motion had been this way. Alex's hard footsteps echoed on the linoleum floor. Heart pounding. Too hot in the heavy trench now, even though the temperature outdoors was down in the teens. Couldn’t risk removing the coat yet. Drip of sweat erased with the back of a shaking hand.
            To the door marked Private, rusted gold paint on the knob, a twist, a pull. Alex entered a bathroom with a foggy mirror, a toilet with the seat up, and a hole in the wall. Breath coming faster now. Heart racing. A quick flick of a tongue on parched lips.
            A hole.
            Lonely nights with nothing but fingers working. Pages of magazines torn and scattered. Neon through the window. Trucks blaring by.
            Fumbling now, jacket open, jeans split, the foil condom wrapper torn open. Jesus. Tugging the slippery circle of rubber—come on, kid, you’ve done this a million times—reservoir tip, up and over the shaft, palm stretching the latex, and done.
            A hole.
            What had that clerk looked like? Wearing a muscle shirt on a day like this. Black on black with some hard-core band name on the front. Sleeves cut. Thin arms adorned with tribal art. Who the fuck cared about the arms? The mouth. What had the mouth looked like? Petulant. Pouty. Pink.
            Glance into that scum-fogged mirror. Then down at the dirty sink. Wadded brown paper towel on the edge. Dust of dusky powered soap on the rim—no soap left in the container. Eyes on the hole. Fucking god. Now? Now?
            Then a knock. Soft. Not from the door, but from the wall.
            Body to the graffiti-covered plaster, just the tip inside, pushing through the space into the unknown.
            Knees weak at the first lick. Mouth on head, sucking. God, yeah, just sucking. Another inch into wet heat. Palms flat now, body so still, until the sigh came through the opening. A sigh of pleasure, of delight. Hips slammed in response. A forward thrust hard, pressing in deep.
            How long would it take? How long would the clerk suck it?
            Alex had read about places like this, had heard from a man at a bar down near Whiskey Gulch. Go to the store. Find the hole. At first, the concept hadn't been a turn on. Not that anonymous sex wasn't a thrill. But not being able to see a face, or touch a body, that had seemed alien. And yet the image had remained. Night after night, the concept growing bigger, bolder, demanding, necessary.
            Another sigh. This was torture. Alex wanted nothing more than to break down the wall and grab up the clerk, longed to demonstrate what it would feel like to really get fucked, to pound hard into a different sort of hole. But all that was available was this circle in the plaster. What if it wasn't the clerk back there? What if someone else had gone behind the wall?
            A shudder worked through Alex.
            The climax was getting closer.
            Sometimes what you want and what you get don't match up. Sometimes reality is a poor facade of a fantasy. But not this time. That mouth was working Alex's cock. Those sounds—fucking hell, man, those hungry desperate sounds—were exactly like the ones you hear on dirty tapes, in X-rated movies. Those sounds took Alex over the cusp.
            Down the rabbit hole.
            And back.
            Alex was coming, but not filling the condom, because that wasn't humanly possible. Alex was coming under the base of the rubbery dildo, coming in what felt like the first time in years. The clerk pulled back. The mouth left the hole.
            Alex tucked the cock back into the slacks. She adjusted her shades. She stilled her breathing. Walking out was going to be much simpler than walking in. The orgasm had calmed the need for the moment.
            No sense in washing hands without soap, in wasting time in a dirty bathroom.
            Alex felt the clerk watching her leave, but she did not turn her head. She was shaking as she walked down the street, legs weak. Had she done it? Had she really? She passed her car in a daze before circling back to the old beater. In the driver's seat, she unbuckled the harness.
            A sound at the window. Alex stiffened, turned to look. The tattooed clerk, rapping on the glass. The clerk—Alex looked at the heart-shaped face full on, popped the lock on the door, waited as the stranger climbed into the passenger seat.
            "You liked that?"
            It was a girl's voice. Alex felt her head spinning. The clerk kissed her lips, her neck, thrust her own hand deep into Alex's pants, into her wet panties, pushing hard, touching her nether lips, her clit. Alex leaned back against the headrest.


For more free reads, please check out:

Any Lightness Between Black and White
The Super