March 05, 2015

It's Not Personal...


...she said as she pulled his belt from his slacks and snapped the leather in the air. "It's not personal, Billy. Don't take this the wrong way."

He was bent over her desk, staring at the green felt blotter. He could feel his heart racing. He could hear the sounds of his coworkers outside of her office. The workplace was bustling. Everyone else in the building was experiencing a normal work day. But not him. He was bent over his boss's desk, and he was about to get a whipping with his own belt.

"It's not personal," she said again, leaning her body into his so he could feel the warmth of her, smell the spice of her cologne. He shut his eyes. His cock was so fucking hard. She undid his slacks and pulled them down. His boxers were next. He was half naked in his boss's office. She was standing there, observing him. He felt hot all over.

His boss didn't rush. She pressed him into the desk so he was positioned exactly as she wanted him.

"I told you what would happen if you disobeyed, didn't I?"

Billy nodded his head quickly, then remembered the rules. "Yes," he stammered. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Don't make a noise. Don't make a fucking sound."

And then she started. The belt made the sound for him, a whisper in the air, a crack against his skin. He stiffened. His hands were balled into fists. His whole body tensed and then slowly relaxed. She waited for that. She waited for him to give in, to surrender. Then she struck again.

"It's not personal, Bill," she said, and her voice was like a song to him, a melody. "It's business."

He sucked in a breath. He hoped he wouldn't come on her blotter. He waited for the next blow.

XXX,
Alison

March 04, 2015

Dirty Etymology: Motherfucker


Dirty etymology anyone? I know I'd feel better if I could sit here and mumble swear words to myself for awhile. So today, I'm going with one of my favorites. This word pleases my mouth. And I say it the way Hans Gruber said it in Die Hard. "Yippie-Ki-Yay, Motherfucker." You have to hear him speak the words. The cadence is fucking gorgeous.

So you know, I'm not the only one who is obsessed with dirty words. When I do my research, I find articles on places like Slate dedicated to the same words I'm looking for.

Apparently, the OED first cited the word in the late 19th century. It was considered only an insult for many years.

Wiki says the word literally came from men who would fuck mothers—mostly soldiers who would trade sex with hungry or needy women for money or valuable items.

Honestly, I had no idea.

I entertained myself reading the Wiki talk page about the word. People really were getting into it—"If you reference the George Carlin line, then why can't I list Snakes on a Plane?" Ah, I actually am madly in love with this Wiki sentence: "... it is used as a compliment, for instance, in the jazz community."

Norman Mailer used the word "mother-fugger" in The Naked and the Dead. He used the term "motherfuck" in "Why Are We in Vietnam?" (1967), which is considered one of the earliest recorded instances.

Slate says, "By the late 50s and 60, motherfucker finally became, in some usages, a positive description."

Aw, I love that. Finally. As if we'd been waiting.

Now, I'm just sitting here in complete wonderment. Why? Because I landed on The Compleat Motherfucker: A History of the Mother of All Dirty Words.

So you know what? I am going to buy and read that book, and I'll come back to you with a review and more information. I mean, I owe that much to the word I use daily, don't I?

XXX,
Alison

March 02, 2015

Trollop with a Question #46



I love swear words. I'm not sure what this says about me, but I've never gotten over the juvenile delight in the f-bomb. Sometimes I will actually try to err on the clean side, and I always fail. I know I'm not alone. A friend of mine—who is a primary teacher and who must watch her mouth eight hours a day—has the filthiest tongue when she's off the clock.

My go to curse word is "fuck" (obviously). 2,823 files on my computer currently feature the word.

A few weeks ago, I said that if I were a super hero I'd be Curse Girl. And my nemesis would always be trying to wash my mouth out with soap.

Which made me think of today's question:

If you were a super hero, what super hero would you be? 
And (for the bonus) name your nemesis!

Can't wait to hear your responses!

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Are a Super Hero junkie (like I am)? Please check out my Pinterest Board.

March 01, 2015

Why BDSM?


Why not? No, that's just me being flippant.

Why BDSM?

Because when I started to write erotica, I didn't know I was writing erotica. I didn't realize there were defining lines in fiction. And I didn't know something called BDSM existed. I wrote the words that were in my head, the words that kept me up in the night. The words that spelled out actions I craved.

Now that I've been writing BDSM erotica for well over two decades, I can't really remember not owning the terms: Safeword. Bondage. Discipline. Submission. Punishment.

But there was a time when not only was I not aware of the letters, the definitions, the universe, but I was also shamed for what I wanted.

I wrote about this in Dark Secret Love. Trust me when I say that scene in real life was much more soul crushing. I confessed, drunkenly, on hands and knees the desires that swirled through my head. And I was denied. Derided. Condemned.

We never spoke about that evening again.

Think about that.

I unveiled my soul to my boyfriend. I took off all of the trappings, removed every last scrap. I was more naked than I'd ever been. And not only did he say, "No." He sneered, "How could you?" He demanded, "Why would you?"

So I boxed those needs back up, used duct tape to seal the edges shut, slid myself into the skin he knew, and lived like a shadow puppet for several years. It's not surprising my words leaked out. Not surprising that I sat at a typewriter in the wee hours before dawn and wrote the same story over and over, honing the words, tweaking the phrases.

That was a lifetime ago—and my mind is hazy about when I discovered that BDSM existed for other people, when I realized those letters were not only stamped on my stories but inked on my skin.

The world is different now. You can type your treasured words into a blinking square, and you can know instantly that other people are riding that wave with you. But when I made the scene, I was solo. I didn't know. Nobody told me. These things weren't said.

This is why I write BDSM. I cut the duct tape with a razor. I'm out of the box. And I'll never go back in again.

XXX,
Alison

February 28, 2015

Dirty Etymology: Snatch


I love dirty words. I mean, I fucking love them. There is something about cussing—that little naughty thrill, the peek-over-your-shoulder-to-see-if-anyone's-listening delight—that I have never gotten over. Yesterday, I was at a grocery store that was playing satellite radio (I assume)—and a song came on that used the word "fuck" twice. (I can't remember the song title. It was a rock song with a radio/non-radio edit.) I seemed to be the only one who noticed. And yeah, I was thrilled.

But for some reason, only recently did I develop an addiction to learning where the words come from.

Today's word of choice? Snatch.

How did I land on this word? Honestly, I have no idea. Let me insert that many of the articles and websites I visited stated that this was one of the ugliest words for pussy. No, they didn't say pussy. I made that up. But site after site said this was a nasty term. Almost—but not quite—as bad as cunt.

You guys are going to laugh at me. I didn't know it was derogatory. I love the word.

The noun dates to 1300 and referred to a "trap" or a "snare." The use for female genitalia dates to either 1903 or 1864. I adore facts like that. Why those two dates? Who knows?

Apparently, a "snatch" had already been in play as a term for a quickie. Oh, my. I like this. We could do a collection called 69 Snatches. Ha! Who's in?

One article then praised terms like "jade gates" and "cinnabar cave." But you know? I can't personally imagine using either term in my own writing. (Quick check. 541 files of mine contain the word snatch. 0 files of mine contain "jade gate.")

I lifted her skirt and nuzzled my wife's snatch.
I lifted her skirt and nuzzled my wife's cinnabar cave.

Sounds like a new flavor of coffee drink. But it's early. I may have coffee on the brain.

Wait a second. Now, I have tripped over an anti-male site that says "snatch" reflects in men a fear and loathing for the vagina. Which—honestly—is something I have never run into with my men of choice. All of my lovers have seemed to really like vaginas.

Today's research has brought me to a list of alternate words that made me swoon: fanny, pie, quim, peach, box... And that squeal you just heard was because I fell into a book called The Vagina: A Literary and Cultural History by Emma L. E. Rees. This goes immediately on my to-buy list!

But sadly, I have failed you. I can't find the original use in literature. Sometimes I get lucky, and sometimes I strike out.

If you're following along, we've done:

Pardon My French—oh, I'm having a morning. I just wrote "pardon my friend" by accident.
The History of the Douchebag
The History of the Dick
Round-Heeled

What will I land on next? Who fucking knows?

XXX,
Alison

February 27, 2015

Free Smut Friday


I forgot my calendar. The one I don't have. See, I was going to do a "Thrifty Thursday," when suddenly it's Friday. How did that happen? And last week, I decided to do Free Smut Fridays.

What's a girl to do?

I drank a lot of coffee, and then came up with the idea to combine the posts to make up for lost time! (Or lost brain cells.)

For "Thrifty," I'm thinking anything under $5. Because I know you remember what it cost to buy a book—or what it used to cost, anyway. Even a paperback at the airport was more than $5. And now, you can buy multiple books for .99 cents! My goal is to showcase indie authors who would be incredible delighted if you bought their work. The money goes directly to the authors.

Right now, you can buy:

The Mighty Quinn by Sommer Marsden for $2.99:

Reviewers are saying: "The book is fabulous funny and dirty..." "Sommer has managed to write something that could fit into the chick lit, romance, or erotica shelves..." "...laugh swoon and feel inspired..." "Sommer Marsden always draws me into her stories. So much so, that I feel like I've been transported into the pages..." "It's a fantastic story AND fantastic erotica..."

Read an excerpt here.


Filthy Housewives edited by Violet Blue for $3.89

Reviewers are saying: "Filthy Housewives is beautifully written..." "This is glorious and very, very explicit erotica..." "I read the book in one breath..." "Seven sizzling stories in this volume offer a smorgasbord of fantasies and kink..." "a literary feast for the senses..."

Read an excerpt here.

And now for Free Smut Friday... I wrote this piece about six years ago. Forever, it was up for free on a website called Bastard Life. But now that site seems to have disappeared. So here it again. (Or possibly, for the first time.)

Pierced By Alison Tyler
            “I want to get my clit pierced.”
           She stared down at the marred counter rather than up into his dark eyes. “My clitoris,” she stammered after. Maybe “clit” was too common, too colloquial. What was the proper way to ask for what she wanted? She quickly scanned the walls of the tattoo parlor/piercing studio, landing on an image of a impish Devil Girl with a spiked tail stuffed violently up the ass of a innocent-looking Angel Girl. Maybe “clit” was okay.
           “You’re not ready.”
           When she looked back at his face, she saw that he was grinning—the lines deepening around his eyes. He liked her. She could tell. She’d guessed that he liked her when he’d pierced her ear, his breath on her skin so she could feel the heat. The flash of pain had been over in a second—far too quickly. The whole experience took less than ten minutes from the time she handed him her neatly folded cash to when she was walking out the door and back onto the glittery grit of Melrose Avenue.
           She’d spent hours sitting on the fire escape of her apartment, touching the silver hoop in the middle of her right ear, twirling the metal, holding it. She had the usual ear piercings from when she was a teenager, but this one, high up on her ear, felt different.
           Weeks had passed before she’d had the nerve to go back. She was a good girl, after all, with a respectable job and a decent salary. She wore simple clothes, low-heeled pumps, suitable and sensible for work in an accounting office on the Miracle Mile.
           Piercing/Tattoo studios weren’t places her friends visited, or discussed, or fantasized about. Nor were the boys who worked there. Tattooed boys who made her heart race.
           She requested nipple piercings next, standing in front of the counter wearing a white t-shirt and a white bra, chinos from Talbots, penny loafers. He gave her a long look this time, as if he didn’t believe what she’d said. Not someone as normal—or in her mind, boring—as she was. Almost embarrassingly normal. The freckles on her pale skin. The sleek dark hair that would not hold a curl.
           “You’re sure?” he’d asked once he’d taken her into the private room, and she had nodded and tried to look brave as she removed her shirt and sat down, flinching when the sticky plastic coating on the chair met her skin.          
           Her breasts were extremely sensitive. Wearing the right—or wrong—bra would create such pleasurable friction she could almost climax. So when he rolled her dark pink nipples between his gloved fingers, she’d had to stifle a moan. She’d kept her eyes closed the whole time, knowing that if she stared at him, she might say something. Something she’d regret?
           Perhaps.
           Something she wished she’d said now?
           She’d hoped she didn’t look like an idiot when he’d told her to prepare herself. Automatically, she’d licked her bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth, something she did when she was scared.
           “You’re sure?” he’d asked again, right before sliding the needle through, and she’d simply said, “Yes. Please.”
           For a month, a solid month after her nipples had healed, she’d been able to make herself come by tugging on the sterling rings adorning her tits. Just a little tug to start, working harder, imagining him pulling them with his mouth, biting into her.
           On weekends, she’d started wearing tight t-shirts without bras, loving the way her decorated breasts looked beneath the stretchy fabric. Yet soon the ache started up again. That and the loneliness.

           Her belly button was next. She didn’t have to get naked for this one. She just lifted her shirt, let him see her nearly concave stomach. His breath here made her clench her thighs together under her knee-length plaid skirt.
           “Breathe, baby.”
           She looked down at him, startled. Had he called her baby?
           But he didn’t say the word again. Didn’t act as if he’d said anything unusual at all. She wondered if he understood the big picture—they were working down her body in a silver-studded game of musical parts. If he did, he kept quiet, professional in every sense. She’d watched his head bent over her, and thought of telling him that at night, she envisioned him fucking her asshole, the gloves, the lube. The tears that would streak her face when he thrust in deep.
           He’d only touched her with gloves so far, and somehow they existed in her fantasies. Every last one.

           There weren’t many places left. She could have gone with her nether lips. She knew that. But why wait? She was going to have her clit done, and she knew exactly how it would feel. She’d done the research online, understood the procedure.
           How many times had she imagined watching him slip on the rubber gloves? Smelling that sweet sickly scent of antiseptic. The sensation of him touching her through that barrier, coaxing her clit to attention before slipping on the clamp.
           “Not your clit,” he said, looking at her. “The lips first.”
           Her eyes widened as he slid a photo album forward. Here were close-up shots of women, bejeweled parts on display, and she blushed immediately. Even though she’d been fantasizing about this moment for months. Each time she went to the studio, she’d meant to ask for this, but had failed herself again and again. What else would she have to pierce to make him understand?
           “The clit’s extreme,” he said.
           But she knew, she wanted to say. She knew what it would be like: The needle. The slow thrust forward. The pain shot with pleasure. Ribbons of pleasure. She was going to come when he did it.
           “You’re not ready.”
           She hadn’t been expecting this. The customer was always right, after all. She had the money. She had the nerve. But then she realized—her clit would be the finale. The end game. He didn’t want that. He wanted to keep it going. And she nodded—fine, let him decide. He led her back to the private room once more, and this time, for the first time, he seemed to really see her.
           The door was shut. He came forward, slid his hands up under her skirt, pulled down her knickers. She couldn’t speak. Her throat was tight. He turned her sideways, unzipped the skirt, let the fabric fall. Now she was half naked, and that felt wrong. He understood, pulled the t-shirt up over her head. This was better. Totally naked, with her silver-ringed tits on display, her belly button decorated, her body so pale and pretty. Jesus, pretty. For the first time ever, that’s how she felt.
           He sat in her the chair, spread her thighs, handed her a mirror. “Like this,” he said, “we could pierce you here,” and she trembled all over. “Or here.” The shivers wouldn’t stop. She felt herself nod to him, and yet, her teeth were chattering. She couldn’t speak.
           “That’s not going to work,” he said “You have to hold still.”
           She looked at him, her eyes wide, breath hitching. And then he bent forward and licked the ring on her right breast, then the one on her left. Oh, god. He kissed his way down, pausing to tug on the barbell adorning her belly button. Fucking god, he was—he was kissing her. Licking her. His sof hair tickled her naked skin. She shifted her hips, lifted her hips. He was there, between her legs, spreading open her lips, kissing between.
           “You’re not ready for your clit,” he said again, looking up at her. “I’ll tell you when you’re ready. We’ll do it together.”
           “Yes,” she said, “fine,” she said. Whatever he wanted, was what she wanted to say. As long as he would keep touching her. But he didn’t. He stood back up, got the instruments.
           “Hold still,” he told her, as he had every time, and she had to look at him, eyes wide as she realized he was still going to pierce her. There was no stiller than what she was like right now. Her breath was frozen. Her heart raced. He pierced her just as he’d said. Not her clit. Not yet. Still he sucked in his breath when he looked down at her. Shaved sex. Beautiful ring right there at the top. 
           “We’ll get to your clit,” he assured her once more. Now, he pinched her between his thumb and fingers, stroked his gloved thumb over her swollen clit so she closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair.
           “And it’s going to hurt,” he said, and she squeezed her eyes shut even tighter—because he was talking to her the way he spoke to her in her fantasies. He was saying the things nobody ever had said out loud.
           “Because that’s what you need, isn’t it?”
           “Yeah,” she managed, a rush of breath, hardly an answer.
           “But you need so much more. You need a collar here,” and his hand went to her throat, pressing once against her. “And you need a bowl of water on the floor by the bed, where you can lap it at night if you’re thirsty.”
           “Oh, fuck,” she whispered, and there were tears in her eyes now, tears spilling.
           “It’s been so scary, hasn’t it? All those thoughts in your head, and nobody to tell them to.”
           Like he had been there, with her, in her nearly empty apartment. Sat at her side on the fire escape. Looked out into a city of millions of people and been all by herself. And then he bent down and licked her in a circle, a circle within a circle, and she came. Vibrant. Colors behind her shut lids. Like every orgasm she’d had thinking of him, thrusting his gloved fingers up inside her, fucking her ass with two fingers overlapped while he sucked hard on her clit. She came in shudders, in waves, and then fell back, limp in the chair. But even as she came, understanding flooded through her.
           Somewhere inside, she’d pierced him.
          
XXX,
Alison 

February 26, 2015

Bad Girl...


Yes, this is what I've been up since dawn working on. Oh, wait. It's not quite dawn yet, is it? Nope. Still black outside. Well, this is what I've been up since forever working on. Gorgeous photo by Riendo makes me happy to look at. She has me nailed. If I had a gallery—and wouldn't I love to have a gallery?—the walls would be adorned with Riendo's gorgeous, gritty work. All urban, street traffic, wires.

Bad Girl was originally published by Pretty Things Press in 2002. At the time, I'd already been writing erotica for about a decade, and the stories were plucked from books I'd worked on over those ten years. I'm polishing and perfecting the pieces now, and I've added the subhead "retro erotica"—mostly because these stories really are retro. No cell phones here. No tablets. No Google glass. Who knew that the 90s would be looked at as a simpler time?

I could also have titled the book "nostalgic erotica," or "vintage erotica." For now, I'm going with retro.

If you're interested in an advance copy for review, please drop me a note at alisontyler at yahoo dot com. Otherwise, stay tuned. I'll have the TOC and intro finished shortly. Once I'm done strolling down memory lane.

XXX,
Alison

February 25, 2015

I Look Great on Paper

This was true even before there was an internet. I mean... I'm much more interesting on paper. My favorite thing to do? Sit somewhere—preferably a darkish corner, preferably in a darkish bar—and write. If I have a notebook and pen (which, honestly, I never do—so some form of writing utensil and some crumpled scrap of paper to write on), or if I'm packing my laptop—I am happy.

There's never a time when I'm not writing. Currently, I have six novels in process. That's not to say I'm only writing six. That's to say I'm currently focusing on six—and I am bouncing back and forth between two main ones. This is funny (to me). One has no sex. At least, not yet. There hasn't been any sex. I keep waiting—but nobody is doing the deed. The other? All sex. All the sex you could possibly want. In fact, maybe a little more than that.

If the two projects were to merge, I'd have something that would be a fair balance. But that's not going to happen.

I'm also writing a story that is so dirty I keep having to take breaks. Yes, after several millennia, I still manage to make myself blush. It's not my fault. I swear. These characters keep doing things. Seriously. 

But I am relieved.

There has been so much turmoil in publishing lately (at least in my world), that I am thrilled the words keep coming. As long as I can spill the stories in my head, I am okay. Wherever those stories may land. However the words may reach the readers. That is all I want.

It's all I've ever wanted.

In my career, I have worked for: Masquerade Books, Black Lace, Plume, Harlequin, Magic Carpet—and various imprints (Spice, Cheek, Virgin, Rosebud)... But I would write the words in sand if I had to. (Sommer told me she'd write on a chalkboard. I think we're regressing.) 

Even more important—having readers who will follow along on the journey. I am thankful—you have no idea how thankful—for all of the support throughout the years, and specifically throughout the past six months. So thank you—yes, you—for staying.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. There is one more day to buy our bundle—that sounds dirty in and of itself. So please, support your indies and name your price!

February 24, 2015

Young, Wild, and...

I have been a freelance writer and editor since I was in school. (I paid for my Mustang with freelance work.) I'm not sure if I can actually get away with this shirt, though. But youth is in the eye of the beholder, right? Or is that kink? (I stole that from Sophia Valenti!)

On top of my freelance work, I've put up four (yeah, really) little collections of my own stories. I wanted to post them all together because I'm proud:

 
But also, I wanted to put them up because I often have the feeling that I don't get anything done. I'm not kidding. I chase my tail. I run in circles. I howl at the moon... no wait, that's not me. That's Georgia's dog. I feel like a slacker 72% of the time. So seeing these four minis all finished delights me.

The books each cost $2.99. I have the stories listed on the Amazon pages. Riendo is paid for every sale. Her beautiful photographs never fail to light me up.

If you like the books, let me know. With everything else going on lately, I am so pleased to have positive messages in my box.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Alison on Top is part of the erotic bundle I'm in! 2 days and 13 hours left!

February 23, 2015

Trollop with a Question #45


I have so many Monday questions waiting in the wings, that I got a little confused for a moment. Which one should go on stage first? I shook an 8-Ball and found my answer...

Have you ever had a psychic experience?

Now, before you respond, let me tell you this:

Once upon a time, I was in New Orleans with a boyfriend and another couple. One sweltering afternoon, the woman and I decided to venture into the French Quarter to have our tarot read. We found this absolutely authentic-looking, tiny, creepy, "witch's" shoppe. The man who read our tarot looked—I swear—like Brad Pitt.

This was 20-mumble years ago. So he looked like that Brad Pitt. Thelma & Louise's Brad Pitt.

He set out a scarlet velvet cloth over a table, and he told us that the cloth had come from a theater that had burned to the ground. Everything he said was rich with symbolism, heavy on effect. (Cue the spooky noises.) He read mine first—and it was lighthearted. I was 18, remember. He said I'd have many changes in my life (oooh), that I wouldn't stay with the man I was with (you're kidding), and (if memory serves) that I was going to get a gift (wow).

Then he did Luci. He was more in depth for her. She was this brunette beauty in her early 30s. Tall, lanky. The kind of girl who can wear a bikini and men will offer her Cadillacs. The tarot reader told her all about her relationship—and he described her partner as blond, scruffy, coarse. Someone who didn't treat her right, but who pushed her buttons sexually. I remember standing the shadows thinking the guy was full of shit. Because I knew her boyfriend. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, gentle. The sun rose and set on her in his world. Nothing like the domineering man the reader described.

When we left the shop, I was laughing. Luci was ghost-pale. And... she confessed she'd been having an affair with someone at her work. A man who was to a "t" how the reader described—and their relationship was exactly the way he'd said. I actually still get chills when I think about her talking to me in the street. She didn't want to tell me. She hardly knew me. But she was shaken by how much that man knew.

So now you...

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I've written only a few paranormal stories two paranormal novels to date: Tiffany Twisted and The ESP Affair. Right now, The ESP Affair is part of a bundle. Check us out!

February 22, 2015

Give 'em Hell...

Words Brand is my new favorite addiction. Love. Love. Love.

This shirt reminded me of a funny story that I don't believe I've shared before. A few years ago, five women I know were assigned to a committee together. On paper (where I prefer most people to stay, honestly), the five-some should have gotten along spectacularly. There were no glaring signs that these highly educated, well-trained, generally polite businesswomen should not have been able to work in a group.

However, in days, the claws came out.

Their job was actually simple. I won't go into detail. Suffice it to say that they spent a year's worth of meetings arguing about a font. I am not fucking kidding you. The project flailed—and ultimately failed—over a font.

(I know this because while I am acquainted with all of the women, I am friendly with one in particular. She drank multiple bottles of liquor as she described the endless, mind-numbing meetings.)

I have imagined the discussions occasionally to entertain myself:

"Helvetica? Over my dead body!"
"Sans serif or I'm outta here!"
"If you insert another dingbat, I will insert my heel up your ass."
"Trebuchet, if you must, but Futura that line, and I will walk."
"Say Palatino again. I dare you."

Now, I'm all in favor of a good font. But this beyond even my level of commitment to design.

(It's also beyond my level of commitment to committees.)

Violet Blue, however, has won my heart—soul—and other body parts—with her exquisite designs of the new Digita collections. Flip through Filthy Housewives so you can see what attention to detail really means.

XXX,
Alison

February 21, 2015

Sultry Smut Saturday...


Yesterday we had Free Smut Friday—which may be renamed "Filthy Friday" some day in the future. (Frankly, I'm on the fence.) Now, thanks to Violet Blue, we have Sultry Smut Saturday—or something s-s-ssexy like that. Because Violet has published my story from the latest edition of Best Women's Erotica (2015) on her site. And she's illustrated the piece with gorgeous, NSFW photos. I am in awe.


My piece for this year's collection is a bit on the nostalgic side. (Oh, you're shocked, I know.) It has a twist—at least, it did for me. While I was writing the story, I absolutely had a different ending in mind. But I was delighted by the way the characters chose to go.

I believe (and I have to double-check) that my first story ever in a Best Women's Erotica collection was "Heat" (at the time titled "Evian") for the 2002 edition edited by Marcy Sheiner. (The story is now part of Alison's Cheating Heart.) At some point, I'd like to chronicle which of my stories appeared in which collections. The thrill of being included has never waned.

But this is even more exciting. My words. Pictures curated by Violet. How fucking cool is that?

So please, slip-slide your way to Violet's to read A Not-So-Subtle Spice.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. If you want another erotic journey, visit Violet's illustrated excerpt from Banging Rebecca!

February 20, 2015

Free Smut Friday...


Oooh, I like the sound of that. For several months (back in '09), I put up Fetish Fridays. But Free-Smut Friday has a sexier ring. Or maybe "Filthy Friday." While I ponder my title, go on and read the freebie. This story is one of my all-time favorites.

Any Lightness Between Black and White
by Dante Davidson 

            “You seem confused.”
            I was standing in front of the wall of hankies, thinking, Damn, there are a lot of screwy people out there. When I say wall, I mean I was facing a fucking floor-to- ceiling wall of different-colored bandanas. Each bin was labeled with the code. Some of the labels made me hard—I’ll say that right away. But others made me shake my head in wonder. Blue/teal = cock & ball torture (when worn on the left) or cock & ball torturee when worn on the right. I actually mouthed the word “toturee” as I’d never seen it written before. Mauve = “into navel worshippers” if worn on the left, or “has a navel fetish” if worn on the right.
            Lavender meant “likes drag queens” on the left or “drag queen” if worn on the right. Would you really need a hanky for that? I wondered. Would a drag queen, all dolled up in finery, deign to wear a hanky?
            I must have been standing by the wall for a while, because suddenly I felt a presence behind me.
            “Need any assistance?” a man asked me, his voice an undeniably sexy rumble.
            I turned my head, startled from my reverie. The stranger was tall and lean, dressed in dark jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. I wondered if there was a color for what he was offering—and if that imaginary hanky were worn on the left would it mean “provides assistance” and if worn on the right mean “needs assistance”? Clearly, I was out of my league.
            The man smiled at me. He had a nice smile, dark curly hair, the type of gray eyes that have always made me think of the stained glass—as if an inner light is shining through.
            “Are you looking for something special?” he asked, and his voice caressed me once more. His fingers strolled through the different bins, lingering on the various wants head/cocksucker (light blue), wears boxer shorts/likes boxer shorts (paisley).
            “How do people keep these things straight?” I asked.
            “We don’t get a lot of straight here,” he said, grinning.
            “No, really.”
            “There are a few main popular ones,” he said, shrugging, “the rest are more for show.”
            “And the popular ones are…”
            He faced me again, and he said once more but in a more suggestive voice, “Are you looking for something special?”
            When I first considered cruising the gay scene, I knew I would be at a deficit. Not only am I shy—ungodly shy—but I’m also colorblind. I don’t mean that in the “we are the world” way—although I honestly don’t care about a lover’s nationality as long as there’s chemistry. No, I mean, there are colors I can’t see. Or colors I see wrong. So that if I were to walk into a bar and note a pale blue hanky in a guy’s back pocket, and think—oh, cocksucker—I could be way off base. The blue might be pink, and I might accidentally pick up an “armpit freak,” or a “cowboy’s horse.” Not that there’s anything wrong with those desires—they just don’t happen to be mine.
            The hanky code—which could have helped me get around what my shyness prevented me from discovering—was truly the bane of my existence.
            I lamented my problem to the stranger at the sex toy store on the Castro, and he asked matter-of-factly, “Why don’t you simply buy a hanky, slip it into your back pocket, and wait for the right man to find you?”
            “I can’t wait,” I said, and I knew I sounded breathless. Then, worried, I asked, “Does that sound stupid?”
            “No,” he said, “it sounds honest. How long have you been in town?”
            Was it that obvious? “Two days.“
            “What’s your name?”
            “Daniel.”
            “Daniel, I’m Lem.” He took a step closer to me, and I could feel the heat coming off him. I was almost dizzy from our connection. Screw the colors, I wanted him to take me right there, kiss me, press me up against the wall of hankies and…
            “What fetish were you looking for?” he asked.
            I swallowed hard. I’m shy, like I said. And I have such a difficult time—have always had a difficult time—asking for what I want. But here it was, my chance. I wasn’t going to let this go. “Bondage,” I whispered.
            He smiled and looked at me. “Gray.” He didn’t ask if I were bottom. He didn’t have to. He took me from the wall of hankies and into the toys, grabbed up a few different devices, and then led me out the back door to his pick-up truck.
            “Don’t you have to pay for those?”
            “Not when you own the store,” he said. We drove to his house in the Marina, and when we got to the spot, he said, “You have a safeword?”
            I shook my head.
            “Let’s go with hanky,” he said, and he winked at me. He was obviously enjoying himself. I will admit that I was, too. My dick was rock hard in my 501s. But I was also nervous. I’d been craving this forever, and I didn’t know what to do, how to move forward, what to say. My fantasies rarely featured much dialogue. I guess my fear was evident, because Lem put his hand on my back.
            “Don’t worry so much,” he said, and he led me into his house, to his bedroom and stripped me of my boots, jeans, and shirt. He had me cuffed to his bed in a matter of minutes, my wrists anchored above me, my legs apart. My cock stood at attention, begging for release, but he ignored my erection.           
            “So you were looking for a hanky,” he said.
            “Yeah.”
            “Because you wanted someone to give you what you wanted.”
            I nodded.
            “So what do you want?”
            I rattled the chains. “This.”
            “What else?”
            I’d rarely gotten past this image. My fantasies had almost always ended here, with me tied to a bed. The tying had been what was important. The being unable to go. Except I’d had to go far in order to get to this place. I’d had to leave my small, dull hometown in the Midwest, ride a bus for a miserable amount of hours, hole up in the cheapest hotel I could find, and then walk into a sex toy store in order to make my dreams come true.
            Sure, there had been a few stolen kisses in my past. A drunken night behind a bar when a man I’d known forever made a move and I let him touch me. But I hadn’t ever told anyone what I truly desired. I hadn’t figured out how.
            Lem said, “Use your imagination, boy. What next?”
            I sighed and said, “Let me come.”
            “That’s it? Bind you down and make you come? I don’t think so…”
            I closed my eyes. I tried to figure out what he’d want me to say. I saw the images in the magazines I’d been jerking off to for years. Lem came close to me. He kissed me and then bit my bottom lip hard, startling me with the pain. I opened my eyes and stared into his. “Daniel. What do you want me to do?”
            I said, “Hurt me,” and I felt my dick leak a little pre-come.
            “Yes,” he said, nodding. “That’s what comes next.”
            He undid my ankles and easily flipped me on the mattress, my wrists still bound over my head. Then he retied my legs, and he stood at the side of the bed.
            “We’ll start with a paddle,” he said. “Don’t come on my sheets. I won’t like that.”
            I sucked in my breath and waited. He started to spank me. As he did, he said, “Fuchsia’s the hanky for those who like to be spanked. What color is fuchsia for you?”
            “Gray,” I murmured.
            He spanked me harder and I worked to not buck my hips against the mattress. The friction of the position made me feel as if I might climax at any minute.
            “Yellow is for people who like golden showers. What color is yellow for you?”
            “Gray,” I told him. I was having a harder time speaking now, and my cock was a living, beating muscle of desire. What would he say if I told him I couldn’t hold back?
            “Blue is oral sex,” he said. “What’s blue to you?”
            I sighed, “Gray… I’m going to come.”
            “Not yet!” He dropped the paddle and climbed onto the mattress behind me. He undid my ankle restraints and pulled me up on my knees. I felt lube between my asscheeks, and I groaned as he slid one finger into my hole. “I’m going to fuck you,” he said, adding another finger, stretching me open. “And then you can come.”
            I nodded at his words, thinking, You’d better fuck me quick, then, because this is all too much for me. He finger-fucked me a few more seconds, and the he was in motion, pressing the big head of his fat cock to my backdoor, giving me a second to grow accustomed to the sensation before slamming all the way home. I was crying at the way that he filled me up, the way he made me his. His cock rode me hard and fast. There wasn’t a hanky color for what I was feeling—taken and used and fulfilled and needed. Or if there were, it would have been a rainbow.
            “What color are your eyes?” I asked, suddenly needing to know. “Are they green or blue?”
            “Gray,” he said, and he reached his hand under my body and milked my dick for me until I was shooting, coming all over his fist and my belly and his blankets. I worried for a second, since he’d told me he wouldn’t like that, but then I let the worry go. He was making me come after all. He shot his load a second later, filling me up with his spend, then pulling out and staring down at me. I didn’t think he was going to let me go for a minute, but he did, undoing the cuffs and taking me with him into the shower.
            “You wanted bondage,” he said. “You came to a big city, looking for bondage, and you were lost, weren’t you?”
            I nodded. He was working the soap over me in the shower—his beautiful eyes smiling at me, his big hands roaming over my body.
            “Poor baby,” he said, kissing me under the spray, fisting my dick once more as the water rained down on us. “The hanky for bondage is gray,” he said, and he started to laugh. “And when you looked at that wall, all you saw were fifty shades of…”
            “Don’t say it,” I begged him, and I silenced his mouth with my own.

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If you like the piece, please check out some of Dante's other work. He's got a sizzling story in Violet Blue's delicious collection: Filthy Housewives, and he's the co-author of Bondage on a Budget—which will be celebrating its 20th anniversary in print in 2017!

XXX,
Alison