James Dean, $1000 Bucks, and a Long Summer Night

James Dean, $1000 Bucks, and a Long Summer Night

This three-way story originally appeared in the collection Taboo. This is an excerpt of the review by Greta Christina:

"James Dean, One Thousand Bucks, and a Long Summer Night" by Emilie Paris starts out as a fairly standard (albeit unusually well-rendered) fantasy about a couple picking up a street hustler for a voyeuristic three-way. But as the story unfolds, the wife changes her mind about what she wants -- and takes charge of the scene, directing it into an area she and her husband hadn't anticipated or even agreed on.

The moment when the wife takes control and shifts the fantasy from the standard "man watching his wife fuck another man" to the rather less commonly-seen "newly dominant wife watching her straight husband get fucked by another man" is a moment that's both unnerving and fiercely exciting.

The story gets across the essence of what makes taboos hot -- not simply breaking society's rules and boundaries, but breaking your own, with the excitement of genuinely unfamiliar territory that might actually change your life while it's getting you off.


Excerpt:
For the first time of the evening, I got the gratification that I was onto something, because Arthur said, “But, you know, Charlie. Not without a condom—”

I could have laughed. Was that all he was worried about? The solution was inches away. I reached for the box of condoms in the top drawer of my nightstand and I handed one over to Dean. He put it on like a pro, of course. Then I motioned for Arthur, and my hired hand and I watched my husband undress, slowly, half-scared, kicking out of his shoes and slacks and casual shirt, then standing, unsure, at the foot of the bed.

“You know men, don’t you?” I asked the boy.

“Yeah—”

“So help him out.”

Dean reached for my husband and spread him on the mattress, and he started to rub Arthur’s shoulders and his back, making my man sigh and moan. And then he motioned for me to hand over the lube, and I did, getting closer, close enough to watch this paid-by-the-night prostitute grease up my husband’s asshole with a healthy supply of lube.

“Charlie—” Arthur moaned, and I knew what he was going to say somehow.

“No fucking way,” I told him. “I’m not leaving.” That was the deal. Arthur had bought me a present, and his only stipulation was that he got to watch. Well, the same fucking rules applied for me, as well. But Arthur didn’t want to play by those rules anymore.

By: by Emilie Paris
Photo: Riendo

A Lesson In Seduction

"A Lesson In Seduction" appeared in the collection "Exposed." Set at the infamous Rainbow on Sunset Boulevard, in this rock and roll fantasy, Nick challenges Samantha to find her voice—to tell him in explicit detail exactly what she wants him to do to her. The perfect tale for any closet exhibitionist. (Or out-of-the-close exhibitionist!)

Excerpt:
This scenario tonight was classic Hollywood, with Nick’s roaming fingers running up and down my arm, and his hot breath against my neck as he continued to tell me how I was the one who was going to seduce him. His hand slid over my breasts and he squeezed each one gently, instantly making my nipples hard through the filmy material of my halter. This evening, I wore a skimpy petal pink top with my faded 501s, and I’d dusted blush between my breasts to deepen the valley and draw Nick’s attention there. My trick had worked. Nick palmed both of my breasts, and I moaned out loud, loving how firmly he touched me. The sound surprised me, and I sat up straight, but I knew that nobody was concerned about the fact that we were canoodling in the booth. Waitresses have seen worse at the Rainbow.

Much, much worse.

I must say here that this scenario wasn’t my style at all. Yes, I may have an extremely dirty mind. In fact, I might have already fucked Nick twelve-thousand times before, all in my head, with my legs spread, fingers, dildo, or shower massager playing over my clit. But I hadn’t told him that, and I didn’t think I could. He had other ideas on the subject entirely. He seemed to believe that I was some sort of she-cat, able to stalk her prey...with words if not actions.

“You tell me,” he said.



By Alison Tyler
Photo: Riendo

Not A Voyeur

"Not a Voyeur" originally appeared in the collection "Hide & Seek." Caitlyn insists to her husband Courtney that she is not a voyeur. But when the couple spies a duo fucking across the street, their own secret fetishes become exposed.


Excerpt:
“I’m not a voyeur,” I told my husband Courtney.

“I never said you were,” Courtney murmured from behind the Sports section of the newspaper.

“Really,” I insisted. “I’m not.”

“Why do you keep saying that, Caitlyn?” he asked, sounding part bemused, part annoyed.

“Because of them,” I told him, my voice low.

“Them, who?”

“Those people out there. Fucking.”

Courtney set down his paper. He looked at me with his great green eyes as I pointed out the window, at the apartment across the street, and at the people in the apartment who were screwing each other silly. Without a word, Courtney stood and came to my side, so that we were both pressed against our own window, looking out.
I heard him suck in his breath as he took in the vision.


By: Alison Tyler
Photo: Riendo

Strangers

Strangers

"Strangers" originally appeared in the lesbian short-story collection called Blue Sky Sideways, published by Masquerade Books in 1996.


Excerpt:
I could fix you, I wanted to say. I could make you whole again.

How I wanted to slide one finger into the ringed loop at the zippered neck of her jacket. How I wanted to pull down that zipper and reveal her, knowing somehow that seeing the shell of her skin would wreck me, devour me, consume me. I knew it all—I could visualize how pale her skin would look against the black of her snowsuit, how pink her nipples would be. Wanting to see the chill of the air bring a blushing hue to her all over. Bizarre. Dangerous to have those feelings for a total stranger.

But we weren’t strangers for long.


By Alison Tyler
Photo: Riendo

Counterpane

Counterpane

Counterpane features one hotel room and two couples—a m/f and a m/m. How these two couples interact (or don't) sets the scenario for a delicious and decadent romp!

Excerpt:
“Oh, baby. You’re so wet. Look how wet you get when I lick you here.”

Her cheeks burned as shame flooded through her. She couldn’t speak. Ry’s tongue between her cheeks turned up so many different emotions inside of her. Is that why she’d never let him do that before?

He licked her again, then moved back and pressed the ball of his thumb to her asshole. He didn’t push it in, he simply rested his thumb against her. She waited. He didn’t move. She waited another second. He was as still as she was. Finally, Lia couldn’t stand the tease. She was the one to push back, to thrust back, so that his thumb was inside of her and she was panting.

“You want it, don’t you, you little slut,” he said. She loved when he talked to her like that. His accent made her feel exceptionally dirty. She had no idea why.


By Alison Tyler
Photo: Riendo

Planes, Trains and Banana-Seat Bicycles

Planes, Trains and Banana-Seat Bicycles originally appeared in the collection "The Mile-High Club."

“Planes, Trains and Banana-Seat Bicycles” doesn’t take to the skies, but there are planes involved. In (Alison Tyler’s) skillful hands, that’s all you’ll need to fly.
—Kathleen Bradean, Erotica Revealed

Alison Tyler flexes her prodigious erotic muscle in “Planes, Trains, and Banana Seat Bicycles. I can dig it.”
—SF Bay Guardian

Excerpt:
Adrien kissed his way down my body. He held onto my waist as he nuzzled the tender skin of my inner thighs, licked me right on the indents of my hips, those ticklish spots, before bringing his mouth to my pussy and suckling my clit. I couldn’t think for a minute, couldn’t worry about this vacation that I emphatically did not want to take.

“Don’t we have a perfectly good bed?” Adrien murmured when he stopped for a breath.

I think I nodded. I might have moaned. All thoughts of air travel were replaced by the journey to orgasm as Adrien began to make those looping circles that I love best, love most of all when he has me bound so that I cannot fight. I have to give in. Who’d fight against pleasure like this? Not me. Not really. But being forced to take the endless rotations of his tongue, of his fingers, being fixed in place while he has his way with me, that nearly makes me see stars.

Which reminded me…

“Sasha says there aren’t any lights anywhere. Nothing but the moon and the stars.”

“Really?” Adrien asked, slipping back up my body to reach for something in our toy drawer. Quickly, he placed a blindfold over my eyes and fastened the strap under my smooth, flat-ironed hair. “With a blindfold on, doesn’t matter if there are lights or not.”

Cuffed

Cuffed features three tales of erotic bondage from Sommer Marsden, Alison Tyler, and Sophia Valenti.

From a reader review:

Alison Tyler begins this trilogy with an exquisite show-and-tell journey down the path of bad girl desires. She is descriptive and graphic in this tale of pretty v. plain, proving that there's more to a person than meets the eye, and that sexual satisfaction isn't always wrapped in the package you expect. It's a hot, nasty story.

Then the always inventive Sommer Marsden chimes in with a totally unexpected tale of an inventive former bad boy who get challenged by his wife. It's a story that I want to leave by the bedside table in hopes that my husband will learn a thing or two. And it makes me wonder how true to life some of Sommer's writing is. The sex is written steamy and sexy, and as always, hits the right (g) spot.

Rounding out this smut-fest is Sophia Valenti with a thigh tingling tale of a good cop gone naughty. It's imaginative and descriptive, with real characters who suck you right into the bedroom.


Adults Only, please. These stories sizzle!


Excerpt:
When the cowboy hit the head, I walked over to the corner booth. I didn’t have a plan, but I also didn’t have a choice. I felt magnetically pulled to this stranger’s side.
“You like the pretty boys?”
I shrugged at the stranger.
“He’s going to be all done in five minutes, and you know it. Preening peacock in his pristine hat. He’s going to want you to adore him, when he doesn’t deserve your attention. Not for a second.”
I looked at the crisp shirt, the old-fashioned watch, the scotch with ice.
Shop teacher? I didn’t think so.
“You don’t even like him. You’re too smart for a sleaze like that. But you know the other tarts in here want him. And that’s making you feel special.”
“What are you? A psychiatrist?”
He laughed. “What you need is a spanking.”
“Oh, you think so?” I asked in my best flippant tone. The cowboy thought I needed a margarita and a massage, after a good long soak in his hot tub under the stars. He’d made noises about kissing every inch of my body, about treating me like a princess, pampering me with his hands and his mouth. I hadn’t confessed that a soft touch did nothing but make me squirm.
“You need to be put over my knee and have that little dress lifted up to your waist. You need your ass turned as red as the slutty outfit you’re wearing.”


By Alison Tyler
Photo: Riendo

No Good Deed

"No Good Deed" originally appeared in the collection "Please, Sir."

One reader review says, "No Good Deed by Alison Tyler was a fun tale of a brat with a little enjoyable twist at the end."

Another states, "Alison Tyler’s *No Good Deed* is a mouth-wateringly hot punishment scenario."

Adults only. Spanking, handcuffs, BDSM.

Excerpt:
Only later in the night, when she’d been talking to another man by the bar, had Killian come up behind her.

“Ready to go, baby?”

Like they were a couple. Intrigued, she’d followed his lead, slid on her coat, let him take her by the wrist. She’d been his ever since.

He’d led her to the car, pressed her up against the hood, got his mouth right close to her ear and whispered, “You flirting?”

The hot sensation of guilt flooded through her. Had she been? Well, yeah. But she’d come to the party a single. Single people could flirt. She tried to explain this to Killian, but the look in his eyes stopped her. Finally, stammering, she’d said, “Yes, I was.”

“Honesty’s always the best policy with me, kid,” he said, nodding. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to give you a spanking.”


By Alison Tyler
Photo: riendo

The Lindy Shark

"The Lindy Shark" appeared in BWE 2002, The Mammoth Book of Erotica volume 2, and Exposed. In a review of BWE 02, Rachel Kramer Bussel wrote, "'The Lindy Shark'" by Alison Tyler also touch(es) on bitterness and anger, mixed with passion."

Felice Newman wrote, "Alison Tyler is a pioneer of a kind of erotica that's at once arousing and sophisticated."

Excerpt:
With a single tilt of his head, the man let her know that he’d picked her, and she waited for him to arrive at her side. The girls nearby twittered in hopes that he was coming for one of them.

“I’d let him into my nodbox,” one murmured.

A nodbox was a bedroom, and Clara agreed. She’d definitely let this man crease her sheets. But as the women giggled with delight, she wanted to tell them not to concern themselves with their nerves. The man didn’t have eyes for either one.

He was on his way to Clara.

She felt a rush of nervous excitement that started between her legs and flooded outward. It was rare for her to feel so self-conscious. She had a quality to her moves that came from within, a radiance on the floor that couldn’t be taught. This man had it, too. That’s what she’d been drawn to. Dancing could be a form of foreplay. But at most of these swing sessions, there simply wasn’t been anyone she wanted to take to bed.

As a new song began, Lilly Faye and her Fire-Spittin’ Fellas jumping into the groove, the man reached her side. He didn’t say a word, simply put one hand on her waist and steered her onto the floor. This time, she wouldn’t be passed onto someone new. She and her lindy shark would be partnered for the entire song. Knowing this, she took her time checking him out. Up close, he was even more attractive. Those dark liquid eyes, like a silent film star’s, were infinitely expressive. A deep, inky blue, they shined beneath the crystal chandelier. His hands were large, and firm, and they maneuvered her through the moves with expertise, but didn’t roam where they didn’t belong. That was a surprise. Often men took the opportunity to fondle a partner, something Clara generally found distasteful. Now, she realized, she wouldn’t have minded if his hands had wandered down a bit, if he’d tried a little stroking as they glided together.


By Alison Tyler
Photo: Riendo

Edit Me

Edit Me

"Edit Me," which first appeared in "D Is for Dress-Up," is a story based on Alison Tyler's experience working on a Weekly Paper in Los Angeles. Tyler says, "Throughout the years, only one of my men was truly interested in fashion—consumed with putting on my clothes as opposed to taking them off. Hunter was my editor on the newspaper, my Pygmalion. He changed my entire sense of style, turning me from goth girl to girl Friday. He was why I had those pencil skirts and white blouses, why I wore my hair the way I did, wore my make-up in the style of his choosing. He is featured in 'Edit Me,' and there are certain items in my wardrobe that I can’t wear without getting wet from memories of him. Of the way he’d tilt his head and take in my whole look, before making some minor persnickety adjustment. It was as important to him what went on my body as what he ultimately took off."

Excerpt:
My panties, newly purchased, perfectly polka dot, were drenched. I squirmed, and he admonished me. “You flush so pretty. It’s lovely with your skin. But you shouldn’t squirm around as if you’re uncomfortable. You should soak it all in when a man tells you secrets. You should learn from what he says.”

Soak. That was a good word. That’s what I did.

“Now ask,” he’d say magnanimously, lifting his emerald green bottle of imported beer to his lips. “Ask whatever you want.”

He was fair in that way, always allowing me to quiz him after the lunchtime lessons. I tried to show him that I was learning, that I’d paid attention and memorized the facts. But I wasn’t used to drinking beer during the day, stolen sips from his bottle when the waiter wasn’t watching since I wasn’t old enough to order my own. My mind felt hazy around the edges, and all I could mumble was, “Did she like it?”

A headshake. A frown. I’d asked the wrong question, and I felt as bad as if he’d put me over his lap and spanked me. No, that’s a lie. Because that’s what I wished he would do. I hated to disappoint him. I wanted to make him proud. This was why I spent hours agonizing the leads in my sentences, the clothes in my closet.

“Did she come?” I asked.

That was better. More in-your-face, which he liked coming from me. I was so desperately quiet, so unusually naive. How’d I get like that? He simply couldn’t fathom. I was no L.A. woman. True. A transplanted San Francisco girl, I couldn’t begin to blend in a world of silicone and faux blondes. With my ebony eyes, cherry-lips and long dark curly hair, I didn’t fit in. Hunter liked that. He wanted me to blush less, but be comfortable more. Confidence, he said, was power.

“Of course, she came.”

And then, to show him that I was advancing, that I was finally catching on, I said in as husky a voice as I could manage, “I would have come, too.”


By: Alison Tyler
Photo: Riendo

The Super

The Super


"The Super" originally appeared in the collection Master/Slave. The short story features a too-short skirt, a game of fantasy/dress-up, and a fierce spanking.

Excerpt:
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 denim blue of his Levis, 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 of his jeans, and then I felt the air—that crackle-shiver of moving air—before the leather connected with my upturned ass.


By: Alison Tyler
Photo: Riendo