October 25, 2014
Sometimes I'm a little baffled by how excited I can still be for a new project. I mean, I have been doing this for quite awhile now. We've passed the 5, 10, 15, 20 marks. We're way into double-digits. We can count decades. And yet I stayed up late working on a new story and woke up early to pen a foreword.
The latest collection I'm producing will have one brand-new long story ("All Things to All Women") and a trio of flash-stories (each about 1500 words). The three flashers are linked and deal with the fetish of watching a girlfriend with another man—and fucking her after she's been fucked. The stories ("The Keymaster," "The Key," "The Keyhole") are making me supremely happy. I'm sort of rocking here wanting to post them now. But I need another day, another set of edits, another cup of Joe.
But if you were wondering, my power is definitely on.
Hence the picture.
And yet, this post has a double meaning. Because when I visited Sommer Marsden's blog yesterday, I saw that she'd posted two of my books in her sidebar, recommending my titles to her readers. And I thought—holy fuck (I think that a lot because I have a filthy, filthy mind), this is power. This is the power of writers helping writers try to make a splash in this nearly impossible environment.
What if we all did that? What if we promoted each other in little surprise ways like this—posting covers, pimping stories, sharing the wealth. Read a book you liked? Put up the cover and a link. Discover an author you think is fabulous—give an unexpected shout out, an unplanned review.
Yes, a lot of people already do this. I know. But for some reason, the thought hit me last night that we all could—every one of us. Fuck self-promotion. Do the opposite. We could be a flash-mob of indies. We could all rise on that tide.
That's power. And the power is on.
October 24, 2014
This one may be my favorite yet. The book will be available (fingers crossed) by Tuesday. This one features seven stories—four that are brand-new, never published, hanging on the clothesline to dry. If you would like to review one of the collections, please drop me a note to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com. I'm spreading the word as hard as I can!
My other two newbies are Alison on the Rocks and Alison on Top. Photos for all of these collections are taken by the extremely talented Riendo. Her work delights and excites me. Her magic eye makes me want to be a better writer.
Alison on Top received a fab review this week: "I don't think I've ever been as jealous of a fictional character as I am right now of Nate in the story 'WYSIWYG.' Fantastic story of a young cocky guy put in his place by two sexy dominant women."
Seriously grateful. Thank you so much. I'm over the moon!
October 23, 2014
I love the concept of my "E is for Expert" column. I feel really lucky to be able to put my finger on so many different experts in the erotic field. For my latest topic, the experts overflowed my inbox with their exceptional information, which is why I've divided this one into multiple orgasms. I mean, posts.
My original query was based on the fact that I often have people land on my blog based on search strings regarding male anal penetration. So I wrote to a slew of my favorite erotic educators and said: "I thought we’d simply take it slow. Imagine you’re talking to an anal novice. Or even someone wanting to broach the topic with a partner. What do you recommend? What is the proper procedure?"
The first response was from Karen Blue. You can read her suggestions here.
Now I have Erotic Powerhouse Violet Blue, who wrote:
Some guys may try out pegging, or have strong sexual interest in anal play, and find that it raises uncomfortable questions or difficult, confusing feelings. This can also happen when the stimulation is accompanied by a fantasy that doesn't match how we see ourselves. It's easy to feel out of control when it comes to things we don't understand, especially when they trigger strong emotional feelings and sexual impulses, or sexual shame. Think about where your feelings of shame and confusion are coming from; stop giving someone else your power. Learn as much as you can about anal play, and how it makes you feel by asking yourself questions, and checking in with yourself often.
Perhaps your discomfort doesn't come from an outside-the-norm fantasy, but instead it raises upsetting questions about sexual orientation. Scenarios involving male anal penetration play can be as simple as a man masturbating in the shower while sensuously soaping his bottom with a finger, or as ritualized as having his female partner dressing as a man in a "gender swap" strap-on sex scene. Neither scenario means that the guy is gay, transgender or wants to become something he's not.
But male anal play can be frightening if you don't understand how it works, how common it is, or how you feel about it, and the feelings can be so strong they challenge your ideas about your sexual identity in ways that make you feel uncomfortable. Many guys don't see it that way at all, but simply as use anal penetration play (and fantasies) as just another sex toy or masturbation aid.
Meanwhile, some men might feel so strongly they embrace the challenges to their sexual identity, allowing the transformation to shape their sexual identities into configurations that are much more comfortable for the individual than their original manifestations. Either way, don't believe the bullshit bro stereotypes about things, sex acts, people, or lifestyles that can "make you gay." It's hurtful hype designed to shame men, pure and simple.
Male anal penetration cannot make you make you gay, bisexual, or change who you are attracted to, or how you sexually identify. It will also not show you what it's really like to be gay. It does not mean you are transsexual, transgender either, though for those individuals it might be a step (among many other steps) toward feeling comfortable with who they really are. It's also important to point out that a number of gay men aren't into anal sex, giving or getting.
Playing with male anal penetration does not indicate that any individual is "confused" about their sexual orientation or gender. Being a man and playing with your ass during sex doesn't mean you want to be gay, or for your wife to be a man. Anal penetration play is just that.
Beautiful. Perfect. This is exactly what I was hoping for!
About the Expert: Ms. Violet Blue is an award-winning sex author and columnist, making her the foremost expert in the field of sex and technology. She travels to hacker conferences and hacker gatherings around the world to cover hacking, cybercrime and personal privacy violations in countries such as Malaysia, Germany, Morocco, China, the Dominican Republic, the United States, and Serbia. Visit her at TinyNibbles and follow her on Twitter.
More experts to come...
October 22, 2014
We're back—see, for some reason I keep wanting to be a "we"—with another "Go Ask Alison" query. This one comes from Jenne Davis, who is also known as CliticalJenne. She has been putting together her first book, and she recently wrote to say:
I have so many emotions going through me as this project gets closer to the finish line, the main one being fear. I'm doubting myself more. I keep wondering what people will think, will people love it or hate it—you know, the usual roller coast that I would imagine all writers go though. Any tips on how to stop the doubt creeping in and taking over?
Alison Answers: Welcome to my world. I question all of my projects. Seriously. Even after all these years, I worry with every single story. Will readers understand my goals? Will they appreciate my characters? Will the get the gist of my concepts?
One way I've learned to combat fear is to find solid beta readers. People who like your style but will be honest with their reactions to your latest work. It's important, in my opinion, to listen only to readers who can be positive with their critiques. Early on, I asked a friend to read my novel in progress and he was so harsh with his criticism I never was able to muster the nerve to finish the book. I'm more selective now with who I ask for feedback. Super helpful readers have included Sophia Valenti, Vida Bailey, Helena Black, A.M. Hartnett, Oleander Plume, Jade A. Waters.
Also important to me—friends you can whimper to while you're slamming yourself against the project. Sommer Marsden has talked me off several writing ledges. Violet Blue has held my hand. Thomas Roche has ridden shotgun.
Finally, there are your fans. Readers who are happy to read and review your book early on, so you can have some happy stars up on Amazon. There's no special trick to getting these. I'm grateful for every one. Angell Brooks rocks my world. Jeremy makes me smile. Karen Blue makes me want to write just for her.
Now, I'm happy to toss this query out to other writers. How do you get over doubt? Tricks? Tips? Tequila?
About the askee: Jenne Davis can generally be found working on her website Clitical.Com. Clitical is a site devoted to female sexuality but mostly the art of female masturbation. She is currently busy working on her new book, "The Clitical Guide To Female Self Pleasure," that is due to be released in May 2015.
October 21, 2014
Yes, I'm back. (I keep trying to write "we're back," as if I am a plural noun, when really, I'm not.) The second part of today's "two-fer" is dedicated to Saskia Walker's sizzling collection of short stories: Unleashed.
This excerpt is from the seductive Sign Your Name:
Molly stared at the pen in his hand, immediately aroused and self-aware. The key to her kink was right there in his hand. She liked to be written on-in fact it aroused her to the point where she could come from that act alone. This was the time to show him, then she could see how he would react.
She took a deep breath. "Tell you what…" Her voice sounded shaky, and she hated that. She didn't want this to go wrong. She wanted him. Badly. "Why don't you give me your number? It'll be better that way. Really, I promise. "
Before he could question her, or show doubt about why she'd said that, she shoved her forearm out across the counter between them, pulling up the sleeve of her top. She ran her finger up and down the soft, sensitive skin on the inside of her forearm. "Write it…here. Please. "
Would he laugh at her? One corner of his mouth was still lifted and stayed that way. He toyed with the pen, his eyes assessing. Her breath was trapped in her throat. A moment later he slowly moved one hand and held her wrist down on the counter with it, while he began to write on the spot she had indicated with the other.
His hand around her wrist was warm and strong, sure. And then-oh. The pressure he applied through the ballpoint on her skin made her nerves leap, the sensation chasing itself up her arm and through her body, flooding her with arousal. She bit her lip.
He looked up from the place he was writing and back at her. She could tell he'd sensed this wasn't just about exchanging numbers. A needy moan escaped her lips.
He stared. One eyebrow lifted, the pen, also. "Did I hurt you?"
"No. "She could barely get that one small word out, and when she did, it was with a breathless, relieved sigh."I like it. "She shrugged."It makes me really hot. I'm wired weird. I just wanted you to know. Up front. "
She snatched her arm away, bracing herself for the disbelieving laughter, the snide remark. Tension hung in the air between them, seemingly endless. Then he looked down at the countertop. What was he thinking?
He glanced up. "Kinky girl, huh?"
She stared him directly in the eye, her heart beating fast as she braced herself for rejection. "Does it bother you?"
"Quite the opposite," he replied, and flashed her a grin. "If I know what turns you on, it gives me power… and it just so happens I like to be in charge."
Oh, that made her hot. It was so far from what she had expected him to say, so direct. And then he moved. In a heartbeat, he levered himself over the counter, jumping lithely down onto her side of it. For the first time, he had breached the physical divide between them-and he'd brought the pen with him. Holding it aloft in his hand, he put his free hand on her shoulder and walked her through the rails of plastic-covered clothes, backing her toward the wall behind those rails, out of sight of the shop front. He cornered her up against the wall.
Her body pulsed with the thrill of his actions.
He grasped her two hands easily in one of his, and lifted her chin with the pen under her jaw, an action that shot sensation down her neck and chest, right into her hardening nipples. She gasped for breath, her eyes closing and her head moving back to lean against the wall.
"Oh yes, it really does it for you, doesn't it. How bad is it?"
He still had of the pen under her jaw, controlling the position of her head and where she could look. Could she tell him? Her eyes were shut and she kept them that way. "I need it."Her voice was a mere murmur. "It's crazy, but I can't come any other way, not the way I do if…"
When her voice trailed off, he moved the pen just enough to apply pressure to the sensitive flesh beneath her jaw. Her eyes flashed open.
"Is this making you wet?"
He was close, staring at her, his eyes bright and focused. The curiosity she had sensed in him had multiplied. He was aroused by her responses; his body shifting close against hers, one knee pressed against the wall at the side of her body.
He gave a soft chuckle. "You know, Molly, I used to wonder about you when I came in here. I liked the way you looked, very pretty but different, and always thinking…always with the sexy eyes. There was something else though, wasn't there. You were always playing with your pen, always sucking on the end of it. Couldn't just be ready for the next customer, I figured. Couldn't quite work out what it was, but it made me hard just watching you play with the damn thing. "His voice turned husky, right at the end there.
"Are you hard now?" She flashed her eyes, her responses rolling out readily.
His grip on her wrists tightened and he moved the back of her contained hands against the zipper on his jeans. "Well, what do you think?"
Beneath the black denim he wore, his cock was rigid.
Her skin tingled with awareness when he brushed it over that spot. She nodded. He moved the pen, lifting it from beneath her jaw and taking it down to the hem of her miniskirt. Putting it under the fabric and between her thighs, he tapped it from side to side then up and down, making her thighs tremble with the need for a deeper mark, the pressure, and the stain-the written evidence on her body.
He let go her wrists, and lifted her skirt right up, exposing her. "Ooh, white cotton panties. Just like a blank page. "
She stepped from one foot in the other, wired. "You're torturing me," she breathed.
"Maybe this will help."He ran the pen down the front of her panties, pushing both pen and fabric into the groove of her pussy.
Her flesh blazed under that touch. She glanced down to look at the solid line he had drawn, but he was still moving the pen, pressing deeper into her groove, rolling over her clit. When she gave a sudden gasp, he paused and concentrated on the same spot, drawing back and forth over it. A jaggedy blue scribble was forming right over the spot.
Saskia Walker is an award-winning British author of erotic fiction. Her short stories and novellas have appeared in over one hundred international anthologies as well as several international magazines including Cosmo, Penthouse, Bust, and Scarlet. Fascinated with seduction, Saskia loves to explore how and why we get from saying "hello" to sharing our most intimate selves in moments of extreme passion.
After writing shorts for several years Saskia moved into novel-length projects. Her erotic single titles include The Burlington Manor Affair and the Erogenous Zones trilogy. Her novels Double Dare and Rampant both won Passionate Plume awards and her writing has twice been nominated for a RT Book Reviews Reviewers' Choice Award. Nowadays Saskia is happily settled in Yorkshire, in the north of England , with her real-life hero, Mark, and a houseful of stray felines. You can visit her website for more info. www.saskiawalker.co.uk
Please stop by tomorrow for a new installment of "Go Ask Alison." I'm juggling so many themes right now, I can hardly keep up with myself!
Last week I created (if "created" means "stole right off the radio") the concept of posting Two-Fer Tuesdays on my blog. I sort of madly love the idea of a double-shot from one author. Gosh, I guess I could have called it double-shot Tuesday—but where's the alliteration in that? Today, I'll be posting two pieces by the seriously talented Saskia Walker, an author I've been lucky enough to work with for more than a decade.
First up is a free story that she penned for one of my early collections. The piece is here for your enjoyment in its entirety. (How cool is that? It's like Christmas in October!) About mid-day, I'll be back to post the second part of this exciting event.
This story is one of my favorites by Ms. Walker. Romantic, erotic, flat-out filthy. The sex is searing, but the raw emotion matches the sensuality beat for beat.
Alone in her bed, Juliet lay with her sheets twisted between her arms and legs, thinking about Christopher. Wanting him. Craving him. There was a point where her physical desire for him had turned into an all-consuming hunger. Since then, she had been continually restless with need. Finding sleep was no longer easy. The longing she felt for that one person whose shared passion would provide her lifeline, her relief, had long since become overwhelming.
“Christopher Bardsley, what on earth have you done to me?” she whispered into the night, and a smile passed over her lips.
She felt high at times, at others wretched. Her fierce physical desire also manifested itself in a painful, gnawing ache that emanated out from between her thighs, through her core, as far as her throat and mind, where she was tortured with memory and longing. Her fingers tightened on her rumpled sheets, as did her thighs, her body rolling restlessly. Masturbation just left her hungry for what she couldn’t have, a particularly cruel twist of fate. She needed to express herself to him, to join their bodies together again. And he was so far away. Over four hundred miles, to be precise. It might as well have been ten thousand, the way she felt.
She was at home in London, trying unsuccessfully to focus on her freelance journalism—her one and only love before she met him—and he was off the coast of Scotland, on the Isle of Arran. That’s where she’d met him, interviewing him as part of a series of features on unusual people who had forced their careers to fit their lives, instead of allowing the opposite to happen.
Christopher owned and ran a major Internet provisions company. He’d built it up from nothing, but when he’d inherited his uncle’s farming land in the south of Arran, he’d decided to up sticks and move there. He managed his Internet company from an entirely different kind of base, in order to maintain the traditions of his family line, making both aspects of his life work.
Juliet had traveled up by train and ferry to meet him, and found herself stunned by the beauty of Arran, even as she looked at it from the windswept ferry on the approach to the port of Brodick. It was this landscape that had motivated his monumental move, his choice to oversee the farm, meshing a long-standing farming lifestyle with that of a modern day businessman.
“I came to look at the place, and I experienced the lure of the island. I’d visited as a child, and I had very fond memories of the farm, but as an adult who has traveled the world, it just took hold of me.” He observed her as he spoke, turning a heavy tumbler in his hand, warming the rich local malt whisky it contained.
She nodded, feeling the place and its master instill their lure in her, too. Sitting opposite him on the sofa, sipping the fine scotch, her desire ran rampant. From his hand nursing the glass, to the strong outline of his thighs through his black jeans, he drew her attention in every way. Desire thrummed in her every pulse point, her blood racing, her lips eager to brush against the firm line of his mouth.
As soon as she saw him, she wanted him. He said it was the same for him, too. She’d booked into a B&B, but never spent a single night there. Arriving at his house, she saw him in action, instructing the land workers for the following day, answering a call from Denmark in the next moment.
“What drives you?” she asked, later that evening, as they sat in his comfortable sitting room after a dinner prepared by his housekeeper. It was a question she'd asked all the men and women she had interviewed for the series.
“The need to make the impossible work.” He paused, and the corners of his mouth lifted in an insinuating smile. “What drives you?”
No one had ever turned the question on her before, and it wasn’t something she had ever thought about, but still she knew the answer. “The need to express myself, I guess.”
He nodded. “I’ve read your work; you express yourself well. I’d like to see more than that, though.” His gray-green eyes twinkled. He asked her questions, found out things she didn’t even know about herself.
“Are you interviewing me now?”
He smiled. “Kind of.” He looked her over with an unambiguous stare. “I’m sure I could find you an appropriate position.” The expression he wore was filled with raw, uncompromising sexuality, that aspect of his personality just as forthright as every other.
She gave a soft laugh. “I’m sure you could.” They both knew it was going to happen, but they talked on, savoring the rich sense of anticipation that built between them.
What was it about him?
She’d never met a man so intensely male, that was for sure. There was an inbuilt sense of power about him, and yet he wasn’t blatant or egotistical. It was a calm, self-assured way that he had. He wasn’t classically handsome, either. His dark hair was unruly, his body built large and strong. He’d had a rough childhood, but that only seemed to make him steadfast and sure of what he wanted in life. She ached to have him over her, to feel him thrusting into her.
“What’s life without a few risks,” he commented, and she knew he wasn’t just talking about business ventures. He put his glass down and reached out to touch her face.
She’d never been shy about letting a man know what she wanted. “I’m right with you on that one.” She turned her face into the palm of his hand, kissing it, opening her mouth to taste his skin.
Their kisses were raw, needy, while they stripped each other with eager hands. The first time was hard and fast, right there on the rug in front of the log fire. She welcomed the hard strength his body, hungry for it, her cunt hot and grabbing, holding him tight as he pulled back and lunged. As they got closer to the climax, he raised up on his arms, looking down at her with searching eyes, and she latched her legs over his shoulders, sucking him ever deeper. The climax hit her in a dizzy, wild rush, and he followed fast, one hand pressing her pubic bone down onto his cock, the pressure releasing a second wave of pleasure through her.
Her fingers knotted in his hair when he lay over her, holding him close. Something unstoppable had been set in motion between them. He’d kissed and touched her everywhere, before he carried to her to his bed and fucked her again, slowly, taking shallow strides, making her mad for it. He laughed softly when she begged him for more, looking at her in the light that spilled in through the large picture window. The sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs was all that had anchored her to the reality of the moment, when he drove the length of his cock inside her, filling her to overfull.
She’d phoned the agency, called in sick, something she’d never done before, lengthening her stay on the island, lengthening her time with him.
“Tell me now, what do you want?” he said against her ear, whilst he screwed her from behind.
“I want it to last and last,” she’d cried out, poised on the edge of her orgasm. “I want to feel your cock right through me.” Moaning loudly, she drove back onto him, spilling down her thighs as she came. He’d pulled out, pacing himself when he got too close, giving her exactly what she wanted. He possessed her over again, until she could barely move and her cunt was blissfully sore, riotous with sensation from fucking, her mind and body senseless with multiple, rolling orgasms. When she collapsed on the bed, he knelt over her, taking his cock in his hand. She caught sight of the pent-up ecstasy and pain of his held-back release in his expression. In that moment she saw it all, this was a man who got what he wanted, who worked for it, no matter how hard, no matter what the sacrifice. He came over her belly. Panting hard, he bent over her, rubbing his semen over her breasts and torso.
“Yes, yes,” she begged, “stain me, mark me.”
His expression was fiercely possessive as he marked his territory, the ritualized action making her feel gloriously proud as she lay sated in his arms.
They barely slept, afraid to waste the precious time together. Instead they fucked hard, then made love slow. They lay awake in the moonlight communicating with mouths, fingers, and tongues. They explored each other almost continually, talking endlessly, then rolling together, his mouth on her pussy and hers on his cock, devouring each other.
“Why did you come here?” he whispered with a dark smile, one night, in the midst of their passion.
“I’m not so sure anymore,” she replied, joyous laughter escaping her mouth.
She’d never expressed herself so thoroughly, giving everything, opening herself in ways that she hadn’t even considered possible. He confessed he was stubbornly independent, and she knew that alone made this hard for him. She recognized that was why he was alone. Too focused for his own good.
In the daytime, he drove her across the island to the rougher landscape of the north, where he took her down to the cliffs. The blustery autumnal winds nudged them up against shoreline. Their words and laughter were lifted on the whirling wind around their heads before disappearing.
“Come here, I have to be inside you now,” he’d said, and backed her against the cliff wall. He opened her coat and lifted her skirt, his hands moving fast into the heat of her. Over his shoulder she saw that the tide was coming in, the waves rolling over the sand in the timeless embrace between land and sea.
“Now?” she replied, weak with desire, emotion catching in her throat.
He answered by stripping her underwear down her legs, knocking off one shoe and lifting one leg in his hand, before plunging deep inside her.
She was acutely aware of the rough rock at her back as he rode her against the ancient cliff face, lifting her bodily with each thrust. “The tide is coming in,” she cried, her hands around his head.
“There’s enough time,” he replied, hoarsely, and she gave in to his overwhelming need.
She’d never been fucked the way he fucked her, like he was claiming her to the core, to the very soul. And now, lying alone in her bed in London, it was driving her slowly insane with need.
I want that now.
Flinging the sheet away, she got up and pulled on a T-shirt. Uselessly, she wandered to her desk, where she nudged the mouse. The screen flickered into life as she sat down. There was an email from the main news agency she took assignments from. She’d been ignoring it all day. They were asking if she’d finished the Arran article yet, and if they could have the title, ASAP.
Sighing, she clicked over to the unfinished document. At first, she told herself that when she finished up the article, she’d get over it. Only then would the pain and the intense desire begin to fade. Then, as she found how hard it was to finish, she realized she didn’t actually want to, because she didn’t want to break that connection with Christopher.
“Face it, girl, you’ve got it bad,” she murmured, as she looked over the copy. And the worst of it was that it hurt. Hurt bad. Being in love was a screwed-up painful thing, if you were apart from the one you love.
Her phone bleeped into life. Picking it up, her spirits lifted and she smiled at the name on the screen.
“I didn’t wake you did I?” His voice.
“Hey you,” she said. “Nope. I can’t sleep. Thinking about you.”
He gave a soft growl. “Good.”
“I can hear the sea. Where are you?”
“In the bedroom, standing by the window, looking at the empty bed, wishing you were in it.”
“Wanting to make the impossible work?” she teased.
“With a fury.”
His tone had a low intensity about it that melted her. She bit her lip, her head dropping back. She could just picture him. Reaching over, she flicked her monitor off, allowing the enveloping darkness to take over. If he were by the window in his bedroom, the moonlight would be at his back. In her mind’s eye, she touched his outline, reaching out for him with every atom of her body. Between her thighs she was hot and wet, her inner flesh clutching rhythmically, wanting him there.
“Touch yourself, now,” he instructed.
The pulse in her groin beat wildly in response to his words. Her free hand moved between her thighs, her fingers dipping into her well of slick heat, the palm of her hand crushing her clit.
“Do you want me there?” His tone was demanding, almost desperate.
“Make yourself come, let me hear you.”
She put one foot up on the edge of the desk, opening her legs wide. He was breathing close to the mouthpiece, and the sound fueled her.
“Describe it, tell me how it feels.”
“I’m swollen, I’ve been thinking of you all evening. My clit is hard, so sensitive.” Almost too sensitive, it stung as she flicked it. “Oh God.”
“Come, please…let me hear you.”
She moved her hand, her cunt locking on one hard finger, hips moving back and forth, palm rocking against her clit. Her moan of release was long and breathless.
“I wish I was there.”
She laughed breathlessly. “So do I, believe me.”
“It’s not getting any easier, is it?” he commented, with a dry laugh.
“No,” she agreed. “I’m going to finish the article tonight,” she whispered, before she said good-bye.
“That’s bad isn’t it?”
She couldn’t help smiling. He knew that she had been dragging her heels. How had he come to know her so well? A feeling of destiny surrounded her. “No. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I’m not going to let it be a bad thing, Christopher.” In the moment of silence, she sensed his relief.
“Remember what I said.”
Her heart brimmed. On their last night together they had lain silently in each other’s arms, talking whilst barely speaking, drinking each other in through their eyes. When dawn broke through, he’d fed her breakfast in bed before taking her out to walk across the land. On the hilltop, there was an early morning mist that seemed to hold them to the ground they stood upon. He told her then that he wanted her to come back, that he’d be there for her. Deep inside, she already knew that. She put her fingers to his lips and sank into his embrace, wishing they could stay shrouded in the mist forever. Far too soon, the midmorning sun broke through and it was time for her to catch the ferry to the mainland.
“I remember everything you said,” she whispered into the phone. “And you’re right. You always were. What’s life without a few risks? I want to be with you.”
“In that case, I’ll move back to London.”
For a moment, she was stunned. “No way. You belong there.” She paused. “Christopher, trust me, I can make the impossible work, too.”
It was the first time she had ever heard any hint of vulnerability in his voice, and that told her everything she needed to know.
“Yes, love. You’ve made me braver.”
When they finally said good-bye, she poured herself the last measure of Arran malt from the bottle Christopher had hidden in her overnight bag when she left, and sipped it slowly, savoring its rich, full-bodied taste. Switching on her monitor, she typed a letter to the agencies she worked for, informing them of her upcoming change of location, flagging up her availability for assignments in Scotland and the north.
Turning to the article, she rubbed her hands together and added her conclusion. Despite her earlier unwillingness, it took her only moments to complete the article. Now that the decision had been made, everything fell into place. Finally, she scrolled to the top, smiling to herself, and added the title: Arran’s Lure: making the impossible scenario work, despite the odds.
Tune in around noon for the next portion of today's schedule!
October 20, 2014
Out of the blue, this query fell into my consciousness yesterday:
What was your favorite ever skit on Saturday Night Live?
I am so curious! I have almost too many to mentally organize. My knowledge of SNL probably ends in the early 90s, but a few years ago, I went back and watched several seasons from the beginning. So there are more in my head than I used to have. Simply the musical acts were worth absorbing repeatedly.
I'm very curious about what moments were stand-outs for you. Landshark? Cheeseburger? Jane, you ignorant slut?
P.S. Answered last week's question? Drop me a note at msalisontyler so I can reward you with a wee little prize!
October 19, 2014
As you can see, I've been busy. Here is my second new collection of short stories—this one with a bar theme. If you gaze behind the handsome bartender—oh, gosh, I think he just winked at you!—you'll be able to see the stories up on the menu:
Stirring Up Trouble
The pieces have appeared in previous collections—although some are no longer in print and nearly impossible to locate. The kink—and there is plenty of kink—covers gangbangs, spanking, anal, bondage, menage, humiliation, punishment, and more.
I've pushed the envelope this time, with stories written from the point of view of a cocktail waitress, a bisexual male furnisher refurbisher, a wife on the verge of her first gangbang, a woman on a date with the type of sadistic man she's never run into before....
The book should be live by tomorrow, and I'm on the edge of my barstool to hear what people think. The cover is by the ridiculously talented Riendo who always makes my heart beat faster.
In other news, Publishers Weekly—which is the holy grail of magazines for writers—gave my latest collection a starred review. I'm so unbelievably pleased I cannot even say. The original spark for the idea occurred nearly eight years ago, and even with a title change, the reviewer was able to see my goal. PW said:
"Most of the stories feature the realization of long-held fantasies—about a person, an act, or both—in ways that build a solid emotional basis for the splendid sex. This anthology is a must-read for anyone fancying a bit of play at work."
So authors, please give yourself a gold star for this one!
P.S. Want to review "Alison on Top" or "Alison on the Rocks"? Give me a ring at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.