April 17, 2015

Free Smut Friday!

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

Tightly Tucked received the following review from Lucrezia Magazine: 

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

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

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


April 16, 2015

A Kaleidoscope of Colors

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

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

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

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


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

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


April 15, 2015

Dirty Etymology: Tramp

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

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

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

But wait. What about tramps?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pardon my French


April 14, 2015

Books in the Wild: Tracks

Photo by Dan

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

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

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

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


April 13, 2015

Trollop with a Question #52

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

And then I forgot what it was.

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

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

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

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

For the bonus round: Why?

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


April 12, 2015

The Journal of Literary Sluts

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

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

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

Of course, another writer might have a different definition.

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

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

Ideas welcome.


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

April 11, 2015

Books in the Wild: Remember the Moon

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

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

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

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

 Juxtaposed with razor-sharp lines like:

This is what my life had come to. Christ.

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

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


April 10, 2015

Free Smut Friday

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

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

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

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

April 09, 2015

Yeah, I'm Blushing...

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

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

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

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


April 06, 2015

Trollop with a Question #51

Photo by Sommer Marsden
Seriously, this is question #51, unless I've miscounted. (Which is 100% possible.) I'm pretty proud of myself for being able to maintain a feature for nearly a year. And now I'm blending two ideas in one. I'm taking my #10000flowers and merging it with Trollop with a Question, to celebrate spring and ask:

What's your favorite flower?

Mine are weeds. (Well, maybe not actually weeds, but they sprout like weeds and apparently annoy gardeners.) Grape hyacinths. The miniature ones you see growing in sidewalk cracks. (Wow, while looking for an imagine, I discovered that some grape hyacinths are edible. Who knew? Don't go eating any without doing your own research!)

I will try to snap a photo to share shortly.

If you have photos of flowers to send me, please hit me at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com or tag me on twitter with #10000flowers. Let me know if I can post your picture on my blog and (if so) how you would like to be named.

For extra credit, let me know why the flower is your favorite.

And thank you to everyone who comes by here to answer my Monday questions. You have no idea how happy I am when I see people joining in the conversation!


April 04, 2015

How to Get 10,000 Followers

Hyacinths from Sommer Marsden
Actually, I have no idea. I understand people want 10,000 followers, and I'm always being asked to buy 10,000 followers. But I always read the word as "flowers," which is why I posted this request.

Roses from F. Leonora
And because my readers and friends are dreamy remarkable people, my inbox has been overflowing (I just wrote "overflowering," which seems appropriate) lately with blooms of every variety. You have no idea how happy this makes me.

There is so much negativity online (and, yeah, in the "real world") that a little bit of of genuine beauty can be so fucking inspiring.

Want to join in? You can send me pics of flowers to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com or tag me on twitter with #10000flowers. There is no real point. Other than to scatter a few petals around to make people smile.

At first, I couldn't figure out where I put the pictures people had sent. And then I remembered. My folder is called "Nothing But Flowers."

Butterflyweed from Zac
I will continue to post the pics on my blog to share with you as they bloom. Thank you for playing with me!


April 03, 2015

Free Smut Friday—The Poetry Edition

Check me out! I not only remembered the day of the week, I recalled that I wanted to create a regular (or at least semi-regular) feature: Free Smut Friday.

I mentioned the story "A Loose Interpretation" recently. I wrote the piece back in the wee early 90s. And I've yet to come up with the original version. However, I tweaked the story for publication in 2002, and I tripped over this one in my travels.

Believe it or not, April is National Poetry month. And since this story is based (yes, loosely) on a Sir Thomas Wyatt poem, I thought this was be appropriate for Free Smut Friday—The Poetry Edition.

A Loose Interpretation

They flee from me that sometime did me seek,
With naked foot stalking in my chamber.
—Sir Thomas Wyatt

The phone rings at 1:33 a.m., tearing me from sleep. I fumble for the receiver, knocking over a stack of books on my nightstand. In that haze between sleep and wakefulness, I finally find the phone beneath a t-shirt and mumble something that almost sounds like hello.

“I know exactly what you want.” Your whisper in darkness over the telephone line has me fully awake in a heartbeat, yet I don’t respond. I’m sure if I remain quiet, you’ll keep right on talking. “I know what you need.” The urgency in your deep voice makes me tremble. I clutch the receiver so tightly that the muscles in my hand begin to cramp. “You’re a bad girl, aren’t you?”

I can’t answer. Not yet. But my breathing, heavy, frightened, tells you that I understand.

“Be over here in twenty minutes,” you say, “wear a dress without panties, put your hair in a ponytail, and be natural. No makeup. Got it?”

I nod, although I know full well that you can’t see me, and then I manage to choke out, “Yeah, okay. I’ll be there.”


I hang up the phone and look at the digital clock on the nightstand. 1:35. I get out of bed, flick on the overhead light, and stand naked in front of the mirror on the back of my closet, checking myself out. I run my fingertips lightly over my slim body, cupping my small, firm breasts, circling my waist. After a moment, I move even closer to my reflection, pushing back my blonde hair with one hand and observing the reverse image with the calculated look of a beauty pageant judge: high cheekbones, large green eyes, pouty lips.

I can hear your voice in my head, complimenting me—nice—and I turn in front of the mirror and look myself over one shoulder, an approving smile touching the corners of my mouth. I have slender hips, but a round buoyant ass.


I can imagine you admiring my curves, the contours of my muscles, the sleek lines of the bones beneath my skin. Seeing myself through your eyes, I lift my right hand and spank myself once, hard, watching intently as the purple-outlined print appears on my ass like a brand.

Ten minutes late will be ten strokes.

I open the closet and regard my wardrobe for a moment before choosing a prim pale blue sundress with a lace collar. It’s something a librarian would feel comfortable wearing, something left over from when I was a different sort of girl. The severe style makes my lack of underclothes all the more sexy, and the color of the fabric brings a glow to my eyes, a feverish light.

I twist my silvery curls into a loose knot and capture the ‘do with a tortoise-shell barrette. Then I grab my wallet and car keys, turn out the light, and hurry out the door.

I have seen them gentle, tame and meek
That now are wild and do not remember
That sometime they put themself in danger
To take bread at my hand, and now they range
Busily seeking with a continual change ...

I picture you waiting for me. You’re kicked back on your worn leather sofa, watching an old Bogart film on TV. Every so often you look at the clock, judging the time. Then you gaze back at the television, watching Bogie light a cigarette before you glance back at the clock.

It’s easy for me to picture your every move. At 1:59 you’ll realize that I’m playing with you. You’ll rub one hand over your whiskers, starting to show now even though you shaved after work. You think about the way your beard will feel against my skin when you kiss me.

2:02. I’m in for it now, and that thought makes you harder than hard. We both know full well that the drive to your place takes me ten minutes. But here I am, a full seven minutes late. You’ll have my pretty bottom over your lap the instant I walk through the door. You’ll give me a good, thorough spanking, one that will warm my ass and heat my pussy.

2:04 Now, I’m testing you. And we both know it.

Thanked be fortune, it hath been otherwise
Twenty times better, but once in special.

I sit in my car, one block away from your apartment, watching the numbers change on the dashboard clock. I know that you’ll be mad, be angry enough to give me exactly what I need, just like you promised over the phone. Penance. I shift around in the bucket seat, growing more excited, and especially aware of the wetness because I’m not wearing underpants.

Ten minutes late will be ten strokes.

Maybe you’ll use your belt. God, I want it so badly, to be punished, to be overwhelmed. My heart races as I start the ignition and drive down the street, pulling into your driveway and cutting the engine. Then, trembling slightly, I get out of the car and walk to your studio. I haven’t even knocked on the door when you open it, and you grab me high up on the arm and drag me into the room.

“Naughty girl,” you say. I can hear the smile in your voice, but that doesn’t make you any less severe. In fact, you look particularly stern this evening. Your thick, black hair is combed back off your forehead, and your normally soft brown eyes regard me coldly. “You’re in for it,” you hiss, gripping me even more tightly. “You’re due for a proper hiding.”

To me, this sounds more like a sexy promise than any sort of threat. Still, I know better than to speak, and I wait silently for your command. Will you do it to me on the sofa or take me into the bedroom?

“Put your hands flat against the wall,” you order, surprising me. I turn my back to you and place my palms on the smooth, cool wall, supporting myself. You set one hand firmly in the small of my back, causing me to arch forward, to offer my ass to you like a wonderful gift. You slowly lift my dress, dragging the material along my thighs, taking your time to unveil my body. You gather the fabric high up on my waist, so that the blue silk falls to either side, framing me.

“Ten minutes late,” you say softly, close to my ear.
I nod.
I nod again.
“Bend over further.”

I lower my hands on the wall, arching even higher for you, feeling deliciously exposed. You go down on your knees behind me and you bury your face in the split of my body, drinking in my heady scent. You hold me open from behind and lick the drops of my honey that have already dampened my inner thighs.

You use your thumbs to further spread the lips of my pussy, and then without warning, you thrust your tongue deep inside me, making me moan and buck against you. You swirl your tongue in dangerous circles, then pull back and slide two fingers inside me. My muscles start to contract, letting you know how close I am to coming. But before I’m able to climax, you withdraw your fingers and stand up. Gently, you take one of my hands and place it where it will give me the most pleasure.

“Touch yourself,” you order. “Like you do when you’re in bed alone, thinking of all the things you want me to do with you. Or to you.”

I blush that you’ve read my secrets so well, but I do as I’m told, caressing myself, slipping my fingers over and around my pulsing clit. “I want you to keep touching yourself while I punish you,” you tell me. “Understand?”

I nod.
“I can’t hear you.”
“Yes, Sir.”

You pull your belt free from the loops of your jeans, staring as I undulate my hips and continue the rhythm that you’d set with your tongue and fingers. You suck in your breath, watching me. It’s like I’m your own personal sex show—I can feel that. I’m putting on a performance, and you’re getting hot. My head dips down, and my eyes close. I am already breathing hard, my fingers increasing their speed, faster and faster, hips sliding back and forth, head dropping further forward, back muscles tensed, entire body poised on the brink.

For one instant, you give in to me, pressing forward so I can feel your hard cock against my ass. But then you back up again. We have unfinished business.

Ten minutes means ten strokes.

You double the heavy leather belt in your hand and stand back from me to give yourself room. After a moment’s hesitation, you tell me to take my dress all the way off. I do as you say, pausing to kiss you quickly before returning to my set position.

In thin array, after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown from her shoulder did fall
And she caught me in her arms long and small;
Therewith all sweetly did me kiss,
And softly said, “Dear heart, how like you this?”

Just kissing you makes me want more, makes me want you to be inside my mouth, to feel my lips around your throbbing cock, suckling you, devouring you. Feeding from you.

“Ten,” you say again, and I shift my weight nervously from one foot to the other.

Anticipation beats inside me. But then we’re starting, and you swing and connect, once, twice, three times. I bow my head toward my chest, but I don’t make a sound, nor do I stop caressing myself. In my mind, I hear your voice again, as you sounded on the phone: “I know what you want. I know what you need.”

Four. Five. Six.

It was no dream; I lay broad waking.
But all is turned through my gentleness
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;

Seven. Eight. Nine.

I let out a low moan. Tears spill from my eyes, and even though you can’t see them, I’m sure that you know that I’m crying, know that I’ve been silently crying since you first made me take off the dress.

“People think you’re such a good girl,” you say quietly to me, stroking my hot ass with one hand. “But we both know what you really are.”

And I have leave to go of her goodness,
And she also to use newfangleness.


With the last stroke, you give in. You rip your fly open and free your cock. Then you grab me around the waist and force me back onto you, force the entire length of your cock inside me with one long thrust. I come almost as soon as you enter me, keep on coming as you pound into me. I lean forward again, hands on the wall, while you hold on to my hips and fuck me with everything you have. It’s as if you’re still disciplining me, using the rod of your cock to more thoroughly punish me.

I’m crying and laughing at the same time, lost in how good it all feels, how whole I feel with you inside. You hold me even tighter for the last part of the wild ride, bucking with me, pulling me hard against you. Then, lifting me completely off the ground, you kiss me, your lips sliding in the downy softness of the nape of my neck. You come in a series of shattering explosions, and then, still holding me, still inside me, you carry me to the sofa where we collapse together. Damp, exhausted, and satisfied.

But since that I so kindly am served
I would fain know what she hath deserved.

“You give me what I need,” I whisper.
“I give you what you deserve,” you respond, and I nod in answer, unable after all of it to speak.