Erotic author Alison Tyler is a prolific legend, and quite a favorite around here. No one can write a dirty story like she can, and if you see any book with her name on it, you can be certain you’ll spend your coin on something brilliantly written, hardcore, character-driven, passionate and filthy, and totally satisfying. She publishes a lot of short erotica for free on her blog, too. We love her.
Her new novella Banging Rebecca ($2.99 Kindle; $5.49 paperback) is excruciatingly hot and fun. I hope it’s a bestseller for her, especially because it’s self-published, but in large part because it’s so damn good.
Tyler generously sent me a big, juicy excerpt to share with TinyNibbles readers, and it’s pasted below. The entire novella is a riveting, complex and very real story peppered with vivid, chemistry-fueled, kinky sex. Enjoy!
Sean was a model lover, the kind you dream about when you press your double-C charged vibrator to your cunt on the nights when you’re all alone. But it wasn’t until he got ready to fuck me a third time, that he revealed his true self. Seems he had to get the rest out of the way—fucking up against the wall, screwing in front of the water—before he was ready for the big show and tell. He opened the sliding glass door to let me into his pad.
“This is all yours?” I asked, startled by the high ceilings, by the stark but clearly expensive furniture.
“I do some modeling,” he said, offhandedly, chin jutting towards a portfolio tossed on the great wood coffee table. He didn’t waste time with the tour—pulled me directly to his bedroom—where I saw the tools and implements that made my breath catch in my throat.
Had I caught something up on stage? Had I known from the way he beat those skins that he would beat mine, too? I like to think I did, that I’m clever like that. But who knows? Coincidences happen every day. Yet desires like ours draw you forward like a magnet.
“You game?” he asked, fingers tripping over the business end of one of his specialty crops. Hand palming the handle of a wooden fraternity-style paddle. If I hadn’t still been wet from the two rounds we’d just gone, I would have been instantly aroused. My knees went weak, and I leaned against one scarlet-painted wall and nodded.
I wasn’t even sure what I was agreeing to. Did he want to work me over, or was he going to hand me that paddle and bend over himself? Honest to god, I didn’t fucking care. I would have done anything he asked, anything he said.
“I could tell,” he said, moving closer, pressing up against that plaster wall, “I could tell right away exactly what kind of girl you are.”
“What kind?” I managed to ask, wanting to hear, wanting him to say the words.
“The kind who needs this—” and he placed his hand over my pussy, then pulled back and spanked me there. I bit my lip and lowered eyelashes. Oh, yeah. He’d read me. Read my whole notes. Knew my upbeat.
“Now get that sweet ass of yours over to the bed and bend over. You know what time it is, don’t you baby?”
I looked at him, eyes wide.
“Time for this little slut to have her ass properly spanked, and then thoroughly fucked.”
I didn’t move fast enough. I wanted to. The will was there. But my brain was frozen, couldn’t tell my feet what to do. Sean didn’t wait. He picked me up and threw me on the mattress. There were no clothes to get in the way, but he spread a sheet over me and smacked my ass through the fabric. I was startled by the move, until he pressed his mouth to my ear and said, “I like to build the rhythm.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.”
He spanked me through the thin black cotton until I was squirming and twisting, and then slowly, so slowly, he lifted the edge of the sheet, revealing only the bottom quarter of my ass. Now, he spanked me on my bare skin, and I found that I was reaching up to meet each blow, arching my hips, higher and higher, and Sean chuckled under his breath.
“I thought so.”
Without any warning, his fingers met my pussy. Like they had moment before, but harder, and suddenly he was spanking me there, spanking my cunt with four firm fingers, and I was groaning and begging, my legs spread wide, wanting him to spank me harder, getting what I wanted without saying a word.
Until he stopped.
“Jesus, don’t.” I was aching, couldn’t believe that I could need to come again after all we’d done, couldn’t believe that he wouldn’t let me come. Eyes pleading, body begging.
“Don’t you know the rules, baby?”
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think.
“You don’t come when you want to. You come when I say you can.”
Holy fuck. I could have squeezed my thighs together and made the orgasm happen—if he hadn’t been watching me so closely, if he hadn’t known exactly what I was thinking. Because suddenly he was on me once more, spreading me out, stretching me taut, and I felt cuffs on my wrists, leather ties on my ankles. I was pinned to his mattress, head turned to stare as he lifted up a brand-new toy, as he set the weapon against my ass to let me feel what was in store. To let me feel exactly how whippet-thin this cane was.
“You ready?”
How can you say yes to something like that? Trust me, I know pain. Maybe that’s what Sean was checking from the start, that I didn’t squeak a protest when he scraped my back raw against the bricks of the club. That I didn’t moan or complain when he fucked me fiercely on those wooden boards outside, bruising my knees, chafing my elbows. He was testing my willingness to accept a little pain with my pleasure—and I’d shown him not only would I accept that spark, I’d blow on the flame.
“You ready, Rebecca?”
Again, waiting to hear, wanting to see what I’d say.
“Always, “ was my smart-ass response. So much different from yes.
“You’re going to count for me,” he said next, and my head was spinning. Fucking hell, he knew the drill. But then there was silence. I hate to say the word “usually,” to imply that I often find myself in situations akin to this one—but why lie? So usually, when I am bound down to a bed, and a stern lover is about to punish my ass, the game goes like this:
A smack on my ass—the number from my lips.
You get it? He hits, I count.
Sean was different. Sean wanted to hear me say the word first. I couldn’t understand. I hadn’t won the privilege yet, had I? Ah, but you see, in Sean’s mind, he wanted a relief from his job as a drummer, wanted me to count us in.
“One,” I said, and I was rewarded with the type of fire branding that I’d only experienced a handful of times in my life. The pain licked at me instantly. No slow build. No gradual flickering. But then Sean was looking at me. Gripping my hair in his fist and pulling my head up and saying, “Count.”
And I got the game. He struck, I counted the next blow. Believe me when I say this was harder than it sounds.
“Two—” and slam me down to the bed, ma’am, he cut me just as hard as the first time. Finally, I understood. I was setting the rhythm. The pace. He was letting me choose how many, and he was letting me say when. Forget topping from below—I was our rhythm section.
“Three—” I felt the cane on me like a poker, hot from the fire, burning through me. “Four….Five….”
But why, I wondered, did I find saying the numbers so difficult. Numbers are little. And easy. He wasn’t asking me to call him Sir. He wasn’t making me play-act some fancy Dom/sub routine. He hadn’t even asked for my safeword, because he didn’t need one. I was giving the orders. But the orders were to cane me. And any sub will tell you, part of the thrill is giving over that power to your Dom. Putting yourself in the hands of your lover. Now, I was responsible for myself, and I could hardly face him as I realized how much more I wanted. Craved. Desired.
“Six—”
He didn’t judge. He didn’t flinch. He struck. Christ, I was so wet. I felt the liquid pooling between my nether lips, slipping to coat my skin. What would Sean say when he touched me, when he found out for himself how drenched he’d made me?
“Seven—”
I wondered if he’d realize at some point, if he’d figure out that I’d never stop counting. I’m like that. I don’t have an end. I can’t.
“Eight…Nine…”
He was moving around me now, pressing his face to my ear, whispering things to me that had me arching on the bed. “Oh, you’re such a little needling. The pain fills you up, right? Makes you so drippy. Only a bad girl would get wet like this from having her ass thrashed.” Then his fingers probing, diving inside of me, pulling out to circle my asshole with the juices of my own pleasure. “You’ll come when I fuck your ass, won’t you?”
There was no way to answer but honestly: “Yes.”
“I won’t even have to touch your clit. The shame will simply make you cream.”
“Yes, Sean.”
And he was on the bed, letting me feel the head of his cock against my hole, before pushing in hard so just the tip pressed there. Not fucking me. Not yet. But making me want him so badly. And yet—we weren’t done. Were we? He hadn’t told me to stop counting, and I hadn’t reached that pinnacle, yet. That place.
I wondered if he’d sense this. We were so in tune up until now. I wondered if he’d get that I wasn’t done, if he’d…
Sean pulled back and stood by the bed once more. He had a brown leather belt in his hand now, doubled, ready. He looked at me, and I could see the softness in his eyes, as if he were staring at something beautiful—something valuable, something he understood.
“Ten,” I said, and his lips tilted into a half smile, and he said, “Good girl. You’re such a good girl. Let me give you what you need,” as if I’d passed some test, as if I’d proven a point.
There was no more counting after that. He heated my ass for me with his doubled-over leather, beat my skin as only a true Dom knows how, before climbing onto the bed and fucking my ass. Hard. So that I was screaming out, crying out, driven down by his body. He ground me against the mattress, and the pressure of him from behind combined with the mattress on my clit made me come. Sean dug his fingers into the welts on my ass, and the pain-tinged pleasure flamed through me, until I saw sparkling lights behind my shut eyes, glinting and winking out, matches tossed in water.
He undid the bindings and pulled me to him. Kissed my cheeks, my lips. Then, while I watched, he lifted a pen from his bedside table and wrote a number on my skin. “I’ve got to be at a shoot early,” he said, “so don’t worry if I’m not at your side. Just call me when you wake up.”
I felt like I finally was awake. As if he was the prince who had finally awaken me from 100 years of slumber.
-Read the rest in Banging Rebecca by Alison Tyler
