The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Alison Tyler Read online

  Called “a trollop with a laptop” by East Bay Express, “a literary siren” by Good Vibrations and “the mistress of literary erotica” by Violet Blue, Alison Tyler is naughty and she knows it.

  Over the past two decades, Ms Tyler has written more than twenty-five explicit novels, including Tiffany Twisted, Melt with You and The ESP Affair. Her novels and short stories have been translated into Japanese, Dutch, German, Italian, Norwegian, Spanish and Greek. When not writing sultry short stories, she edits erotic anthologies, including Alison’s Wonderland, Kiss My Ass, Skirting the Issue and Torn.

  Ms Tyler is loyal to coffee (black), lipstick (red) and tequila (straight). She has tattoos, but no piercings; a wicked tongue, but a quick smile; and bittersweet memories, but no regrets. She believes it won’t rain if she doesn’t bring an umbrella, prefers hot and dry to cold and wet, and loves to spout her favorite motto, “You can sleep when you’re dead”. She chooses Led Zeppelin over The Beatles, the Cure over NIN, and the Stones over everyone. Yet although she appreciates good rock, she has a pitiful weakness for 80s hair bands.

  In all things important, she remains faithful to her partner of seventeen years, but she still can’t choose just one perfume.

  Mammoth Books presents

  Pleasure A, B or Me?

  The Best of Alison Tyler: Five Erotic Stories

  Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  55–56 Russell Square

  London WC1B 4HP

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in the UK by Robinson,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2012

  Copyright © Alison Tyler, 2012

  The right of Alison Tyler to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

  Publication Data is available from the British Library

  EISBN: 978-1-47210-046-7

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  The Lindy Shark

  Ten Minutes in the Eighties

  Matthew, Mark, Luke & John

  Measure A, B or Me?

  Pierced

  Acknowledgements

  “The Lindy Shark” © Alison Tyler, 2001. First published in Best Women’s Erotica, edited by Marcy Sheiner. Reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2, edited by Maxim Jakubowski (Robinson, 2002), by permission of the author.

  “Ten Minutes in the Eighties” © Alison Tyler, 2003. First published in Wicked Words 8, edited by Kerri Sharp. Reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 4, edited by Maxim Jakubowski (Robinson, 2005), by permission of the author.

  “Matthew, Mark, Luke & John” © Alison Tyler, 2007. First published in Best Women’s Erotica 2008, edited by Violet Blue. Reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 8, edited by Maxim Jakubowski (Robinson, 2009), by permission of the author.

  “Measure A, B or Me?” © Alison Tyler, 2008. First published in Sex for America: Politically Inspired Erotica, edited by Stephen Elliott. Reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 9, edited by Maxim Jakubowski (Robinson, 2010), by permission of the author.

  “Pierced” © Alison Tyler, 2009. First published in BastardLife. Reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10, edited by Maxim Jakubowski (Robinson, 2011), by permission of the author.

  The Lindy Shark

  Alison Tyler

  With a blare from the slide trombone, Lilly Faye and her Fire-Spittin’ Fellas lit into the first number of the evening. Clara rushed to find her place, her polka-dotted dress swirling about her. Within moments she was grabbed around the waist, pulled into a tight embrace, twirled fiercely and without finesse, and then passed to the next man in line. This one had thick, meaty fingers that held her too tightly, creasing the fabric of her carefully ironed dress. She was relieved to be released to the next partner. Her ruffled red panties briefly showed as the third man spun her, dipped her, and passed her on again.

  Aside from the briefest of observations, she hardly had time to notice what her partners looked like. Her appraisals were cut short with every turn, only to start fresh with the next. Even when a man did please her, there was no way to act on the attraction. The leader would call out to switch, and she’d be passed onto the next dancer. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a wash of anticipation at the dim prospect that she would be matched with someone who not only suited her moves but also passed her stringent critique system. Although it hadn’t happened lately, that didn’t mean it couldn’t. Maybe he would be here again. Perhaps he would notice her this time.

  To the sounds of “Jump, Jive, and Wail”, Clara found herself with five different men in a row who failed to please her. Handsome, but a poor dancer. Fine looking, but much too short. Sweaty. A groper. Bad, bad hair. Then, finally, as the leader called out for only the experienced lindy-hoppers to take the floor, she saw him. She watched him move through the crowd with that insolent look on his face. He had heavy-lidded eyes, a tall, sleek body. Like a shark on the prowl, he cut cleanly through the waves of dancers.

  “Fine threads,” a woman next to Clara said, staring at the man. “Racket jacket, pulleys, and a dicer,” she added.

  A little too “in the lingo”, thought Clara as she refocused on her dream man – but the woman was right. His vintage zoot suit looked as if it had been tailor-made for him, the braces flashed when his coat opened, and the fedora added to his high-class appearance. He had an unreadable expression on his face, a steady gaze that almost seemed to look through her. Then he lifted his chin in her direction, letting her know that he had seen her and approved.

  Of course he approved, thought Clara. Her sunset-coloured hair, dark red streaked with gold and bronze, was done in pin curls that had taken hours to achieve. She’d applied make-up in the fashion of the era – bright matte lips and plenty of mascara. Her vintage dress was navy with white polka dots, and it cinched tightly around her tiny waist. A pair of stacked heels sturdy enough to dance in, but high enough to make her moves look even more complicated than they were, completed her outfit. She waited for him to come to her side. The girls nearby twittered in hopes that he was coming for one of them.

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

  Clara agreed. She’d definitely let this man crease her sheets. She felt like telling the giggling women to give up – the man didn’t have eyes for any of them. He was on his way to Clara.

  A rush of nervous excitement pulsed between her legs and flooded outwards. Rarely did she feel this self-conscious – normally her moves expressed a quality that came from within, a radiance on the dance floor that couldn’t be taught. This man possessed it too – that’s what attracted her. Dancing could be a form of foreplay; she’d always known that. But at most of these swing sessions, there simply wasn’t anyone she wanted to take to bed. Sure, she was picky when it came to men – both as dance partners and bed partners. That wasn’t a crime, was it? If
you chose the right person, for either activity, the results were much more satisfying.

  The man reached her side just as a new song began. He didn’t say a word, simply put one hand on her waist and steered her onto the floor.

  She took her time checking him out. Up close, he was even more attractive. Those dark liquid eyes, like a silent film star’s, were infinitely expressive. A deep inky blue, they shone beneath the crystal chandelier. His hands were large and firm, and they manoeuvred her with expertise, without roaming where they didn’t belong. That was a surprise. Men often took the opportunity to fondle a partner, something Clara generally found distasteful. Now she wouldn’t have minded if his hands wandered down a bit, if he tried a little stroking as they glided together on the dance floor.

  Clara usually didn’t have to think while she danced – her feet easily followed her partner’s lead. But this man was making her work, executing several difficult steps from the very beginning, forcing her to concentrate. She forgot about what she hoped he might do to her and focused on keeping up with him.

  Other dancers spread out to give them room, as if they sensed something big about to happen. And it did. As the first song blended into a second, and then a third, the duo found their zone. When her partner flipped her into the air, Clara let out a happy little squeal, something totally out of character for her. For the first time, the man smiled. It was as if a marble sculpture had cracked. For the rest of the dance, the moves came naturally. Clara no longer had to second-guess him, to think about where he was going. Instinctively, she followed.

  When the music stopped so that Lilly Faye and her Fellas could take a breather, Clara kept following him – down the hallway from the main ballroom and into a small, unisex bathroom. This wasn’t something she would normally do, but if he could dance like that, she thought, just imagine how he might make love. He locked the door behind them.

  They could hear music drifting in from the ballroom – someone had put on a CD by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, and it was loud. People headed out to the bar, and voices lifted as spirits flowed. Alcohol mixed with dancing could make people rowdy. Clara was relieved not to be out there with the throng making small talk.

  The man lifted her up; she kicked out her heels automatically, as if he was still dancing with her. He wasn’t. He set her down on the edge of the blue-and-white tiled sink and cradled her chin in one hand. His full mouth, almost indecently full for a man, came closer. Kissed her. Shivers ran through her body; she closed her eyes and floated on his kiss, not noticing when his fingers moved to the front of her dress and undid the tiny pearl buttons, buttons it had taken her ten minutes to fasten. She remembered standing in her bedroom, looking at her reflection, wondering if this man would be present tonight, if he would like what she was wearing.

  Beneath the vintage dress she wore a modern, underwire lace bra and matching panties in crimson silk. The man stroked her breasts through the bra before unfastening the clasp and letting the racy lingerie fall to the floor. When she opened her eyes, she saw their reflection in the mirror across the room. They appeared dream-like, a perfect match. The way it was meant to be.

  The man took off his hat and set it on the counter. Then he tilted his head and watched her as she slid out of her dress to stand before him in her ruffled panties, garters, hose and shoes. Though he didn’t speak, he seemed to want her to leave the stockings on. Quickly he turned her so that they faced the mirror above the sink. He lowered her underpants and waited for her to step out of them. She watched in the mirror as he undid his slacks and opened them. She caught a flash of polka dot boxer shorts that matched her dress – another indication of how perfect they were together.

  He leaned against her, the length of his cock pressed to the skin of her heart-shaped ass. The silk of his boxers brushed the backs of her thighs, and she sighed. He gripped her waist, letting her feel just how ready he was. His cock was big and hard, and it moved forward, seeking its destination. Without a word, he slipped it between her thighs, probing her wetness. She’d gotten excited during their dancing; her slick pussy lips easily parted and he slipped inside. Just the head. Just a taste.

  The band started up in the other room, and, to the lindy beat, he began to fuck her. Clara felt as if they were still dancing. Making love to him was as natural as having him flip her in the air and twirl her around. She opened to his throbbing sex, and to the insistent beat of the music.

  The bathroom’s art deco style created a fantasy-like atmosphere, with its blue-toned mirror and tiled walls that echoed her sighs. Though he remained silent, the man seemed pleased by the way she moved, rocking her body back and forth, urging him to deeper penetration. He locked eyes with her in the mirror and, for the second time that evening, smiled. It began at the corners of his mouth and moved up to sparkle in his eyes. An intense connection flowed hot between them; she had been right to wait for him. She felt a sense of destiny as he slid his hands up her bare arms, stroking her skin, sending tremors through her body.

  She liked the silence, their lack of words. Some boys talked through the whole thing, ruining it. Lovemaking, Clara felt, shouldn’t be full of chitchat. She craved mystery, magic – and with him she had it. She felt the same way dancing. Some men talked when they danced, but if you danced well together, you could have an entire conversation without once opening your mouth.

  This man seemed to know that. He understood. Not saying a word as he filled her with his cock, he held her gaze, trailing his fingers across her breasts, pinching her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, making her moan and arch her body.

  Oh, yes, this was the way to do it, to the sounds of music, in dim twinkling light. She strove to reach climax in synchronicity with him. She squeezed him tightly with her inner muscles, watching his face for a reaction.

  His eyes closed, long lashes dark against pale skin, strong jaw set as he held her tight. Yes, it was going to happen. Now. She closed her eyes, as pulses of pleasure flooded through her, gripping on to the edge of the sink to hold herself steady.

  After he came he didn’t withdraw, but remained inside her, growing hard again almost instantaneously. She sighed with pleasure as he extended the ride, this time taking her harder, faster. She felt as if she might literally dissolve with pleasure. Her senses were heightened, and when he brought one hand between her legs, plucking her clit with knowledgeable fingers, she came, biting her bottom lip hard to keep from screaming. She felt weightless, as she had when he’d tossed her into the air. When she looked in the mirror, she seemed transformed, a flush in her cheeks, a glow in her eyes.

  She expected him to be transformed as well. After something so spectacular, shouldn’t he be? But when he got dressed he hardly looked rumpled at all, his shirt still cleanly pressed, the fine crease on his pants in place. She felt suddenly exposed, with her bra and panties on the floor, her dress a puddle of polka dots. It would take a bit of work for her to sort herself out. He seemed to understand this, and gave her a final kiss and a wink, and then nodded with his head for her to put on her clothes.

  He would meet her outside, she guessed, as she watched him leave, and then hurried to lock the door behind him, her heart pounding like the drum section of Lilly Faye’s band. Her fingers trembled as she rebuttoned her dress, taking longer than it had earlier in the evening. She kept mis-buttoning and starting again, desperate to finish so that she could get back out on the floor and dance with him again.

  Back in the ballroom, she was certain he would hurry to her side, would lift her up in the air again so that her dress would twirl the way it was meant to. Her crimson ruffled panties would show, and the scent of sex would waft around her like perfume. From now on, they would be partnered, showing off for the rest of the crowd. They would go back to her place that night, and in the morning she would take him to her favourite vintage store on Third Avenue. Would try on clothes for him. Would let him dress her. There were so many things they could do together.

  But when she exited the rest r
oom and saw him standing by the wall, he didn’t seem to notice her. His eyes roamed over the crowd. She was about to wave her hand, to call out that she was right here, ready to dance. Then she noticed that the two women who’d stood next to her earlier were now at the bar across the way, and the man was heading in their direction. One of the girls let out a high, flirtatious laugh. The man adjusted his braces in a practised, casual manner and tilted his hat forwards rakishly.

  The room blurred before Clara. She saw the truth. Like a shark, he was moving again through the water of the dancers. After another kill.

  Ten Minutes in the Eighties

  Alison Tyler

  For ten minutes in the eighties, I was beautiful.

  I’ve been beautiful since, but never like that.

  Never again.

  Before those magical ten minutes took place, I not only wasn’t beautiful, I was hardly noticeable. Simply put, I was just another lowly freshman at UCLA, one of 40,000 others who called the campus home. Shy, insecure, terrified – those three adjectives fit me perfectly. In a land of voluptuous vixens and bottle blondes I had no idea that, with my sleek build and darkly mysterious features, I was far more than pretty. It never occurred to me that men would – and did – find me attractive or that all of the things girls lay awake at night and hope will happen to them would eventually happen for me.

  Rather than put myself in a position to be rejected I didn’t give the guys a chance to approach. I kept my peers at a safe distance by creating a mood of constant motion. I hurried to class, spent hours studying in various libraries around campus, and used my free time cultivating miscellaneous interests as a deejay at the college station and a flunkey on the student paper. I was a good girl all year long until the end of spring finals, when I finally let down my guard and got drunk with the rest of the students on my dorm floor. With no prior drinking experience I downed five beers in one hour, and wound up, to the great surprise of my dormmates, making snow angels on the cool turquoise-and-white tiles of the bathroom floor. Five beers will knock out any lightweight. And at five foot three, and 105 pounds, I was a lightweight.