Frenzy, p.1
Frenzy, page 1
Table of Contents
Also by Alison Tyler
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
LANGUAGE
ONCE UPON A TIME
EIGHT DOLLARS TO PARADISE
PAPER CLIPS
MADRID
HANDS ON
FANS
PIRATE TREASURE
COMING TO CONCLUSIONS
RISK
UNLIMITED MINUTES
CARTWHEELS AND STRAYS
LAKE LOGAN
THE HEIST
DANGEROUS
BLACK SATIN SLIP
MELTED
MUTE WITNESS
NIGHT SHIFT
GRAY IRISH MORNINGS
WAITING
SECONDS
THAT GIRL
HER ROOM
YOU IN YOUR APRICOT PANTIES
THE WEST PIER
SWEETS
INKED
I AM SO SMART
WHITE RUSH
LOVE SONG FOR THE CANE
IN A STATION OF THE METRO
MECHANICAL COMPLICATIONS
HEAD TRIP
HIS HANDS
JUNKYARD DAWG
PERMISSION
SIMPLICITY
PICTURE THIS
WAVES
APPETIZER
DRIVING OFFENSIVELY
THE KISS
SISTERS OF MERCY
BASTARD
THIS BOY
CAR WASH
APPETITE
COCK LOBSTER
THE FIRST TIME HE WAS JEALOUS
FACELESS FILLY SEEKS RIDER
MAKE ME
TAKE NOTE, PLEASE
HARD WET SILK
PHOTO FINISH
FIELD OF (DAY)DREAMS
FILTHY
DINNER’S READY
LIGHTS OUT
BEDTIME STORY
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
Also by Alison Tyler
A Is for Amour
B Is for Bondage
Best Bondage Erotica
Best Bondage Erotica, Volume 2
C Is for Coeds
Caught Looking (with Rachel Kramer Bussel)
D Is for Dress-Up
E Is for Exotic
Exposed
F Is for Fetish
G Is for Games
Got a Minute?
H Is for Hardcore
Hide and Seek (with Rachel Kramer Bussel)
Hurts So Good
The Happy Birthday Book of Erotica
Heat Wave
I Is for Indecent
J Is for Jealousy
K Is for Kinky
L Is for Leather
Love at First Sting
Luscious
The Merry Xxxmas Book of Erotica
Naughty or Nice
Never Have the Same Sex Twice
Open for Business
Red Hot Erotica
Slave to Love
Three-way
For SAM
INTRODUCTION: GIMME A SEC
Come here,” Sam says.
“I’m working.”
“This will only take a sec….”
I’ve heard that before. Because like me, Sam appreciates the power of a quickie. That heart-rushing, flushed-cheeks feeling of sudden sex, when the need overwhelms you. When no is not an option.
“Come on,” Sam urges, hand already on the fly of his faded 501s.
“Hold on,” I tell him, as I look back at the screen and type….
I’m going to make this quick. I have a thing for ultrashort smut. There is just something so damn sexy to me about frenzied fucking—I mean, frenzied fiction. Not only do I enjoy penning particles of porn, I adore reading them. This is why I have now edited four anthologies of ultrashorts, with stories ranging from a mere 75 words to 1,500, max.
What do I expect from a short-short? The same thing I expect from my lover: I want heavy petting at the stoplight. I want my panties torn off between the front door and the dining room. Forget reading the meters, I want there to be just enough time for the old “in and out.”
And I want you.
That is, I want you to lose yourself in the sizzle of a single sentence. In the hot liquid silver of a sexual strobe light. In that bright lightning flash, where talented writers reduce their sauciest stories to the few most mandatory ingredients: lust, heat, desire. Just add water.
Once you read these sixty stories of sudden sex—sex performed in a frenzy—you’ll know what I mean what I say: never doubt the power of a quickie!
“Coming, Sam.”
XXX,
Alison
LANGUAGE
Joey Juschka
Good, good?” I find myself uttering in broken German, wishing to know if she likes the way I urge four fingers into her.
She says something, but her response is not on the list of words I know.
(Yes, no, I you want fuck off, good?)
I hope it’s not a tomorrow maybe, don’t know, can’t decide.
“Good, good?” I ask again, just to make sure.
She mumbles, then groans, and I decide to put a long-reflected-on theory about life into practice: Always assume the positive.
Sex is good.
The positive of good is more.
I squeeze my thumb in with the fingers.
Her body stretches, arches, comes up from the bed, hangs in midair a moment, then comes back down full force upon my fist.
Beautiful.
That’s the language I speak.
ONCE UPON A TIME
Helena Black
Tell me a story,” he says rolling against me, “I can’t seem to sleep.”
“What kind of story?” I ask as he slides his hand up under my shirt.
“Once upon a time, maybe? You’re the writer. Make something up.”
“Once upon a time, then,” I tell him, kissing his neck. “Once upon a time there was a girl.”
“A girl?” he asks, teasing my nipples with his rough thumbs, and I arch against him, wrapping my legs around his thighs, pulling him closer to me. “Was there only a girl?”
“And a boy, of course,” I say, laughing.
“What did this girl like this boy to do?” he asks, slipping his other hand into my panties.
I press against him, so he can feel how wet I’m getting. “She liked to watch him with his friend.”
His fingers brush my clit softly, moving steadily downward until he pushes them into me, sliding slowly, gently, more than anything teasing me, and each time I move to take him in deeper, he slowly pulls away.
“What did they do?” he asks. “He and his friend?” He pushes into me again, his rhythm quickening in response to my need.
I’m trembling now. “I don’t know what they did. I can’t think.”
“That’s too bad,” he says, pulling suddenly away from me. I beg him not to stop but he just shakes his head.
“Please,” I whisper, “please…” and he gives in a little, places his hand on me—his thumb gently pushing against my clit. The pressure is just enough to keep me aroused, just enough to remind me of what he can do.
“What did she like to watch them do?” he asks, and he warns me, “Make it good or I’ll stop again.”
“She liked to watch them together—naked, boy kissing boy—their soft lips, their pretty tongues, their muscles tight with need.”
“And what would she do then?” he asks. “Would she do this?” His fingers are moving again inside me. “Here, take my hand. Show me what she would do.”
I move my hand over his, guiding him deeper into me, and whenever he slides out, I push him in deep again. “She did this,” I say, playing with my clit, while he fucks me good with his fingers, “and this.” I rock against him faster and faster until I finally come.
He kisses me, and then tells me to rest. I wait in the dark a long time, thinking he will touch me, but he stays quiet beside me and doesn’t move.
“Are you awake?” I finally ask, rolling against him, slipping my hand into the back of his pants. I stroke his ass gently, and he pushes back against me, letting me slide a finger inside him. I hear the hunger in his low, throaty moan.
“Tell me a story,” I whisper in his ear, and I kiss his neck, slip my finger a little bit deeper into his tight, warm hole.
“What kind of story?” His breath comes faster as he reaches for me.
“Make it a good one,” I tell him, “I can’t seem to sleep.”
EIGHT DOLLARS TO PARADISE
Thomas S. Roche
She parked a block over and walked up the little hill, crossed the street and entered the store. She was coming from work and her low heels click-click-clicked as she went.
The smell hit her right away: bleach, mostly, which smells slightly like come. There was some fruity urinal cake deodorant, too, and the cigarette smoke wafting from the big biker guy behind the counter. He took notice of her, but not too much notice, grudgingly said, “Let me know if I can help you find anything,” as if good-looking well-dressed women walked in here a hundred times a day. Maybe they did, but you’d never know it from the reaction of the eight or ten guys browsing the stacks labeled ANAL, FACIALS, SQUIRTING, LESBIAN, FAT CHICKS. At the sight of her, a couple of them scampered out, hitting the street like the place was on fire. The biker glanced after them and shot her a wry look, which she caught out of the corner of her eye. She headed for the wall of sex toys, but paused in front of the GAY shelf, where a well-dressed older man with a goatee ran his finge
He looked at her, gave her the once-over, said “Good evening,” as if they were shopping for produce.
“Good evening,” she answered, and felt a little flutter at a facing cover that featured a hunky fireman face-fucking a cop. She took a deep breath—bleach and urinal cake—and moved on, back to the toy wall.
She scanned from top to bottom, bottom to top at first, but the wall was so vast that her eyes began to cross. She tried left to right, which was a little better, as the rows were more regular than the columns. There was no rhyme or reason to the organization; KING-SIZED DONGs mingled with LOVE BULLETs and CORKSCREW BUTTFUCKERs. She began to feel warm.
She’d just begun to ponder the REAL LIVE PUSSY AND ASS when she glanced to the left and saw the discount bin. Piled high with dildos of varying sizes, it had a big handwritten sign hanging over it: $8 DILDOS.
She quivered a little as she went over to the discount bin and began to gingerly feel up the various-sized cocks. They were all labeled things like HUGE and MAMMOTH and GARGANTUAN. She picked one up and felt a little rush. It wasn’t even labeled, just shrink-wrapped, the thickness of a Red Bull can, and perhaps twice as long. There was a little sculpted pisshole at the head and it had a handle and hilt, like a knife or a screwdriver.
An eight-dollar dildo.
The sleaze of it excited her. She fondled the shaft a bit, decided that was a bad idea, and took one last look around. The man at the gay shelf smiled at her.
A little unsteady, she walked to the counter, picking up a bottle of Slick-Luv on the way. She set down the dildo and lube next to the register. The biker crushed out his cigarette and said, “Find everything you need, ma’am?”
“I think so,” she told him. “For now.”
He didn’t seem sure how to answer that, so he scanned the lube and punched in eight dollars: the discount dildo didn’t have a bar code.
The biker put the dildo and lube in a plain brown wrapper and stapled the rim shut with the receipt. “Come again,” he said.
She left the store and headed to her car at a leisurely pace. She had nothing to get home to, and that gave her an enormous feeling of peace. She opened the car door and tossed the bag on the passenger’s seat, atop her copy of the papers she’d just FedExed to Austin.
She started the car and headed for her new apartment, sighing happily.
An eight-dollar dildo—what could be a better divorce present for herself?
PAPER CLIPS
A. D. R. Forte
He opened his door. A half hour before, she’d said she would see him at seven for breakfast in the concierge lounge. Now, she stood shivering without a jacket in the hotel hallway.
“May I come in?” she asked with a smile.
He let her in and dead-bolted the door. “Is everything okay?” He had to make sure she was really all right, but he knew the question was unnecessary.
“Yes,” she said. She didn’t say anything more.
They stood just within the doorway, an arm’s length apart in that dark space, wall on one side, the mirrored surface of the hall closet on the other. He was aware that the T-shirt and pajama pants he wore—home clothes—somehow stripped away unfamiliarity between them.
She walked away and into the middle of the room, watched him sit on the corner of the bed with his legs dangling to either side and his hands braced on his thighs.
“I want to do this,” she said. “If that makes sense at all…”
“I understand.” Although he didn’t, not entirely. Not yet.
He gazed from her tightly clasped hands up at her face, looking for answers, hoping to read there what he should do first. He found knitted brows and bitten lips and cheeks spotted with scarlet.
“Should I…should I undress for you?” Glittering green eyes begging for approval.
“Yes,” he said, with a deep breath, relaxing now into this role he knew decently well. Enough to be what she needed.
She started to take off her blouse and paused with it halfway down one shoulder, bra-strap white against her skin.
“It’s…it’s because I know you…you’d…”
She didn’t say the word trust.
“I know.” He smiled. “I want to. I’m honored to.”
Relief flitted across her face at his words. He knew she didn’t feel so presumptuous, so brazen anymore. Because now she knew he wanted her.
He studied her as she took her clothes off, trying to memorize every little detail of seeing her naked body for the first time: the dimples in her flesh and the lines of her bones under it, the exact pucker of her small nipples, the way the red-gold of the curls between her legs matched the hair tucked behind her ears perfectly.
“Pinch your nipples.”
“What?”
He didn’t bother to answer, and after a moment or two she raised her hands to her breasts. She gripped each nipple and pinched until the flesh of her fingers went white. Then, looking at him, she released them and did it again.
He paid attention to the intensity of those pinches.
“Are you wet?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, very softly, but her voice was neither breathy nor high pitched. Sure of herself again.
“Good. Pinch them again. Rub them a little. Show me how much you enjoy it.”
She did; finely shaped, red-golden brows arching together, lips caught between her teeth. She was delightful, unjaded yet shameless. A natural.
“Like…like this?” she asked, stopping to swallow and gather her thoughts halfway through the sentence.
“Yes, just like that.” He smiled. “Now come here,” he added, having to make an effort to keep his voice commanding and not let any note of desire slip through.
When she stood before him, he turned her around and let the tip of his erection press into the curve of her ass. She was soft like he’d expected, no firm tone to her, but nothing artificial either. She turned her head a little to the side and put her hands behind her back, wrapped them around his cock, and stroked it through his pants.
“Tie my hands,” she said.
Not a request or an order, just a simple statement of fact, a reminder in case he hadn’t thought of it or had forgotten. He didn’t ask if she was sure; he simply slid away from her to find one of his ties. He didn’t like to use ties, they smacked of cheap smut novels and they weren’t secure: they slipped and knots loosened. But she was here, asking for him, needing him where he’d never in his life imagined she would have been. So he’d have to improvise.
He doubled the tie, wrapped it around one slender wrist and passed the ends through the loop. She held her breath. Smiling to himself, he put the loose ends around her other wrist, realized she was so tiny there was too much hang, and crisscrossed the silk to bring the ends around again. He tied the knot twice, and she took a deep breath.
She could perhaps get loose if she put effort into it, but not easily. Not before he could stop her. He saw her twist her hands a bit, testing the knot for herself, and saw her reach the same conclusion. At that, he put his hands on her arms and kissed her neck under the short, sweet-smelling curtain of hair.
A half-stifled cry escaped her lips. With bound hands, she caressed his hard cock again, and he had to close his eyes, will himself not to respond. She was so exquisite, so forbidden to him. But here she was.
He cupped her breasts for a moment, then her belly and her pussy. Red-golden curls tickled his fingers. He tried to think of something worthy of her, something creative, something he’d never used before.
He thought of the paper clips in his briefcase.
It was almost a kind of artistry, fitting the loop of silver metal around her nipple. Coaxing and tugging the soft flesh that seemed reluctant to accept its imprisonment between the thin blades of wire. Working the clip downward so that her nipple was caught in the very middle of the inner loop where it was tightest. Squeezing the ends of the loop even tighter so that she gasped and jerked back a little.
He kissed her cheek, kissed her forehead, rubbed her arms because she was shivering again and cupped her face between his hands, looking into her pretty green eyes until she nodded: Okay, go ahead. Carry on.
Then he worked his art on the other nipple.
She went pale, but she held firm, chin up, gaze never faltering from his, and he was proud of her, charmed, enchanted. He had admired her for so long, worshipped her silently and desired her, never speaking of it except sometimes to look at her a little too long. Never dreaming of being able to do this, to serve her in this way.
