Bastard Life

How could we not run this gem. Bastard by Alison Tyler from the book Frenzy, edited by Alison Tyler. On sale now, and worth it.—N.B.

"Why would anyone wear a belt buckle with the word Bastard on it?"

"Bess bought that for him."

"Doesn’t answer my question."

Flynn arched one brow and then leaned in close. "The word suits him."

I stared over the bar at the dark-haired man in the far booth. He was by himself, drinking a beer, and he had treated me nicely when I’d gone to serve him. But I’d noticed the buckle on his belt when he’d arrived, and I’d been curious from the start.

“Watch out for that one,” Flynn added as she headed to her tables in the rear. She couldn’t have said anything more likely to make me want to fuck him. 

I waited until we had a moment together behind the bar once more and I begged for information. Flynn took me out back with her, and while she lit a cigarette, I bit my lip. She’d been the one to train me over the past three days. I knew how the place worked—or I thought I did. The only thing left was for me to understand the customers.

“He came in one evening, and told Bess he was going to make her come like she never had.”

Bess was the tall blonde with the snowy stare. She didn’t seem like she’d melt for anyone.

“And Bess told him where I get off.”

“You’d think, but she was curious. She took him home, planning to show him a thing or two about what women want, you know straddle his face for hours until he practically smothered. And he had different plans.”

I don’t know why I was getting wet listening to the story, but I was.

“She came in the next day, and I never saw her sit down. Not once.”

Now I knew why I’d been intrigued by the man. He was someone who could give me what I wanted. But I needed to hear the rest of the story, first. 

“She said it was the best god damn night of her life. That he’d pushed her down on the bed and lifted her skirt. She had thought he was going to fuck her. Just shove it in. And she was ready. But he didn’t. He pulled her panties down and smacked her ass once. Hard. She squirmed and tried to pull away, but he held her in place and spanked her again. Bess said she was ready to tell him to leave, when he said, ‘I’m going to give this beautiful ass of yours a hiding you’ll remember. And then I’m going to fuck you so sweet the pain will melt away.’

“Something in his eyes made her nod, she said. Something in the way he promised to please her. She hadn’t been spanked ever, she told me, but she got into the position he wanted, ass up, arms locked in place, and she held herself steady while he smacked her bottom over and over.

“She said she was crying when he was done. Her ass felt swollen and red, but she had remembered what he’d promised her. The reward. And she didn’t complain. He went on his knees behind her, and he started to lick her pussy, slowly at first, pressing his face into her from behind, getting really deep in her. He used his tongue to trace circles around her clit, and then right when she was on the cusp, he stood up, gripped her hips, and pulled her back on him.

“Bess didn’t tell us any of that at first. But she walked gingerly the next day, and she refused to sit down. Even on break. She was constantly standing. It was only when I cornered her in the ladies’ that she admitted what had happened. Then she lifted her little pleated skirt, and showed off the marks on her ass. I knew right then that I was going to go home with him.”

I must have had a similar expression on my face, because Flynn started to laugh. “You, too? Well, wait a second, because you haven’t heard the rest. He didn’t come back in for a few weeks, and when he did, Bess was stalking around the bar like the Queen of Sheba, which she does pretty much every night. Thinks she’s the top dog, you know? But he had his sights on Lizzie that night. And Lizzie had already heard the whole thing from me, so she was ready to see for herself what this guy was like."

“Isn’t Lizzie gay?” I asked. I was still trying to keep all the ladies straight in my head.

"She's bi," Flynn shrugged. “Lizzie goes home with him that night, and she doesn’t even wait until the morning to tell me. She stops over on her way back to the Valley, and she shows me the bruises and tells me exactly how he did it. Grabbed her up and put her over his lap on the sofa, spanked her with a paddle he had at the ready. Made her cry and beg him to stop before he fingered her pussy until she came. And she said the whole time she didn’t want him to stop. 'Isn’t that crazy?' she asked me. She just wanted the spanking and the rubbing and the coming to go on and on."

"Did she have marks?"

"Like you wouldn’t believe. Her ass was plum-colored. Pretty, I have to say." Flynn got silent for a moment, and I wondered whether she and Lizzie had fooled around together, but didn’t feel as if it was my place to ask.

"Finally, he comes in, and I know it’s my turn. He’s got his eyes on me, and Bess won’t even look my way. But I don’t care. I’m ready. The way the girls have talked about him, the way they’ve built him up, I know he can’t possibly live up to the expectations in my head. But that doesn’t stop me from going home with him, from pretending I don’t know what he has in mind.

"The thing is, I don’t. He hand-spanked Bess. And he paddled Lizzie. Well, he’s got something else in mind for me. We’re in his kitchen when he tells me to bend over and hold my ankles."

“Just like that?”

“No, of course not. There’s been petting and kissing in the car and in the elevator up to his place. But we’re at that moment, when the glaze is over us. That sex glaze that makes everything seem speeded up. Your heart’s pumping so fast, and your pussy. I was dripping. And I do what he says. I bend over, hold my ankles, I’ve got these striped thigh-high stockings on and high heels, and I’m a bit unstable, but I do my best. 

"Then I hear the buckle on his belt, and I think, oh, wow, he’s just going to fuck me. I didn’t realize right away that he was pulling the leather free. I didn’t understand until I heard the snap of the belt, and then it was too late."

"Would you have wanted him to stop?"

She grinned and shook her head, long feathery cinnamon-red hair dancing over her cheeks. “No. I wouldn’t have. I was feeling special that he thought I could take this. Take the leather. When he hadn’t used his belt on the other girls.”

“So he spanked you?” Saying the word almost makes me come right there in the alley.

“He spanked the living daylights out of me. You wouldn’t have believed the sounds I made while he worked me over. I lost my grip on my ankles right away, but he told me to put my palms flat on the floor, and he striped me with that belt until I thought I would go hoarse from all the begging. And then, just like he’d said, just like he promised, he pushed me down on the floor, flipped me over, and ate my pussy until I creamed all over his face. I was in heaven, the cool tiles under my hot ass, and his sweet tongue on my clit, and while I was floating he fucked me, so that I came all over again. Like magic."

There was silence then. We both seemed awed by her story. But then I remembered. The buckle. Why would anyone wear a buckle with the word Bastard on it?

"Bess went out and bought the thing for him. She was so pissed he’d fucked us all. That he’d worked his way through the girls. It was a warning, she said, for any other ladies who might want to try him out. But I don’t think he considers it a warning. I think he considers it a prize."

I nodded and stole a drag off her cigarette before she crushed out the butt with the point of her heel. And I wondered whether the word would make an imprint in my skin when it was my turn.—Alison Tyler

Photograph by Igor Amelkovich, on sale now, and worth it.

“Get ready for me,” Connor said over the phone. “I’ll be over in ten.”

“Ready?” my voice trailed upward, making a question of the single word, while my mind raced. Ready. I already knew what that meant. Connor had considered our last two weeks together a form of sexual boot camp. He spent his days packing boxes of belongings for shipping home, saying goodbye to friends, tying up loose ends.

He spent his nights tying up loose ends, too. Pulling the ends of loose scarves until they tightened securely around my wrists, fastening a blindfold over my eyes, capturing my ankles with his leather belt. We took our opportunities wherever we could find them. This was our final weekend together, and he was determined to educate me, to make my fantasies come true.

The night before, he’d surprised me with a bag of supplies from The Pleasure Chest: a red-and-black paddle, a soft purple suede flogger, a set of silver cuffs. And there were more gifts, ones he didn’t let me open yet. He hadn’t used any on me. But he’d watched as I’d unwrapped each new toy, and when I looked up at him, swallowing hard, he had cocked a blond eyebrow at me and said, “Tomorrow night, you won’t be quiet any longer.”

I knew what that meant. I was always quiet. Practically silent. Connor had been trying to get me to open up, to feel comfortable enough to let go. The most I’d managed so far was a husky moan. I’d never been a screamer. I internalized everything. Tears might streak my cheeks, but I would not cry out. Connor had plans to change that.

While I waited for him, I paced the apartment, clad in an outfit we’d bought together: short black-and-white plaid skirt, silky black t-shirt, fishnet stockings, knee-high patent leather Docs. I walked into the bedroom, where I’d set out all the toys Connor had given me. Then I paced again. He’d used his belt on me, but never a paddle. I stroked the flat side, tentatively touched the wooden handle. It was in my thoughts to try the thing on myself, to see what the pain would feel like, when I heard Connor knock.

Feeling guilty for no reason, I hurried to the front door and let him in. He had flowers with him. And a crop. 

Jesus.

He looked me over, head to toe, then nodded his approval. The flowers were left to die a slow death on the spangled Formica kitchen counter. There wasn’t even time for filling an empty wine bottle with water as a makeshift vase. Connor grabbed my wrist and led me back to my bedroom where he sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me. I knew what to do. I understood his expressions now, could practically read his thoughts, but the crop kept me from coming forward. The way the tool leaned against the dresser made me want to run and hide. Not because I didn’t want to feel the sting on my skin, but because I was scared to death. I’d confessed all of my secrets to Connor, over our months together. I’d told him every little fucked-up daydream I’d ever had. I couldn’t hide from my truth, but I had a difficult time facing my fantasies head on.

“Get the paddle,” he said. My legs threatened to give out as I walked to the nightstand and gripped the new toy. “Over my legs, girl,” he hissed. “Now.”

I bent myself into the proper position, felt his warm hand lifting my tiny skirt, felt him watching me. He pressed the paddle against my panty-clad ass, letting me grow accustomed to the weight of it, before he landed the first blow. I sucked in my breath, but remained silent. The sensation was different from the belt, but not worse. He began spanking me more rapidly, pausing only to pull my black satin bikinis down my thighs, leaving them on me, but baring my ass. The pain intensified immediately, and tears wet my eyes, but I still didn’t cry out. I wasn’t trying to test him. This wasn’t a game. I didn’t know how to do what he wanted. Not without sounding phony. Not without being fake.

“What did you think about today?” he asked, taking a break to pull my panties off completely and then nudge me to the full-length mirror on the back of the door, to show me my scarlet rear cheeks. He held my skirt up for me, so I could see, and he grinned at his handiwork, clearly pleased with himself.

“This—“ I said. All day long I’d thought of Connor and his bag of toys.

“And this?” he queried, cupping my pussy with his hand and giving me a stern look, no sign of a smile now. 

I wanted to melt into nothing. Disappear into a silver mist. Over one midnight confession, I’d asked him if he’d spank me…and then, unable to actually voice the request, I had simply put his hand over the front of my panties. “Spank me here…?”

For some inexplicable reason, I was always waiting for the moment when I’d go too far. When he’d give me a disgusted look and push me away. I didn’t realize that Connor’s own fantasies were darker than my own, went farther than I’d dare to dream.

He’d laughed, not mean, not cruel, but he’d laughed at me. As if it went without saying that he’d do what I asked. “Baby,” he said softly, “I have no problem punishing your pussy.”

Ah, fuck me—

Now, he carried me back to the bed, spread me out, and tied me to the frame like the bondage pro he was. He cut my skirt off, cut my T-shirt away, then ran his fingertips over the shaved skin of my pussy. I had only my thigh-high fishnets on now. Nothing to protect me.

“You know you’re a bad girl,” he said, “don’t you?”

I nodded, and then immediately whispered, “Yes, Connor.”

“And you know that tonight I’m going to make you scream.”

Tears started running down my cheeks. I was shivering all over, but I managed to say, “Yes, Connor.”

He reached for the suede flogger, and then he looked at me, fiercely, and said, “And you know you need this.”

I did. I knew it. I’d known that for years. 

The flogger was light, a gentle caress at first. And then, in Connor’s hand, the toy began to sting, the many tails landing faster and harder on my tender skin. I closed my eyes and clenched my fists. But it wasn’t until Connor dropped that soft, sweet flogger, replacing it with the very lip of his leather belt, again and again on my pussy, putting just the right amount of power behind the blows, that I finally started to give him what he wanted. I could hear the wetness as the leather connected, and I could feel the lake of juices under my ass, and I started to come.

“Open your eyes,” Connor insisted. 

My eyelids flickered, fluttered, and he doubled the belt and landed a blow on my upper thighs that made me gasp. 

“Don’t test me, girl,” he said, matter-of-fact, not a faux threat. “You obey when I give a command.”

He did what he said. He punished me between my legs as I came, crying out so loudly, repeating his name over and over like a mantra, knowing that it didn’t matter if he leaving. 

Tonight—and tonight was forever—I was his.—Alison Tyler

Photography by the amazing Igor Amelkovich, on sale now and worth it.

You've been married less than a year. When you get home, she's not bounding over to kiss you, she's bound up in the kitchen waiting for a romp. Now what?

Q: This is my second marriage; my first ended because my wife thought I was too sexually adventurous. Now I've been married less than a year and I am wondering if my new wife is far more adventurous than I am—she will often wait for me to find her bound and gagged in various rooms of the house with a note beside her that reads, "Fuck me bound like this." How can I find my "inner torturer" and do something like that to a woman?

A: Not only is there a fetish in all of us, be it mild or mad, but they come in all colors and flavors—bondage and domination being one of them. First, before you run to the next marriage, learn more—I recommend Alison Tyler's Best Bondage Erotica series or her book Love at First Sting: Sexy Tales of Erotic Restraint in which what appears to be the art form of this fetish is beautifully and tastefully described in a way that will inform and most like arouse you. Second, nothing is more arousing than exploring a new intimate life together, so learn from her before you role play or her next bound up moment. Find out what turns her on and be sure to be honest about what you like and need as well. Then, enjoy.

Key Tip: Some fetishes are not for everyone. But the stigma of others can turn you off before you explore their potential for exciting you. Communicate, be safe, and have fun and no one will get hurt (at least not too badly).—N.B.

We have a standing date every Saturday night. I go out for ice cream with all of the fixings: chocolate sauce, whipped cream, jimmies. Even those little marinated cherries. Grayson stays home and preps the house for us. Dims the lights. Puts on the movie. Starts the fire.

But when I get in line tonight, a man steps behind me. I feel him before I see him, sense his presence out of the corner of my eye. I scan the conveyer belt to see that he has a six-pack, a steak, and a bottle of whiskey. 

“Bachelor’s dinner,” he says motioning to his groceries. 

“Old married couple’s dessert,” I say, indicating mine.

He looks me up and down, slowly. I’m wearing my beat-in Levis and my riding boots. A t-shirt so old and thread-bare you can see the color of my bra underneath—lemon yellow, with lace on the edges. I have to use a safety pin to make the clasp hold. No mascara. No eyeliner. The blush on my cheeks is for real.

Once upon a time, I dressed up for Saturday nights. I wore flirty sundresses and strappy sandals in the summer, velvet slacks and silken turtlenecks in the fall. I washed the barn smell off me at the end of the day and spritzed green tea perfume at the nape of my neck, under my long dark hair.

Now, I zip up the cornflower blue hoody so that I’m less exposed, and the man gives me a cocky grin and says, “I liked it better the other way.”

My turn to pay saves me from having to respond. I fumble with the crumpled twenty, stuff the change in my pocket, and head out of the store as quickly as I can. Home to safety. To one big bowl of ice cream that we’ll share together on the sofa with two cold silver spoons. To a movie so old and familiar we can say the lines out loud. We used to fuck in front of the TV, matching the actors move for move.

Now we watch them fuck.

And we eat dessert.

But when I reach the old Buick, I can’t find my car keys. I set the paper bag of groceries on the ground so I can pat my pockets, turn my sweatshirt practically inside out. My nerves are so rattled that when the stranger comes up behind me, I bite my lip to stifle a scream.

“You left these on the counter,” he says, dangling my key ring in front of my eyes like a hypnotist with a pocket watch. I grab for the keys, but he holds them out of reach. He acts as if he’s going to hand them over, and then taunts me once more, so I go up on tiptoe, but still can’t grab the ring.

“Ask nicely,” he chides, and I catch that cocky grin once more. He’s toying with me, his groceries tucked into the crook of his arm, his body all long and lean in a denim jacket and faded jeans. He’s not breathless the way I am. This is a game to him. But I feel the wisps of hair pulling free from my ponytail, feel the back of my t-shirt damp against my skin.

“Please,” I say, as nicely as I can. Even though I know in my head, in my heart, that what I ought to do is return to the brightly lit store and get help from the manager. Why am I playing games with a stranger? He could be dangerous. He could have a knife, or a gun. He could have dark sinister plans for me…

“Please what?”

Like that. The tone in his voice. I can hear exactly what those plans are. He wants to fuck me. He wants to take down my jeans and push me over the hood of my car, drive his cock into me so that I cry out. I know he’s thinking of the way that old metal will feel on my skin, the way his hand will find my hair, tug on it, pull my face up, make my body arch.

I look into his eyes. They’re a blue that’s nearly silver, like that eerie light you see both at dawn and dusk. I can’t get a read from those eyes.

“Please, Sir,” I say, trying my own little half a smile, “Can you help a lady out? I seem to have misplaced my keys.”

I watch, a bit shell-shocked, as he slides them into his front pocket.

Does he want me to put my hand down there and reach for the keys, brush the tips of my fingers against what I can guess is the rock-hard ridge of his cock? I take a breath. I lean against the solid frame of my car. I bring one hand up to my mouth—nervous habit—and bite at my knuckles. 

“You shouldn’t do that,” he says. “Your hands are too pretty.” And he takes mine in his and pulls me to him, like we’re dancing.

Jesus, I think. How’d I get here? From Old Married Couple’s Dessert, to a Bachelor’s dinner. He drops his bag of groceries through the open window of the truck parked next to mine, a dark gray pick up truck that somehow suits him perfectly. Then he spins me and pushes me up against the hood. There is nothing to think about now. I know what’s coming. I know what his hands are going to feel like as he pops open the fly of my 501s, yanks them down to my thighs with my panties in one single motion. I draw in my breath as he presses against me. He’s still clothed, but I’m exposed. His jeans rub against my ass, and I bite down on the words that want to escape my lips. Begging words. 

Please fuck me. Please, fucking god, just fuck me.

I push from my mind the fact that we’re out in the open. In the middle of a popular grocery store parking lot. Because we’re not really that exposed, tucked off in the corner. And it’s that empty hour, when most sane people are home or out on dates. Not shopping for groceries, and certainly not getting fucked in grocery store parking lots.

But I’m not getting fucked either. Not yet.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, and I feel his big hand close on the back of my neck. I shudder all over. I can’t speak. I’m so damn wet, and so damn scared, and every dark desire, every unspoken fantasy I’ve ever dared to have seems to be poised right here, on the tip of my tongue.

“Say it.”

His hand tightens, but I am frozen, speechless. A car sweeps by. Keeps going. We’ve gone unnoticed. Or we’ve passed as a couple of lovers out kissing in the dark—except we’re not kissing. He’s got his cock pressed against me through one layer of denim, and he’s waiting for me to speak.

At least, he was.

He’s not waiting anymore. The man pulls back just enough to pop his own fly, and then I feel the heat of him against my naked skin. I’ve waited too long to say what I want. Now, he’s going to take what he wants.

The head of his cock presses into me, and he feels the instant wetness envelope him. His groan makes me shiver. He doesn’t loosen his grip on my neck, but now his hand slips around, so he’s holding the front of my throat. Oh, holy fuck, I’ve never felt anything so sexy.

He thrusts into me once, twice, hard and fast, and tears leak from my eyes. But I am not prepared for what he does next. With his cock all glossy and wet from my pussy, he pulls back, and then I feel the pressure at my asshole, and I stiffen, but he doesn’t hesitate. There is no “Tell me you want this” now. There is only his cock, driving in hard, not waiting, not going slow.

He’s fucking my ass in the parking lot of a Lucky’s and I am going to melt into an oil slick like the one right next to my feet. Rainbow lit and shimmery in the halo of saffron from the streetlights.

The safety pin holding my bra together digs into my back as he slams into me. the car metal bites my skin. I am demolished as he lets go my throat, as he grinds one big hand down my body and presses his thumb to my clit. So I come when he comes. So I come as he empties himself into me.

There is the smell of exhaust. And dark wet asphalt. 

No perfume has ever smelled sweeter.

“They were out of jimmies,” I tell Grayson when I get home. Rumpled. Breathless. Does he notice? “I had to drive to two other stores.”

He pats the sofa at his side. There in the den of darkness. Waiting. Fire crackling.

I breathe in deep. He’s got steak cooking. I can hear the sizzle.—By Alison Tyler for BastardLife

You remember your firsts.

Jack had been thinking about firsts a lot. His first car, a honey of a 1955 Coupe, dragon-red with black detailing, chrome that shined like nobody’s damn business. He’d worked his ass off to pay for her, then spent his evenings riding around town, up and down the strip, a different girl in the front seat every night, where everyone could see.

One special boy in the back seat when nobody was looking.

He thought of his first kiss, the sweet smell of her perfume, her soft lips, platinum hair, like spun sugar. The feel of her sweater under his palms. The ache in his chest when she pushed him away, when she ended their embrace with a headshake, a kiss is all you get look in her eyes.

Good girls didn’t. Not back then.

So he went for a bad girl, one with a reputation, a reputation that turned out to be false. She kissed different from his first. Open mouth, dark hair wrapped tight around his fist. But when he slid his hand up under her blouse, fear hit her eyes. Yeah, she had a reputation, but she’d never done it. Not before. Not really.

So he found Nate—found him out behind the gym, smoking, like all the other toughs out there. Jack fit in. He could take an engine apart. But even more important, he could put one back together. He had the greaser mentality, the grime under his nails, and he had a look that both boys and girls found appealing.  

Nate was his real first. In the back of his car. Late at night, off where nobody could find them. Nate’s mouth on his cock—those petal lips open, a hungry look in his dark green eyes. The girl’s hadn’t looked hungry—they’d been scared and excited, as if they’d need convincing but might just be pleased if he would take the time to show them the way.

Nate needed no convincing. He was the one to peel open Jack’s jeans, release his hard-on, wrap a fucking fist around it. Jesus, god, Jack could feel Nate’s hand on his cock even now. Half a century later. That’s good hand job, man. If you can feel the tension after fifty years.

The sensation of Nate’s mouth, warm and wet and welcoming, was like nothing he’d ever envisioned, nothing he’d dared to fantasize about. He’d only known his own five fingers before, with his mother’s face cream slicked on his palm to smooth the ride. Oil of Olay was a fragrance that could get him hard to this day—and make him feel guilty and shamed at the same time.

Nate’s lips and tongue slipped up and down his shaft, before—oh, my fucking Christ—darting down to his balls. Jack simply hadn’t thought what it would be like to feel a man’s tongue on his balls. The low lick there. The build to climax—to a too-quick climax the first time, because he couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t hold back. 

“I’m going to—oh, god, Jesus H. — I’m going to—“

“Come, baby,” Nate had said, a low voice—neither masculine nor feminine, just sex talking. “Come, baby. You come for me.” And Jack hadn’t known which way was up, who he was, where he ended and Nate began. He’d pumped his hips and Nate had swallowed, locking his lips on Jack’s rod, devouring him to the hilt, before slowly, slowly bringing him around again.

For no explicable reason, that memory was mingled with thoughts of the bad girl. Grace. He remembered his first time with her. Going slow, kissing her neck, then touching her skin under her cotton-candy colored sweater. Oh, how he’d loved to touch her, up under the form-fitting cashmere to her silk-covered breasts. The time his hand brushed her naked skin, he was lost. That first sigh of pleasure from her high-glossed lips let him know how much she needed his touch.

Those lips—as red as the paint on his car, made him groan. She had a reputation because she wore red lipstick, and when he finally, finally, on the fifth date, convinced her to bend her ringlet-covered head into his lap, she smeared that lipstick up and down his cock. And he’d learned something new. Something fantastic. Something he couldn’t wait to share. 

The next time, with Nate, he’d passed over a tube of his sister’s lipstick—a gold-flecked coral he’d swiped off the counter. His sister never wore red.

“Please,” he’d said. “Just, please.” And Nate, with that look in his eyes, that understanding, got it exactly right. He sat up in the front seat and slicked on the lipstick, staring at his reflection in the rear view mirror. Jack watched from the back seat, knowing already what lipsticked lips would feel like on his cock, and knowing that Nate’s blow job would send him far further than Grace’s. Over the moon.

It wasn’t that Nate needed to look like a girl. It was the blur, chameleon style that tripped Jack’s wires. The lean tough-looking hood, with the leather jacket and the crisp Levi’s putting on the feminine cosmetic—that’s what did it. That’s what worked for Jack.

Now, he sat in his solitary room, staring out the window at the fall leaves. Why did the leaves stirring always make him think of Grace? 

Why did the wind make him think of Nate?

Anthony looked up at him. He was lovely, auburn hair slightly mussed. He didn’t look anything like Nate, but that wasn’t a problem. New was good. At this stage in Jack’s life, new was rare.

He rubbed his thumb along Anthony’s cheekbone, then traced the line of his jaw. “I’ve been thinking,” he said softly, “a lot about firsts. And lasts. And, baby, if that was my very last blow job, you put a swell bookend on the shelf for me.”

Anthony stood then, smoothed his hair back, leaned against the wall and looked at Jack, orderly uniform not so crisp anymore. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said, those eyes of his  were so bright. This was youth, looking at him, and yet he had to be in his forties. The definition of youth changed as you aged, didn’t it? What had once been an old fogey—don’t trust anyone over 30—was now the fountain suitable for Ponce de Leon.

Tony’s tongue flicked over his lips. He was almost animalistic. Jack felt himself starting to stir—when had he last gotten more than a single erection in 24-hours? He couldn’t remember. 

He stared out the window once more, at the swirl of golden leaves. At the rustling branches. You consider lasts as you get older, Jack thought. You ponder the starts and the ends. But maybe that was a mistake. Maybe he should be thinking of the nows.

“Jack?” he looked up at Tony, who moved to kiss him, ran one hand through Jack’s silver hair. “Why on earth would you think that was your last?”—For BastardLife by Alison Tyler

“I want to get my clit pierced.” 

She stared down at the marred counter rather than up into his dark eyes. “My clitoris,” she stammered after. Maybe “clit” was too colloquial. What was the proper way to ask for what she wanted? She quickly scanned the walls of the tattoo parlor/piercing studio, landing on an image of a impish Devil Girl with a spiked tail stuffed violently up the ass of a innocent-looking Angel Girl. Maybe “clit” was okay.

“You’re not ready.” 

When she looked at his face, she saw that he was grinning—the lines deepening around his eyes. He liked her. She could tell. She’d guessed that when he’d pierced her ear, his breath on her skin so she could feel the heat. The flash of pain had been over in a second—far too quickly—the whole experience taking less than ten minutes from the time she handed him her neatly folded cash to when she walked out the door onto the glittery grit of Melrose Avenue.

Afterwards, she’d spent hours sitting on the fire escape of her apartment, touching the silver hoop in the middle of her right ear, twirling the metal, holding it. She had the usual ear piercings from when she was a teenager, but this one, high up on her ear, felt different. Somehow the new hoop there had made her life the tiniest bit less lonely.

Weeks had passed before she’d had the nerve to go back. She was a good girl, after all, with a respectable job and a decent salary. She wore sensible clothes, low-heeled pumps, suitable for work in an accounting office on the Miracle Mile. Piercing/Tattoo studios weren’t places her friends visited, or discussed, or fantasized about. Nor were the boys who worked there. Tattooed boys who made her heart race.

She requested nipple piercings next, standing in front of the counter wearing a white t-shirt and a white bra, chinos from Talbots, glossy brown penny loafers. He gave her a hard look this time, as if he didn’t believe what she’d said. Not someone as normal—or in her mind, boring—as she was. Embarrassingly normal. The freckles on her pale skin. The sleek dark hair that would not hold a curl. Slim-hipped body. Hardly any curves.

“You’re sure?” he’d asked once he’d taken her into the private room, and she had tried to look brave as she removed her shirt and sat down, flinching when the sticky plastic coating on the chair met her skin.

Her breasts were extremely sensitive. Wearing the right—or wrong—bra would create such pleasurable friction she could almost climax. So when he rolled her dark pink nipples between his gloved fingers, she’d had to stifle a moan. Her eyes were closed the whole time. If she stared at him, she might say something. Something she’d regret? Perhaps.

Something she wished she’d said now?

When he’d told her to prepare herself, she’d licked her bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth, something she did when she was scared. “You’re sure?” he’d asked again, right before sliding the needle through, and she’d simply said, “Yes. Please.” 

For a month, a solid month after her nipples had healed, she’d been able to make herself come by tugging on the sterling rings adorning her tits. Just a little tug to start, working harder, imagining him pulling them with his mouth, biting into her. On weekends, she’d started wearing tight t-shirts without bras, loving the way her decorated breasts looked beneath the stretchy fabric. Yet soon the ache started up again. That and the loneliness. 

Her belly button was next. She didn’t have to get naked this time. She lifted her shirt, let him see her nearly concave stomach. His breath here made her clench her thighs together under her knee-length plaid skirt. 

“Breathe, baby.”

She looked down at him, startled. Had he called her baby?

But he didn’t repeat the word. Didn’t act as if he’d said anything unusual at all. She wondered if he understood the big picture—they were working down her body in a silver-studded game of musical parts. If he did, he kept quiet, professional in every sense. She watched his head bent over her, and thought of telling him that at night, she envisioned him fucking her asshole, the gloves, the lube. The tears that would streak her face when he thrust in deep.

He’d only touched her with gloves so far, and somehow they existed in her fantasies. Every last one.

There weren’t many places left. She could have gone with her nether lips. But why wait? She was going to have her clit done, and she knew exactly how it would feel. She’d done the research online, understood the procedure.

How many times had she imagined watching him slip on the rubber gloves? Smelling that sweet sickly scent of antiseptic. The sensation of him touching her through that barrier, coaxing her clit to attention before slipping on the clamp.

“Not your clit,” he said, looking at her. “The lips first.”

Her eyes widened as he slid a photo album forward. Here were close-up shots of women, bejeweled parts on display, and she blushed immediately, even though she’d been fantasizing about this moment endlessly. Each time she went to the studio, she’d meant to ask for this, but had failed herself again and again. What else would she have to pierce to make him understand?

“The clit’s extreme,” he said. 

But she knew, she wanted to say. She knew what it would be like: The needle. The slow thrust forward. The pain shot with ribbons of pleasure. She was going to come when he did it. 

“You’re not ready.”

She hadn’t been expecting this. The customer was always right, after all. She had the money. She had the nerve. But then she realized—her clit would be the finale. The end game, and she nodded—fine, let him decide. He led her back to the private room once more, and this time, for the first time, he seemed to really see her.

The door was shut. He came forward, slid his hands up under her skirt, pulled down her simple white panties. Her throat was tight. He turned her sideways, unzipped the skirt, let the fabric fall. Now she was half naked, and that felt wrong. He understood, pulled the t-shirt up over her head. This was better. Totally naked, with her silver-ringed tits on display, her belly button decorated, her body so pale and pretty. 

Jesus, pretty. For the first time ever, that’s how she felt.

He sat in her the chair, spread her thighs, handed her a mirror. “Like this,” he said, “we could pierce you here,” and she trembled all over. “Or here.” The shivers wouldn’t stop. Her teeth were chattering. She couldn’t speak.

 “You have to hold still.”

She looked at him, her eyes wide, breath hitching. And then he bent forward and licked the ring on her right breast, then the one on her left. He kissed his way down, pausing to tug on the barbell adorning her belly button. Fucking god, he was—he was kissing her. Licking her. His soft hair tickled her naked skin. She shifted her hips, lifted her hips. He was there, between her legs, spreading open her lips, kissing between.

“You’re not ready for your clit,” he said again, looking up at her. “I’ll tell you when you’re ready. We’ll do it together.”

“Yes,” she said, “fine,” she said. Whatever he wanted, was what she wanted to say. As long as he would keep touching her. But he didn’t. He stood back up, got the instruments.

“Hold still,” he told her, as he had every time. There was no stiller than what she was like right now. Her breath was frozen. Her heart raced. He pierced her just as he’d said. Not her clit. Not yet. She sucked in her breath when she looked down her body. Shaved sex. Beautiful ring right there at the top.

“We’ll get to your clit,” he assured her once more. Now, he pinched her between his thumb and fingers, stroked his gloved thumb over her swollen clit so she closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair.

“And it’s going to hurt,” he said, and she squeezed her eyes shut even tighter—because he was talking to her the way he spoke to her in her fantasies. He was saying the things nobody ever had said out loud.

“Because that’s what you need, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she managed, a rush of breath, hardly an answer.

“But you need so much more. You need a collar here,” and one gloved hand went to her throat, pressing once against her. “And you need a bowl of water on the floor by the bed, where you can lap it at night if you’re thirsty.”

“Oh, fuck,” she whispered, and there were tears in her eyes now, tears spilling.

“It’s been so scary, hasn’t it? All those thoughts in your head, and nobody to tell them to. Nobody to listen. You’ve been so lonely.”

Like he had been there, with her, in her nearly empty apartment. Sat at her side on the fire escape. Looked out into a city of millions of people and been all by herself. And then he bent down and licked her in a circle, a circle within a circle, and she came. Vibrant. Colors behind her shut lids. Like every orgasm she’d had thinking of him, thrusting his gloved fingers up inside her, fucking her ass with two fingers overlapped while he sucked hard on her clit. She came in shudders, in waves, and then fell back, limp in the chair. But even as she came, understanding flooded through her.

Somewhere inside, she’d pierced him.—For BastardLife by Alison Tyler

Photograph by the amazing Igor Amelkovich. On sale now and worth it.

“Take off the counterpane.”

The boys were ahead of them. Not that the two couples were racing, but the blond stud was already on his back, head on the white-slipped pillow, slim hips arched. His dark-haired lover crouched between his thighs, licking that tender skin, working slowly to the blond’s impressive hard-on.

Somehow Lia knew exactly how that would feel.

“Come on, baby. Help me with the counterpane.” Ry was in a hurry to catch up. Lia could tell. Still, she turned to him, confused by his request.

“The what?”

“Bedspread,” he said, his British accent stronger now that he was aroused. “Who knows how many people have shot their load onto those ugly watercolor flowers.”

“How many do you think?” Lia asked as she helped him wrench back the heavy quilted comforter—abloom in gaudy burnt orange and lemon yellow blossoms. She was looking at the boys again. For the first time in her life, she wished she had a cock—and she wished that the dark-haired Romeo was sucking her, right down to the root. She could almost feel his full lips on her skin—pretty, cupid-bow lips.

Ry gripped her chin and forced her to face him, his own lips bending into a half-smile. “Slut.” He elongated the word, really hitting the “l.” “That’s your favorite part, isn’t it? Thinking about all the other people who have fucked in this bed.”

“One of my favorite parts.” She pulled her chin out of his hand and stared back at the other couple, who didn’t appear to mind in the least—the blond was tall and fine-boned, the darker one well-muscled, with tattoos scrolled over his skin. She’d hardly ever paused to notice gym rats before, but this guy did something to her. She watched the naked wrestling on the other bed—and she sighed out loud when the one with the chestnut hair hissed under his breath:

“Roll over.”

That was something Ry said to her, in just the same way:

“Roll over. Show me that sweet fucking ass of yours.”

Now, she watched as the top started to rim his lover. Fucking god. More than talking to Ry about who’d abused this hotel room before, she liked seeing what the two boys would do.

Her heart pounded at the way the brunet roughly pulled apart the blond’s cheeks and licked in a tight circle around that tiny pink bud. She clenched her  own thighs together. Ry had never done that to her. Nobody had. But she desperately wanted to own that experience, a tongue against her there. Wetness. Warmth. She thought that the sensation alone might make her come. Would it feel like Ry was suckling her clit? Would it make her feel like a boy?

The brunet didn’t wait to see if rimming would make the blond come. He gripped a bottle of lube from the faux walnut bedside table and poured a shivering handful between the lean man’s taut cheeks. Lia moved forward. She wanted to be as close to the action as possible. She watched hungrily as the dark-haired boy slid one hand over his own rigid cock, lubing himself up, before pressing just the head against the blond’s hole.

Right then, Ry grabbed her. 

It was as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment—as if he knew what was going to happen next. His touch made Lia groan. All morning, she’d been thinking of this situation. While working in her sterile little cubicle downtown, she’d fantasized about what Ry had told her, where he’d wanted her to meet him for lunch.

Not to eat. But to fuck.

From outside, she could hear the noontime traffic. Through a crack in the window, she could smell the fried calamari sizzling in the kitchen of the downstairs café. But all that mattered to her were the people in this room.

Ry pushed her down on the bed and ripped her pleated violet skirt to her waist. She wasn’t wearing panties—he’d told her not to when he’d instructed her to meet him at this hotel, on a Thursday at noon. This was the sort of thing Ry did from time to time. Keeping her off guard. Keeping her guessing.

The boys had already been going at it when she walked into the room, and she’d looked from them to Ry and back to them again, catching the grin on Ryland’s face—seeing that he knew how excited she already was.

They didn’t know the boys’ names. But names didn’t matter. All that mattered was watching them—she and Ry on one bed, the dynamic duo on another.

With her skirt pulled up to her ass, naked skin beneath, her pussy pressed hard against the crisp white sheets. She focused intently on the men—oh, the noises that they made. Those were almost as sexy to her as what they were doing. But then Ry did exactly what she’d fantasized about moments before. He slipped a pillow under her hips to raise her, parted the cheeks of her ass and pressed his tongue to her hole.

Jesus fucking Christ. 

Why hadn’t she let him do this before? He made one spiral, and then another. She shut her eyes for a moment, because the wave of pleasure was almost too extreme—then opened her eyes and stared down at the forest green carpeted floor—speckled with bits of lint. Ry slid one hand under her waist and touched her clit.

“Oh, baby. You’re so wet. Look how wet you get when I lick you here.”

Her cheeks burned as shame flooded through her. She couldn’t speak. Ry’s tongue between her cheeks turned up so many different emotions inside of her. Is that why she’d never let him do that before?

He licked her again, then moved back and pressed the ball of his thumb to her asshole. He didn’t push it in, he simply rested his thumb against her. She waited. He didn’t move. She waited another second. He was as still as she was. Finally, Lia couldn’t stand the tease. She was the one to push back, to thrust back, so that his thumb was inside of her and she was panting. 

“You want it, don’t you, you little slut,” he said. She loved when he talked to her like that. His accent made her feel exceptionally dirty. She had no idea why. Her eyes went back to the boys. The top was fucking the blond now, and at a rapid speed. She saw things she hadn’t noticed at the start. The blond’s nipples were pierced, his chest was waxed, smooth and bare. The brunet had a tattoo of an anchor on one shoulder, a 40s style tattoo that made her want to trace the outline with her tongue.

“What are you thinking?” Ry asked, but she hook her head. He gripped onto her curls and pulled back hard. A shudder ran through her. His thumb was out of her ass now, and she could feel the head of his cock against her. Poised. Ready.

“What are you thinking, Lia?”

“That I’d like to lick him,” she said. Her breath was coming faster now. “That I’d like to be him,” she continued, unable to hold back as he pushed his cock into her. She wanted it all, and all at once. She wanted to be the boy on top, licking the blond’s hole. Then fucking him. She wanted to be the blond, getting rimmed, getting fucked. She wanted to touch them, crawl into their bed, be a part of the game. Turned inside out by the way they moved, the way they fucked.

There was a picture on the wall. A sailing print. Gold frame. The room had that antiseptic smell of cheap cleaning products—but beneath the scent was the odor of so many other guests who had romped here before.

But they hadn’t been doing this, Lia thought. They hadn’t been fucking in tandem like she and Ry and the duo on the other bed.

It wasn’t a race—she knew that—but now the couples were moving beat for beat. Ryland was deep in her ass. The brunet was fucking the blond to the same exact rhythm. Their groans were a background melody. 

Their very breathing was in synch.

When the movie ended, Lia came. Ry’s cock was deep in her ass, and his fingertips stroked her clit, stretching out her orgasm.  She sighed and pulled off him—feeling dirty and used and clean and set free. Ry reached for the remote control and turned off the porn channel. Through the bathroom door, she could see those familiar cheap white towels—nearly threadbare. Too thin to be much use. She’d shower anyway, then head back to work—her ass sore, her body humming. 

Ry said, “Next time, we’ll take out an ad. Describe exactly what we want.”

She looked at him, then at the dark box of the TV screen, and she nodded.

Because next time it was going to be for real.—For BastardLife by Alison Tyler

You remember your firsts.

Jack had been thinking about firsts a lot. His first car, a honey of a 1955 Coupe, dragon-red with black detailing, chrome that shined like nobody’s damn business. He’d worked his ass off to pay for her, then spent his evenings riding around town, up and down the strip, a different girl in the front seat every night., where everyone could see.

One special boy in the back seat when nobody was looking.

He thought of his first kiss, the sweet smell of her perfume, her soft lips, platinum hair, like spun sugar. The feel of her sweater under his palms. The ache in his chest when she pushed him away, when she ended their embrace with a headshake, a kiss is all you get look in her eyes.

Good girls didn’t. Not back then.

So he went for a bad girl, one with a reputation, a reputation that turned out to be false. She kissed different from his first. Open mouth, dark hair wrapped tight around his fist. But when he slid his hand up under her blouse, fear hit her eyes. Yeah, she had a reputation, but she’d never done it. Not before. Not really.

So he found Nate—found him out behind the gym, smoking, like all the other toughs out there. Jack fit in. He could take an engine apart. But even more important, he could put one back together. He had the greaser mentality, the grime under his nails, and he had a look that both boys and girls found appealing.

Nate was his real first. In the back of his car. Late at night, off where nobody could find them. Nate’s mouth on his cock—those petal lips open, a hungry look in his dark green eyes. The girl’s hadn’t looked hungry—they’d been scared and excited, as if they’d need convincing but might just be pleased if he would take the time to show them the way.

Nate needed no convincing. He was the one to peel open Jack’s jeans, release his hard-on, wrap a fucking fist around it. Jesus, god, Jack could feel Nate’s hand on  his cock even now. Half a century later. That’s good hand job, man. If you can feel the tension after fifty years.

The sensation of Nate’s mouth, warm and wet and welcoming, was like nothing he’d ever envisioned, nothing he’d dared to fantasize about. He’d only known his own five fingers before, with his mother’s face cream slicked on his palm to smooth the ride. Oil of Olay was a fragrance that could get him hard to this day—and make him feel guilty and shamed at the same time.

Nate’s lips and tongue slipped up and down his shaft, before—oh, my fucking Christ—darting down to his balls. Jack simply hadn’t thought what it would be like to feel a man’s tongue on his balls. The low lick there. The build to climax—to a too-quick climax the first time, because he couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t hold back. 

“I’m going to—oh, god, Jesus H. — I’m going to—“

“Come, baby,” Nate had said, a low voice—neither masculine nor feminine, just sex talking. “Come, baby. You come for me.” And Jack hadn’t known which way was up, who he was, where he ended and Nate began. He’d pumped his hips and Nate had swallowed,  locking his lips on Jack’s rod, devouring him to the hilt, before slowly, slowly bringing him around again.

For no explicable reason, that memory was mingled with thoughts of the bad girl. Grace. He remembered his first time with her. Going slow, kissing her neck, then touching her skin under her cotton-candy colored sweater. Oh, how he’d loved to touch her, up under the form-fitting cashmere to her silk-covered breasts. The time his hand brushed her naked skin, he was lost. That first sigh of pleasure from her high-glossed lips let him know how much she needed his touch.

Those lips—as red as the paint on his car, made him groan. She had a reputation because she wore red lipstick, and when he finally, finally, on the fifth date, convinced her to bend her ringlet-covered head into his lap, she smeared that lipstick up and down his cock. And he’d learned something new. Something fantastic. Something he couldn’t wait to share. 

The next time, with Nate, he’d passed over a tube of his sister’s lipstick—a gold-flecked coral he’d swiped off the counter. His sister never wore red.

“Please,” he’d said. “Just, please.” And Nate, with that look in his eyes, that understanding, got it exactly right. He sat up in the front seat and slicked on the lipstick, staring at his reflection in the rear view mirror. Jack watched from the back seat, knowing already what lipsticked lips would feel like on his cock, and knowing that Nate’s blow job would send him far further than Grace’s. Over the moon.

It wasn’t that Nate needed to look like a girl. It was the blur, chameleon style that tripped Jack’s wires. The lean tough-looking hood, with the leather jacket and the crisp Levi’s putting on the feminine cosmetic—that’s what did it. That’s what worked for Jack.

Now, he sat in his solitary room, staring out the window at the fall leaves. Why did the leaves stirring always make him think of Grace? 

Why did the wind make him think of Nate?

Anthony looked up at him. He was lovely, auburn hair slightly mussed. He didn’t look anything like Nate, but that wasn’t a problem. New was good. At this stage in Jack’s life, new was rare.

He rubbed his thumb along Anthony’s cheekbone, then traced the line of his jaw. “I’ve been thinking,” he said softly, “a lot about firsts. And lasts. And, baby, if that was my very last blow job, you put a swell bookend on the shelf for me.”

Anthony stood then, smoothed his hair back, leaned against the wall and looked at Jack, orderly uniform not so crisp anymore. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said, those eyes of his  were so bright. This was youth, looking at him, and yet he had to be in his forties. The definition of youth changed as you aged, didn’t it? What had once been an old fogey—don’t trust anyone over 30—was now the fountain suitable for Ponce de Leon.

Tony’s tongue flicked over his lips. He was almost animalistic. Jack felt himself starting to stir—when had he last gotten more than a single erection in 24-hours? He couldn’t remember. 

He stared out the window once more, at the swirl of golden leaves. At the rustling branches. You consider lasts as you get older, Jack thought. You ponder the starts and the ends. But maybe that was a mistake. Maybe he should be thinking of the nows.

“Jack?” he looked up at Tony, who moved to kiss him, ran one hand through Jack’s silver hair. “Why on earth would you think that was your last?”—For BastardLife by Alison Tyler