To celebrate the release of Best Women’s Erotica 2015 (and the great reviews it’s already getting — thank you!) I asked Alison Tyler for permission to reprint her story from the book here. And she said yes!
The book has a range of compelling stories with a refreshing variety of sexual encounters, and each of the authors has her own distinct style of literary erotic storytelling. In one story, a hacker finds himself in a predicament when he accidentally leaves his webcam on — and his female chat partner won’t let him off the hook. Another holds us as captive voyeur when a female ghostwriter indulges a wealthy businessman, and he uses her for far more creative purposes than just writing — even loaning her out to his business associates. In another, a woman becomes determined to find a dirty stranger to feel her up on the subway, and with the help of a clever and resourceful friend, she gets what she wants.
Among the collection’s stellar lineup of finalists is Alison Tyler’s story “A Not-So-Subtle Spice”. In it, Tyler takes us into an immersive and creative scenario, where “mild-mannered housewife” Bonnie discovers the fantasy of figging in a collection of Victorian erotica… and gets caught in a compromising situation. Illustrated with images from “Shibari Reverie” starring Tiffany Doll and Marc Rose.
A Not-So-Subtle Spice
By Alison Tyler, reprinted with permission
Excerpt from Best Women’s Erotica 2015
Bent over, bottom exposed in the split of the leggings, plump arsecheeks.
There was a time when I read Victorian pornography that I kept hidden beneath my mattress so my husband wouldn’t know. I’d bought the book at a secondhand store — clearly shelved by accident with the mysteries. The title had piqued my interest, and when I pulled the tome from the shelf, the fat spine split open, and I found myself mesmerized by the text on the yellowing pages.
Words leaped out at me: birching, pantaloons, figging, flogging, martinet. I knew what some meant, didn’t understand others. I’d only read a few paragraphs, growing wetter and wetter with each sentence, before deciding I needed to own the book.
I paid for my purchase and immediately left the store on shaky legs. I couldn’t even wait to get home. I hurried to my car parked in the dusty little parking lot behind the bookstore, and I fell inside the driver’s seat, trembling all over. I’d never read anything like this before. With no control of myself, I slid my fingers under my dress and into my panties. I devoured the stories about taboo topics — the printing odd and almost indecipherable in places, the descriptions of the undergarments like something from a twisted lingerie catalog.
My car was parked beneath a magnolia tree. Late afternoon sunlight spilled through the purple-tinged white petals, heating their scent. I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t stop myself. I leaned into the steering wheel, groaning as the climax took me.
That was my first.
I’d seen porn before, of course. Everyone had spied the stack of Playboys kept in the garage or in a toolshed — even mild-mannered housewives such as myself. But the models in those spreads were blonde and shiny and clean. Their bios were penned in darling handwriting as they confessed a love of strawberry ice cream and sunset walks on a white-sand beach. These stories were filled with secret longings, dark desires.
Birch rods, quim, flog, spirit, naughty, cocks.
I was supposed to buy Hamburger Helper at the grocery store, to have my husband’s ice-cold Bud on the Formica table when he came home from work. But I couldn’t make myself.
Wide-open cunt, lovely bottom hole.
I skipped the store.
[SATISFY your CURIOSITY and CONTINUE READING…]