Sunday, May 25, 2014

Never Say Never: Guest Post by Alison Tyler

Never Say Never is my second guide for couples. Another way to look at the book is that it’s what spilled over from my first guide. Because originally, I had believed Never Have the Same Sex Twice would be filled with kink. But I ran out of pages. (I hate when that happens.) Luckily, I got a shot at the sequel…and six years after Never Have the Same Sex Twice was published—Never Say Never appeared.


This book is what happens when I write a guide. I mean, I’m the type of person who likes a bit of this and a bit of that. A quote here. A story there. You should see the wall across from my computer—it’s covered with postcards, poems, necklaces, sequined Mardis Gras masks, record album covers, keys, bells. In fact, you should see the inside of my brain—I think the description overlaps.

In Never Say Never, I divided the book into bite-sized chapters of assorted kink. I included snippets from my favorite stories, quotes, and full-length illustrative tales. Plus, I chatted a bit. (Like you do.)
Here is an excerpt from Chapter Fifteen: Mind Your Ma’ams—Femme Domme

For a moment, I thought I didn't have any femme domme clips of my own to share. I told myself, “You don't really write femme domme, now do you, silly girl.” And then I thought, “Oh, excuse me. What did you just say, little voice?” Because my New Stories folder — yes, that's the ever-so-clever title on the lip—is filled to the rim with f/d stories!

            Why?

            Well, I have this funny internal glitch. Occasionally, I will meet a man and think, “Dom. You are a total Dom, Sir.” And other times, I will meet a man and think, “What you really need is to have some woman, some ice-cold woman, take charge of you.” In either case, I go write a story. Like “Plucked”:

            He chuckles, nervously. When was Sandy last nervous in front of girl? Sometime circa the 90s, I’d have to guess. “I’m here,” he says, “for good.”
            “That’s my only option? For good?”
            I feel as if Sandy and I are in some way connected. Our hearts beat faster at her dark, slow words. My mental pleas of Run, Sandy, Run, have changed in a quarter note to Be bad for her, Sandy. Go home with her and be bad.
            He looks at me, and I see that although his face is composed, his eyes are begging. I pour him a shot and refill her glass, buying him time. I’ve never been nice to Sandy before, but the look his gives me is pure gratitude, worth more than any crumpled-up buck tip he might leave on the bar.
            In “Broken,” my main character finds something he didn’t even know was missing:
            She had cuffs in her hand, as if magically, and she dangled them in front of his face. “You want me to tie you to the bed?” he asked. He’d never played like that before.
            “No,” she said. “I want to tie you down.”
            His cock responded as if she’d spoken directly to it instead of to him. What was going on? He’d never even thought to do things kinky before. Most of the girls he dated were so young that simply the act of fucking was exciting to them.
            “Are you game?” She put one hand on his dick. He was rock hard. “You seem game.”
            “I was going out,” he said, to give himself a second to think.
            She nodded. “I know. You were going out. Take off your shirt.”      
            He could stop this charade at any second. He could tell her she was over the top, rebounding, using him to get her aggressions out. But he took off his shirt anyway.


            Dominatrixes are everywhere. Emilie Paris writes in “Underwater”:

                        Some of my friends would be shocked by my tastes. I simply don’t look the part of the dominatrix. I’m slight, but I’m tough. My lovers have always submitted to my needs. There’s never been a question about it. I call to them, the ones that like to bow down. I don’t seek them out, they come to me.

            Jax Baynard’s “Meltdown” also takes the domme’s point of view:

            I snapped the whip a couple of times, limbering up, trying to think calmly. What was he after? If I knew what it was I could either give it to him or not, my choice. But I didn't know, and the anger and the hurt running beneath it, the hurt I was trying frantically to stay on top of, made it impossible to think rationally. So I hit him. Despite my threats, I pulled a few punches. I pulled all of them, actually, practicing restraint as a cautionary measure. After a minute or two he said conversationally, “You probably deserved it.”
            “What did you just say?” I asked.
            “You heard me,” he said, which, of course, I had.
            I snapped the whip, the fine tip at the end making a crack. If I hit him like that, he would bleed instantly. It was the same as being sliced open with a knife. They don't pay me so much for nothing. I was good enough to be blunt, hitting him hard without breaking the skin. He jerked with the force of it.
            “You're probably a real cunt,” he said pleasantly. “I've thought so for years.”

            Those might not be my first words to a domme with a whip. But there are so many different ways people work to get what they want. If you’re a woman who has always craved control—or a closet sub who craves giving up the reins—take a deep breath, approach your lover, and confess.

            You might wind up getting more than you want. You might get what you deserve.


Alison Tyler has been called “a trollop with a laptop,” “a literary siren,” and “erotica’s own superwoman.” She has edited more than fifty collections for Cleis Press, as well as anthologies for Plume, Harlequin, and Masquerade. Her stories have appeared in more than 100 collections, including Sex for America, Coupling, and Best Women’s Erotica. Visit her at alisontyler.blogspot.com 24/7 as she does a regular dance with a partner named Insomnia.

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