Naughty or Nice?

by Alison Tyler

  “Afraid not,” you say, and drag me in.

  It’s totally dark in the room beyond. You lock the door behind us and shove me against it, dropping to your knees again. My cock is in your mouth even faster this time, and when I throw back my head and moan, you stand up quickly and kiss me. I can taste my own cock on your mouth. You guide me around as if you know the room intimately, and when you push me back I go tumbling onto a big, soft bed.

  You’re on top of me, kissing me, voracious. I reach up under your top and peel it off of you, discovering what I already knew—you’re not wearing a bra. I press my mouth to your nipples and gently caress your tits while you writhe and moan on top of me. Just a few more strokes of your mouth and I’ll come, but I don’t want to come yet. Still sucking your tits, I push you onto your back and unbutton your jeans.

  They’re so tight that it takes some doing to get them peeled down your legs. They’re damp, and so’s your thong. My eyes are starting to adjust to the darkness, and I can see as I kiss my way up your legs that your pussy is shaved smooth. Not that I wouldn’t have found out a moment later, anyway, as my tongue glides between your soft lips and strokes your clit. You’re pierced there, too, and in a row down each cunt lip, three or perhaps four rings through each side of your shaved pussy.

  Obviously, you know your rich queer friend from the Hollywood Boulevard side of Mulholland. But then, I already knew that.

  You’re on the huge bed edge-to-edge, instead of head-to-foot, so it’s easy for me to drop to my knees and get a better angle at your hungry cunt.You lift your ass off the bed, moaning as I press hard into you.

  My fingers slide into you easily, telling me just how wet you are—as if your soaked jeans and thong hadn’t already told me. You’re naked, now, writhing on my tongue, your thighs spread wide and your pussy opened for me. My eyes are finally opened to the semi-darkness.When I look up I see your glorious body stretched out before me, white in the moonlight from a nearby window, tits gathered in one hand, the other gently caressing the top of my head. You’re looking down at me, your mouth hanging open and glistening moist like your eyes.Your blonde hair is swept in big messy strands around your face, neck and tits.You’re gorgeous, and I can see just how close you are to coming.

  I can also see the guy standing in the nearby doorway. Beyond, it looks like there’s a bathroom, lit only by candlelight. But with the moonlight, and my eyes adjusted, I can see him pretty clearly—he’s older, suit-clad, silver-haired, and I do recognize him. He’s a screenwriter and actor, British, famously unmarried, famously eccentric. Everyone knows he’s queer, except, of course, for everyone.

  Jacob is watching us intently.

  “Oh, don’t stop on my account,” he says. “After all, the door was locked, you naughty kids.”

  “I’m sorry, we—” I begin.

  You’re so close to coming that it takes you a moment to register the voice.Your head twists around and you look back at him.

  “Jacob,” you say hoarsely. “I didn’t see you.”

  “Hello, there, Suzanne. Having a good night, I hope?”

  You start to slide out from under me, but he puts up his hands.

  “Please, don’t stop. As long as you don’t mind me here, you’re welcome to use the bed.That doesn’t bother you, does it?”

  You look down at me, guiltily, scared, like you’re expecting me to run screaming. From downstairs, I can just hear the pounding rhythm of “O Chanukah.”

  “Not even a little bit,” I say. “Watch away.”

  Jacob laughs. “Must be another actor,” he says. “She needs very badly to come.You can see it in her eyes.You must be really quite good with that tongue of yours. Isn’t that right, Suzanne?”

  “He’s great,” you say, your voice breathy.

  “Then by all means. Give the poor girl what she wants. We’ve been friends far too long for me to stand in her way.”

  My cock is throbbing hard against the edge of the bed, and I’m still hungry for your pussy. I lower my face and press my tongue between your lips again, and you gasp and claw at the bed as I begin to lick in earnest.

  Jacob watches, fascinated, as you hover on the edge of orgasm. I lick faster and you moan, your back arching—it only takes a moment to drive you over the edge. My two fingers inside you feel the tightening as you get close, and when I try to slide three in there I discover that Hollywood girls do their Kegels.You almost squeeze my fingers out when you come, and you all but box my ears as you shudder all over and your thighs quiver tight, closed against my head.Your ass is lifted so high off the bed I have to tuck my arm under you to keep my mouth on your clit. Nothing like a little Hollywood Fitness to keep a girl limber.

  “Very, very good,” says Jacob. “You’re really quite adept at that. Isn’t he, Suzanne?”

  “Fuck me,” you gasp, sitting up fast and pushing my head out from between your legs. “Please. Fuck me?”

  I want to fuck you more than I’ve ever wanted to do anything in my life. I look up at Jacob. “By all means,” he says. “She’s certainly earned it.”

  I’m on you in an instant, your hands hungrily stripping my shirt off and pulling my jeans down over my ass. Your nails dig into me as I enter you, and you come again just as I start to thrust. I kiss you hard and feel your tongue, still tasting of my cock, still urging me forward. I fuck you harder, lifting your legs over my shoulders, bent at the knees, giving myself just the angle I like. I reach down and touch your clit as I drive into you, and you come a third time before I let myself go inside you. I’ve pushed you back across the bed, so intent on fucking you that I didn’t realize you’re hanging halfway over the edge, only your ass supporting you. As my spent cock slides out of you, we both go tumbling onto the floor. We would both giggle if we weren’t still breathing too hard.

  I lay there, sprawled on the floor, limbs tangled with yours. Jacob walks over and politely kneels down next to us; you look up at him, your face a mixture of embarrassment and excitement. With a good deal of post-orgasmic dullness mixed in.

  Jacob leans down and kisses you on the lips, gently, not a sexual kiss—paternal, friendly, kind, affectionate. He strokes your sweaty, tangled blonde hair and says “Well done, my dear. It’s good to see you dating again.”

  Then, without asking, he leans over you and kisses me, once, on the lips, at first equally paternal, equally kind. I don’t stop him, but I do notice his tongue grazing my lower lip in the instant before he pulls away.

  Then he strokes my hair a little.

  “You are an actor, aren’t you?” he asks.“Suzanne does tend to favor actors.”

  “Screenwriter, actually,” I tell him. “Well, novelist. But working on a screenplay.”

  His business card is already in his hand.

  “I’d love to read it,” he tells me, and gives me his card.

  Then he leans down and gives you another kiss, this one slightly less paternal—and more, you might say, friendly.

  “Thanks for bringing your new boyfriend over,” he says. “Hope you enjoy the party.”

  He stands up, brushes himself off, smiles down at you, and blows me a kiss.

  He vanishes into what I assumed was the bathroom, and I hear his footsteps across the floor on the other side.

  We don’t say a word as we dress and make our way down through the grinding male bodies and the opulent front yard. I open the passenger door for you and go to get in my side. You stop me and put your hand at the base of my neck, your body tentatively close to mine—barely touching this time, not close like before.

  “Are you mad?” you ask.

  I smile.

  “Do you know how hard it is to get someone to read your screenplay in this town?”

  “I’ll read it,” you say meekly.

  I lean forward and kiss you—gently at first, then harder, tasting your tongue.

  “I’d like that,” I tell you, and walk around to the driver’s side as the pulsing strains of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer�
� throb temptingly up the long Mercedes-packed driveway.

  Naughty or Nice?

  Alison Tyler

  On Christmas morning, Dillon woke me up with one arm wrapped tight around my waist, spooning me from behind. His body was warm, and I could feel that he was hard already. “Naughty or nice?” he murmured.

  I responded with a query of my own, rolling over to look into his dark-blue eyes. “Do you even have to ask?”

  “No, baby. But what do you think Santa had to say? You think there’s a lump of coal waiting for you?”

  I slid my hand under the blanket, touching him through his drawstring pants.“Doesn’t feel like coal,” I grinned. Dillon pulled away. Yes, he was hard, but he wasn’t ready. Instead, he lifted a present from next to the bed. “Unwrap it,” he instructed, “and then meet me in the living room.”

  He left before I could say a word. Excited by the surprise, I pushed myself up and tore off the paper, revealing Christmas clothes of the traditional variety—traditional slut, that is: red-marabou trimmed nightie, matching high-heeled slippers, panties with three rows of ruffles on the seat. I brought the new clothes to the bathroom, freshened up, and then headed out to the living room, where Dillon was already waiting.

  Stockings hung from the mantle, filled with hidden secrets. Old classics played on the stereo.The white lights on the tree twinkled. And then there was Dillon. Aside from the weather, a sunny L.A. December, my Santa was the only nontraditional item in the scene. He didn’t go for a red felt suit or white beard. Instead, he had on his standard casual clothes—black drawstring pants, black T-shirt, cranberry-colored cashmere V-neck—but he was wearing a red hat with a white trim.

  “Look under the tree…”

  I turned away from Dillon to look at the stash awaiting me: various-size packages wrapped in shiny metallic paper. Flushed with anticipation, I opened the one on the top, pulling out a set of cherry-red leather cuffs with gleaming silver hardware. Next up was a wooden paddle, with red and white stripes painted in a diagonal pattern. And there was more… toys in different decadent lengths. Plugs. Clamps. Dillon had clearly gone all out at the sex toy shop.

  “See, Santa knew you’d been naughty,” Dillon told me. “But he left the punishment up to me. Come on over here, bad girl, and bring that paddle with you.”

  I scrambled to his side, paddle in my hands, embarrassed at how ready I was to take the spanking but desperate as always to feel that first thrilling sting. Dillon draped me over his lap, positioning me so that my pussy pressed deliciously against his knee, and lifted the nightie. He used the paddle on me through my silly ruffled panties for the first few blows, and then set down the cruel device in order to pull those panties to my knees. I trembled at the feel of his fingertips on my skin as he traced designs over my naked cheeks. And then he lifted that candy-cane paddle and resumed the spanking.

  “Now, tell me,” he instructed between blows. “Tell me all the naughty things you did this year.”

  This caught me off guard. I couldn’t think of all the naughty things I’d done in a week. How could I confess to a year’s worth of sins? The paddle slammed against me. Dillon didn’t like it when I made him wait.

  “I don’t know,” I murmured, feeling tearful, but still completely blank. What had I done? What did he want to hear? What did Dillon consider naughty?

  “Come on, Nic, if you confess, I’ll help you wipe the slate clean for the new year…”

  But I couldn’t, not when upended over my stern man’s lap. I wished I was able to paint a fantasy the way Dillon could—so effortlessly sliding into the role of the Christmas inquisitor, demanding my obedience, punishing me for each second that I made him wait.

  “Then I’ll help you,” Dillon said, smacking me three times in a row so that I kicked out against him, my mules flying across the room. “You lost yourself in twisted little fantasies, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” That was true enough.

  “You touched yourself several times a day, coming so hard when you imagined filthy degrading situations. Right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You used the nozzle in the shower, pressed against your little clit, to get yourself off. You used a variety of toys, sliding them inside your pussy or your asshole. You dirty little girl. And you let your man do things to you that you wouldn’t even tell your best friend about, am I right?”

  “Oh, God, yes…”

  “You should get coal in your stockings, shouldn’t you?”

  “No…”

  The paddle was suddenly merciless, slamming through the air against me… Dillon didn’t seem to want me to disagree with him. But what he said was wrong. “If I behaved all the time, you’d never have a reason to spank me.”

  He laughed at that. “Is that what you think, Nicola? Really? I’d always have a reason to spank you. Just look at you…” he pushed me off his lap and spread me out on the sofa, pulling my panties down to my ankles and then spreading my pussy lips apart with his fingertips. “Look how wet you get. I could spank you just because of that. Because it makes you wet. Nothing else makes you wet like this, does it? If that’s not proof that you’re naughty to the core, then I don’t know what is.”

  I held my breath. Spread open like that, with Dillon’s breath warm on my wet skin, I felt on the verge of coming. But I wasn’t sure at all of what Dillon had in mind. He pulled the hat off, then bent down and started to lick me, so gently that I felt myself falling. How could he spank me so hard one moment and then treat me like this the next? I couldn’t fathom. But I didn’t fight. I closed my eyes as he tricked his tongue in those magical spirals. I gripped his shoulders through the soft fabric of his sweater, holding him to me, silently begging him to let me climax once before he switched gears. Because knowing Dillon, this wouldn’t be the only item on the menu for the morning. Not with the rest of the boxes still wrapped under the tree. Not with the…

  “Go get the stocking,” he said, pulling away before I reached that perfect moment. I blinked several times, trying to regain my sense of self before I reached for the panties. “No, you can take those all the way off.” I kicked them away, then padded half-naked to the mantle and reached for the stocking. I didn’t open it or peek. I brought the thing back to Dillon, who immediately pulled out red and green clothespins. So festive! So flirty! So fucking painful when he clipped the first one onto me, ultimately decorating my pussy lips with a series of the vibrantly colored clips. Next up were nipple clamps, and Dillon undid the tie of the sheer robe himself, fastening the clamps to my rock-hard nipples, making sure the clamps wouldn’t move when he tugged on the chain.

  I was lost in a whirlwind of pain, but Dillon knew what to do. Back he went, his tongue resuming those decadent spirals around my clit. And once more I found myself on the brink, teetering, almost….

  But no.

  Without warning, Dillon flipped me over, face down on the sofa, and reached for the new cuffs. In moments, he had my wrists bound over my head, and then he was shoving the marabou-trimmed robe out of the way, parting the cheeks of my ass, and sliding in one of the new plugs—as robustly red as the globe ornaments on our tree.

  “What’s that, baby doll?” Dillon crooned, leaning his head toward me.

  I hadn’t realized I was making any noise until Dillon spoke. But I had been moaning, wordlessly begging for him to have pity.

  “Please, Dillon. Please let me…”

  “Oh, you’ll come,” Dillon promised me. “But not yet.”

  And then he was up once more, rummaging behind the tree for a long, slim package, ripping off the wrapping himself to reveal a brand-new crop. Red, with green ribbons tied to the handle. He was a slave to the Christmas spirit, if nothing else.

  “There’s twelve days of Christmas, isn’t that right?”

  I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. I could hardly breathe. But somehow I managed to nod.

  “And if I have my traditions down, then I believe the first day is Christmas, and tha
t the twelve days go forward into the first week of January.”

  I nodded again, not sure what I was nodding to or why Dillon was talking about traditions.

  “So twelve is the number for today,” Dillon continued. “Count them for me.”

  And with that, he positioned me bent over the arm of the sofa, and started. The crop a blur, the pain exploding through my body. I did my best, lost in a red haze of pain and pleasure. I was able to keep up, but barely. Desperate when Dillon finally dropped the crop and slid down his slacks, thrusting inside me with the same intensity with which he’d punished me—fucking me so hard and tugging on the chain running between my breasts to add to the rhythm of his movements. I felt almost as if I were lost in a dream. I’d barely had time to wake up before he’d started. And now look at me. Just look at me.

  Ever the gentleman, Dillon brought one hand to my pussy just before he came, pinching my clit so that I would climax first. And he finished a beat later, letting my body embrace him, tighten on him, as he sealed himself to me.

  The glittery lights from the Christmas tree filled my eyes as Dillon pulled out, as he spread me back out on the sofa, removing the clips and the clamps. And as he flipped me for a moment to pull out the plug, and then undid the cuffs and carried me in his arms to the bathroom, I had one last look at the living room—at the wreckage of Christmas we’d left behind.The torn papers.The sex toys scattered about.

  Merry fucking Christmas.That’s what it truly was.

  About the Authors

  Lisette Ashton is a UK author who has published more than two dozen erotic novels and countless short stories. Lisette writes principally for Virgin’s Nexus imprint, as well as occasionally for the CP label Chimera Publishing. Lisette Ashton’s stories have been described by reviewers as “no-holds-barred naughtiness” and “good dirty fun.”