Below is a compilation of dirty, little stories that I’ve written. Some of these dirty stories were written for fellow erotic professionals, which have been published on their e-zine, or blogs. And some of these stories will be dirty, little videos, so if you’re into a visual and auditory sensory experiences, be sure to visit this page too.
Alison Tyler’s , H is for Harlot blog:
Donna George Storey’s, Auditory Voyeurism blog:
Alone in Granada, Espana
“It was happenstance that the hostel I found in Granada had a single room available for a weary cyclist. I was awoken from my sleep in the wee hours of morning by the muffled sounds from the room next to where my naked body lay still. I tossed and turned; trying not to listen. I didn’t want to invade their privacy; their intimate moment; their sultry, Spanish passion.
I didn’t know I was a voyeur.
How could I have known how much I would enjoy peering into soft moans of building pleasure and the slow and steady rock of an old metal bed; speckled in white paint, as it squeaked and thumped up against our shared wall. Before too long, I grew tired of fighting against my growing arousal; my wet pussy and clamoring clit cheered as I closed my eyes and began to imagine -
Her eyes would glint fiery copper each time his tender, wet lips parted and his tongue devoured her golden brown, Andalucían skin. His deeply tanned hands moved across her; exploring her beauty. Calloused finger tips grazed across her breasts, leaving behind the Cantabria Mountain tops that cast shadows from the moonlight onto our wall. Lips sizzled against hot skin; moving down into the Costa Del Sol region of her body. His fingers dipped inside her wet heat; freeing the guttural sound that lay silent inside his throat.
I opened my eyes.
I didn’t know how much I would enjoy hearing my own breath; tandem with theirs; rising and falling quickly as my heart pounded in my chest and my cunt whispered its swollen ache to me while I listened. I pressed one hand firmly against the chipped plaster wall, as I slid my other hand between my legs: slippery, flooded and needy, my cunt cried out, “Ohhh, sweet Jesus, please fuck me.”
I didn’t know I was a voyeur, but I do now.”
Donna George Storey’s , Motel Sex Blog:
Blue Dolphin
“Sorry, dude. It’s by the hour.” The crusty looking motel clerk said to my boyfriend, John, while he slowly lifted his head up from his smut magazine and scratched his protruding beer belly.
I stood there standing next to John, fidgeting. John was a consummate negotiator. He was trying to buy 30 minutes of motel time, instead of the one hour minimum. Impatiently, I shifted my weight from one hip to other. John glanced over at me, I raised my eyebrows and he let out sigh of defeat before pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his tight fitting, 501’s. Fortunately, John had a glorious cock, which balanced out his cheap-ass spending habits.
It was my adventurous idea to try out the Dolphin Motel. John kept referring to it as, “The Blue Dolphin Hotel.” The idea of blue dolphins and the word, h-o-t-e-l must have added a touch of elegance to John’s sense and sensibilities, because clearly, The Dolphin was a seedy joint.
Motel door shut and locked, John’s tawdry side finally came out to play. He flipped on the small television set that played nothing but 24 hours of non-stop porn. John was all hands as he quickly moved toward me; forcefully pushing me down onto the queen size bed. The faded, flowery bedspread and squeaky mattress and box spring welcomed my small frame. Horrific acting and fabricated moaning flooded the room. I didn’t care.
John was a horny dolphin that afternoon; swiftly pulling my pants and panties down, spreading my legs and then snuggling his dark hair and greedy mouth between my legs. My slippery, slick pussy lips kissed him back as if they were starving. After orgasm number three, I finally caught my breath and said, “God, aren’t you glad we still have another 30 minutes, baby?” He grunted out a yes as he thrust his cock deeper inside me.”
Alison Tyler’s 250 words or less story contests:
Miles Davis
“Shhh…I think someone’s coming.” Her voice was raspy and hot.
“Yeah. Hello? It’s me.” He whispered thrusting deeper into her ass.
“No. I mean I think someone else is here in the room.” She murmured louder as she twisted her reddened, sweaty face around.
A slice of light echoed from under the closet door. They both saw the looming shadow standing just on the outside.
They didn’t move. They were suspended in mid-fuck. It was silent except for the slow, steady drip of sweat that fell from her brow and pooled on top of a shoe box top. Pounding hearts, full deep breaths, lust, need and too much wine filled the small, dark space.
“Fuck it. Just fuck me.” Her need surpassed her fear of getting caught, like someone passing the baton in a race.
He pulled his wet cock out and drove himself inside her again. She closed her eyes; turned her head back toward the wall, her fists grasped the plastic coated shelving and she began moving her hips up and down; meeting each penetrating rhythmic grind.
She felt her orgasm building as his cock shimmied against every splitting fiber deep within her.
“Fuck me hard. I’m going to come…” she said huskily; feeling the release of orgasm move across her body.
With wobbly-knees she crouched down and crawled on all fours; cautiously opening the closet door. Her eyes came face to face with Miles Davis, the party host’s black cat.
The Bullfight
I winced as I watched the dance between the majestic bull and his ornately dressed opponent in the Plaza De Toros below. I was a lover of animals, submerged in Spain during high season.
“Bullfighting. It is an honor.” His voice was smooth, like fine Andalucían Sherry.
I felt the cement seat searing into me, like the daggers used to poke and taunt the bull. I could taste the sweetness of his cigar. I could smell his fiery passion.
“Yes, but I don’t understand.” I knew answering him would lead to trouble for me.
“Come. I will show you.”
I blame the Sevilla heat, the hypnotic click of the Flamenco’s castanets, the strum from a Spanish guitar, and his black olive, half-lidded bedroom eyes, all beckoning me to follow him.
I felt the darkened coolness against my skin. I could still hear the temperature rise from the crowds above us. Hands above my head, he pushed me up against the deep red, rich gold and Mediterranean blues of his proud bolero jacket. His lips swooped, teased, prodded and tortured my quivering body.
I was aware of my wet panties.
“You are a Matador?” I found the words, captured between heavy sighs.
“Yes.” He whispered.
My clit ached.
Agile hands squeezed my breasts, and lifted my skirt. The lacy black thong was pulled and ripped. I blushed as his fingers touched my secret folds. Wet and needy, his glossy black head moved between my legs.
The crowd roared.
I sighed
