H Is for Hardcore

by Alison Tyler

  Table of Contents

  Also by Alison Tyler

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  ME, WHEN I’M WITH YOU

  TO PROTECT AND SERVE

  SWEET NO MORE

  CONTROL

  IN THE HOLD

  DON’T MOVE

  THE GUY YOUR MOTHER WARNED YOU ABOUT

  HEADING AND HEALING

  FLAT-FOOTED

  ON A KNIFE EDGE

  THE END OF CELIBACY

  ASHES AND DIAMONDS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  Also by Alison Tyler

  Best Bondage Erotica

  Best Bondage Erotica 2

  Exposed

  The Happy Birthday Book of Erotica

  Heat Wave: Sizzling Sex Stories

  Luscious: Stories of Anal Eroticism

  The Merry XXXmas Book of Erotica

  Red Hot Erotica

  Slave to Love

  Three-Way

  Caught Looking (with Rachel Kramer Bussel)

  A Is for Amour

  B Is for Bondage

  C Is for Coeds

  D Is for Dress-Up

  E Is for Exotic

  F Is for Fetish

  G Is for Games

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Hundreds of Hurrahs to:

  Felice Newman

  Frédérique Delacoste

  Violet Blue

  Thomas S. Roche

  and SAM, always.

  Pleasure of love lasts but a moment.

  Pain of love lasts a lifetime.

  —JEAN-PIERRE CLARIS DE FLORIAN

  INTRODUCTION: HAVE YOU FOUND IT?

  HAVE YOU FOUND what you’re looking for? Was it what you expected? What you thought you deserved?

  Personally, I’m still on a quest, searching. But at least I know what I don’t want. I don’t want nice and clean. I don’t want good and kind. I want hot and fast. Dark and dirty. Basically, I want hardcore.

  But what does that word mean? According to the authors in this book, hardcore is something different for every person.

  From Radclyffe:

  “I’ve done sweet. Now I want something else.”

  “Like what?”

  I twisted both rings until my nipples wouldn’t stretch any more without tearing. The pleasure and the pain fused into a fierce ache in my clit and my knees nearly buckled. He watched my face, and I knew he knew I was struggling not to moan. “I guess that will be up to her.”

  And Teresa Noelle Roberts:

  His hands were calloused and a little dirty—slurry from sharpening blades, perhaps—but when he caressed my face and down my throat, tracing the line of the jugular vein, I moaned deep in my throat, imagining the same delicate touch from a knife, just skimming my skin, hinting at a million possible deaths without doing any harm. I arched against him.

  And Jean Roberta:

  Carla sighed. “Poor, brainless man, you must help me to untie her and place her in a more suitable position. I can use one of those belts to better effect.” Amy’s mouth went dry.

  But the common thread from one story to the next is the search. The search for something dark. The search for something dreamy. The search for something more.

  The search for something hardcore.

  XXX,

  Alison

  MATHILDE MADDEN

  ME, WHEN I’M WITH YOU

  HARD COCK, HARD MAN.

  You’re standing over me as I lie on the bed. It would almost make me feel weak and small if I didn’t have such an incredible hold over you. If I hadn’t taken you to the edge five times already today. If you didn’t need to come so much right now that it’s pulsing off you.

  You’re naked. You’re so pretty when you’re naked that all I really need to do is look at you. Strip you and have you stand there while I masturbate to the sight of you. Use you as porn.

  But today, God, not today. Not with the way your breath is stalling, the way your shoulders are moving; the way your aching, wanting cock is hitching forward, fucking the air in front of you. Your hands are braced behind your neck. You know better than to move them.

  “Lick your lips,” I say. So cheap, but it makes me hot to see your tongue because it reminds me of all the times I’ve used your tongue as a sex toy.

  Your tongue moves over your top lip. You keep eye contact with me, like you’re trying to seduce me. Maybe you don’t realize you don’t need to. Don’t realize how helpless the sight of you like this makes me. Maybe you don’t feel how much power you have over me. Maybe all you can feel is how much you need to come. How much you need to convince me to let you come. Really, I don’t need convincing of anything.

  I lean over and pick up the cuffs that are lying on the floor and hold them out to you. You move your hands from behind your neck and take them.

  “Put them on.”

  You snap each bracelet around a wrist and take a careful moment to fumble and flip the safety catches that stop them getting tighter. I love you in handcuffs. Your thick wrists look weirdly oversized in them. You make them look tiny and tinny. Like jewelry. Sexy boy. Sexy decorated boy. It’s not even Christmas.

  Clamps would be nice, too, I think. More sparkle. Clamps are pretty. Your pain is pretty. More than pretty. But I’m too much of a greedy needy wanting demanding bitch right now to stop and look for them.

  So instead I say, “Touch it. Touch yourself.”

  You do it. You put your cuffed hands on your cock. And you moan. You actually moan. God, you are such a tease.

  You know just how to make me want you. And I start to think about letting you come even though that isn’t my plan. I think about how your face looks when you release. My pussy starts to pulse harder. And it was already on fire before.

  I make myself tell you to stop, and you give this delicious twisted little noise and put your cuffed hands back behind your neck.

  I don’t know how I am supposed to maintain a demeanor of icy control in this situation. I’m so completely the opposite of icy. I’m so damn hot and so damn wet and all I want to do is tell you to come over here and fuck me as hard as you can.

  Some people do this kind of thing all day long. Every day. Tease men. Dominate men. Some people do this for a living. How do they not lose their minds? Maybe because they don’t have you. That’s what I keep telling myself. They’re not teasing you.

  Your hips are still jerking a little. I think about getting off the bed and kneeling in front of you and taking your cock in my mouth. I love your cock. I love sucking your cock. It took me a while to find a suitably dom way of sucking your cock, but eventually I discovered that if your hands were tied behind your back and your ankles were forced apart with a spreader bar and your nipples were clamped and I had a vibrator tight against your arsehole, that worked for me. Kneeling in front of you when you’re trussed like that. Like some kind of ripe, throbbing bondage god. Long licks; teasing, swirling my tongue around the head. Making you see stars. So yeah, I can suck your cock and still be topping you. Which is nice. Because sucking your cock and owning you are my two favorite hobbies.

  But I’m not going to suck you now. Delicious as your cock looks, you’re just too ripe for teasing.

  You’re looking right at me. Naked. So hard. Big muscular legs spread, hands behind your neck. Oh, God, you’re so fucking hot. I want to come. I could come just looking at you. I already said that, didn’t I? Well, you haven’t exactly got any less hot since then, you know.

  “I’m thinking about your chastity belt,” I say. You manage to avoid making a noise. You sort of swallow. Actually, it’s like a gulp. It’s delicious. You really don’t know I’m lying. That there is no w
ay I could strap you away at this point. I’m lost. You’ve got me. You’ve totally got me. But you don’t know it and I lie to you some more. “I’m thinking about strapping you away instead of letting you come. You could beg me not to do that, if you want.”

  You say something like, “Please don’t,” but it’s really quiet and simply won’t do.

  “I didn’t hear you,” I say. “I need to hear you.”

  Your tongue flips over your lips. Fuck. Your tongue. You make me think of that tongue on my clit. You make me want you even more. I can’t take much more of this. “Please,” you say, more loudly than before. “Please don’t do that. Don’t. I can’t. Please, baby, I want to come.”

  I dig my fingernails into my palm.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “It really is so hot when I strap your cock away. Hide the key somewhere and wait—what?—a week, until you simply can’t do anything except beg me on your knees to let you free. Until you reach the point where you’ll scream with frustration if I so much as blow on it.”

  “Baby,” you say gently, “baby, I’m already there.”

  Sometimes, I’m so in the moment, so in control or at least in some semblance of control and you say something like that, something soft, and it’s all I can do not to come crashing down. When you say that, with your voice all gentle and pretty, I want to hug you. I could drop right out of role any second. Crash. Bang. I can feel it. This is getting serious. Who’s driving this thing? I need to find an endgame. And fast.

  I sit up and scrabble around among the debris on the floor for the key to your handcuffs. It takes me a couple of moments but I find it. I beckon you over, and you step forward, bringing your wrists from behind your neck so I can reach them.

  I unfasten the cuffs and say, “Turn round. Put your hands behind your back.”

  You turn around slowly with one slight moment for a pause and a quizzical expression. Your cock bobs as you move. It’s so hard and angry looking. It looks painful. It’s got to be really sensitive. Sensitive like I can’t even imagine. I reach up and recuff your big wrists behind your back.

  “Turn back around.”

  You turn to face me, cock still vicious angry.

  I say, “Get on your knees now.”

  You go down, big man. One knee then the other. When you kneel, it dismantles me. Every time. It’s like I have to wait and let myself crumble then put myself back together and carry on.

  Now I’m sitting on the edge of the bed with you kneeling in front of me and my pussy is just burning. What I’d really like to do is grab you by the hair and pull you tight between my legs. I’d like to do this so sudden and fast that you don’t really have time to catch your breath. So fast it hurts you enough that you make a confused little yelp and you aren’t sure what is happening for a long moment before you realize your world is made of me.

  I don’t do it.

  I deserve a fucking medal.

  You’re kneeling on the floor surrounded by all the Tracey Emin-style crap that accumulates by the bed when you come to stay. There’s chocolate and the nipple clamps that would have been good to put on you a bit earlier—but it is so too late now. There’s a gay porno magazine that you brought me and all your clothes. You’ve been naked for two whole days. Sometimes when I look at you naked I want to burn your clothes. You were made to be kept naked.

  It’s been two days. Two days naked and hard and you still haven’t come.

  All the crap on the floor is mostly on the rug. I slip off the bed and pull the rug out of the way, leaving a stretch of bare floorboards next to you.

  I sit back down. “You still want to come?”

  “Baby?”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah. Yes.”

  “You reckon you can make yourself come like this?”

  You’re kneeling naked on the floor with your hands cuffed behind your back. But I’m sure you are pretty aware of these facts. You look at me, but there’s no need really, because you know I mean it. You know what I’m saying to you. What I’m telling you to do:

  “You’re going to have to fuck the floor if you want to make yourself come.” I wait. I let you hesitate a little longer, and then I say, “Or we lock it up.”

  Your chastity belt is clear plastic. We bought it online ages ago and we hardly ever use it. It’s fiddly and annoying and mostly we just never bother. But it works well as a threat. It was worth every penny for that alone.

  You lower yourself onto the floor. I don’t know quite how you manage it with your wrists cuffed. Maybe just sheer force of will. I look at your arse. Your hands curled in the small of your back. Your hips move. Start to pump. It’s just bare floorboards under you. You must be so sensitive. It must hurt, but the way you’re moaning suddenly, it must be working, too. You’re fucking the floor and moaning like you’re inside a lover.

  Like you’re inside me.

  Fast and frantic suddenly, you move like you’ve lost it. Maybe you think I might tell you to stop at any moment.

  Maybe I will.

  No. No, I won’t.

  I want to see you come like this. You must know that. If you thought about it you’d work that out.

  Your head goes back and you pump your hips hard and roar and scream. God, that was quick. I’m disappointed. But then I think about what you’ve just done and I almost come myself. You just fucked the floor to get yourself off.

  I can’t believe you just did that. I’ve never wanted you—or anyone—so much in my whole fucking life. I want to roll you over. I want to straddle your chest and rub my crotch against your hard nice abs until I come myself. I want to twist my fingers in your hair and pull your head up and make you look me in the eye. I want you to know that I just watched you do that. And that I got off hard on it. I want to get down on the floor and lick your come up myself and push it down your throat with my tongue. I want to hurt you and kiss you, write on you. I want to lock you in a cage and starve you.

  Sometimes I don’t know what I am or what you’ve made of me. I want to watch you dying. I want to stare at your mouth forever.

  GWEN MASTERS

  TO PROTECT AND SERVE

  HARD AS STEEL, EIGHT INCHES. That’s what I was packing. Other men quite often looked at me with intimidation in their eyes, and that was just fine. That was what I wanted. It was what Lynn needed.

  Lynn McCain, sexy siren of a brunette, with classic lips and classic hips that harkened back to Jayne Mansfield. Back when women were women and men were lucky to be allowed to bask in the ripe presence. Lynn is a powerhouse vixen who emanates sex everywhere she goes.

  I am the man who is always there, always following her, always standing in her shadow. I am the one man on earth she cannot live without. Literally.

  I am Lynn McCain’s bodyguard.

  Since Lynn first lit up the silver screen, I have followed her across the globe. I have watched photo shoots in Singapore and runway shows in Milan. I have dined with the royal family of Morocco and fought through a throng of photographers in New York City. I have been on private jets, even more private yachts, and once in the bedroom of an international star whose name shall never be mentioned—but trust me, the rumors are true.

  I have been there to watch it all.

  Because I am a bodyguard, I am often a shadow. I am often ignored by everyone nearby and that is a good thing. Blending into the background is crucial. No one should notice I am there until they make a move on Lynn. Then they are very well aware of my presence, usually when I have my knee pressed into their abdomen, my hand in a death grip on their throat, and my pistol against the underside of their rib cage. I can take a clear shot without getting so much as one drop of blood on Lynn’s thousand-dollar stiletto pumps.

  I had to do it once. You might remember the headlines: The actress who was almost killed by a deranged fan. The fan was shot and killed on the spot by a quick-acting bodyguard. The story didn’t focus much on the bodyguard because stories about shadows don’t usually sell tabloids. That bod
yguard was yours truly.

  I’ve shed blood for Lynn. Someone else’s, and my own: I took a bullet to the arm that day. It sliced right under my tricep. There is a scar and an ache when it rains, just to remind me that I’m tied to Lynn for good. I will always be the man who took the bullet for her.

  Sometimes bodyguards fall in love with their clients. Depending on the level of maturity in that love, it can mean the death knell to the relationship in more ways than one. A bodyguard can never get too comfortable. When protecting someone like Lynn, I have to be constantly on my toes. The only time I can unholster the gun and the mentality that goes with it is when I am locked away in that big Georgian mansion behind those big iron gates, when the other security guards take over and I am free to go to my little collection of rooms in the east wing of the enormous house. That is my day off. That is the only time I can be a man and not a machine.

  Those are the times Lynn spends the night in my bed.

  No one knows this, of course. No one but me and Lynn. When we are in public or even among her bevy of servants, she treats me like the shadow I have to be. I would tolerate nothing more or less than that, for my sake and her safety. But when those gates are locked and those big double doors are closed, Lynn comes to my bed and gives me what all those who gaze at her with lust in their eyes can only dream of having.

  It’s been going on for a year now. For the last six months, there hasn’t been anyone but me. I know that for certain because I know everything she does, down to the time she takes her shower and how many hours she spends on that expensive cell phone of hers. There was a time when she was fucking me for the sheer fun of it and then fucking other men as well. Once there was even another woman.

  Lynn always made me watch. Knowing someone is jealous over her gets her hot as hell. It always got her off to ask me if I liked watching some young stud go at her. The truth was I hated it. I hated it because it turned me on, too, and as soon as that young stud was out of earshot I would be fucking her myself.