Authors: Alison Tyler
Tags: #Fiction, #Erotica, #General, #Romance
Chapter One: Extracurricular Activities
Chapter Four: How I Became a Meat Eater
Chapter Five: Changing to Chanel
Chapter Six: Black Coffee in Bed
Chapter Seven: Goodbye and Good Luck
Chapter Eight: She’s Come Undone
Chapter Fourteen: The Arrangement
Chapter Seventeen: Sunset Over Sunset
Chapter Twenty-One: Consummation
Chapter Twenty-Two: Over the Knee
Chapter Twenty-Three: A No-Win Situation?
Chapter Twenty-Five: Three-AM Wake-Up Call
Chapter Twenty-Six: Spank Me, Jack
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Small World
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Everybody Knows
Chapter Thirty: A Day of Firsts
Chapter Thirty-One: Love Is the Drug
Chapter Thirty-Three: Shine On, You Crazy Diamond
Chapter Thirty-Four: Cherry Red
‘I knew what I wanted – someone who wouldn’t laugh or scowl or turn away in disgust when I confessed my darkest fantasies. Someone who had a brush, and a belt, and a set of cuffs and was not afraid to use them.’
Based on the author’s real life experiences, this is a fictional account of a submissive and her quest for the perfect dominant.
Dark Secret Love
is a modern-day
Story of O
with a kinky fairy-tale twist.
Called “a trollop with a laptop” by East Bay Express, “a literary siren” by Good Vibrations, and “the mistress of literary erotica” by Violet Blue,
is naughty and she knows it.
Over the past two decades, Ms. Tyler has written more than twenty-five explicit novels, including
Tiffany Twisted, Melt with You
The ESP Affair
. Her novels and short stories have been translated into Japanese, Dutch, German, Italian, Norwegian, Spanish and Greek. When not writing sultry short stories, she edits erotic anthologies, including
Alison’s Wonderland, Naughty Fairy Tales from A to Z, Kiss My Ass, Cuffed
Playing with Fire
. She is also the author of several novellas including
Cuffing Kate, Giving In, A Taste of Chi
Ms. Tyler is loyal to coffee (black), lipstick (red), and tequila (straight). She has tattoos, but no piercings; a wicked tongue, but a quick smile; and bittersweet memories, but no regrets. She believes it won’t rain if she doesn’t bring an umbrella, prefers hot and dry to cold and wet, and loves to spout her favorite motto: You can sleep when you’re dead. She chooses Led Zeppelin over the Beatles,
the Cure over NIN, and the Stones over everyone. Yet although she appreciates good rock, she has a pitiful weakness for eighties hair bands.
In all things important, she remains faithful to her partner of seventeen years, but she still can’t choose just one perfume.
Something About Workmen
Learning to Love It
Tiffany Twisted: A Rouge Erotic Romance
With or Without You: A Rouge Erotic Romance
Sweet Thing: A Rouge Erotic Romance
Sticky Fingers: A Rouge Erotic Romance
Melt With You: A Rouge Erotic Romance
Rumours: A Rouge Erotic Romance
Welcome to my world. Have a seat. Make yourself at home.
I’m about to tell you a story. To open my closet and expose my desires, my fantasies, my truth and my fiction—as well as my ass, clad in silky scarlet knickers. In 2006, I began this journey. “A sulphurous personal memoir of past sexual activities which put Belle de Jour’s timid exploits in the shade.” was how
described my words.
This is who I am and how I got here. I’ve changed the names. I’ve tweaked and redesigned, camouflaged and unraveled. This is meta-fiction, beta-fiction, masturbatory fiction. I’m there, but I’m hiding behind my long dark hair. I’m there, but I’ve got a different name. You can hear my words. You can feel my breath whispering against your neck. How much of my tale is real? As much as I was able to give.
I wish I could provide an atmosphere to accompany each chapter. I’m an excellent hostess. I’d pour you a drink. Make you comfortable on a sleek leather sofa or a leopard-print fainting couch. Light a fire, or open all the
windows to let in the cool night air. Depending on the mood, you see, depending on the scene. The low lights. The scent of the candles. And the music? The Stones. The Cure. Roxy Music. Pink Floyd. Zeppelin.
I should be able to create the proper ambiance to accompany the story.
But I can’t, of course, and so I’m hoping the words will suffice. I’m hoping to paint the proper picture. I want you to know the way the cold wood felt under my bare feet. I want you to be able to trace a cut-crystal whiskey glass with your fingertips, to feel the sting of a slap and see the rising blush.
Ultimately, I’m simply a girl on a quest. And what I’m trying to discover, what I’m always working to uncover, is this:
Why do I need what I need? Why do I want what I want?
I ask those questions every day.
The soul of my story is as honest as my answers can possibly be.
My past is here. My youth is here. My Doms are here—with their attitude and their dark yearning for pain.
I’ve got this desire right now to confess. To spill my secrets. To share my cravings. I’m driven. I’m focused. The blue-purple prints of fatigue beneath my dark brown eyes are my badges of honor. That feeling of being used swallows me up, the soreness, the ache—those sensations consume me.
As I hope my words (and my world) will consume you.
Some men just know.
I’ve been lucky enough to find those men several times in my life.
When I was eighteen, a senior in high school, I met Brock at a concert. I didn’t have to tell him anything. He saw me and gave me his number scrawled on a paper napkin. Call me, was all it said. I could barely wait until dawn the next day to dial the digits.
During our first kiss (moments into our first date), he bit my bottom lip so hard that when I ran my tongue over the indents, I could feel the echo of pain—that tiny spark. There are days I swear I still feel his lips on mine. He held my glossy dark ponytail firmly in his fist when he kissed me, pulling a little too tightly, telling me in that subtle way that he was in charge.
He was spanking me regularly by that weekend.
Some men just know.
Brock would come to my high school at lunchtime and
take my panties off, sliding them into his pocket so that I was forced to spend the rest of the day bare under my skirt. He would slip me away on his Harley for twenty-minute quickies that always involved his belt, or his leather motorcycle gloves, or his open hand on my bare ass.
I’d spent my whole life being as good a girl as I possibly could, and Brock let me know it wasn’t enough. I could never be good enough. I would always fail in some unforeseen way, and he would be forced to punish me.
Because he knew.
On the night of our first date, as we walked through the darkness near my house, he stopped and pressed me up against the side of a parked car. “What’s your secret fantasy?” he murmured, so soft against my skin. “You can tell me, baby. You can tell me anything.”
My goal, my dream, my deepest desires have always rested in taking it. Lowering my head, gritting my teeth, and bearing the pain, the humiliation. But I couldn’t tell him that. I stared at him in the glow of the streetlight, and then looked down. Brock instantly tilted my face to his. “When I ask you a question,” he said, his voice more stern now, “I expect a response.”
A delicious chill ran through me.
I hadn’t needed to say a word.
Brock understood. He was on me in a heartbeat, and he never let up.
There were days I had to wear long-sleeved shirts to cover the evidence that I’d spent part of the weekend cuffed to his bed. There were days I couldn’t sit right in class, when I stared up at the board or tried to focus on the discussion but saw nothing, heard nothing.
He made me talk, eventually. I didn’t get away with
coy glances, with wishful, wistful expressions. He tied me down and asked his questions, and he forced me to answer every single one.
Brock was more than a decade my senior, and he possessed a chiseled jaw and those ice-blue eyes from the famous Who song. He wouldn’t even have to speak to me, simply shoot me a look, and I would lower my head in silent submission, knowing that somehow, in some unexpected way, I’d failed him.
Because he wanted me to fail.
Of course, by failing, I won. When I misbehaved for him, he made all my fantasies come true. And it wasn’t long before I realized that high-school life and my world with Brock were parallel universes that didn’t have anything else in common—they were running side by side on twin tracks. I felt as if I were in a dream as I walked through the quad, watching the popular kids up on the wall, the jocks out by the basketball court, the stoners behind the gym. I faked everything from eight to three, not coming alive again until Brock picked me up on his Harley. I was smart enough to do well in class simply by going through the motions. But I no longer had a desire to fit in.
I think we are all hardwired for what we crave. When I’d gone on a few miserable dates with guys my age, I would invariably offer my wrists to them. To hold. To kiss. I didn’t even know why I was doing this. And the guys never figured out what I wanted. I can imagine their confusion now. What’s with this chick? But Brock did. He rarely held my hand. He gripped my wrist instead, letting me know what it would feel like to be bound to his bed, to be in his power. Letting me know ahead of time, before he made that fantasy come true.
We dated for the rest of my senior year. And then I went off to college in Los Angeles, knowing deep down that in spite of my good-girl persona, I was bad to the core. And hoping like hell that someone else would see through my faux exterior and understand.