FAWC 1: Curse of "The Bitch"bySaxon_Hart©
(Moderator's Note: This story is a submission to the first Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge (FAWC). The true author of this story is kept anonymous, but will be revealed on June 22nd, 2013, in the comments section following this story. Each of the stories in this challenge are centered around the common theme of the main character being an author who then experiences the erotic and/or unusual events he or she writes about. There are no prizes given in this challenge; this is simply a friendly competition.)
(Author's note. The circumstances surround the main character's entry into the erotic writing world are autobiographical.)
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I am scrunching my body as far back into the crevice as humanly possible. The cold concrete helps me to feel every bump and bruise on my aching body. I know if I can survive until first light I should be able to make it out of town alive. I also know if they manage to catch me under this bridge, I'm fucked. My shoulder stings from a near miss earlier this evening. I say near miss, because I am sure the asshole was aiming for my head.
I haven't really slept in the past 48 hours, and I don't plan on closing my eyes until my ass is firmly planted on a Greyhound bus bound for anywhere but here. I can relax for a few minutes now because I think I have given my pursuit the slip. It's amazing what you can put your body through when you have a group of armed angry men seeking to make you a statistic.
The near pitch black darkness makes it impossible to read my watch, but when I last looked it was three thirty in the morning, so I think it's closer to five now. The first bus leaves town at six thirty, which should be about twenty minutes after first light.
My plan is to hole up under this bridge until first light and then make my way to the bus station. There will be enough people around there that I can get on the bus and disappear forever. I'll miss this town but I'll be alive. I guess while I have a minute I can explain how I came to be in this predicament. My name is Chris Frost. I am a 25 year old factory worker / musician who just happens to write erotic stories on the side. I also have been cursed by a gypsy.
I drive a '67 Cadillac Eldorado that has been dubbed by my friends as the turquoise pimp mobile. One of them even bought me a pimp hat and cane shortly after I bought it. They said I had to buy my own fur coat.
I got into the whole writing thing quite by chance. One day as I tried to stave off boredom at my day job, I discovered I could surf the internet on my phone. This discovery of course led to me surfing porn sites. On one of the sites I found a list of links to other porn sites. I was going link by link checking out each site's offerings.
Some sites had links that only seemed to lead you to other sites. Some sites would let you see a few pictures and then ask for a credit card. None were truly free and they all offered pretty much the same faire.
I clicked one link and was led not to a true porn site, but to a site full of erotic stories. At first I was disappointed, I wanted to see tits. Out of curiosity, I clicked a category and started reading. By the time my shift was over I had read fourteen stories and was in the middle of number fifteen.
For the first time since I joined the workforce I hated to see the end of my shift. I drove home as quickly as I could and finished reading the story at my PC. As I read story after story I realized a few things.
The first was that for armature writers, I got about the mix I expected. I got writers that could write a damn fine story, and I got writers that seemed they were probably giggling like ten age boys as they wrote about boobs and pussies. And of course there were some who seemed to be lucky to string three or more words together to make a comprehendible sentence.
Second, I realized that I had a few ideas of my own and I could probably do a decent job of getting my story out there. I had done well in English all through school and I have a better than average vocabulary. So I decided I would write a story and submit it to the site.
The third thing I realized was that it was two in the morning and I had been sitting at my computer since four in the afternoon. I hadn't eaten or gone to the bathroom. Worst of all I had to get up at 5:30.
As I worked the next day I let scenarios play in my head. Every once in a while I'd laugh or say "That's good" as ideas played out. I know a few of my co-workers had to think I was losing it. I spent every break and my lunch period reading on my phone.
When I got home that evening I opened Word and started typing. Previously I had only used the PowerPoint viewer to look at porn. By 10:00 I had six full pages written and three more pages of notes and research. By the end of the weekend I had my first story done and was ready to submit it.
I opened an account on the site and made up a pen name. I decided to call myself DirtyCharlz, because Longcock69er and BigDikFukr were already taken. The "Dirty" was because I wrote dirty stories, and "Charlz" was for my first dog Charlie.
Four days later I had my story back from an editor named SlutnBoyShortz and I submitted it. I checked every day and finally a week later it was posted. As I waited for the comments of "You're awesome" to roll in I read the other new stuff that day.
By early evening I had two comments on my story. One said "Thnsk for shring" and the other just said "Really?" At that point I decided that maybe I couldn't write and told myself I was all the better for trying.
The next night I checked the e-mail I had used to set up my account and found three encouraging notes from readers. One even offered to edit my next story, because she wasn't happy with the job Slut had done.
So with renewed enthusiasm I started writing my next story. I decided to write an incest story because they seemed to get the most readers and from what I read the most positive comments.
So over the next year and a half, I wrote a multiple chapter incest tale. It started with the fumblings of a brother and sister's first sexual relations, and progressed through the ages. They lived as man and wife and raised a family.
As the tale went on I realized that I would have to end it at some point just to avoid the story becoming mundane. So with three chapters left, I had the sister die of cancer, but to keep the eroticism going I had the oldest daughter jump into bed with her father. In the next to last chapter he fathered his own grandchild.
For the last chapter I had run out of ideas. I had him wish to die by being fucked to death, and all of his daughters and cousins joined in to give him his final wish. A lot of the readers were upset that I had finished the series.
After I had submitted the last chapter, I started trying to decide what I wanted to write next. That decision was made easy by three e-mails I had received. The first one offered to send me video of the poster and his young sister performing my favorite sex acts. "She'll do anything you want to."
The next was pretty similar. A guy wanted me to write a story about him raping his sisters, aged 16, 14, and 9. Needless to say I deleted it after I forwarded it to the FBI. Even that wasn't the most disturbing e-mail.
A woman sent me the worst one. It was a three page rant about sexism and my objectifying women and promoting incest. She said I needed to think long and hard about the victims. Her final line was "You will soon find sympathy for your victims, sinner!" I said "Bitch!" out loud as I deleted that one, and swore I was out of the erotica game for good. After that e-mail I would know her as "The Bitch."
So I had decided once again that I wasn't going to write anymore. My creativity had run its course and I had egged on some pretty sick people. I was feeling good about leaving the scene when I got an e-mail from a fifty year old guy in California named Jimmy. He told me that he was disabled and all he was really able to do was read stories and play on the internet. He said that while he was physically unable to have sex, he had a vivid imagination and erotica had replaced the real thing for him.
He told me that he saw a real talent in my writing and that if I changed my subject matter, I could be one of the best out there. He closed by saying that people like me gave him a reason to go on living. Right there and then I decided to write again.
For three weeks I thought about new stories. I had spent so much time working on the one incest tale that I had trouble coming up with a different set of characters. Finally I came up with the idea of a guy who just goes around getting laid. I figured he'd be like the King Midas of pussy. He walks into a room and automatically any woman in that room wants to fuck him. It could be like a supernatural power. Thus Jimmy DeBone was born.
In the first chapter, Jimmy goes to a massage parlor. I know; every guy that goes to a massage parlor gets laid. I call bullshit, because I have gone to massage parlors many times and have never been offered a happy ending. Of course Helga, the main woman I like to be rubbed down by, looks like she'd be more at home in a biker bar pool tournament. She's nice as hell, but damn she is a scary butch chick.
So I had Jimmy go to a massage parlor. His masseuse is Kiko, a small dainty Japanese girl with magic fingers and a snapping pussy. Three hours after Jimmy goes in, he stumbles out well fucked and tired. I had three specific adventures planned for Jimmy.
After the massage parlor, I had Jimmy get molested at the grocery store. An under-appreciated housewife dragged him into the stock room and fucked him silly. When the manager caught them, she simply told him she was looking for fresh meat and had found it in abundance.
The third adventure had Jimmy make a delivery to a house while the woman there was hosting a bridge club. While there he became the central entertainment for eight horny cougars. After I had all three chapters written and edited I submitted them along with a request that they be posted a week apart.
The first chapter came out three weeks ago. It was pretty well accepted by the new crowd. I got a few hateful notes about a guy going around just fucking random women, but hey; you can't please them all.
Two weeks ago the second chapter posted. It had a pretty good reception as well. Fewer hateful notes and a lot more kudos made me realize I liked writing again. Everything was just fine. Four days ago the third chapter posted. I spent the day reading comments. Most were good; a few didn't like the direction I took Jimmy in. I was making an outline for the next few Jimmy chapters when all hell broke loose and my world changed for the worse.
Off to the south I see a flash of light. My first fear is that my pursuers have me caught in a pincer move and are approaching from the river trail. If they were I'd be driven back into the teeth of the main group and my hopes of escaping alive would be dashed.
The sound of the train horn gives me hope. The light I saw was not flashlights; it was the headlamps of the train. I decide that I can cover the half mile to the tracks before the train can reach the trestle and jump on before it gets back to full speed.
My original plan was to board the bus at 6:30, but I figure jumping on the 5:15 train would be cheaper and get me out of town faster and I'd have a lower chance of being discovered. So I extricate myself from my hidey hole and begin jogging down the trail toward the tracks.
As I am moving along the trail, my mind goes over the events of the past couple weeks. When the first chapter of Jimmy's story was posted it got decent reviews. I got a few e-mails with good things to say about my writing. On the day before the second chapter posted, I got an e-mail from "The Bitch" that only had one sentence; "Remember sinner, you reap what you sow."
"Crazy bitch," I said as I deleted the message. I was glad that I couldn't be tracked down through the e-mail address I set up for DityCharlz. I figured she was likely a member of one of the crazy churches I always see in the news.
The second chapter posted and this time I got more good comments, including a few that proclaimed me to be their new favorite author. This time there was no e-mail from the crazy lady. By the time the third chapter posted I had forgotten about the crazy bitch.
For my 25th birthday, my sister sent me a gift certificate for a massage at my favorite salon. I booked the appointment and began to look forward to having Helga beat the shit out of me.
When I arrived at the salon I was disappointed to find out that Helga had gotten married and was on her honeymoon. "But we have three other well suited massage therapists who will be more than happy to accommodate you," the greeter, Sheila told me.
She led me to a room and handed me a pair of shorts and a robe. "You know the drill?" she asked. I nodded and she left me alone with my thoughts and tiny wardrobe.
I stripped and donned the tiny shorts and the robe. Sheila returned and led me to the steam room. After I was good and steamed, she led me to the therapy room. I hung my robe on the rack, removed the shorts, grabbed a towel and assumed the position on the table.
I was kind of dozing when my masseuse entered the room. I opened my eyes to see a dainty pair of feet. "Oh great," I thought. "I'm about to be rubbed down by some small kewpie doll who won't be able to work any knots out." I was profoundly disappointed. "Oh well, it isn't costing me anything."
"How are we doing today Mr. Frost," she asked.
"Please, call me Chris. I'm doing well. And you?"
"I'm just fine. My name is Noriko. I will give your massage today."
I was immediately surprised by the power of her small hands. Helga had never hurt me so good. In no time I was a drooling puddle of goo being manipulated like putty in Noriko's capable hands. She had me relaxed to the point that sleep was almost inevitable.
I was so relaxed I actually believed I was dreaming when a small hand snaked its way between my thighs and grabbed ahold of my cock. "Relax Chris," she said as she started slowly stroking the length of it. "Oh so nice," she purred. I groaned as she worked my shaft, the hot oil she'd been using on my back only added to the experience. I was so convinced that it was a dream that I didn't object when her other hand began playing in my ass crack.
"Oh, you like," she said. It wasn't really a question. Her finger began playing around the muscle of my asshole. It didn't dawn on me how absurd the situation was. I had to be dreaming, because normally Helga would be working my back muscles almost to the point of causing pain. Helga had never so much as moved the towel that covered my ass, and now some dainty girl named Noriko was not only fondling my junk, but her finger was threatening to penetrate my......
"Whoa shit!" I hollered as her finger entered my ass. I spun around and was face to face with the most exquisite face I had ever seen. She kissed me fully on the mouth.
"Shh. You relax Chris. Just let me drive and you won't regret anything."
With that statement she began stroking my cock in earnest. She pumped me faster and faster. I could feel my orgasm building. "Slow down or I'm gonna cum."
She just smiled and kept stroking. She seemed to know when I was ready to erupt, because at that precise moment, she wrapped her lips around the head of my cock. At the instant I felt the first shot leave my balls, she stuck her finger up my ass again and I was in no position to protest.
I had never cum so hard in all of my life. Noriko kept stroking my cock and swirling her finger in my ass. I think I passed out, but I am not sure.
One moment I was having the orgasm to beat all orgasms, and the next, Noriko was naked and climbing up to straddle my still rock hard cock. I'm not the biggest guy around; I'm not porn star material anyway. But I was amazed watching the perfect porcelain skinned beauty sinking down on to my erection. It looked as if I had no business fitting inside the girl. It didn't feel like I would fit.
I had never had a girl as tight as her. When she had sunk all the way to the hilt, she threw her head back and moaned at the ceiling. When she started moving her hips I was in heaven. She had muscular control like I had never heard of. I could literally feel her vaginal walls rippling as she rode me.
She started pumping her hips at a feverish pace. Between her gyrations and her inner muscle flexing I soon felt another orgasm building. She seemed to sense this and brought her head down close to mine. Our tongues intertwined as we kissed and she moaned into my mouth.
Just before I went over the edge she raised her head and we locked eyes. I felt as if my soul was being pulled into those deep brown pools. Neither of us blinked as we hit our climax together. I don't remember leaving the salon that evening, but I remember every detail of Noriko.
My cock is starting to strain at my jeans as I recall Noriko and her amazing pussy. I chastise myself for getting distracted. But thinking back, I have never been able to perform the way I did with Noriko. Usually I can fuck for about twenty minutes before I cum, and can get hard once more after several minutes of recovery time.
Noriko had managed to keep me hard for over two hours and made me cum five times. And with the exception of my first orgasm in her mouth, we came simultaneously every time. Now I hear the train's horn blowing at the Miller Road crossing. In less than ten minutes it will reach the trestle.
I am just about four hundred yards from the trestle. I know this because I can see the last trees that line the river trail. A warning voice in my head tells me to stop before I break into the clear. Part of me though feels that my pursuers are looking for me in the barns and cellars of the farms to the west of town.
I abandoned my car in the woods near there just hours ago and stole a bike from a porch to make my way into town a lot speedier. I abandoned the bike as soon as I hit town and made my way alley by alley to the bridge I had just left. I'm sure they won't find the bike, because I stashed it in a motel dumpster.
I reach the end of the woods and I stop and get as near to a large elm tree as I can. I'm confident that anyone watching from the clearing won't be able to make me out in the shadows. Just as I am about to make my move toward the track I see movement ahead and to my right, or at least I think I see movement.
For countless moments I stare into the darkness along the tracks. I feel as if I am pushing my eyeballs out in an effort to peer into the shadows ahead. I am almost convinced that I saw nothing when I see definite movement. A large shadow near the trestle moved.
As I hear the train's horn at the Jammer Street crossing I realize that my pursuit is actually thinking a step ahead of me now. I resign myself to hiding under the bridge and start creeping quietly back up the trail. I mentally kick myself all the way back up the trail for leaving my safe bridge spot and trying to rush the train.
If it hadn't been for that little voice of reason in my head I'd have walked right into the waiting hunters. Fate seems to be with me though. It was perfect timing that one of them got ants in his pants at the right moment. I wonder where that voice of reason had been when I was fucking Elise Meyer.
Elise Meyer is married to Sherriff Dale Meyer. At 44 you can still see the gorgeous woman she was at 20. Her body has never been ravaged by childbirth and she works out at least five days a week. Any guy who has seen her swimming at the gym or tanning at the city pool can attest to her perfect body. She also has a face that needs little or no make-up to be stunning, and only shows enough of her true age to be downright heart stopping.