A Writer's Groupie

Author's note: This was written for the Literotica 750 Word Project 2023. It's supposed to be exactly 750 words. Hope you enjoy it anyway.

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At the second book signing, she looked familiar to him. At the third, he was sure: she was following him around the country while he promoted his latest thriller.

"You again?" he asked when she handed him a ninth copy of his book to sign.

"I'm your biggest fan!" she gushed. "Make it out to Lovely, okay?"

And she was lovely: late twenties, bookish, built. She seemed knowing, laser focused—not crazy. The crazy ones always smelled bad.

He signed and handed it back, jovial but wary.

"What do you do with all your copies?" he asked.

"Signed first editions? They'll be really worth something when you die."

His publisher hadn't budgeted for security—they barely budgeted for hotels—but soon a bodyguard went where he did.

Three cities later, she slid into his corner booth in the moody hotel restaurant.

"Hiya," she grinned, eyes boring into his.

He forced a smile while desperately searching the room.

Touching his hand, she said, "Your goon wakes up in about six hours, if I guessed his body weight right."

"Listen..." he said, wishing he'd order the steak with its knife.

"I only want to talk! They won't let me into your seminars anymore."

They talked. She knew all about his divorce, even what the press hadn't covered. She knew his books weren't selling anymore and his publisher threatened to dump him.

She pulled out a printed copy of his work-in-progress, though it existed only on his laptop. In the margins she'd crammed astounding ideas, turning his flaccid story edgy, raw, sexy—like his writing had been once.

"I can't write," she said. "but I'm good at ideas. Structure. Tension. You write beautifully! You'll be remembered forever. It's just your well is dry. Let me fill it! Let me help! But first I need you to fill me."

Something dug into his side. What she held was more serious than any steak knife.

In his room, cuffed naked spread-eagled on the bed, she hovered over him, admiring.

"I knew you'd be beautiful," she breathed.

She undressed. He knew that body! Those full breasts, those hips, the lovely folds of that bare pussy—from hundreds of pictures emailed him over years from anonymous accounts. But never a face until now.

He'd blocked each sender, but saved every image, masturbating to his favorites at night.

"So, my pictures did turn you on," she said, seeing his recognition and rising action.

She licked his shaft, eyes on his, then took him into her steamy mouth, lovingly caressing his balls while bobbing, bringing him to the edge again and again.

Mounting him, she groaned like an addict getting her first hit in weeks. She was so warm, so tight. When she forced a kiss, she smelled like jasmine and tasted of peach. She locked eyes and rode him like an act of worship.

"If the damsel... uh... gets kidnapped in chapter two," she said, lifting then dropping, sliding and grinding, "instead of... mmm... chapter three... ohgod... it'll pick up the pace." She picked up her own pace then.

"Yeesss," he said, as much to her point as to the glorious sensation of being inside her. "But then... oh you feel good... there's less room for backstory."

"It's uuuh... an info dump now. You can move most... ooo... to later."

They fucked and groaned and sighed, arguing plot, planning pacing, creating character arcs. The carnal and the creative, literature and lust intertwined. His deflated passion for his art grew with his ardor for her. His awe at her creativity rose with his craving for catharsis.

"Unlock me," he moaned.

"You'll run!"

"We've too much to work on."

Released, he got on top and entered her, taking the same determined pace. As he stroked into her, they studied story beats, screwed while arguing style, and boinked building backstory.

Together they constructed a better climax for his novel and, after a deep thrust, peaked as one, moaning and caressing. Gasping, they embraced in falling action.

He saw a tear. "You regret kidnapping me?"

"My only regret is not seeing your new book. I'll be in prison."

"No," he said, "I need you with me."

She gasped, amazed. "As editor?"

"Co-author," he said, "and lover." He kissed her.

"But—"

"Shh. We'll do it together. Just like this."

The door burst open. The bodyguard stood silhouetted, weapon drawn.

"Where the hell were you?" the author raged. "Some crazy groupie could have kidnapped me! Now get out. Can't you see we're collaborating?"