Dead EndsbyCal Y. Pygia©
A writer, whether of erotica or any other genre, seldom has a chance to share with his or her readers partial stories--ideas which didn't, for whatever reason--and there are a hundred possibilities (at least)--just didn't make it. "Stillborn stories," one might call them.
In this post, I share a couple of such dead ends with Literotica readers, who are invited to complete them if they can (and wish to) do so or simply profit by another writer's mistakes. I also offer my take on how I might have completed the story ideas, had my own interest in them not flagged, and why I think, for me, at least, the storylines ultimately failed to sustain my interest and imagination.
The first offering was tentatively called "Manhandler":
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My job is simple: I'm a masseuse (code word for prostitute).
It used to be fun, too, but, after a while--well, let's just say the thrill is gone.
I mean, how many cocks can a girl suck or fuck until the novelty's worn off? (In my case, I reckon the number at about 3,000.)
So, I don't suck or fuck anymore. I've come up with an alternative that's quicker and more lucrative.
I operate a "massage" business. Only my massages don't include the head, the neck, the shoulders, the back, the arms, the chest, the abs, the ass, the thighs, the calves, the hands, or the feet. What's left? The only parts that count. The manly parts. The cock and balls. That's what men really want to be "massaged," after all, anyway. Cut to the chase, I say (but not, ordinarily, in front of my clients; since the Lorena Bobbitt caper, naked men are understandably a little wary of the word "cut" when it's used in the proximity of their genitals.)
I've become something of an expert in "helping" men to achieve orgasm or, actually, ejaculation (because that's what men mean by "orgasm"; a climax occurs only when ejaculation does, and a climax doesn't happen until ejaculation occurs).
I tell them right up front, "Your session lasts just as long as it takes for me to make you cum." I charge $20 a head (pun intended), and I can get the typical macho man off in three minutes, so, as you might imagine, I make good money splattering my parlor with their semen.
Most men cum pretty quickly for a good-looking piece of shemale ass like me. Since I'm a girl with something "extra," I also know, more than most women, how to bring a guy quickly to the point of no return. Hell, I've practiced on myself since I was old enough to know what a hard-on, so there'd be something wrong with me if I didn't know the basics by now.
I have my clients sit in a waiting room, just as if they were at a doctor's or a dentist's office, where they can chat up my lipstick lesbian receptionist, Sheila Simpson. They don't know she's a lesbo. If they did, it would take the fun out of their cat-and-mouse games with her. They think, poor schmucks, that they might actually have a chance of sweet talking Sheila into a date. She plays along, gamely enough for a lesbian, but she knows, just as I know, that none of the assholes waiting his turn for a "massage" by my magical hands has the slightest hope in hell of scoring with her. Sheila's pussy is strictly a no-man's land.
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Planned Trajectory: I had envisioned this story as a fantasy in which the protagonist hires a pair of Siamese twins with four arms (and, consequently, four arms), who is able to manually service--or "manhandle"--as many johns simultaneously. Proving to be a huge asset to the massage parlor's business, the twins have one problem, which proves fatal. They're really a he, a transsexual, who, when their secret (male genitals) is discovered when a "massage" session gets literally out of hand, is killed by a homophobic client.
Reason for the Boot: I booted this would-be story because it got away from the main character, becoming more about the transsexual Siamese twins than it would have been about the masseuse. Plus the focus slipped away in other ways, too: was it a story about masturbation, about a transsexual, about group sex, about fetishism, about--well, you see what I mean.
* * *
Next, I present you with some "Dark Meat":
I never much cared for it myself.
Not until I met Rod.
I think his parents must have named him after his cock. Even as an infant, he must have had a huge one. Monsters the size of his rod don't just grow from nothing.
He likes white boys. Not men. Boys. Only black guys have the right, he says, to be called "men." What white guys have between their legs, Rod claims, is nothing more than a teenager might have.
White boys are inferior to black men not only in penis size, but also physically and sexually. Since manhood is a matter of physical and sexual, not mental, prowess, he says, black males should be considered men, and white males should be regarded as boys.
There's nothing racist about his views, he says. To Rod, such statements are purely factual.
He can't understand, he tells me, why a brother would want to fuck or be sucked by another brother, any more than he can see why a black man would want to be fucked or to suck any other guy, regardless of color. Black men who suck or let themselves be fucked, he says, are a "disgrace to the race." That's what women, especially white women, and white boys are for. Any fool knows that, he insists.
"You be here to serve and service me, bitch," Rod reminds me every time I wash his laundry, polish his car, cook his dinner, suck his cock, or take his prick up my ass.
"Yes, Master," I tell him, because he makes me respond to such declarations in this manner and because I agree with him that black men are superior to white boys. Look at professional sports. Look at penis size. Look at which women are chasing which men--it's white women who are after black men, not black women chasing white boys.
If you haven't tried black meat, my advice is to sample some as soon as you can. Once you've had black, you'll never go back!
Rod's rod is a foot long. No shit. It is. A full twelve inches of thick, hard, beautiful, circumcised manhood. Imagine having that shoved down your throat or up your ass! It's heaven!
His dick isn't chocolate or caramel; it's coal black, pitch black, moonless midnight black. Authentic black, I guess one could say. The color an African, rather than an African-American, prick is. There's no white boy in the Ramsey family woodpile, he tells me. His father is as dark as his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfathers were. "There ain't no white taint to my bloodline," he tells me all the time, but especially when he sees a dude with African features and blue or green eyes. Such mulattos, he says, are "traitors to the race." Rod is the real deal, though, just like his forebears.
The purity of his ethnicity is a source of pride to him. That's why he fucks white boys, rather than white women. "I ain't taking no chance of impregnating some honky bitch with my Africanized sperm. I'm keeping my seed pure, for when I do want to start a family. Till then, you my bitch."
It may be selfish of me to admit it, but I hope he puts off that decision forever. I don't want to lose Rod to anyone, even to the black woman with whom he might want to have children someday. I'm quite happy as his "bitch," believe me!
* * *
Planned Trajectory: I write a lot of my stories without plotting them in advance, usually on the basis of an idea or, perhaps, some particular type of character, and trust to my own interests and peculiarities of thought to inspire a definite direction, purpose, and theme. Sometimes, an image or a video clip gets my motor humming, suggesting the idea for a story. Watching some black hunks slam it to some white punks suggested "Dark Meat," but there was little else, once I began the story, which I'd envisioned as a BDSM piece in which a black hunk slams it--both literally, or sexually, and figuratively, or emotionally--to a white punk, the excitement sort of vanished, the way orgasm gives way to ejaculation. In this case, the inspiration simply wasn't forthcoming.
Reason for the Boot: See above; also, like the protagonist of this would-be story, I've never cared all that much for dark meat, although I'm sure that it's perfectly good to eat.
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Note: See my "Openers" for other ideas that could become stories, just as Pinocchio became a real boy.