Literature and Lust

Author's note: Just a fun little tale for the Crime & Punishment 2023 Story Event.

Based on the 750-word story A Writer's Groupie.

~~~~

Only ten people waiting in line. Yet that was more than any of the previous book signings on the tour. Chalk it up to the bright May day with the promise of summer in the air and thoughts of summer reading—target readership for a thriller author like me.

In 1977, when my first mega-hit debuted, they lined up out the door—frothing to get a signed first edition by new author Maximilian Oaks, the edgy 26-year-old new master of crime and suspense. Even five years ago, twenty or more would have been waiting. Now it was 1999—the brink of a new millennium—and my writing style had become dissected, analyzed, emulated and parodied to death.

Once, my novels blanketed the end displays of every chain and indie bookstore, covered the tables of every airport gift shop and topped bestseller lists instantly. Now they had become a punchline, a source of eye-rolling and exhausted sighs from reviewers and the few talk-show hosts who still booked me.

Slender fingers with perfectly manicured nails slid three copies of my new novel across the table.

"Who should I them make it out to?" I said, not looking up.

"Make them out to Lovely," she said in her smokey voice. "The same as the last times."

Her again. I gazed up into those bird-bright, laser-focused eyes behind huge, nerdy glasses. She placed both palms on the table and leaned forward, her cashmere top revealing much more of her pillowy breasts than at the previous signings.

"Wow," I said with a forced smile. "You again? We really have to stop meeting like this."

"Oh, I'll meet you anywhere." She drew a fingertip along the back of my hand. "Your hotel room, maybe?" An intriguing Jasmine perfume crossed the table to fill my senses.

I kept a polite expression. "Uh, that's very flattering, Miss..."

"Lovely," she said.

"...er, Miss Lovely. I'm a little old for you, don't you think?"

"Oh, no. You're ageless. Like your works."

Her hungry gaze raked me from bottom to top. I was thankful the folding table I was seated at hid the effect she was having on me.

My eyes fell to that cleavage again, then I checked out the rest of her: She was mid 20s and stacked. The perfect hot librarian archetype with her tortoise-shell glasses and pencil skirt. She even had her dark hair pinned up with a yellow pencil. I pictured myself pulling it free to let her tresses fall then kissing that smooth, elegant neck.

"Anyway," I said, frazzled and hastening to sign her copies, "I'm flying out tonight to my next stop."

She tsk-tsked me. "You're so naughty, Mr. Pappalardo. Tonight, you're staying at the Fairview on Rogers Drive. Room 412. You drive out tomorrow morning." She leaned even closer and whispered, "Lend me your room key and I'll meet you there. I... I have some ideas about your next novel you might like."

Shoving the signed books back to her, I said, "Dunno what you're going to do with all your copies, Miss, but here you go. Have a good evening."

She bundled them into her arms like beloved children, then fixed me with her eyes, looking hurt, looking angry.

"Thank you, Clarence. I can call you Clarence now, right? These will be worth so much money when you're dead."

~~~~

"I'm telling you, Roger—she knew my real name, where I was staying and everything. This is the third time she's shown up at a signing. Three cities, three signings. Hundreds of miles apart."

I was sitting on the stained and greasy bedspread of a motel on the highway out of town—the only place I could book after fleeing the Fairview. Even the phone receiver was greasy.

"Max, you've had fans before. You should welcome it. Kind of like old times, right?"

"Dammit," I said, "this one's not like the others. She's obsessed. And at every signing she gets more pushy. Now, you're my publisher. I expect you to protect me."

Roger's long sigh told me what was coming.

"Look, Max. Like I told you, book tours just don't pay off anymore. If you weren't covering the travel and meals, we wouldn't have agreed to it at all. You're not the draw you used to be. You're stagnant. In a rut. And no amount of promotion is going to change the fact that you're old hat. And now you're asking me for... what? A bodyguard? A secret service detail? A gang of ninjas?"

Roger was born an asshole, but he had performed miracles of marketing over the years—booking talk shows, talk radio interviews, signings, seminars, and somehow got my third novel "Dark Soul, Darker Heart" added to college writing courses around the country. Still, he was a cheap bastard.

After relentless badgering, Roger agreed to find some rent-a-cop in the next city.

Even the shower water felt greasy, but standing under the hot water followed by the warmth of a whiskey helped me relax.

Roger was right—there had been obsessed fans before. One lady cornered me in a parking garage, wrapping around me like an octopus with her tongue in my ear before I could say hello. She was large and unwashed with the makeup and fashion sense of a clown whore. Yes, I did have to sock her in the face to get her off: the rest of her was too well padded.

Once when signing in a bookstore attached to my hotel, a smoking hot Latina in leopard-print lycra asked if I signed body parts then palmed me her room key. I took the offer. She was passionate, imaginative, and so flexible. It was a night I'll never forget—later, the gonorrhea made sure of that.

Getting a dial-up connection to AOL though the hotel's flaky phone system took a few tries, but I needed to check email. Besides masses of spam, there was only a solitary fan email and a new issue of a writing newsletter I subscribed to.

I had hoped to find new photos from my secret admirer. For three years, she had sent nude photos twice a month like clockwork, but her last message was two months ago. One part of me felt relief, but a much darker part felt disappointed. The naked pictures were of the same woman, her face cropped out or masked by a black oval. Full-body photos, close-ups of breasts, erect nipples, a wet pussy by itself or being entertained by fingers or toys. She had more curves than a highway through the Alps: full, high breasts, wide hips, toned ass and legs long and strong enough to welcome you to paradise or crush you to death.

Then there were the more inventive pics: pleasuring herself with hardcover editions of my novels, holding the Time Magazine with me on the cover to her breast like I was her hungry child, a point of view of her legs spread on either side of a television, fingers thrust in her pussy, the interview of me with Letterman on screen.

Somehow, she had even found a life-sized cardboard cutout of me Roger used for my early book promotions. She sent photos of her riding it cowgirl style or with the face between her legs.

Every email came from a new Yahoo, Hotmail or other disposable address. My publisher's legal department insisted I delete them and block the senders, but secretly I saved the photos. All of them were on my laptop, though the 20GB was running out fast.

Draining the rest of the whiskey, I opened the draft of my work in progress, determined to put in an hour or two.

It was garbage! It started as something fresh, but I had fallen back on the same tired tropes, the same basic plot just with different settings and slightly different characters. The formula worked for 20 years, selling millions, but I was as sick of it as my readers. Yet I couldn't break free. Every attempt to go in a different direction, to recreate the magic and risky writing that flowed from me when I was 26 fell flat. I was in a rut so deep I couldn't even see the sky.

After an hour of desultory edits and re-wording, I gave up, stripped off and got into bed. The sheets stank of bleach and I sank into the too-soft mattress like a jungle explorer in quicksand.

Getting up, I fetched my laptop, propped it beside me and beat off to a slideshow of my secret admirer, imagining her face, her voice and picturing all the things I longed to do to her.

~~~~

The next city was a five-hour drive distant. Sleeping late, I arrived at the bookstore just in time to take a piss, splash water on my face and help the local handler set up the table.

A thick-necked gentleman stuffed into a thrift-store suit introduced himself as Timothy. Gruffly he explained Roger contracted him "until 11pm and not a second later, got it?" I appreciated the shoulder holster peeking from under his jacket, but said I thought it unnecessary.

"Ya never know with the crazies these days," Tim said, eying the thin crowd. "Just do your thing and I'll do mine."

Halfway through the signing, I saw "Lovely" at the end of the line, three more copies of my novel in her arms. A quick word to Tim and he approached her. She shouldered past and lunged toward me, throwing a folded paper on the table.

No-neck got her in a hold and began dragging her away.

"Those are ideas for your next novel!" she screamed, twisting and fighting. "Let's discuss them! I can help you! Please!"

~~~~

The hotel lobby had shag carpeting and threadbare "harvest gold" couches in a circle around a glass-and-brass table. My room featured paisley wallpaper with foil backing. I almost wished I had kept my seventies leisure suit to change into for the hotel restaurant which I was certain would be just as up-to-date.

Tim no-neck had scored a corner booth in the dingy restaurant, the vinyl seats sticky and torn. As a dining companion he left much to be desired. He bragged about his feats in the forces then undercover in Vice. I nodded and feigned being impressed, but when he started going on about "bitches these days" and "goddamn coons" I asked him to sit at the bar to better survey the room.

Later when the waitress served my after-dinner coffee, "Lovely" slid into the booth beside me.

"Hiya!" she said, her eyes piercing.

No-neck was no longer at the bar. In fact, I couldn't see him anywhere.

"Your goon is snoozing among the buckets and mops," Lovely said. "If I guessed his weight right, he'll rejoin the world in about six hours. Amazing how easy it is to lure guys like that with slutty talk and the promise of a blowjob."

I looked for anything to use as a weapon. If only I'd ordered the steak.

Lovely touched my arm. "I only want to talk! I'm your number one fan. I can help you."

"I don't need help."

"You sure do," she said. "Your last three books didn't sell, and your publisher is going to dump you."

"They never said—"

She pulled a sheaf of printed emails from a satchel at her foot.

"Roger, you snake," I muttered reading each message. "You fucking rat bastard two-faced snake! How the hell did you get these?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "I know a guy. He knows computers. He says it was a cinch. He also got plenty of dirt on them if you want to blackmail, but I have a better idea."

Next she produced a hardcopy of my work-in-progress.

"There's only one copy of that," I said. "It's on my laptop! How did you—"

"My friend says you were even more of a cinch."

She had crammed each page with meticulous handwriting in the margins, on post-It notes and on separate pages stapled throughout.

Reading through the notes, my excitement mounted. They turned my flaccid, formulaic story into the edgy, risky writing that once had made me a star.

"This... these are all your ideas? Your edits?" I said, studying each page.

"I can't write," she said, glumly. "I try and try but it's not in me. I'm good at ideas. Flow. Tension, Twists."

"Yeah. Holy hell, all these ideas are spectacular. It's the kind of stuff I used to come up with."

"And you will again!" Lovely said, too loudly. "It's just your muse has fled. Your well has run dry. Let me be your muse! Let me fill you! But first I need you to... to fill me." She paused, her eyes apologetic. " I'm very sorry, but I've been waiting so long and I only get one chance at this. I have to insist."

Something poked my ribs. I gasped to see the stubby revolver in her hand.

~~~~

In my room, she tracked me with her Saturday night special while directing me to strip. She secured me spread-eagled to the bed with handcuffs and shackles from her satchel.

Standing over me triumphant, the glow of the bedside lamp bathed her face in menacing shadows.

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

She pulled the pencil from her hair, letting it fall elegantly to her shoulders, then removed her clothes.

I knew that body! The full breasts, the wide hips, the captivating bare pussy and dangerous curves. The woman in the photos! I should have known. My cock sprang skyward in Pavlovian response.

"So you have been enjoying my pictures," she said with a smile. She had a sweet smile.

She got on the bed between my spread legs and after one playful lick, took me into her steamy mouth.

I was never a fan of blowjobs, but this woman was world-class. She swirled her tongue around the head while caressing my shaft in just the right way, with just the right pressure. Then she deep throated me while running fingertips under my balls, drawing a moan of pure pleasure from me. Just when I became used to one technique, she switched to something new and even more mind-blowing.

Again and again she brought me to the edge, her dark eyes on me, gleaming and playful, then just before I reached the point of no return she squeezed my shaft and a point under my balls to quell my orgasm.

Soon I was blind with lust, hips launching from the bed as she performed miracles with her hot mouth, clasping throat and deft hands.

She stopped and withdrew me from her mouth, her eyes still boring into mine. I was panting like a sheepdog in the Sahara, crazed with need, jerking and wriggling my hips, seeking to re-enter her mouth and escape my bonds.

"Can I fuck you?" she said, batting her eyes like a virgin asking for a first kiss.

I gave a feral growl. "For the love of god, yes! Fuck me. Make me come. I need you!"

She gave another sweet smile and straddled me, running my rock-hard cock between her slick pussy lips. She nuzzled the head against her opening, moving up and down in tiny motions popping the tip in and out. It was glorious torture, and I bucked desperately striving to drive up into her.

Finally, she planted her palms on either side of my head and sank slowly down, working me in and out with agonizing slowness, deeper and deeper each time. Her groan of satisfaction was like a junkie getting their first hit in a week. She was tight, velvety, slick, and warm—oh so warm.

All those nights spent beating off to the pictures of my mystery gal, imagining being inside her, imagining what she felt like, bore no comparison to the reality of being embedded to the hilt in her wondrous body.

She shuddered, eyes closed, and tilted back her head. She rocked side-to-side then back-and-forth with just enough motion to feel every part of my turgid cock stretching open her velvet passage. Never had I felt so joined with a woman. Never had I wanted to fuck someone so badly.

"You feel so good," she said with a raspy groan. "I've dreamed of fucking you for so long."

So had I, even though I didn't know who she was. In fact, I still didn't. She was breathing hard, looking at me with a feral, half-crazed expression. She had me right where she wanted me: helpless and horny. Would she have her way with me and kill me? Knock me out with whatever she used on no-neck and whisk me off to some basement prison to become her sex slave? I had written plots just like that. Whatever, I thought. At that moment, the only thing I cared about was coming inside her glorious body.

I pushed up into her. She gasped, eyes going wide. She answered by seating herself forcefully, getting me deep, sighing with contentment then lifting and dropping a few times, driving me insane with lust.

After a few moments she stopped with me fully sheathed and said, "Hey, in your manuscript if you move the kidnapping scene ahead to chapter two, it'll pick up the pace and increase tension."

"You—you want to discuss this right now?"

She rocked and swayed in small motions, her eyes taking on a dreamy look.

"It just came to me," she said.

I just wanted to fuck, but what she said piqued my interest.

"If we move it," I said as she rocked and stirred my cock within her slick silken cunt, "that leaves less room for the backstory."

Lifting my hips again, she lifted with me, riding it out, keeping me wonderfully ensconced within her tight velvet walls but denying any hope of me reaching orgasm.

"It's an info dump now," she said, resuming her small motions above me, her beautiful breasts swaying. "It's better to—ooo—to move a lot of that to later."

She lifted then sat, lifted then sat, causing us both to groan, then resumed her tiny rocking. I longed to grab her hips and force her to fuck, but the handcuffs held my wrists firmly to the sides of the headboard.

She kept riding me slowly, occasionally lifting and grinding hard when the sensations overtook her, and as she did, more ideas came to her. Between our mutual groans and gasps, we debated and traded ideas, pondered plot points, and rounded out side characters. The carnal and the creative, literature and lust all intertwined in a fiery feedback loop, each fueling the other. Our sexual energy grew in sync with our vaulting artistic imaginations.

It was the longest, weirdest, and most literarily productive fuck of my life. Dramatic tension, subplots, settings and scenes—we considered them all, improving, rejecting, enhancing—all while she rode me, sometimes in contemplative calm, other times with feral need.

When together we arrived at an inventive new plot twist, her face brightened from the catharsis of creativity. She wriggled once then came—her mouth dropping open, eyes glassy as her head lolled to one side. The beauty of her orgasm and the sensation of her pussy rhythmically milking my shaft almost set off my own climax before she recovered and lifted off me completely.

"Unlock me!" I hissed from between gritted teeth.

"You'll run! I can't lose you yet!"

"No," I said. "We've too much to work on. And too much fucking left to do."

With nervous apprehension, she freed me. Immediately, I threw her on the bed, forced her legs apart and pushed into her. We groaned. She wrapped her legs around me and I leaned down and kissed her—hard.

She kissed back, hands roaming over my back, my ass, my face. Grabbing her arms, I pinned them above her head and began fucking her savagely.

"The main character, uh, needs that, uh, flaw," I said between thrusts, countering a point she had raised earlier.

She grunted with throaty "oh, oh, oh" sounds as I railed her, in between which she argued her own points.

"True... oh... but it... oh, ahhh!... makes her too... oh, god... too complex. It... guh! Oh shit... doesn't fit the... oh fuck me please don't stop... the character."

We explored the depths of the story as I explored the depths of her passage, her breasts, the taste of her neck and, turning her over and positioning her on all fours, her spectacular ass.

My excitement for the story grew with the excitement of seeing my cock spreading wide grasping pussy from behind. She moaned and gasped, strumming her clit with one hand while bracing herself against the headboard with the other.

I suggested our revisions made one character unnecessary. Her head jerked up and she looked back in surprised agreement and came once more, her head dropping to the sheets, mewling and crying and gasping. I joined her, jamming into her as my throbbing cock blasted her full of everything I could offer.