Poetry & Blood Ch. 12

Chapter 12: The Poet's Kiss

Edited By ALewdEditor

Abby

Abby held her breath as she heard paper sliding under her door. She closed her laptop and scampered over to find an unfortunate stack of papers from Miss K. Abby sighed and bent down, picking up the stack and taking them to her desk. She'd hoped it would be from her penpal, but no. They were Miss K's manuscript, covered in red ink already from the mysterious Laura that the staff occasionally whispered about. Whenever they caught Abby listening, they clammed up and got back to work. Silently.

So far Abby had figured out that Laura was another copy editor. She had seen her before. She was in the ... uh ... Muse Sessions ... with Miss K and the other women for a while. Abby didn't get a good look at her though. She never talked to anyone during a session. Honestly, she did her best to avoid eye contact with everyone involved. She averted her eyes while she read, often using the book of Marcilla's poetry to block the sight of what the women did to each other, though she could never block it out entirely. She couldn't stop seeing the occasional flash of bare flesh. She couldn't stop the sound. You wouldn't believe how much sound the body makes during sex, even with the mouth closed, but once they started speaking or moaning, it was a cacophony of pleasure.

Abby shivered thinking about it. She slammed the stack of papers onto her desk and tried to get back to work. Of course, fantasies would still slip in. Miss K wrote some pretty spicy stuff and, in the margins, Abby could see Laura encouraging her to heat things up further. She noticed that recently Laura wanted more hair grabbing, more yanking, more force in every gentle encounter or intimate scene Miss K wrote. She was getting bolder in her suggestions, less formal in her speech, and sometimes downright insulting in her critiques.

That was why Miss K had asked Abby to follow behind Laura's work. Laura edited Miss K, but Abby edited Laura. She crossed out some of the more lewd suggestions. Lately, she did more and more of that, taking out downright gratuitous things Laura wanted inserted into the scenes. At the end of each stack of pages, Abby was supposed to write an assessment of Laura's work. Was Laura accurate in copy editing? Did she miss anything? Were her suggestions good or helpful? Finally, Abby was to recommend whether or not Laura should be fired.

Abby hated having that kind of power over a total stranger. Laura had Abby's job before her. She was promoted? Demoted? It wasn't certain anymore. She knew that Laura was an editor, like her. She knew that Laura had been the reader for the nightly session. That's it. If she were to guess, she would say that Laura was a bit sex-crazed. She was probably some fangirl of Miss K that wanted to get a job here and start pushing Miss K in some direction. Abby was probably hired to replace her, and this was the transition period. Abby could do honest editor work if she recommended that Laura be fired, but each day she hesitated.

Abby wasn't entirely sure she wanted to stay here. She hadn't read Miss K's work before coming here and, honestly, romance was not her preference. Her experience was entirely in fanfiction and, even then, she worked hard to steer her writers away from needless shipping and rule34. "Stick to the story; stick to the characters." That was her motto. Besides, few authors would let her do what she was really passionate about: word choice.

Words had always dazzled Abby in their own way. There was something special about 'indubitably' that 'certainly' could never touch. Things should 'bloom' not 'grow.' Even in Miss K's work: orgasms should 'thrum' not 'buzz.' There was so much space between words, even if they were synonyms, and few authors were willing to compromise their word choice. Of course, they had their own preferences and vision for the work, but it felt like they went with the first word they could think of, and not the best word for the job. Abby wanted to find the perfect word to describe something. A kiss could crash or melt or smash, but even better, it could ooze or slip or pulse. Word choice is exactly the kind of thing editors should be helping with, and yet, too many authors didn't have the humility to find flexibility with their editors.

That was what Abby loved about her penpal. The unsigned poems slid under her door about two weeks after the new girl, Claire, moved into the house. At first, Abby thought it was her, but Claire had no idea what Abby was talking about when she brought it up. Besides, she rarely saw Claire. Angelica hovered around Abby most of the time, meeting her needs, while Claire was left to the more menial tasks such as cleaning. She wasn't even invited to the creative sessions each night. It would be bizarre for Claire to randomly write love poems to Abby.

Of course, Abby didn't know that they were for her. Abby wasn't so presumptuous as to assume she was part of a torrid love affair through poetry. Abby gave feedback on the poem; it was what she did. She encouraged line breaks and suggested new words. At first, she didn't know how to to get it back to her penpal, but inevitably, each night, she would return from the brainstorming sessions and find the poem gone. It would appear again later, slightly altered, taking Abby's changes into consideration, refusing some, awaiting Abby's feedback.

To Abby, it was far more intimate than the evening gatherings with Miss K. Those were all in monologue. Miss K spoke, and she got what she wanted. There was no interplay, no tension. Editing with her penpal was a dance for Abby. Sometimes it was a formal waltz: fix the comma, add a line-break, change that to a period. Other times it was a a samba: try "quiver" instead of "shake," it would be stronger if you described less, leave it to the imagination. But, at its best, it was a tango, a seduction: yum, LOVE this metaphor, please please please don't stop writing, I relate to this SO strongly. When Abby lost herself and became a reader, not an editor, she found the words take her over. At that point, all she wanted were the words. She served the poem, the author, the mysterious penpal that led her down the path of her imagination.

Understandably, Abby preferred when poems were slid under her door, rather than stacks and stacks of Miss K's dry smut and Laura's attempt at turning it into a porn script. Besides boring work and waiting for more poems, Abby spent her time in her room, to herself. She didn't mind her co-workers, but she had no desire to spend time with them, especially considering what they did together every evening. Instead, Abby kept to herself, on her laptop talking with friends online or watching the latest episode of Carole & Tuesday. She didn't hate people, but she had plenty of friends already, and most of her hobbies were indoor hobbies. She considered herself an indoor cat and liked it that way.

This afternoon, Abby was working through a particularly droll passage from Miss K. She had been on a spree lately of trying to articulate the nature of attraction and desire, making parallels to evolution and hunting. Unfortunately, Miss K approached the topic as a textbook instead of a romance. It felt heartless but, worst of all, it was uninteresting. Abby spent most of her time reading Laura's comments. Some of them had become vicious attacks on Miss K, while others were graphic suggestions for what the main character should be doing. They ranged from sarcastic, cruel, rude, and pornographic:

"Why don't they just fuck already?"

"He should pull her head back by the hair here, get her attention."

"Talk less about why she's hot, show us her body."

"Are you trying to be Herman Melville? No one should be Herman Melville."

"On the other hand, Herman had more dick in one title than this whole novel."

"Tits. Call them tits."

"Do not use the word 'bosom' ever again."

"Are you talking about her pussy? I can't tell under ten tons of metaphor."

Abby smiled at some and blushed at others. It was certainly better than the novel. She carefully crossed each one out, smiling as she went. At least Laura was funny, she had to give her that. Though, she was foolish to talk to Miss K like that. Her writing suggestions were correct most of the time, though anything pushing the text from PG-13 to R was unnecessary. Abby could see why Miss K wanted her gone; but in all honesty, her work would suffer for it. Laura knew precisely when someone was saying too much, when the reader could imagine far better or far worse than any word would dare touch.

There was a gentle scraping at the door to Abby's room. She turned quickly and smiled when she saw a single sheet of paper in front of the door, still partially obscured beneath it. She resisted the urge to get up and sprint for the door, as a bid to find her anonymous poet. She'd tried it before, but there was always an empty hallway waiting for her.

She lovingly scooped up the paper. It was a new poem, not one they had worked on together before. She smiled and read as she returned to her desk.

Thigh

There is equality in thighs.

None unsexy, none unshapely

Each pair desperate to hide,

Aching for revelation.

Envision a thigh.

The word alone, thick

In your mouth,

The heavy tongue

Between your teeth.

It isn't simply honored

By proximity to promise.

It is flesh on flesh,

Nerve on nerve,

Tingle on tingle.

Run your tongue over

Any thigh and taste

How sweet it is

To be devoured.

Abby blushed as her eyes darted over the words. She felt her own thighs warm at the thought of her thighs, of any thighs, being seen and tasted. She ran her hands over them, pulling her skirt down. Even through the fabric, she shivered. She lifted her skirt up pulling it to meet her crotch and ran her hands over the bare skin. She smiled, stifling a giggle as nerve endings fired from her thighs to her crotch and all over her body.

Abby bit her lip and hesitated. Then, carefully, she lifted her hands and let her fingertips linger at the top of her thighs. She danced over them slowly, letting each fingertip explore her supple skin. She shivered, goosebumps exploding over her body. She wasn't sure which she felt more: the pleasure on her fingertips or the pleasure in her thighs. She stifled a moan by biting down harder on her lips. She wanted to stop, to bring her fingers away, but she knew if she stopped touching her thighs, her fingers wouldn't stay still. They would climb up, climb deeper, to her warm pussy. Those were her choices now. She knew it. She was trapped to one sensation or the other, left with an impossible decision. Which felt better? She didn't know. Not anymore.

She imagined the nerve endings of her tongue sliding over a thigh. Would they feel as good as her fingers? She imagined a tongue over her thigh. That would be better for sure. Nothing could be better than a tongue right now.

Abby opened her eyes and blushed, her tan skin turning darker all over. She dropped the poem and hurried to the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face, then ran it over her hands, wrists, and her upper arm. It stirred her out of her daze. She didn't have time to ... to ... touch herself right now. She was at work. She checked her panties. They were damp, but she didn't need to replace them. She stopped herself before it got too far.

What was she thinking?

Abby stared at herself in the mirror. She was short and slim, with curly and thick black hair, dark brown skin, and wore black thick-rimmed glasses. She stared until she felt composed, like herself again. She stepped out of the bathroom and changed her panties, just for good measure, before getting back to her desk.

She left the poem on the ground.

Abby went back to work like a good girl. Paragraphs about the nature and evolution of attraction she could handle. Even Laura's lewd comments she could handle. But something was wrong with that poem. If she started to edit it, to work on it, she knew there would be no way back. She'd be ruined for the rest of the day, thinking about her anonymous poet, about their literary love affair. She couldn't have that. Absolutely not. She had work to do. Boring, droll, horrendous work. There was no time for poetry or sex. Especially not with a stranger. Especially not now.

Abby's eyes darted to the page on the ground. She tried to recall the phrasing of the poem, the way the words tasted in her mind as she read them, but they were gone. The lingering aftertaste of them had faded, and she felt hungry for them again. She looked back at the stack of paper in front of her. She had five more pages to edit. She could do five pages quickly, maybe an hour or half an hour, and then get right back to the poem. Right? Just five pages.

Abby got through one page before she picked the poem back off the floor. She cleared her desk and gingerly placed the poem there with her red pen at the ready. She started at the beginning and read the first stanza slowly. She read it twice, three times, four times. She read it until she could close her eyes and envision the words dancing behind her eyelids, hovering over the darkness of her mind, suspended before her.

There is equality in thighs.

None unsexy, none unshapely

Each pair desperate to hide,

Aching for revelation.

She felt a chill wash over her body. A kind of pressure grabbed her by the shoulders, massaging them, as she read the words over and over in her mind. Abby had never considered herself attractive. She was too thin in her mind. She lacked the curves that Miss K or Miss Lancaster had. But she imagined her thighs in her mind, the words crawling over them like tattoos. She never had a problem with her thighs. Her calves? Yes. Her ankles? Yes. But her thighs? Her thighs were the plumpest part of her. So much flesh. So much shape.

Abby opened her eyes and and began to edit. She wanted to say something positive. She didn't think the poem should speak in negation.

There is equality in thighs.

None unsexy, none unshapely Each sexy, each shapely,

Each pair desperate to hide, Both yours and mine

Aching for revelation.

As she worked, Abby felt the pressure around her holding her hand, guiding her pen. This was her mystery writer. They were doing it together, both writing, both composing, both expressing themselves. Each word was an invitation for inspection, a vulnerability, a cruel and honest nakedness for the other to stare at, to judge, to edit. Abby edited the writer, but the writer edited her.

She went to work on the next stanza, following the same method. She read it over and over, memorizing it until she could see it behind her eyes, deep in her mind. There, the words could work on her, crack themselves open and reveal themselves to her. There they were pure, no filter between them and Abby. She was exposed to them in a raw and pure way, the way between two lovers' whispers in bed.

Abby felt the words read aloud to her in her mind. The woman's voice was cold and distant, almost a hiss, as she read the words to Abby. They guided her pen, telling her what to change, what to bend, what to show, and how to serve the work.

Envision a thigh.

The word alone, thick

In your mouth,

The heavy tongue

Between your teeth.

"It's for you," whispered the voice. "Make it for you."

Abby blushed. She hated the attention as much as she ached for it. She didn't know what to do with it, but someone was writing her poetry and slipping it under her door. Someone wanted her. Someone wanted her like this, with these words. Someone was calling out to Abby, to Abby's body, to Abby's thighs.

"Will you call back?" whispered the voice.

Abby nodded and opened her eyes, taking the red pen.

Envision a thigh. Abby's naked thigh.

The word alone, thick The word and skin, thick

In your mouth,

The heavy tongue

Between your teeth.

Abby read the final line: "Between your teeth." She shivered, feeling the sharp bite against her inner thigh. She gasped, jumping a bit in her chair. She felt the pressure around her, the presence of the voice, holding her in place. She could only close her eyes or read the poem, and with her eyes closed, she could not escape the poem. Over and over she read the words, and each time as she read, she felt the tongue of the voice on the third line. She felt the playful nibble of the voice on the final line. Over and over, trapped by the poem, held in place by its power, she read the words and felt the pleasure, the pain, of the voice as it permeated her.

She knew the final stanza would be her doom, and she plunged into it:

It isn't simply honored

By proximity to promise.

It is flesh on flesh,

Nerve on nerve,

Tingle on tingle.

Run your tongue over

Any thigh and taste

How sweet it is

To be devoured.

She memorized the words quickly, unable to escape the them and look at anything else. Again, the voice comforted her, seduced her, guided her.

"What do you want to feel?" it asked.

Abby didn't know. This was all too much. No one had looked at her the way this poet did. No one had talked to her the way the poem did. No one touched her the way these words did. There was no lover like this. Abby wanted to do what she always did: blush and run away. But the voice held her in place. This time, she couldn't run behind a screen or hide in an apartment. The lover was pressed against her, in her mind. There was no escape.

"More," whimpered Abby. "Please."

Abby opened her eyes and began to work, the voice guiding her with each suggestion and edit.

It isn't simply honored It is honored

By proximity to promise.

It is flesh on flesh, By flesh on flesh,

Nerve on nerve,

Tingle on tingle. Lips on lips.

Run your tongue over

Any thigh and taste Her bare thigh and taste

How sweet it is

To be devoured. To devour.

Abby's eyes glossed over. She put the pen down, the pressure of the voice guiding her. The work was done. She pulled her skirt up, bunching it around her waist. The work was done. She slid her hips forward in her chair. The work was done. She let her fingers dance over her thighs. The work was done.

"Serve the work," hissed the voice.

The work was done.

"It is honored," started the voice.

"By proximity," Abby's fingers climbed up her thigh. She pulled her panties down and over her knees. They were soaked.

"To promise," she muttered as she began to finger herself.

"By flesh on flesh," whispered the voice. Abby felt its breath on her neck.

"Nerve on nerve," said Abby. Her fingers felt electric as she played with herself. She didn't squirm. She didn't blush. She didn't panic. The voice was all around her. The voice was the poem. The poem was the words. The words were the poet.

"Lips on lips," hissed the voice, but this time the breath wasn't on her neck. It was on her pussy. Abby looked down slowly. Between her legs, under her desk, was a woman in a dark cloak. Abby couldn't see her face except for her curly and thick hair. It was brown and spilling out of the hood of her cloak. Abby felt it tickle her thighs, her precious and perfect thighs.