Pretentious Nonsense

"Didn't we literally just do this?" Fiona asks.

I shrug. "Depends what order you read them in. For all we know, this is the first 750-word story of 2023 and the reader" - I wink at you - "is yet to find the other. Maybe they will never read the other and will never discover whether you get to suck Deadpool's cock."

"Or whether you get to -"

"Spoilers!"

Fiona laughs. "Isn't this all a cheat, then? A sneaky way to get around the 750-word limit?"

"I guess that's up to Laurel..." I glance around, but don't see her. "I guess the editor's behind a fifth wall. But anyway, I want to do something different with this one: Interactive Fiction."

Fiona frowns. "I don't get it."

"Of course not. It hasn't been implemented yet, but maybe next year I'll be able to do this:"

"Hey!" she hisses, and glares briefly at you as she hastily covers her nipples with her hands. "We're in public!"

"Please. We're all consenting adults. But here's the interesting thing: If these two 750-word stories were actually one interactive story, where the reader got to choose between this pretentious nonsense and the other -"

"You think you're so clever, don't you," she interrupts, and I grin impishly.

"- then technically the reader would be reading both scenarios simultaneously and we would exist in a quantum superposition of narrative consequences. The moment the reader gets bored with this current waveform - and let's face it, this isn't the most erotic of stories - they collapse it and we cease to exist!"

Fiona nods. "And we don't want that to happen."

"No."

"I guess we'd better have sex."

"How about a slow-burn erotic romance between two married women?"

"Two happily married women," she asserts.

"Oh, indeed," I agree, "but I haven't seen you in a long time."

"We literally just had coffee."

"Different waveform, my love. And aren't you tired of monogamy yet? Of sleeping with the same man, day after day, the same unimaginative fuck in the same unimaginative bed..."

"As opposed to what? Spreading my legs on the table here for you, making sure the readers get a good view of my wet pussy?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Is it wet?"

"I don't know. Let's ask the reader."

"I guess it is," she says - and hops up onto the table, giving you a clear view of her wet pussy, framed by blonde curls. She even spreads her labia apart to show you her clit and the entrance to her gorgeous cunt.

She frowns suddenly. "But wait. How would we count words in interactive fiction? Would it be 750 across all possible branches? Or would each possible scenario have to play out within the 750-word limit? Because if you really had made me disappear back there, this story would be a lot shorter than it already is."

"The latter, I guess, but not just within." I breathe in the raw, intoxicating aroma of pussy. I know where I want to be within. "Regardless of the reader's choices, the final unrolled narrative should be 750 words exactly. Had you disappeared earlier, I would have had to entertain the reader myself - perhaps with this."

I pick up the salt shaker. It's shaped like an erect penis. The pepper shaker too, although I'm not sure I like the idea of either going anywhere near my pussy. There's masochism, and then there's foolishness.

Fiona plucks it from my hand. "Stop getting distracted, Ali. You can lick me out and tell the story at the same time. Stop wasting words on novelty crockery."

"Yes, Mistress Fiona," I sigh. I have missed this. We've never been a romantic couple, but we have had some amazing sex together in the past. Married life has limited our opportunities to spend time together. With one living in an enchanted forest and the other in a tall tower (a super-posh apartment overlooking the river, thanks to her millionaire husband), it's like we're in two entirely different fairytales.

"Ali! Stop torturing me!"

My tongue glides between her soft lips, tasting that most exquisite and intimate of flavours, and she sighs happily. I dive in, adoring her with kisses, with loving caresses, sucking on her clit and loving each gasp of pleasure. I'm conscious of the word count, of the need to make her come.