The Book Signing Pt. 01

For better context regarding this story I'd like to recommend to you, "The Writing Convention," by Literotica writer Brittni4u. Her work should fill in some blanks for you regarding questions you might have. I would also like to warn everyone ahead of time - this story includes some fetish play, (to include watersports). Lastly I would like to take a moment to recognize three very talented writers who will appear in this series; Brittni4u, Brooklyn Lamb, and wendy53. This work is dedicated to you and thanks you three, for being an inspiration and for giving me words of encouragement on this project. Thank you for letting me pick your brains and for putting up with my questions.

*****

I don't know where it all started, when things began to fall apart. I guess being a big dumb male I didn't see signs. My bad. They were probably swirling around me like dry leaves in a windy alley-way but I just didn't see, or care. I was too dazzled by the success.

I'd retired early at forty-seven; looked at all the years I had left, and decided I'd better find something. The guys down at the local VFW were good fellahs but they were all too old, (they seemed ancient and I didn't want to get old like that too quickly).

I simply had no intention of simply sitting over a beer at a bar and telling stories about all I never did to guys who all needed to turn up their hearing aids until I needed one myself. Instead, I went out and found a day job ten days after retirement and started writing at night. You've read my stuff, (or you are reading it now so you know what I write).

Anyhow, when things went wrong I was at a bit of a zenith for myself. As a writer I'd had a shit ton of failures; everybody does when they are making their bones. No shame in that, but finally I'd put something out to be truly proud of. It was an erotic historical novel and it made up for all the mistakes and the setbacks. Things took off.

I quit the day job. Money was actually coming in faster than I'd anticipated from the book and didn't need to "clock in." I definitely had no appetite for calling anyone boss save myself. We'd moved from one home to a bigger one we didn't need. We were recent empty nesters but it didn't matter; if I had cash coming in like that, I wanted everyone to know about it. It took a while but Karma kicked me in the sweet spot.

I came home early from a medical appointment that had to be rescheduled. It was then I'd walked in on my wife Linda in bed with her dance choreographer, (well not really in bed as much as 'on it'; with her ass high, her head low and him plunging down into her like a drill rig.

Didn't see it coming. For that matter I was not only surprised to see this from her, but also I surprised that the little leaping leotard loving lothario, Vince (who was balls deep inside my wife) fancied women. So much for my gaydar, so much for my alleged grasp of human nature.

"You understand, I want a divorce Bill," was all she could say, then she looked up over her shoulder and bid Vince to 'just keep going.'

She'd staged this. It was brazen, even for her. I have to give the girl credit. Truth was, she was eight years younger than me, far too attractive (I'd married up by all accounts), and I'd been less than stellar in providing her attention lately. It was either my job, the new house, or work... and no time for her. So along came Vince and he knew an unhappy attractive woman when he saw her.

I turned around, headed out to the bar by the pool, and poured myself a drink. They were gone in her car to who knows where in about thirty minutes. There would be papers, there would be lawyers, there would be mounds of accusations and bickering; I could see this all ahead in the months to come, but at the moment I did what any man of my character would - finding a pit of gin soaked self-pity and crawling into it.

Several hours later as the sun was coming up and I woke up on one of the pool lounges. My phone was between several empty bottles and it was buzzing for about the fourth time. I had a reminder. There was a book signing coming up in a few days and I didn't want to bother; especially not given the circumstances of how my head felt but then through the hangover fog I had an epiphany. I was free as fuck to do as I pleased and conscience be damned!

Ok... this was not so much of me being merely set free as much as a nervous breakdown. I really don't know why it happened to me, and I don't know why it chose then and now. The moment it arrived for me it manifested itself in the oddest of ways... I simply didn't care.

I'd always cared. I'd always been the responsible type who gives a fucking shit; putting in the long hours, volunteering for the crap jobs nobody wanted but needed to be done. I'd gone off to Iraq and Afghanistan on tours when both conflicts were anything but ideal, taken shit assignments when I happened to back in the states, and I'd generally not complained. It's the sort of thing responsible people with a self-important weed up their ass do.

After the Army, I'd done the sensible thing and started work... gotten the last of my children off to college and set us up with a lovely house and a nice mortgage that I could easily pay off. I told myself that my writing was my chance to be frivolous and to prove a point to myself I wrote about erotica and turned my back on anything of substance. For my sins I was successful and... now none of it really mattered.

So it was ironic then that I found myself a few days later on a flight up to Phoenix and then with a short connection to San Diego. My publisher had said it would be the right thing for me to hit this book signing, a lot of big names were hocking their pulp there and it would look good for me to have mine out alongside theirs... but that really wasn't why I was doing this.

I just wanted to go... no other reason. I was like a drop out; drifting along and seeing what fate had in store... the difference between me and the average disenchanted dropout; I had a rather liquid cash flow. It was probably a good thing shit hadn't gone down the tubes with me and Linda when I was a twenty-something without a crust of bread and two nickels to rub together.

So I checked in at the hotel after a short trip from the airport. I dropped my things off at my room and then went downstairs and met up in the hotel conference room with the people making arrangements for the book signing. As it turns out, things were already underway. The conference room was jam-packed full of people.

I hated those things. Hated the whole idea. I hated the crappy hotel conference room carpeting and the crap coffee that invariably would be in one corner next to carafe's of ice water and tea. Hated people walking around wearing stupid nametags that said, "Hi, My Name is ... fill in the blank." I hated even more that I had to fucking wear one.

So I am waiting for table space because its a damnably crowded room. More than one author had their choked line of fans queuing up to a rickety foldup table. Finally, I had a table and a box of books and somebody put a pen in my hand while slapping a poster up on the wall behind me. That's the embarrassing part of it; looking behind you and seeing yourself -looking all serious holding your own book or with your book superimposed in the background.

The line that formed up in front of me was what I expected; the frumpy housewife types all looking for a bit of excitement in their lives; all having found instead a paper-back escape in the pages of my book while they waited for the laundry to finish rinse cycle. I could see a few of them hiding my book after each "me time" session, just in case one of their kids should discover it or their mother happened by. My work is not something you want grandma to find on your coffee table; not unless grandma is a total cum addicted sex freak. Anyhow, this was my muffin-top bread and butter, and it stretched across the room and out into the lobby.

I was about two hours into this activity of greet, write something, and smile for a selfie; when I received a punch in the arm. I turned and there she was.

"Hi stranger!"

It was Brittni, staring back at me. She had her hands on her hips and was displaying a bit of mock pissi-ness. I knew the admonishment was coming and I suppose I'd deserved it.

"So," she scolded, "you just show up to a book signing... one where you know I'll be at, and you don't even so much as let me know ahead of time you'll be in town? What the actual FUCK, Bill!"

"It's a long story hon," I started to say but she interrupted me with,

"It's a long stay here in town for you and you've got a king-sized bed up in 219!"

"Wait, how in the hell did you...?"

"You saw the Indian or Pakistani or whatever he is guy who checked you in at the front desk?" she asked.

"Yeah?"

"Well," she explained, leaning close to whisper in my ear like the brat she could sometimes be,

"let's just say there isn't nearly as much curry-sauce inside his ball sack as there was this morning when he came into work!"

I turned my head to her ear and whispered, "You keep sucking off hotel employees like this and I'm going to put on a bellhop uniform to lug your bags upstairs."

"They are already upstairs dork," she snapped back at me with another sassy little whipser, "in room 219. I am waaay ahead of you, (I emptied the bellhop's balls and put a permanent smile on his face right after I swallowed the desk clerk's nut-chutney)!"

I realized she'd just made this trip a whole lot more bearable for me.

The next three hours dragged like an eternity. I did sneak a quite a few peeks over towards Brittni sitting at her table, just reminiscing while pretending to pay attention to every housewife in my line. I was distracted and for good reason. She and I had "history," and damned recent too.

For those of you who don't know anything about Britt, look her up on Literotica under the author name, Brittni4U. No matter what your taste in erotica happens to be, her writing will scratch your itches one way or another, (she has written about damned near everything and is a true talent). She'd also as luck would have it... put out a book about the same time I'd written mine and wouldn't you know it; it was even more successful than I could ever have hoped mine to be. Oh well, it's not a race -its writing.

Anyhow, back before my book was even close to getting finished (and long before any publisher would touch me with a ten-foot pole), I met Brittni at a writing convention in Phoenix. For a little bit better picture, give her story The Writing Convention on Literotica a look, (it should fill in all the blanks for you).

It was a fun time and by my count if I remember correctly; my balls were emptied by that lovely little minx for no less than three times, plus my wife Linda also took care of emptying me, (but hey who's keeping score, right)? Regardless, when Britt hinted about another convention in San Diego not far from her home, I hopped a flight and showed up by myself.

That was the start of what I would call "The Lost Weekend," which would be another story for another time, all in itself. I didn't keep track of how many times she emptied my nuts or made me howl like I'd stubbed my toe that weekend; let's just say the whole event was a blur and at one point, I threw some clothes of mine in a dumpster rather than take them home, (they were that far gone). It was one of those weekends where you get back on a plane to come home; trying to hydrate and just happy you didn't have an awkward neck or facial tattoo to explain to your wife Linda.

Oh, and speaking of Linda... out of some twisted bullshit rationalizing "code of honor" that perhaps went back to my fraternity days - I never took Brittni's pussy. On both trips I only nutted in her mouth, hands, or asshole, (and if I remember right on both occasions her mud-button was filled to the rim with my special sauce when I departed).

The bottom-line if (I can put it simply), was despite stretching Britt's beautiful bottom, I didn't cum in her pussy. It felt too much like I was serving up Linda a slap in the face. It was hypocritical I know, but I didn't know "the rest of the story" as Paul Harvey would say. Linda most likely wouldn't have so much as batted an eyelash at what I'd done (given what I know now), but hey let's not skip too far ahead.

Anyhow here I was, back in San Diego and making sideways glances at her; sometimes getting away scot-free... sometimes getting caught looking. She'd just smile back and give me a big dimply grin with a wink. A couple of times she deliberately dropped shit on the floor, just to make my eyes follow her movements. She played games; always had, and always will... it's in her nature.

For the life of me; I simply couldn't help myself (despite the annoyed looks I received from a few of the hefty heifers in my line of signature hopefuls), and if you were a healthy male you'd agree. I knew precisely what lay under that short dress and long corporate jacket all perched above her slender legs and red high heels. The thing was; it was all too obvious to all present, (not that either of us cared).

If you've ever met Brittni, you're immediately struck by her form. Sleek and slender doesn't begin to cover it. Imagine instead Tinkerbell crossed with a little toy cannon perhaps; just made for loud banging hard sex). When I was in my twenties, we'd call hard body-pixie girls like that "spinners"; because you could lift them up light as a feather, set them on your cock, and spin them around like a giggling ceiling fan.

Despite her twenty-two years of age, she's kept her heart-shaped tushy from her high school gymnastics days, (courtesy of a strict regime of Zumba and weight training). She sports perky 34C breasts capped with lovely little gumdrop nipples and flat little tummy that's frankly... hard as a bagful of hammers, (oh... and with a little dangly belly-button icicle jewel to boot)! Above that ever-smiling face with her catlike angular cheekbones, small nose, and captivating hazel eyes; she sports this wavy mane of dishwater blonde hair, very much in harmony with her Southern California setting. She looks the part.

There is another side to her and remember, appearances deceive. She may look like the screaming front row of boy band concert ...but that's where it ends. She's intelligent, with a wisdom well beyond her years... and oh so classy!

I guess you'd have to call it the "classy slut" ethos that she lives by. She won't write her phone number on her underwear and slip it to some bartender just because she's had a few. She'll never be caught dead doing a stupid duck-face selfie and put it out on social media - telling everyone how she feels fat and lonely, (so that hundreds of random mooks will traffic-jam her inbox). She won't put composite photos of her face and ass out over the internet so that some nasty creep can hang them on some crappy Eastern European payporn website next to a "New Members Here" window; she's far too savvy and level-headed for that garbage.

She understands there's life after school, after twenty-two, after thirty-two even... and that reputation is all. That being said; she loves pleasure and recognizes (like a lot of intelligent people), we only go around once and nobody leaves this world alive ...we should not deny ourselves the sensual pleasures of this world. Consequently, she walks a Yin Yang line of respectability and standards to one side; all perfectly balanced with hedonistic itches to be scratched and appetites to be fed upon the other. I may have oversimplified the "classy slut ethos" perhaps, but you can still get the picture.

Well anyhow, eventually those last three hours were finished and the very last one of the ladies in my line did a "grip, grin, kissie-selfie & sign, combination" with me. I sent the sweet little old GILF on her way so she could catch an early-bird plate special someplace, (or perhaps just go home to feed her cat, I don't know). I shot a glance over Brittni's way.

She had just signed and sent the last of her readers home with an autograph and a sweet hug too. She raised her hand and made a "drinkie drinkie," gesture. I nodded and huffed out my lungs in agreement, realizing such things were long overdue.

Sitting in a high-backed booth tucked away in the hotel bar a few minutes later we had a chance to unwind together and catch up. We sat away from the bar. We wanted privacy and there were a few barflies that kept looking her way from the moment we stepped through the entrance, (despite the fact she ignored them like so much ogling furniture). She wanted privacy and the booth with its darkness and wrap-around art-deco overdone highness gave us just that.

The drinks came to the booth and the waitress headed back to behind the bar. I had Martini. Brittni joked that like myself; my drink was cool, bitter and a bit dry, (the difference being it had the benefit of three olives which I did not). What can I say, be it gin or scotch, or straight tequila... I like drinks that make younger people do the sour face. I know what I'm about.

Brittni had one of her usual tall fruity Walt Disney-colored whatchamacallits that betrays a certain age despite the fact she was rocking the grown-up corporate look with the clothes. It's the one thing that tips a girl's hand as to how old she is... the booze she drinks and how she orders it. I don't judge, I just notice.

When a girl makes the transition to a certain age, she hangs up a lot of things. One of them is a fear of drinks that taste like hair-spray. Suddenly, that icky stuff Nana used to suck out of strange geometric-shaped glasses tastes less like Final Net and more like sweet nectar... the fruity-sweet, rum-tinged drinks with the cute names conversely go by the wayside, (along with cute cars, and all the Hello Kitty paraphernalia). Its ok... I like Britt, a hell of a lot. She can drink what she wants in my book.

As always, she was good company. Most of our talk was about writing; hers, mine, our competition, who had put out what lately for work, and who was grinding away on a new project. Our work is a fun least common denominator. It's easy for us to get lost in the discussion and we did. Could you blame us? We write about fucking and the pleasurable adventures and we are always bouncing ideas and concepts off one another as to how to make those adventures even more appealing.

Soon one martini led to another and one froo-froo Hello Kitty Watchamathingy with an umbrella led to another. Once there were four empty glasses in front of us, what was to stop us from making it a fifth and sixth? Hey it was going to be Happy Hour anyhow in thirty minutes... a head start is always a good thing. It's like stretching before a workout... so important.

The only concern was this was how "the lost weekend" began the last time I'd been in town, and I was cautious of a repeat performance. Oh well... I could sober up on the plane home in a few days, (and didn't give a rat's ass what condition I looked like when I arrived at my door this time).

As she spoke she always kept one hand either on my arm knee or hand. It's what makes her dear to everybody she meets. Every now and again between flips of her hair, she'd pick a teensy weensy indescribable piece of fluffy nothing from my sleeve or my collar or my pants, or wherever; then go right back to speaking, listening, and nodding. It wasn't sexual in the purest sense. She's a "toucher," and quite sensual in that regard, (and what's more - it's contagious). My hand found itself on hers and her knee and to her wrist.

The duet began. We kept up the discussion about writing but from the get go; we sat closer than casual conversationalists. She kept preening herself and straightening things on me as my fingertips traced the edge of her hand absentmindedly when I spoke to make a point.