The Kinky Quill

"Say it."

"Say what?" Fluttering her long lashes as she took a sip of coffee, she failed in her attempt to look innocent.

"Say what you are dying to say ... what you dragged me out to this coffee shop to say."

"Oh, well, if you are going to force it out of me." She winked, then vomited her concerns in one long spill. "You dress in things that resemble tents. You have become a hermit hiding in that tiny apartment. You are a writer who no longer writes. And lastly, does your pussy have cobwebs?"

To my embarrassment, the waiter dropped by to refill our coffees at the same time that crass question rolled off her tongue.  

I glanced down at my so-called tent, which in actuality, was comfy sweatpants with a substantially oversized sweatshirt. "I've gained some weight, okay."

She shook her head back and forth and waved her finger at me. "Your weight is not the problem, Kate. So, you've gained some weight. You needed to, in my opinion. Besides, guys like a handful." She pretended to grope her perky breasts with her word 'handful.' Again, she was unconcerned by any onlookers. 

My eyes drifted down to my big breasts resting on the table. "I'm quite a bit more than a handful, Lexi."

"That's why guys have two hands!" She loudly slurped her coffee, smiling at her clever comeback. "You are hiding your body. Trust me, you look better with a few curves, but you have to show them off. Your baggy clothes thing you got going on will not get you laid."

"I don't need to get laid. And I'm just a little writer-blocked; I'm sure my imaginary friends will talk to me again soon. And my apartment is fine."

"Oh, lady, you are far from fine. You are frozen in time and need to move past Stephen. It's time you rejoin the living!"

I hated to admit it, but everything she said was correct. All aspects of my life had become stagnant since my divorce. Stephen had always harped on me to keep a model-thin body. After leaving me for Malibu Barbie, I gained weight, suffered body image issues, and lost my sex drive. All of which contributed to my writer's block on my romance novel promised to the publisher some time ago. 

It hurt to hear her words. It did. Tears clouded my eyes, and she reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "I just want to see my best friend happy."

Wiping away the wetness streaming down my cheeks, I whispered, "I don't know how."

She squeezed my hand again, reassuring me. "I've got it. Start with a new place to live. You've always said you'd love a place in the country. Get out of that dreary apartment and find a nice home to jump-start your life again."

Hmmm. The idea of a new home, maybe a fixer-upper, did appeal to me, so I promised her I'd meet with a realtor later that week. 

Baby steps.

Weeks later...

"I thought no one had lived here for a while." I pointed to the ripe tomatoes dangling from their vines amidst the weeds. "Who planted these tomatoes?" 

"No one. Tomatoes tend to reseed themselves with abandon," the realtor replied. 

With abandon. Those words stirred something inside of me. How long has it been since I've done anything 'with abandon'?

"I'll take it!" The words flew out of my mouth on their own. "I mean, I'd like to make an offer on the house." 

~ooOoo~

Buyer's remorse was alive and well inside this abandoned farmhouse. What had I been thinking? Shaking my head, I loudly sighed at the evidence of decay and neglect surrounding me. The doors screeched as if in pain. There was no telling what horrors lurked beneath the layers upon layers of peeling wallpaper. Worst of all, the number of cobwebs taking up residence in every corner proved quite unsettling.And what is that God-awful smell?

After a few moments, Lexi's voice penetrated my pessimistic thoughts. If here, she'd surely say, "Suck it up, buttercup, and get your hands dirty." Glancing around, I didn't know where to begin, but I rolled up my sleeves and started in the kitchen. 

It turns out I just needed to take that first step, and before long, I found myself fully invested in fixing up my new home. To my delight, this old farmhouse possessed many hidden treasures amidst its surface-level disrepair. Whoever lived here prior had accumulated an identity, then suddenly discarded it. Maybe my life bore similar circumstances to the lives that once occupied this space. Unbeknownst to me at the time, as I unleashed my creativity restoring the house's interior, my insides were being restored in kind. 

Worn pulled-up carpets revealed stunning hardwood floors -- a magnificent blessing. Closets housed a few discarded yet colorful paintings. Volunteer flowers sprouting up in the abandoned garden filled my vases and brightened my home. Interestingly enough, I'd read that birds can create volunteer plants from their droppings. A perfect message to me about my life, I thought. Maybe I could make something beautiful out of the shit from my life. 

A few pieces of furniture had been left in the house, and I particularly liked the antique writer's desk in the study. It was made of rich walnut with smaller drawers adorning the front. I began snooping and found some faded scribbles on old parchment paper and even an inkwell. Hmmm, had a writer lived here? 

My best discovery, though, was a quill tucked underneath some more pieces of parchment. Its vibrant red feather immediately drew my attention. The shaft resembled silver, ornately designed, and quite heavy, with its writing tip intact. As soon as my fingers touched it, oh my goodness, I felt a tingle deep inside me. 

I've no clue how long I sat at the desk, fondling the quill with my fingers. It had grown dark outside when I finally snapped out of my daze, so I headed to the kitchen to fix myself a quick sandwich. Curiously, I carried the quill the rest of the evening until it was time to go to bed, then I set it on my nightstand. 

An unexpected urge to be naked hit me, and I hastily removed my clothes with my eyes never leaving the quill. Struck by another intense impulse, I picked it up and brushed the quill across my cheek, following the line of my jaw down to my neck. Shivers shot down my body as if lightning traversed my veins.Sooooo good. These sensations are exquisite.

I desired more touches from this quill and dipped the feather into the deep crevice between my breasts. Looking up, I watched my face redden with lust in the mirror and stepped closer for a better look. After gaining weight, I had feared the mirror and avoided looking at my new curves. With bravery, I swiped the feather around my sensitive flesh, circling each areola and watching my mouth involuntarily open. My nipples darkened and begged for attention. Do I dare continue? 

I chose to accept the dare from my reflection in the mirror. "Kinky quill," I whispered as it tickled my nipples, sending electric pulses straight to my previously-dormant clit. The quill fanned the embers of desire, and I was indeed awakening. 

I viewed my plumper breasts with new eyes. Yes, they had grown with my weight gain, but their volume made my waist appear smaller. They rested nice and high on my chest with no drooping. They were pretty fabulous for my forty-nine-year-old self. Thankfully, the kinky quill agreed. 

Fearing my trembling legs wouldn't support me much longer, I lay on the bed. From there, I continued to tease my breasts with the silky feather until my clit called to me.Rub me. Play with me. Please. The kinky quill answered the call and strummed my needy clit. 

The whole bed shook as I twitched and quivered. My best friend's question about cobwebs on my pussy came to mind. Not after tonight, I thought as I came hard, releasing over a year's worth of forgotten sexual desires. Sleep enveloped me and quieted any remaining insecurities for the night; my hand still clutched the kinky quill when I woke up the following day. 

That post-orgasmic bliss remained with me for the next several days. Even stranger things began happening with the kinky quill as my constant companion. I saw sex everywhere. Sexual stuff I'd never let myself imagine before appeared in my head. I pictured graphic depictions of legs splayed with hardened cocks plunging and thrusting. I saw dirty things involving ass play. Erotic sounds of squealing and panting accompanied all the scenes. Shockingly, I recognized that voice making those sounds and blushed down to my toenails. 

Even my kitchen screamed sex. Bananas begged to be sucked. Cucumbers resembled cocks. Dill pickles aroused me and planted filthy encounters in my mind. It was time ... time for me to write again. 

With the kinky quill in hand, I marched up to my office, pulled out some parchment, and dipped my pen in the inkwell. I took a deep breath and put pen to paper. The first strokes were hesitant but soon became fluent with confidence and urgency. Within an hour, I'd written one thousand words. Trembling, I read my words aloud, then soaked the chair with my cum. 

~ooOoo~

Restoring this home gave new meaning to my life. I found beauty in its abandoned state, even in the curled wallpaper, faded drapes, and dusty corners. All those things revealed the life once lived. 

I spent hours in front of the mirror with the kinky quill, accessing my state of being. My seasoned face portrayed the life I'd lived as well. With budding enlightenment, I came to view the wrinkles around my eyes as proof of laughter. The creases on my forehead indicated the care and concern I'd shown others. Yet, like this house, I needed rejuvenation. 

First, I bought a hair color kit and highlighted my monotone brown hair, giving it new pizazz. Next, I reshaped my brows and ditched the sweats for curve-hugging jeans and fitted shirts. Each day I committed private time in bed, exploring my new fuller-figured body and learning to love myself again. Afterward, the kinky quill would guide me to the writing desk to put my thoughts and fantasies on paper. 

During most writing stints, I mixed writing with masturbation. The kinky quill rewarded each paragraph I wrote with feather-lite swipes to my nipples or firmer swirls to my clit. 

I came to believe in the law of attraction. Someone once told me if you put positive vibes into the universe, the universe will send them back to you. The love I put into restoring my home and the love I put into my writing was boomeranging back to me. Long-lost joy was returning to my vacant heart. 

~ooOoo~

One hot summer day, a different long-lost joy found me again. I was busy stripping away the tattered floral wallpaper in my bedroom when a deep baritone voice infiltrated the room. I had opened the window to try to air out the musty room, and his singing was growing louder, as if he was approaching my house. Stepping down from the ladder, I wandered over and pulled the curtain back to peep out. To my surprise, a shirtless man was bent over in my garden, picking my tomatoes. 

"Hey!" I yelled and wasn't sure why I became so angry, but I flew down the stairs and out the door to confront the tomato stealer.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know anyone had moved in." His sparkling blue eyes and smirk showed he was more amused than sorry.

"So, you just decided the tomatoes were free for your taking?" I raised on my tippy toes and puffed out my chest to try to look bigger up against his towering half-naked, chiseled body. 

His white teeth sparkled when he smiled and extended his hands full of tomatoes toward me. "Here, ma'am, please accept my apologies."

Suddenly, I felt like a cranky older woman and was embarrassed. "No, keep them. I'm sorry, you just startled me, I guess."

"Are you sure? Because I agree I shouldn't touch a lady'stomatoes without her permission."

It hadn't been so long that I didn't notice the sexual innuendo in his remark. I'm not sure what came over me, but I responded with one innuendo of my own. "Well, who could blame you? My tomatoes are quite delicious." I punctuated that comment with a flip of my long hair. 

"I bet they are," he chuckled, not even trying to hide his eyes lowering to my breasts. "Since you are my neighbor--" he pointed to the house in the distance, "--shouldn't we know each other's names?"

I extended my hand. "Hi neighbor, I'm Katherine, but you can call me 'Kate.'"

He transferred all the tomatoes to one arm, cradled them against his sun-tanned chest, and accepted my hand. Instead of a quick shake, he held it while he said, "Hello, Kate, I'm Michael, but you can call me any time." 

I couldn't help but smile at his cheesy line. He returned my smile, then released my hand, turned, and waved goodbye while walking back toward his house. I must say the sight of his firm butt as he walked away was quite pleasing.

Since I was already outside, I decided to spend the sunny afternoon working in my yard. After hours of pulling weeds, I retreated inside for a nice long bath. The house came with an old clawfoot tub, perfect for soaking my tired muscles. I luxuriated in the water until my tummy growled, climbed out, slipped on my comfy loungewear, and set off for the kitchen. 

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, there was a knock at the door. I opened it, and to my surprise, the tomato-stealer Michael was standing there holding a dish. 

"Michael, hi." 

"Hi, Kate." He extended the dish. "I brought you some of my famous pasta for dinner. It might please you to know I made the sauce with some of your tomatoes."

"Wow, you didn't have to do that." Eyeing the large dish, I added, "And that looks to be way too much food for just me, so why don't you join me?"

He flashed me another one of his shit-eating grins. "I confess, I hoped I would receive an invite because my pasta is fantastic if I do say so myself."

"Well, by all means then." I moved out of the way and gestured to him to come inside.

He made himself comfortable at the kitchen table while I served us pasta accompanied by wine. I admit the food smelled delicious, and I was starving. His appearance on my doorstep was a welcome surprise indeed.

He must have been hungry, too, because we both dove into the food and barely came up for air. Finally, I broke the silence.

"So, Michael, can we address the elephant in the room?"

He playfully rotated his neck all around. "Elephant, I don't see an elephant. Maybe you should lay off the wine."

I cocked an eyebrow. "Your age. How old are you?"

"I'm thirty-six. I guess that makes me the senior in the room." His eyes met mine. "What? Did you hope I was younger?"

He was messing with me. "Very funny. Obviously, I'm much older than you."

"Well--" He took another bite of pasta, and I impatiently waited for him to swallow his food before he finished his sentence. "--it's not obvious to me."

"I'm forty-nine years old, Michael."

"Well, I just see a beautiful woman. Age is a number." He dabbed at some sauce running down his chin, then winked at me. "It's like a dick's number -- the number doesn't matter. It's what you do with it."

I took another sip of wine, feeling a tingle in netherland. "You have quite the silver tongue. I better watch out for you."

He leaned toward me, locking eyes. "Kate, you have no idea what all my tongue can do."

An hour later, I was sitting on his face, finding out what his tongue could do. An hour after that, I was bent over the arm of the couch, being fucked hard from behind. And an hour after that, we found ourselves in my bed with him lightly snoring. 

During the course of our sexfest, he had completed my sexual reawakening by moving me from solo sex to sex with an actual blood-filled man. I initiated some things my kinky quill had scribbled, like guiding his fingers from my pussy south to my asshole. Oh my goodness, that was unexpectedly erotic. I came hard during that experience. 

Emboldened by my adventurous spirit, he took control and introduced me to more delights like spanking. While his cock thrust into my pussy, he struck my bottom with his hand like I was a naughty girl. I liked it. Correction ... I loved it. 

Another first -- he face-fucked me. I'd given head before, but face-fucking was different. He cupped my cheeks, holding my face in place while his hips thrust his cock as deep as he wanted down my throat. The loss of air startled me at first but also fueled my arousal. It was a night of many sexual firsts, for sure. 

After we'd slept for several hours with our limbs entangled, I awoke and wiggled free from his sexy body, careful not to disturb his slumber. He has earned it, I softly giggled. 

I crept down the hall to the study, plopped my naked bottom on the chair, and turned on the desk lamp. After I picked up my kinky quill, the words flowed like cream from my pussy, and I finally ...finally ... finished my novel. 

~ooOoo~

It had been weeks since I'd mailed the publisher my manuscript. While I sat on the couch reading, my phone flashed my publisher's number.Yes! She's read it! 

"Hello." I tried to sound calm, but in truth, I was about to jump out of my skin in anticipation.

"WHAT IS THIS PILE OF VULGAR, DISGUSTING SHIT I'VE JUST READ, KATHERINE?"

"Ummm..." Okay, this wasn't quite the response I had expected. "What do you--"

"This was SUPPOSED to be a romance novel, not some PLAY-BY-PLAY PORN SCRIPT! JESUS!" She broke for air, then continued, "And CHRIST, who'd ever do THAT with a PICKLE!" 

Well, the conversation pretty much continued its downward spiral from there. Needless to say, my novel wasn't getting published. After I hung up the phone, I leaned back against the cushions, and my face shocked the heck out of me by smiling -- my happiness didn't depend on the publisher's view of my novel. After all, there were other publishers, but the important thing was I felt alive again. Alive. Reborn. And full of hope.

My confidence had returned, and I had entered a new season of life filled with exploration and exciting new experiences. I noticed the leaves were beginning to change colors and would later fall, announcing the arrival of winter. In my soul, however, it was springtime. I celebratedmy new season, grabbed my kinky quill, and let it wander where it wanted.

~The End~