What's a Geek to Do?

Intro- This story is fictional parody written for the 2024 Literotica Geek Pride Story Event. As with the majority of my online stories, it contains description of graphic adult behavior and is meant for mature open minds. Positive and constructive feedback is appreciated.

***

The writer sat on his couch with his laptop, furrowing his brow.

As if by magic, his muse appeared beside him. The beautiful woman in the white toga touched his shoulder and smiled at him. Then, when he turned to face her, the muse's expression changed. "What's the matter, honey?" she asked.

"I can't think of a good story, and I need to."

"Guess that's why I'm here. Details?"

"I need to write a story for a Geek Pride event on my favorite online erotica website. I promised the organizers I would. The problem is, I thought I had a great plot and now it just won't take form. Or it does, but it's just... boring."

"So you're scrapping it," she guessed. "Starting with a new idea."

"Yeah. I thought of doing something about role-playing gamers at first. Who's more proud of being geeks than them? Then it hit me. The answer is writers."

"Writers?"

"Yeah. Think about it. We're socially awkward, obsessed with niche hobbies. We're proud of the stories we create, want attention and praise for them. And some of us prefer to weave our fantasy worlds rather than live in the real one. Having to face that gets us down. Writers are geeks."

The muse nodded in agreement. "So that's your theme? When's your deadline?"

"Less than a week. I meant to devote more time to this project originally, then others dominated my thoughts instead. Now I need something fast, formulaic, and yet profound. I figure a piece on writers fits. What else is there to do?"

"You tell me. I'm just the thought process. You're in control. Right?"

He stared at his fantasy woman, then waved his hand. She began to dance.

She was alone at first, then splitting into many. Over a dozen different beautiful women, each more exotic than the last. All of varied descriptions- blonde, brunette, redhead, African, Arab, Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Hawaiian, Native American. And then even more fantastic forms. A green-skinned space babe, a female elf, a furry woman with cat ears and whiskers, another with the tail and ears of a fox. A winged angel with a smile of mercy, a horned demoness with a knowing grin.

The women danced an erotic ballet, moving around each other. Taking each other's hands, dipping each other into tangos and twirls. Then embracing, kissing, and cuddling one another close. Some in pairs, others in trios. He imagined them in many varied combinations. No woman was left alone.

And because of his perverse interests, the lusts for which he had no other easy safe outlet, they were soon undressing themselves and each other. Touching, caressing one another's bodies. Grinding their bodies together, rubbing skin, fingering the holy spaces between their thighs. Some were even bending down and kneeling before their partners, kissing paths down their bodies as they descended, then pressing faces to cunts. Soon all were moaning and crying out as they drove one another to pleasure. They were achieving climax, relaxing in the aftermath briefly, then seeking climax again. The writer watched and marveled at it all.

The writer loved women. He loved to think about them caught up in lust and feel the same emotion rise in himself in response. He had seen real examples of such lust so infrequently in his life. He had wooed many women, but only been able to stoke lust in a few. Far more had scorned him, spurned him, ignored or dismissed him in favor of other things. He did not understand. He had not wooed them out of negative emotion. He only wanted to bring them joy. The shallow ones called him useless, a bore, or worse. A few accepted his attention briefly. Some touched him for money, some for fleeting fancy, a very small number for love. Even those all faded, left him as he got older or as he got angry or disappointed, drove them off. "I don't love you anymore," said one whose company he had long enjoyed, and then she too was gone. Before that departure there had been many fights, many times she showed him negative emotions he did not want to believe. Called him boring, useless, a waste of time and space. Other times she had truly cared for him, been happy to be with him, thanked him for doing many good things for her. The memories of the good times made those of the bad times hurt worse.

It had driven his emotions to such insanity that once she was gone, he did not know if he wanted to ever love again. He found solace in brooding, fantasizing, writing instead. And those fantasies were now all he had in life. Other things did not excite him as they once had. Work was routine. Games and hobbies were meaningless. Even writing... the joy of that only lasted while thoughts of each story occupied his time.

But while he was able to concentrate on each story, it was glorious. His heart filled with happy thoughts, he danced with the passionate women of his fantasies. He was in control now. His doubts, his faults were gone. All was hope, faith, and love. It was an illusion, he knew, but oh so, precious and wonderful.

He closed his eyes and imagined his fantasy women splitting apart, then moving towards him in a crowd. All smiling, all intent on pleasing him now after pleasing each other. The necessary talking and foreplay was already accomplished, whatever it had been. They were his happy friends with benefits who valued his company and wanted to share good times. They decreased in number and merged together as they surrounded him. Soon there was only a random trio. Then they began to touch him. One kissed him on the cheeks and lips, buffing his face. Another relaxed against him, ran her fingers over his arms and torso. His hands rubbed both of their bodies in reply. The third dropped to her knees before him, moved in, began stroking and caressing the shaft between his legs. First she did so through his underwear, then she moved aside the fabric to touch the flesh beneath. Then she was stroking him through the fabric again, its softness aiding the stimulation. He was gasping, twitching with each touch.

He blinked, and the three women merged into one. His chief muse- what did she look like again? He picked a random whim, and her body changed to match it. She was moving up on him, embracing him, hugging him to her. Her thighs moved to his, opened, encircled his shaft. She sank herself down, began squeezing him as he thrust into her, pulled back, thrust again. Her lips were on his, her chest was against his, her arms and legs wrapped around him. Their bodies were entwined, interlocked. And it was wonderful.

Surrounded by the feel and taste of his muse, he was complete. The writer's imagination and a few deep memories built him the social connection he could not find in real life again. Her body was shaking against his, approaching another climax. He was close to the same. So close, so close...

Her fingers moved to the center of their joining, touched and pressed their sex organs, faster, harder... and then...

A blossom of joy detonated. Fluid stained his shorts.

The writer blinked and realized what he had been doing. He was back on the couch, body flushed, laptop pushed aside. He was momentarily embarassed, then shrugged. Imagining a connection had felt good for him, and was easier than creating something real. It had also been more satisfying. There was no possibilty that an imaginary connection would hurt him, leave him, or be something he did not want.

And perhaps, somewhere out there in the world, there were other people who might enjoy reading about his fantasy and what it meant to him.

So he called up the muse again, grabbed the laptop, and filled a document with words to describe what he had glimpsed in his mind.

"Was that enough?" his muse asked once he had found release.

"It will do," he answered. "It was adequate. For now."

"Why must we do this for you again and again? I can tell it only briefly makes you excited and the satisfaction never lasts. Why do you persist?"

"Because I choose to. Because it is better than giving in to despair. There is nothing else satisfying in my life. Only in writing and earning good attention for it, however bland and brief, do I feel good and in control."

Because she was a part of him, the muse understood his thoughts. Because she loved him, she accepted him.

"We'll be here when you need us," she said, then faded away.

***

End.