Window Dressing

Pearl Nicolas was a successful and somewhat famous writer of erotica and smut. While by no means a millionaire, she was able to write as her sole source of income and afford a lovely two-bedroom apartment on the seventh of seven floors in this newly constructed apartment building in a reasonably nice city. The building had a lovely miniature park in the middle, the building wrapped around it like the letter C.

As it turned out, 'C' was Pearl's favorite letter. So many great words started with C. Cock, clit, coitus, coochie, condom, chastity, come. (Pearl absolutely refused to spell that word with a "U.") Her apartment was on the bottom end of the "C," but how boring would it be if Pearl was only a bottom.

Most of Pearl's smut involved futanari, women born with penises. In smut, they could be given these penises by magic, transformation, spread from futa to women like an entirely beneficial disease, or perhaps most grimly, surgical intervention. But Pearl's own experience in becoming a futa was like every other one in the real world, a journey that started before she was even born, and one she would not repeat if given the chance.

In school, when faced with the guidance counselor who told her that high school would be the best time of her life, she sunk into the quicksand of self-pity for the first and only time in her life. Luckily, every day past graduation was better than almost every day before it. The entirely erroneous advice of the guidance counselor was packed away as the stupid observation of someone whose greatest achievement was being a guidance counselor at a high school.

They told her to figure out a backup career in case writing didn't work out. She did get a degree in psychology that she never used, except to think about the mental workings of her characters. Even if she had pursued that further, she always had a hidden arrow in her quiver: her fourteen-inch penis. If all else failed, she could enter the world of porn or, if things got very dire, become an escort. It was far from Plan A, but having a secret weapon and feeling the security it provided allowed her to pursue day jobs with an imaginary ripcord clenched in her grip. It helped her perform even crummy jobs reasonably stress-free.

This must have been why guys with big dicks were so confident. Maybe they would have second thoughts if they got a look at her. At about five-foot-six, her flaccid hang reached three-quarters down her thigh. Erect, it would reach past her knee, if her erection could be coaxed to point straight down, but its oaklike stature would not be deflected so far.

As writing smut was her job, and doing so required her mind to constantly swim in erotic thoughts, she often had an erection while writing. One might assume this meant laptops were out, as writing stirring erotica on this would be like balancing a pizza box on the point of an obelisk gravestone. Not so, as Pearl's travels to conventions and book signings forced her to use laptops more than not. She simply set it on a desk set before her large full-height window overlooking the rest of her building and the skyline. The desk was lined with a soft velvet on the underside so her boner could rest against it. When she really got going... it had to come out from under there and live between her breasts until she was finished.

When going out in public, where erections were not normally tolerated, Pearl normally wore tight cotton briefs to keep everything stowed. If erections were acceptable, she normally went commando. But sitting at a chair with nothing at all below the waist wasn't comfortable. She had a drawer full of undergarments that were thinner, lighter, and most importantly... stretchier.

Pearl sat at her table. She browsed her current projects, trying to figure out which one she wanted to work on today. She was free of the stress of deadlines, most of them months away. She hadn't had an orgasm in three days, so her mind should be absolutely pickled in deeply perverse thoughts and naughty scenarios.

And yet... nothing was coming to her. It happened sometimes. She couldn't always write with the fervor of a woman possessed, but the professional did not rely on that slippery serpent Inspiration to get words on the paper, or screen.

When presented with this, sometimes she would simply write anything she could think of into a blank document, to get the words flowing. Sometimes she would sit back and continuously fantasize about a scene in the future, thinking of every beautiful detail she could describe later. Sometimes, she screwed off and played video games or took a walk, maybe to that bodega where the proprietor of unknown foreign origin would openly flirt with her. Pearl still didn't know if he knew about her 'big secret,' or if he simply liked the attractive blonde with large breasts.

The one thing Pearl would not do, and would never do... she would never write about a writer. Especially not a writer who was struggling to come up with ideas. That was the ultimate cop-out. It was bad idea laundering, passing them onto a fictional scapegoat, and a direct translation of the thoughts of a writer's inability to produce anything worthwhile.

Pearl could definitely produce something worthwhile, slinging it into a wad of tissue. But she was afraid this would set her progress back even further. Instead, she decided to do something she had never done:

She would start an AMA on Reddit.

Pearl was alarmed to discover that someone else had the name "PearlNicolas," possibly some grandmother with that name. "RealPearlNicolas" was also taken, which bothered her a little bit. It had better be that grandmother again. She refused to add numbers to her username, attempting a variety of different ways to portray her sobriquet sensibly in a single word. The only way finding a proper username could be more annoying was if she'd gone by a name that was also common, like a word, or perhaps a single letter.

She wanted to put something like "PearlNicolasHugeCock," but wasn't sure if Reddit had a policy against obscenity in usernames. She remembered early chat rooms where someone could have a racial slur in their username, for some crazy reason. And not an obscure one, like something that only exists in Britian or Australia. She saw the big one that gets thrown around liberally in games of Counter-Strike. Yahoo Chat didn't seem to care back then.

Eventually, Pearl settled on "Pearl_Nicolas_Smut_Writer."

It was rejected for being too long.

Thus, "Pearl_Nicolas_Smut."

Pearl called her neighbor for help posting the obligatory photo that demonstrated that, yes, this really was Pearl Nicolas answering these questions. Not that most people who read her works knew what she looked like, in the same way a famous mime could call into a daytime talk show and nobody would know if the voice on the phone was legit.

She dressed up in her baby-bluest sweater vest and collared shirt to emphasize the 'nympho librarian' look, her big breasts stretching out the embroidered pattern. She sat on the black leather ottoman that came with her couch and held a small whiteboard with the relevant information over her crotch, her naked legs stretched out on either side of it.

Her neighbor Stephanie snapped a few pictures on Pearl's phone. Pearl made a few different arousing facial expressions, the smoldering eyebrow, the yearning pucker, the hand held to her cheek in mock surprise. All the while, she was watching Stephanie snap the pictures, her brown curls tumbling effortlessly around her face, her tanned skin shiny and undoubtedly soft...

Once Stephanie got enough pictures, Pearl stood from the ottoman just before her erection could climb over the top of the small whiteboard.

Stephanie saw it and chuckled, looking away. "What's got you excited?" She asked.

"Just the thought of everyone picturing it behind this thing." Pearl lied. "Though now the whiteboard isn't big enough anymore."

"Well, we got the shot, so..." Stephanie handed Pearl her phone back. "Unless you want to try something different."

Pearl's hand went under her lips thoughtfully. She looked across to her kitchen, where that empty party pizza box was still there from two days ago. Pearl felt lucky to have a friend with whom she was comfortable, not just half-nude and aroused, but one who would not judge her occasional sloppiness.

That pizza box... their Mega Pizza, or whatever they called it... it promised a fifteen inch diameter pizza.

On the lid of the pizza box, Pearl traced a pencil line over her erection, covering the cartoony Italian chef already on the cover. Stephanie carefully cut the line out as straight as she could. The opposite side of the pizza box was white, a perfect surface to write all the information again.

The new picture had Pearl standing in profile, holding this censor bar parallel to her cock. If only it was black with white lettering, it would have been perfect.

"How's this?" Pearl asked.

Stephanie peeked over the edge of her phone. "I can see your balls."

Pearl inched her right leg forward, obscuring them from view. "How about now?"

Stephanie snapped several times. "We got it."

Pearl released the impromptu censor bar, letting it tumble to the floor as her hands went over her head and stretched, as if that enormous thing between her legs didn't exist.

Gritting her teeth involuntarily, Stephanie snapped more pictures of Pearl before handing it back to Pearl.

"Thank you so much." Pearl browsed the pictures. "We need to do another full photo session. The publisher didn't like the ones I sent."

"We have to send them a picture of you without your dick out eventually." Stephanie said. "Or without you holding dick-shaped objects where it should be. You keep hiring me and they keep shooting you down."

"I hire you for the photosets. If they don't like the pictures, we'll take some more." Pearl shrugged. "Have you found a place where they've got a real bathtub we can do a bubble bath photo set?"

"Only Lowe's... but those aren't hooked up to drains, so we couldn't actually fill it with water. Also, you can't be nude."

"Well, then what's the point?"

"I'll keep asking around." Stephanie promised.

Pearl passed her a few bills as payment for the photos and she left. Once Pearl's front door closed behind her, Stephanie leaned against it, clutching her heart. She would put this money towards a real camera... or maybe just a new phone... something that was hers, so she could send Pearl the pictures later... after she reviewed them.

---

As much as her wheeled office chair was her closest writing companion, Pearl wasn't about to sit on it with nothing on below the waist. Pearl pushed her hips into a thong that never could fit her cock and balls inside anyway, so it was perfect to wear with an erection. The front part that had the hilarious joke printed on it was scrunched up, unreadable, as her balls were parted between them. It gave her hefty balls much the same look as the thin ribbon did to her buttocks. It was a lovely and fashionable look that sadly could not be shared with a general public that disapproved of public displays of the scrotum.

Now that Pearl had an erection that she could barely coax underneath her table, she was ready to feel it wilt away, unloved, as she dug through the tidal wave of questions that came forth.

She ignored questions about her personal wealth, one of the only things she didn't feel was anyone's darn business. In contrast, someone asking how much she weighed got a picture of her on the bathroom scale. She did keep her feet out of the picture. If she was going to release feet pics, she'd put them on some kind of pay site.

Some of the questions she elected to answer:

Q: How do you get into the mood to write?

A: I'm almost always in the mood... to write. It's the one thing I do that I can do on any day and I will always feel better. I can't say that about video games or watching television or even masturbation. If I get some words down, I always feel a huge relief.

From that answer, the sub-question came in:

Q: You don't always enjoy jerking it?

A: Obviously, I enjoy it, but since I write erotica, masturbation is essentially shooting a hole in the fuel tank. It's more guilt at indulging myself than anything. Eventually, I simply HAVE to let it out, or else I'll go crazy.

Lesser writers would end this sequence with hearts or kissy faced emoji. Pearl was not going to do that. On social media platforms where the primary form of communication was a photo, Pearl might indulge in some silliness like this, perhaps throwing emoticons and stickers over her nude groin to tease her drooling fan base.

Her response continued:

A: Sometimes, I try to watch some porn to get in the mood, but I get too far into it and I jerk off. Then I'm set back a few days as I 'recharge,' so to speak. I could watch more porn, but... even for me, watching porn RIGHT after I masturbate doesn't do anything for me. It's like masturbating to a car commercial.

Some of the questions that came in weren't very nice.

Q: You're only popular because you're hot!

A: Not a question, but I'll answer it. You missed the person above who said I was ugly, AND the person who asked who the 'model' I have on the back of my books is, AND the tiresome accusations that my writing is ghostwritten by a man or someone else because beautiful people can't also be creative and successful at anything involving their brain. So I'm simultaneously too hot to be a writer at all and not hot enough for it to make any difference.

I hate to break it to you silly boys out there (and so far, it IS always boys), but... hotness is not in short supply on the Internet. Big juicy cocks, on the other hand...

If you'd said, 'you're only popular because you're a futa writing about futa and that's what virgins want,' I wouldn't have even disputed it. Except for the 'virgin' thing. Because let me tell you... there's lots of futa out there who love that futa are being written by a futa, and the sensitivities and thoughts I bring to the table. I'm not saying that guys can't write futa, but if I see another 'futa' story that's just a woman with a two foot cock who carves through women with all the passion of a frat boy getting another notch on his bedpost, I just might puke.

Q: Stop posting futa shit, nobody likes it.

A: I don't only write futa stuff. Even if I did, it would be enough to support me. So someone out there sure does like it. This is nothing to say of all my futa fans, whose representation seems not to matter to you. But I'll let someone else argue that. If your Reddit name has the same email address as this LinkedIn profile, which it appears to be... maybe the next time I donate to a library, I'll have them rename it after you. Just picture it: (Your name here) Memorial Library: He Drowned From Sucking Too Much Futa Dong.

Sometime after that answer was posted, the Reddit account that posted the question was closed.

Perhaps that was going too far. But on the other hand, she had effectively removed a troll from the Internet for good, if that person had any sense. How often did that happen?

She fielded a question she'd heard many times before.

Q: What will you never write?

A: Rape, non-consensual, dubcon, whatever you want to call it to feel better... absolutely never. Nothing where people get hurt against their will and nothing where everyone isn't an enthusiastic participant. I doubt I'll ever write something about farts or scat or diapers. I don't have a moral objection to that. There's just no part of that stuff that I like. I'm not opposed to pee or piss, but I hate the euphemism 'watersports.'

There was a follow-up.

Q: Will you ever write voyeur?

Pearl was appalled to even read it. She snapped off the response:

A: No way, gross.

This was the wrong way to respond to that. Loads of commenters called her a hypocrite for how much she loved public nudity and exhibitionism. After fielding this from several people, some nicer than others, Pearl posted what she thought was a very good and diplomatic response to this.

A: Public nudity and exhibitionism are NOT the same thing as voyeurism. Public nudity and exhibitionism are choices by the person who is naked. Yes, being nude in public can be bad if someone who doesn't want to see you sees you, but that's what makes stories so useful. In fictional examples, nobody needs to see who doesn't want to. That's why I love the notion of someone hiding from sight, the threat of exposure and humiliation ever percolating in their mind.

Voyeurism is watching people who don't know they're being watched. Hiding cameras in dressing rooms, toilets, spas, etc... it involves depriving the subject of the ability to consent. Yes, I'm sure that most of the voyeur porn made for the internet is actually people who know they're being filmed and getting paid for what they're doing. But I still can't bring myself to watch it. It's like the porn where they claim they had tricked a woman into doing lesbian sex and then refuse to pay her. Chances are good it was all a gag, but I don't want to encourage that kind of fantasy.

When it's all fiction and nobody gets hurt, maybe there's a way to make it work. After all, I said I wouldn't write futa-on-male until I had an idea that I thought was really hot. But I don't think I'll have such a revelation regarding people watching someone without consent. When everything's fake, why can't everyone be having fun and have entirely informed consent?

If you need someone to be deprived of consent to have fun, that's on you. I'd rather you read about it than actually hurt someone. But there are plenty of writers who revel in that kind of stuff, so there should be no shortage of it out there. I won't be writing any of it anytime soon.

This post did get a lot of 'likes,' but not enough to feel like it was fully accepted by the community.

Ah, who cares? It's Reddit. Getting bad opinions from Reddit was as hard as finding condensed soup in a grocery store. She moved on to the sillier questions: favorite foods, colors, worst dates, etc. Best to avoid the controversial stuff or else maybe Twitter would decide to make her the target of their never-ending Hate Week.

As she waited for new questions to populate, Pearl looked over the screen of her laptop and out to the city before her. She saw movement in the full-height window of the apartment directly across from hers. A sharply-dressed woman walked to each potted plant at the edges of the window and watered them from a rectangular bottle. Pearl would like to think this woman wasn't actually watering her plants with Fiji water, even if she had the money to do so. Then again, Pearl's spoiled cat got filtered water, so she might be standing in a glass house.

The woman wore a blazer and skirt, her black heels shiny like wet tar. Pearl had never seen her around the public areas of the apartment before. She wondered what she did for a living. As a writer, she sometimes looked at an intriguing stranger and conjured up a history for them. Maybe she was a high-powered attorney. Pearl preferred to imagine her as a defense attorney, rather than a prosecutor. Both were important parts of the law, but stories of prosecutor misconduct had soured her on the romance and nobility often given to that profession. She definitely rankled at the vilification given to defense attorneys for protecting people's rights.

As the sharp-dressed woman bent to feed her second thirsty plant, Pearl was at just the right angle to see the deep cleft of her cleavage, the flowery edge of a fancy bra just barely visible.