The computer screen glowed a bright, vicious blue. It was a clunky, fat thing with a keyboard so sticky below that the letters were obscured with grime. That didn't matter to him. He sat typing away, chuckling gleefully with every stroke. His fingers flew over keyboard at a frightening pace, ignoring the way they occasionally stuck to the keys like sneakers on a movie theater floor. Spell check would take care of most of that, he knew, his fingers chewing up the distance between zero and the magical seven-hundred-and-fifty words with relative ease.
Ahhh, yes! Finished—exactly seven-hundred-and-fifty words—another breviloquent masterpiece, ready to be submitted. He checked his totals. Three hundred and nine gloriously brief stories in under six months! And there were only a few hours left to go until midnight! Well, there was no doubting that the man had kept his word. No human being could possibly write this much in so short a time frame.
Before his... investment... he had been able to do one, maybe two stories every few days, and they were long in comparison, a thousand words, two thousand, giving readers much too much character development and time to actually care about them. He had learned the error of his ways more quickly than he could have imagined possible, thanks to the machine.
His compulsion to sit and write, write, write had become overpowering the moment the strange man had made his visit, and he had spent his time doing little else. He wrote up a brief description, titled the story, made sure it was correctly categorized, and hit the "submit" button. It was time to write another—the ache between his legs had become overpowering.
"I'm going, I'm going," he murmured, squirming in his seat and looking down at the contraption in his lap. He remembered the first time he saw it, the smooth silver surface shaped like a long bullet or... it had made him think of the vibrator his ex-wife used to own, only thicker, somehow more dense.
"You want me to put it where?" he'd asked the man in the suit who had come to the door, saying he had "just the thing" for him.
"You want to win the contest," the man had said. His eyes were dark, but they gleamed, even in the dim light of the apartment. "You want your fifteen minutes of fame, your name in lights... you want that five hundred dollars. It should be yours. It will be yours."
The man's voice, so lenitive... there had been no reason to question or hesitate after that. Why would he? For a measly fifty dollars, he could have the key to unlocking his dreams, and in the end, his investment would pay for itself, tenfold! And then, when he slipped it over the thick, hardness of his cock the first time, he thought he had died and gone to heaven...
"A lovely specimen," the dark man had said, licking his lips and watching at the machine—it wasn't really a machine, it was flesh inside, like hungry velvet, attaching itself to the writer's engorged member. "Just sign here, and I'll be on my way."
It had been so simple, the writer remembered, leaning back in his chair and smiling. And so very well worth it...
"Ow!" His chair nearly tipped backward as the normally soft, wet flesh inside the silver bullet grew tight around his hard shaft. The green sensor on top had turned yellow. It was somehow attached to the computer. It knew how many words he had typed, how long he had spent staring at a blank screen without moving. He had only experienced it turning red once, and the searing, biting pain—(Jesus, God, does this fucking thing have TEETH?!)—had kept him from ever hesitating too long again.
"Okay, yes, I know, I'm going." His fingers flew over the keys again. The grip loosened and he groaned as the flesh-like insides massaged his cock, like a thousand tongues, the world's best pussy. He'd never felt anything so good. Funny, the damned thing would never let him cum, though. It seemed to sense his climax and would stop, bringing him to a delicious edge, again and again. He always had to finish himself off after detaching it for the day.
He typed quickly, eyes glazed, and he knew he had made that magical seven-hundred and fifty word mark when the grip on his cock grew unbearable. It was 11:58 pm. This was his final story, and made ten in every category. He hit submit, smiling with relief and pleasure as the yellow light on the bullet went to green again. Ahhhh. He had won! Both his fifteen minutes of fame, and his five hundred dollar prize.
Suddenly, the sensor light turned red, and he felt that awful searing, almost a biting sensation, between his legs. Too shocked and panicked to scream, he attempted to pull it off, but the teeth (they are teeth!) were angled so that the more he pulled, the deeper they sank.
"Careful," a voice said behind him, slapping a piece of paper over his grimy keyboard. It was the paper the man had asked him to sign when he bought the contraption. His name was scrawled at the bottom, clear as day. "It's a fine specimen. I don't want it ruined."
The writer froze, the teeth letting up, just slightly, between his legs. "I don't understand," he choked.
"You have won your prize," the voice said. "Now I have come to collect mine."
He did scream, then. But it was too late.
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