Writing What You Know Pt. 02

"But, Carla," Susan admonished her. "It's such a waste of good writing talent! Writers hope to get published. These stories will never see the light of day!"

"Not true, Susan. There are online sites that cater to these kinds of stories, and thanks to you, I think some of my pieces are good enough now to start submitting them."

"What, porn sites? Really? I'm talking about real books with actual pages that people buy in the store with real money, some of which, though granted, not much, trickles down to you. Wouldn't you want to be one of those authors?"

Carla Montgomery had been a student in Susan Hicks's "Writing Fiction" class at Cee Nova College for almost a month now. All of Carla's stories submitted to Susan for her comments and appraisal had been porn stories, which was bad enough in Susan's eyes, but, even worse, they were filled with incidents saturated with scat, with people doing the most vile things, again in Susan's mind, involving excrement and pee. What made all of this especially distressing for her was that they were written so damned well -- if only she could take the filth out. Carla had talent as a writer, obvious even in these unsavory pieces, that Susan felt she didn't appreciate. Most others in the class would give their eye teeth to write as well, she believed, only they never actually knew how well that was because, by agreement the first day of class, Susan was the only person who ever saw them. This was the second time they met in Susan's office to discuss Carla's "progress," and even more than at their first meeting, Susan was trying desperately to get Carla to put her talent where she felt it belonged -- in the mainstream.

"I hear what you're saying," Carla responded, "but I don't see myself putting all my effort there now. I'm too enraptured by my scat stories to want to go there at this time. I know that sounds crazy, like I'm cutting my nose off to spite my face, but that's just what I want now. Those 'normal' stories I read in class, they're like torture for me to write."

"I don't think you're being spiteful, just unnecessarily self-destructive. Like the very talented musician who refuses to leave his little town to make it in the big world. You've got the talent. Why squander it away on . . . ."

Carla interrupted her. "Yes, I know what you think of it, there's no need to say it all again. You forget that musician, and I'm sure there must be lots of others, stayed in his little Podunk but was very happy with his life. Doing exactly what he wanted to do. Right now, that's all that I want, too." She paused a bit, gathering her thoughts, and then continued, "You know, there was a famous writer whose name I can't recall, the guy who wrote about his valet Jeeves . . . ."

"P.G. Wodehouse," Susan offered.

"Yes," said Carla, "that's him. He wrote tons of golf stories in addition to his usual stuff. If he were in your class, would you tell him he was wasting his talent on foolish golf stories?"

Not unless those golfers were more interested in what they carried in the seats of their underwear than in their golf bags, Susan thought, but instead blurted out, "Oh, all right, you win. I give up," trying not to show her supreme disappointment and failing. "I promised I would read them and help you, so I won't back out now. Do me a favor, though, okay? Please don't acknowledge me as being the one who helped with your stories when you put them online or whatever, if you feel a need to do that. Make up a name, if you must. Madame de Sade, maybe." And she smiled at Carla.

Carla smiled right back at her. "Madame is way too formal. How about Trixie de Sade, the vamp of Cee Nova College." And they both laughed, though Susan shook her head as well, thinking, Thanks a lot, kiddo.

Their discussion drew to an end, and as Carla gathered up her papers, said, "You know, Susan, I've got to tell you. There's a scene in your third novel, More Deserving than You, where if you had taken something from one of my stories, it would have improved it greatly. That sounds pretty arrogant, I guess, but it's just my opinion, nothing personal."

Susan sighed, bracing herself. "What scene?"

"Well, that one scene where the sex was actually pretty good, as far as it went. Where Peter and Fiona come home after the pool party and do it on the kitchen floor. They were very drunk and the setting was perfect and it would have been natural almost for one of them to pee on the other, to push themselves to new heights. That would have been super hot."

"Really, Carla," Susan responded, astounded at the suggestion. "That's all, just peeing? Are you sure you wouldn't want one of them to shit on the other one, too?"

"Sure, that was my initial thought when I first read it. 'Come on you two, time to get really filthy here. Do it!' But it was just a very vanilla love scene."

Susan remembered writing that scene, in fact had three versions of their making love. One was even more vanilla where Peter and Fiona "come to their senses" and moved to the bedroom before having sex. The second one was more daring and included a 69. What she decided on was somewhere in between and had Fiona giving Peter a blow job before intercourse commenced. She was never 100% happy with it and thought she could have gone further with the sex, but was fearful of going too far.

Feeling pressured to defend herself, but not at all sure how she should do so, Susan said, "But this is what I've been trying to tell you. You can't have scat sex in a mainstream novel. The publisher won't allow it." Only saying that just made her feel hollow, even a bit foolish.

"Well, that's just bullshit," replied Carla. "And I don't believe you. Philip Roth had a pissing scene in what might be his best novel. Make it sexy and hot, appropriate to the characters and a wish to explore boundaries, and it could be tremendous. At least the peeing. You'd sell more copies, too, I bet."

What Carla said stung a little, made her feel girlish instead of womanly, faint-hearted and prudish, but it soon passed. She forced it to pass. Carla might be a talented young writer, but Susan was the pro with three published novels to her credit. She wasn't going to let Carla make her feel inadequate, as a writer or a woman. Arrogant indeed!

***

When Susan got home late in the afternoon, Ginger was already there. She had taken a bath earlier and was wearing a light-green silk robe. "You look tired," she said to Susan. "Want some wine before dinner?"

"That would be great, thanks." She plopped in a chair by the table and took her shoes off.

"What's up?" Ginger asked as she got the wine for Susan. "Why do you look as if you just carried a sofa up two flights of stairs by yourself?"

"I look that bad, huh?" She took a long sip of the wine, delighted by how good it tasted. "It's just that I have one student, Carla, who happens to be the most exasperating student I ever had."

"Why's that? Does she write just about how she hates her mother and her boyfriend is a jerk?"

Susan laughed. "No, that would be a relief, actually. This Carla, mid-twenties, very pretty, is someone with real writing talent, yet she insists on wasting it on pornographic scat stories, of all things. My Lord!"

"I assume she doesn't think she's wasting anything."

"Exactly. That's what's so frustrating. It's what she knows best, she says, and is what she's totally focused on, in life and in her writing. It's hard to imagine."

"Why do you let her? Surely you could just tell her it's unacceptable."

"That's part of the problem, all my fault. I promised her I would go along with her, help her, and now I feel like a heel if I change my mind."

"Just tell her your delicate constitution forbids you to read such things, it's causing your health to suffer."

"You're being funny now, I hope."

"Maybe a little, but not completely."

"That's the second time today I've been made to feel childish and prudish. It's not that I can't handle what she's writing, though I don't welcome it, it's that she's wasting her talent. Am I going to have to eat this glass after drinking all the wine to prove I'm not a wimp?"

"Not a good idea, love. We're already down to just three wine glasses left after I broke one by accident last week. We'll be using paper cups before long."

Susan cracked up laughing. "You are just too much, I can always count on you to make me laugh. Even on my death bed you'll make me laugh, I'm sure."

"We'll see. If you're lying in bed, even your death bed, then I'll be there right next to you kissing you. Unless you find my kisses hilarious by then."

"Never, love. Never." They were quiet for a while, and then Susan asked how long it would be until dinner.

"About twenty minutes."

"Okay. I think I'll take a quick shower. Here," and she slid Carla's writing folder across the table, "look for yourself. Just don't tell her I showed you, although knowing her she would probably be ecstatic that I did."

"I don't know her and never expect to meet her, so don't worry."

Susan went into the bathroom and turned the shower on. She removed her clothes, by which time the water was nice and hot, and stepped in. Almost instantly she felt better, the water cascading down her body as if it were washing her concerns away. She pumped a palmful of body wash and caressed it across her breasts and down her belly to her pussy. She slid her well-trimmed bush between her fingers, pulling on it gently. Ginger, whose mons was shaved, had suggested she do the same one time while in each other's arms after making love. She told her she would think about it, but said she liked having a bit, not a lot, of pubic hair. "I was one of the last of the girls I hung out with to sprout anything there, and when it finally happened I felt very protective of it. Me woman now," she had laughed. She still felt that way.

When she finished she stepped out of the shower, dried off, and put on the terrycloth robe she had hanging on the door. She thought she would go into the bedroom and put on a bra and panties, but then decided to stay the way she was. The shower put her in a sensual mood and hoped Ginger felt the same, or at least could be persuaded to feel the same. That might be even more fun.

She went into the living room and found Ginger sitting on the couch, her legs spread out across the cushions, reading intently a piece from Carla's writing folder. Susan continued into the kitchen where she poured herself another glass of wine and placed two plates and eating utensils on the table. "Mmmm, your famous chicken cacciatore, it smells delicious."

"You better say that," replied Ginger from the other room, "after you stole it and used it in your second novel during that infamous break-up meal. I don't know why you couldn't have used it later when they got back together again." In a fairly elaborate scene, Teresa, the main female character in that novel, wins a cooking contest, making chicken cacciatore. Susan needed a recipe for Teresa to follow so "borrowed" Ginger's. Later there's an ugly breakup scene between her and her lover, and the dish, which she has made for him, is used in a not very flattering way. Ginger felt insulted.

"You're never going to forgive me for that, are you?" Susan joked, walking back into the living room. "Originally I was going to have her throw a full plate of it at his head all over the floor, but you probably would have left me if I did that."

"Yep, you'd be eating McDonald's alone right now if you kept it like that."

Susan draped herself over the back of the couch and kissed her. "I'm glad I changed it, then. I know I made it up to you many times already, but maybe you'll let me make it up to you again later." And she kissed her again, this time on the part of her breast that was peeking out of her robe. Ginger angled her body quickly to give Susan better access, but Susan raised her head and smiled, biting her lower lip. "Come on, love, I'm sure dinner is ready."

While they were eating, Ginger mentioned that she had read a few of Carla's stories and could see how she had talent.

"Do we have to talk about that while we're eating?" asked Susan.

"Okay," Ginger responded. "We don't have to, if you'd rather not. But that kind of stuff doesn't bother me." They talked about other things while finishing dinner and then cleaned up.

Later, back in the living room, sitting on the couch with their legs in each other's lap, Susan asked Ginger to continue that thought from dinner.

"Well, she probably lets her imagination get carried away too much, but there are some scenes that are really sexy. Really, really hot sexy."

"What are you talking about? How can that be sexy and not just gross?"

"I don't know. Two people who really love each other, would do anything for each other, and are sexually constituted to explore boundaries, are not afraid, totally trust each other . . . yeah, why not?"

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"Yes, of course. Aren't I always?"

"You know," Susan said, ignoring the question, "she told me in my last novel, where the two people do it on the kitchen floor, I should have added scat elements, some pissing definitely and maybe even . . . well, you know . . . on each other, and that would have made it better."

"Defecating, you mean. Shitting, pooping . . ." Ginger said, trying to shock, but mostly in jest.

Susan interrupted her, "Yes, okay, ha-ha, I get it. Shitting. There, happy?"

"Very good, much better. Let's call a spade a spade. Yes, doing something like she said would have been a huge risk, but she might have a point. You had already developed those two characters so they were ready for something over-the-top like that, they weren't exactly shrinking violets. With a little bit more experimentation here, some barrier busting there, it would have worked. It would have shocked some of your readers, sure, but you would have been able to defend doing it. I think, anyway."

"Oh, it would have shocked them all right, all 100 of them"

"Maybe there would be more than 100 if you spiced some things up with shit like that, pun intended."

"That's what Carla said, too." This was not what Susan expected. She thought for sure Ginger would share her point of view, but not only didn't she find Carla's fetish stories as appalling as she did, but might even approve of what transpired in them under the right circumstances. She thought she knew everything there was to know about her lover, but now that didn't seem true. Were there other things she didn't know that would surprise her?

***

Ginger had a friend at work who was getting married in a few weeks and she was invited to attend and encouraged to bring a guest. Susan, of course, agreed to go with her. It was to take place at a local hotel on the Saturday just before the last week of classes for Susan. It was a great reception, with lots of liquor, dancing, loud music, and everybody having a wonderful time. Both girls were invited to partake in some extra-curricular activities in a room upstairs in the hotel, but they had declined.

"Are you sure you don't want to go?" Susan asked. "I'm feeling pretty horny with all this drinking."

"Not really," said Ginger. "I know the guys up there, and I don't want to fuck them and then have to face them at work. Dancing with them was enough. But you danced with them, too; if anyone's got your mouth watering, go ahead."

Susan thought that over for a minute. "No, that's okay, I'd rather stay here with you. No chance there might be a separate room up there with just women looking for some fun, I suppose?"

"No, I wasn't given that impression or I would definitely say, 'Let's go.'"

So they continued to amuse themselves on the dance floor and at the bar. Slow, fast, it didn't matter; whatever the music, they found a way to dance to it, with each other, mostly, but with anyone else who was interested as well. When things finally started winding down, they decided it was time to leave. Susan had taken her shoes off when they first started dancing, but couldn't find them where she thought she had left them. They looked everywhere with no luck.

"Maybe there's someone here with a shoe fetish and stole them," Ginger joked.

"I hope not. I really liked those shoes." But she finally found them; a little girl was sitting in a chair with them on her feet.

Susan walked over to her, smiling. "You like my shoes, honey?" Susan asked. "Don't they make you look all grown up! What's your name?"

"Tabatha. Yes, they're very pretty. The heels are so long."

"They look like they might be a little too big on you, Tabatha" Susan said, grinning. "Someday you'll have shoes like these, just as pretty. Mind if you give them back now? My friend and I need to leave." The little girl shook them off and Susan took them.

"Is she your friend?" the girl asked, pointing at Ginger. "She's pretty."

Looking at Ginger, Susan uttered, amused, "Yeah, she is kind of pretty, isn't she, now that you mention it." And she chuckled.

Very seriously, Tabatha replied, "Yes. She's pretty. You are, too."

"Well, thank you, Tabatha," said Susan. "But of the three of us, you're the prettiest by far." She slipped her shoes on and said goodbye to the little girl.

Driving home in the car (Ginger drove), Susan could hardly keep her hands off Ginger's legs, reaching under her dress to caress her thighs. The dancing and especially the alcohol had both of them feeling sexy and unrestrained. "This is hard enough, in my condition, without you trying to feel me up," Ginger said. "That doesn't mean I want you to stop." And, of course, Susan didn't stop, had no intention to. When they got back to their condo, they went directly to the bedroom.

They helped each other remove their dresses and crawled into bed. They fell into each other's arms, laughing at how the room seemed to suddenly turn into a slow-circling merry-go-round. They kissed, softly at first, and then more fervently, their mouths opening, tongues touching.

"I hate to admit it, but that little girl Tabatha was right," Susan suddenly said, in between kisses as they rearranged themselves in each other's arms. "You are pretty, and I adore you."

"So it took that cute little girl to make you open your eyes and notice," Ginger responded smiling. "It's about time."

"Such arrogance," Susan returned. "Why do I even bother."

Ginger held Susan tightly and growled softly, "Kiss me all over. I love you, too."

Susan moved her head to Ginger's breasts and licked her nipples, caressed them with her hand. Her breasts were perfect mounds of flesh, not very large, but totally proportional to her body. Susan loved kissing them, biting her nipples, making them hard. Ginger felt her lover move her head lower and told her to turn around in a 69. Susan did, but before she stretched out her body on top of Ginger's, she straddled her face with her pussy. Ginger immediately tongued it, circling her opening first and then plunging deep inside. When the fire in her loins was well-stoked, Susan pulled Ginger's legs back and put her mouth on her exposed pussy. She licked her deeply at first, bathing her lips and even her chin in her juices. Both women were moaning now, imploring each other to continue licking and sucking.

Suddenly Ginger quit doing what she was and rolled Susan onto her side. She got off the bed and hurried to a dresser drawer, from which she took a string of anal beads and a bottle of lube and returned to Susan.

"Where did you go," sighed Susan, "I was starting to feel awesome down there."

"Good," said Ginger. "Maybe this will make you feel even more awesome. Turn around on your knees."

Seeing the beads, Susan thought she might get up and go to the toilet first, but felt no immediate need and, besides, she was feeling so mellowed out and lazy, it would be too much effort to leave the bed now and interrupt the proceedings, which had already begun producing the most sensuous pleasures in her. So she did what she was asked and Ginger knelt behind her. She spread Susan's ass cheeks wide apart with both hands and starting at her pussy licked her from bottom to top. She did it again, only this time concentrating on her asshole, pushing her tongue into it. Susan moaned and pushed her ass back to meet the thrusts. With Susan's rosebud drenched in saliva, Ginger poured some lube on it and massaged it into her hole with two of her fingers. When she was done she took the anal beads and began inserting them in Susan's ass. Bead by bead she slowly pushed them in. Susan was very relaxed, again thanks to all the alcohol, and felt no discomfort as the beads entered her. When they were all in Ginger opened and closed her ass cheeks, increasing the sensation of having it filled with a foreign object, and kissed her on her cheeks.