I never meant for the words to take over my life the way they did. It started as a way to pay the rent, tapping out one filthy scene after another on my laptop while the city hummed outside my window. But somewhere along the line the stories stopped being just stories. They became the only thing that got me wet anymore. Every night I sat there, thighs spread under the desk, one hand on the keyboard and the other sliding between my legs as I described a stranger’s cock stretching some eager mouth or a pair of fingers curling deep inside a dripping cunt. I told myself it was research. I knew better.
Tonight the cursor blinked at the end of a half-finished paragraph. I had written the woman on her knees, lips swollen, eyes watering as she tried to take every inch. My own mouth felt empty. I reached down, slipped two fingers under the waistband of my shorts, and found myself already slick. The confession spilled out of me before I could stop it. “I want someone to read what I write and then come find me,” I whispered to the empty room. “I want them to make it real.”
A soft knock at my door answered like the universe had been listening. I froze, fingers still buried between my folds. Another knock, slower this time. When I opened the door he stood there in the hallway light, tall, dark-eyed, holding a printed copy of one of my stories. The title page was dog-eared, the margins covered in his handwriting. “You left this at the café last week,” he said. His voice was low, rough at the edges. “I’ve read every word. Twice.”
I should have been embarrassed. Instead heat flooded my face and my cunt clenched around nothing. I stepped back and let him in. He closed the door behind him and the click of the lock sounded final. “Which part did you like best?” I asked, voice shaking.
He didn’t answer with words. He crossed the room in two strides, backed me against the desk, and kissed me like he had already memorized every line I’d ever written. His tongue slid against mine, tasting of coffee and hunger. When his hand cupped my breast through my thin tank top I moaned into his mouth. He pinched my nipple hard enough to make me gasp, then soothed it with his thumb.
“Show me how you write,” he murmured against my lips. I turned, bent over the keyboard, and he pulled my shorts down in one rough tug. Cool air hit my bare ass. I heard the rustle of his zipper, the sound of him stroking himself once, twice. Then the blunt head of his cock pressed against my entrance. He didn’t push in right away. He rubbed the thick crown through my wetness, coating himself, teasing my clit until my hips rocked back on their own.
“Write it,” he ordered. My fingers trembled on the keys. I typed the first thing that came to mind: He sank into me in one slow thrust and I felt myself stretch around him, greedy and dripping. The sentence was barely finished when he drove forward and filled me exactly like that. My forehead dropped to the desk. Every stroke dragged a new filthy sentence out of me. I typed while he fucked me, words appearing in jagged bursts between gasps.
He gripped my hips hard enough to bruise and pulled me back onto him, bottoming out each time. The wet sound of skin meeting skin filled the room. I could smell my own arousal, sharp and sweet. He reached around and rubbed my clit in tight circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. “Tell me what happens next in your story,” he growled.
I typed faster. She comes with his cock buried deep and her cunt pulsing around him. My body obeyed the words. Pleasure crashed through me so hard my knees buckled. He held me up, kept fucking me through it, chasing his own release. When he pulled out at the last second and painted my lower back with hot stripes of cum I typed that too, every spurt described in breathless detail.
We stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard. Then he leaned over me, kissed the back of my neck, and read what I had written aloud. His voice made the words sound even dirtier. When he finished he smiled against my skin. “Write the sequel,” he said. “I’ll be here to help with research.”
I closed the laptop. The cursor could wait. For the first time the story I wanted most wasn’t on the screen. It was standing behind me, already hard again, ready to turn every filthy thought I’d ever had into something I could feel.
