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[Author’s Note: A bit of a post-modern lark, this one; or maybe not? The feedback is entirely fictitious. In the real world, comments are still welcome and appreciated.]
Alexa drained the last dregs of her morning coffee, almost grateful now to be alive, if not perhaps to be awake, and sat down to check her email.
She was greeted with the usual barrage of three-day-only coupons from the Book Barn, political updates from dying newspapers in cities she had never been to, and replicas of the bills sadly piled up next to her grandmother’s jar of seashells on the table beside the door.
Though not a matter of daily habit, she decided to check her university email account too, in case any of her presently AWOL friends had tried to catch up. There were only the endless formulaic “urgent updates” about theatre performances, free doughnuts outside the Dean’s office, and the other usual junk. The sheer daily volume of such was alone a deterrent against checking her inbox; now, having passed several days without logging in, she had to busily delete dozens of messages.
It was then that Alexa remembered that she had a new account that might be in need of a log-on.
Alexa had recently decided to put to use some of the dim talents awakened in her fall Creative Writing course by trying out some composition on her lap-top. Back in the fall, she had even thought for a few weeks that she was becoming quite the little literati. At least, until she found out that the department’s rising star poetess, Sheila, had succeeded in bedding both of the professors (a man and a woman) who had co-taught the course.
Alexa had rather imagined that feat as a kind of literary seal of approval, like winning the Booker Prize. She began to think, round the middle of October, that her Alexandrine couplets could earn her that distinction. Professor Meryton had given her such searching looks, as though trying to find the Laura hidden within the brazen Petrarchan accents of Alexa’s loveridden verse. Renaissance sonneteers were Meryton’s specialty, and while Alexa knew not a damn thing about them, she did scan a few of Sydney’s sonnets hoping to score a chat-up line or two.
And as for Braunmauer, the Poet in Residence, well: he was supposed to be an easy bag. Alexa figured she’d concentrate on leading Meryton around first.
But alas, twas not to be. Slutty, gothy Sheila carried the day. She and all her dramatic airs. Her one-act play, “Doomsayers’ Dilemma” was staged at the end of spring term. Were the peels of booing just recompense for her prior unearned accolades and blazing trail of sexual conquest?
But all that was past. Alexa meanwhile wanted to write for real. And so she had set out, with some unease but a grim determination, to write herself some Raymond Carver-esque marvels. Strong, severe stories of domestic alienation with the furtive intimation of transcendence. And what she brought forth from the busy endeavor of her pen was–
Filthy degenerate fantasies. Couples and threesomes. Guys and girls, guys with guys. Hard, unflagging cocks. Cunts– did she just use that word?– perpetually slick and waiting. Firm nubile tits, some adorned with titanium studs or heavy, hanging rings. Tough, dykey girls with potty mouths and pierced lips, wanting to get her– was it her?– dirty. Telling Alexa–no, wait, Audrey, or maybe– to pop out her own lily-white breasts, make them nipples hard. Tug her out of her modest-rise jeans. Leaving her exposed, cornered, not looking for escape.
Hard unforgiving hands, male and female, grabbing hold of her bottom. Spreading her cheeks open– for what? Mauling her soft flesh. Spanking her–that is, Alicia or Mary or Harriet or somebody–ouch! What was that f–“Shut the fuck up, bitch. I got something I can put that mouth of yours to use on . . . .”
Alexa crossed a hand over her chest and gave her breast an appreciative feel. Just because . . . .
In the end, Alexa had decided to post a few of these original compositions on a website, one that already groaned with quite a number of similar titles to choose from. Some of these she read from time to time, for purposes of research and– well, knowing what the competition was up to was always vital in creative literary matters . . . .
One of the perks of membership was that the community of writers and readers could contact her with anonymous feedback and advice, if so moved. Or, you know, whatever.
Hardly did she expect to hear any such thing. Probably the account would stay empty, except for the occasional piece of spam to cobweb up the place. But it wouldn’t hurt to check in.
Much to Alexa’s surprise, she had already a number of comments in her inbox. Whatever could they be about?
She scrolled down to open the oldest first. It read:
Hi. Loved ur story Clitin tha Hood. Moor pleaz. Good job bu the next one she shood be fucked by the dad.
This was a bit curious. What did canlı bahis this person mean by “fucked by the dad”? The heroine of “Clitin tha Hood”, Harriet Bunnsman, did indeed have a father– this father was casually mentioned and then dropped in the third paragraph where he’s having a Chinese lunch with Harriet before that afternoon when Harriet discovers the excitement of prostitution in the stacks at the vaguely “ghetto” public library where she drops off her hardcover Proust set as a charitable donation. But the father wasn’t really a “character”, and Alexa had no intention of bringing him back. In fact, there was no sequel planned for that adventure.
The second email in line made no allusion to the father character, but was similarly interested in a “Clitin tha Hood” followup:
Oooo, I’ve just found my library card, sweet Sugarflirt. When next I come in for a checkout, I’m gonna be lookin fir yur stacked-up body in the hall, wearin those anal beads up that tight prim slutfuck skirt, seein that string dangling I’m gonna yank you ovar n bend you over the table and push that skirt up and let them see what a nasty slutfuckshitwhore you are. I tape your printout story to your bare titties n make you walk up and down the libery, tell them you’re a nasty little whore, beads poppin out ur ass.
Whew! Well, thought Alexa, maybe I should outline a follow-up chapter, clenching her thighs meanwhile under the table in a little tremor of excitement. Those anal beads were a nice touch, she decided. The idea of wearing them around in public was quite extreme, yet somehow, as Christian had fathomed, rather brash and exciting. The string on Alexa’s own pair was rather long; if she were to wear it in such a way, it could be a problem to conceal if you weren’t taking precautions.
Which, she reminded herself, she totally would be taking if she were to ever– but no, that’s a crazy idea . . . .
She opened another piece of feedback. This one read:
Dear Sugarwallsflirtbox or, if I may, Mary–
Have you ever walked the Tuileries as the last pale cast of twilight bronzed the lustrous gray armour of banished Day sinking into his erotic exile of Night? I did once, in the company of an Italian courtesan– okay, she was a two-bit Milanese hooker, but still, she had read Dante in school, they do that there still in Italy, part of the legacy of Mussolini’s not completely unenlightened rule from which we could all still learn a lot. And though I did, later, fuck her in the upscale youth hostel I was then staying in, and though I did too contract herpes from her (since marvelously contained–such are the miracles of modern science, borne from the mind of Aristotle) the thing she most infected me with was a desire, perpetually haunting, ineluctable and only nominally contained, for the company of a jeune fille with whom I could explore the joys of Bach, Theodor Adorno and tit-fucking. I think you could be the one . . . .
Full disclosure: I am 34 and unemployed. I have some money, I’ll come into more tho when my dad dies. You are a poet, I know you prize honesty above health and wealth and all the bourgeois notions of comfort and decency.
In truth, “Mary Pops Her Titfuck Cherry” had said some rather scornful things about middle-class proprieties, never mind whether Mary’s cum-soaked pledge week represented a symbolic assault on patriarchal notions of mammarian decorum. Still, Alexa hardly imagined her story as some full-blown social critique. Instead, she imagined Mary now, running through the shadowed gardens, naked but for the scant “Meet the Blowjob Queen” bib, dollops of come gleaming on her boobs and belly, and saw too in her mind’s eye this handsome devil of a thirty-four year old, naked, his jutting cock stabbing the evening air like an outcropping of rock, catching the flying Alexa– no, Mary– as she tried to pass, heaving her up by her sweaty hips and pulling her core down onto that impaling, unemployed cock.
Alexa reached between her thighs, cupping a hand over her crotch through the warm spandex of her leggings. A bit moist down there.
Another email. This one read:
God story but harriet should fuck her dad in next one thatd be hottur
Hmm, thought Alexa. Was it really assumed that if a character has a parent, that means the parent will become a sex partner? Maybe she should start prefacing the stories with non-incest disclosures?
Hi you write really great. Just wanted to say so. Your story made my day go by better. Yrs J
“Ahhhh, that’s so sweet!” Alexa cried out delightedly. She rubbed her palms over her C-cup breasts, it seemed the thing to do somehow. Feedback could be exciting! She decided, in honor of her unseen admirer, to heft her boobs up as an imaginary offering at the screen. Her nipples perked invitingly.
“Ooooh, Jay baby, you want me to lick my nipple for you. Will that turn you on, gentle reader?” she cooed. Enjoying herself, bahis siteleri and with more messages ahead, she chose to take off her shirt. Naughty feedback, she decided, deserves a naughty, topless girl.
Hmm. You intrigue me, Sugarwallsflirtbox.
You seem to appreciate a hardedged, butch sensibility. Witness the way you described the vaginal fisting in “Harriet Takes a Holiday.” I luved what you did with the crophaired Spanish dyke, it wasn’t at all frilly rose-colored pajamas stuff and I really appreciate that.
But then, you seem awfully fond of hard cock? Or is that just hard silicone.
Or maybe you’re just a Greek island hermaphrodite pensioner, who can say.
Or maybe I’m the Greek island pensioner? Haha
Oh mysteries! thought Alexa. The next email:
Hi me again. Sorry I’m not a greek pensioner. Didn’t mean to be mysterious. Not a hermaphrodite either. Is that fortunate? Well one can hope.
I am a lesbian woman and yes, you make me nervous to write this! Really you write so well, I feel like I know you but I don’t and of course I shouldn’t carry on but your work makes me feel really sexy and–
Alexa stole her hand beneath her leggings.
since I kinda share some of your kinks I feel like you’re a kindred soul in a way.
I do love cunt fisting. Not that I get to do it every day. My guess is that you’ve done it too, but maybe you’re just using your imagination.
It’s silly but if you need to explore I’d love to help. –Erin
“Erin, you want to put that whole hand inside my hot wet sugar snatch, I don’t think so girl!” cried Alexa brattily, as she snaked her middle finger inside her moist channel. She grinned lasciviously at the screen, opened her mouth and waggled her tongue. Her thumb slowly diddled her attentive clit. “But maybe,” she said softly, “I should explore more? You want to bring fiction to fact, Erin, is that it baby? Ooo, ladyfingers know how to be gentle, don’t they? . . . ” She added a second finger inside.
Do you have nipple clamps? the next message asked.
“Fuck yeah I do!” a zealous Alexa replied. Not bothering to continue, she pulled out her finger and got up, running to her bedroom to fetch a couple of things. She returned a few moments later to the waiting screen, bearing a pair of clover-style clamps and a bright blue dildo with a little bottle of lube. She set the toy cock and the lube beside the computer on the table and, already anticipating what was to follow, fitted one of the clamps over her erect brown nubbin. She continued to read:
Then why not wear them in honor of a fan? Perhaps I might be something more than that– perhaps what you need is a Master.
Put them on now. I want you to put them on from now on before you check your email account. I want you to be clamped and excited when you read future messages from me.
I anticipate that there are other fans of your work who may benefit from this new ritual of yours as well. So be it: they are of no real concern. They may very well be writing some rather naughty things to you–
“Oh you’ve got that right!” affirmed Alexa. Groaning softly, she fitted the other clamp onto her free nipple, the heavy chain swinging meaningfully as it tugged down on her imprisoned buds.
but we won’t let that distract you. Certainly you are never to allow yourself to cum when reading any of their naughty missives, no matter how much they might turn you on. That would be a very bad habit, one into which I hope you have not already fallen.
Lucky me, Alexa thought to herself, I hadn’t already made myself come!
As a naughty young woman, we both know you are prey to many bad habits. Fortunately your wicked little tales have brought you to my attention; now that you have it, you can be sure I will not soon be letting you off the hook.
Alexa paused in her reading to apply some lube to the quivering jelly dildo. She scrunched her shiny leggings down around her knees and felt the hard wood of the chair on her bare thighs and butt.
No, I can see you need some serious tending-to and I intend to give it to you, hard.
Time for this! Alexa thought, as she reached for her dildo. Her eyes stared into the wall in front of her, past the screen, as she held the slick toy and placed it before her opening. She lifted her hips off the seat and fitted them over the cockhead, parting her. She ground her pelvis around, enjoying the smooth girth of the toy as it penetrated her. She eased down on it till the whole of the toy was snugly inside. Smiling, she tightened her sugar walls as she sighed in contentment, stretching her arms above her head and rocking around on the fullness.
That’s how you like it, right? I mean Alicia, down on all fours with that biker gang, those tattooed criminals taking turns in front and in back. Even that little dyke sidekick of theirs getting in on it, opening you up with her strap-on while you sucked on a guy who was getting his ass reamed by another biker? bahis şirketleri Enjoy imagining such scenes, do you?
“Yes,” she answered guiltily.
Or Harriet with the Britannica volumes (X, T, and C, you little comedian?) propping her ass up on the table while the bitchy librarian eats out her little pierced pussy?
Wow! thought Alexa, did I really write that? Got a little carried away . . . .
You enjoyed that sneering lesborian eating out your fresh little fetishized cunt? Of course you did.
Strange, the gift her Master had of making it sound so real! As though it truly had happened . . . . Alexa thumbed her clit with determination now. Her shimmies shook the clamps, rocking her pinched nipples with delightful little quakes of pain.
And poor little cocksucker Mary with her diet of cum. Poor baby won’t starve though, not with all those fratboy cocks she takes on, sailor cocks, rugby team cocks, especially if she makes sure to wipe up all that jiz on her DD boobs with her dirty little fingers and lick it all down. Cum in her twat, oozing out of her sore little ass. Maybe her fresh-fucked sorority sisters have kept some for her too inside their greedy sore little snatches. Spread it around from tongue to tongue. So many ways to eat cum, and she has to try them all, doctor’s orders. She won’t forget now, will she?
“Fuck no, not if I can help it!!!” Alexa cried out, grasping one of her boobs roughly and thrumming the imprisoned nipple, ripe to bursting. She waggled herself on the rubber cock inside her, rocking with abandon as it moved with her. Squinting her eyes shut, she jerked up and down, letting the dildo fuck her in short rocking thrusts as her thumb and finger stroked the taut button of her clit.
She moaned in a greedy little sing-song way, “Fuck yeah baby give me all your come I’ll swallow it all baby you and all your friends whatever you want baby give me all that hard cock now yeah . . . .” all the while as a bounteous orgasm writhed its way through her wriggling, sweat-sheened body.
Carefully she freed her punished nipples from the clamps and set them aside. Breathing deeply, she rubbed carefully at the sensitized nubs, feeling pain but also awkward little spasms of new arousal. She eased herself off the dildo too, and left to wash it up and return it to its resting place.
Her leggings restored to her waist but otherwise somewhat bedraggled, Alexa poured a glass of cold water and drank it down eagerly at the open refrigerator. Ready to return to earth, she was uneasy nonetheless that she had left her fanmail unfinished.
She returned to her seat and took up where she had left off.
Noooooo, we won’t let Mary forget. Not with a couple of greedy cum-whores like us to keep her on her toes!
Alexa’s eyes brightened with curiosity.
I am, you see, in a biker gang. I’m a dominant bisexual. I can make your dreams come true.
“My dreams?” cried Alexa aloud. “But what dreams?”
I have read all your stories repeatedly, and I KNOW that I am meant for you. I love piercings, I love to fist cunts. Nobody can fist your pierced cunt better than I can.
“But I’m not pierced!” Alexa protested at the screen.
We deal Ecstasy, I can supply you with all the X you want. I live on a Greek island, it’s just like Ibiza here, beautiful. You will love it.
“But I hate the sun. And I’ve never even tried–“
I’m a pensioner, can you believe it? I know, we’re destroying the Eurozone but fuck it, I was a librarian, I retired at 32. Now we have orgies, all the partners you want, men women whatever. Everything you desire.
“But I really don’t want that–“
But you must obey me without question. Already I am in a fury to punish you. I have written you now seven times.
“Seven . . . Times? . . .” said Alexa, a shock of understanding sparking in her mind.
I do not want to wait. I need you to do what I tell you. Have you not been told I want you to write the incest story for Harriet?
We all have our issues. I was born on the isle of Lesbos, the daughter of a whore and a blind shipping tycoon. We were outcasts and poor, and since that time I have dreamed of my revenge. I am Irina Elektra Christianopoulous, and I want to split that man open with my strap-on. Write it for Harriet! Write me “Harriet the Father-Fucker”! And now you will come to me in Lesbos and you will be my biker-bride. We will burn down the Parthenon in the name of Revolution and you will drink all the come of my comrades! Together we will . . . .
“Oh . . . My . . . Gawd!” drawled Alexa in disbelief. “And it just goes on like this?” she added incredulously, as she scrolled down what seemed to be an endless screed, every fantasy scenario in her (completely fictitious, more or less) stories now realized in her admirer’s eyes, along with many variations, mingling sex, Leftism, and various personal problems in wild profusion.
The email finally came to a conclusion with a brief postscript:
ps. But what is with the Stacy character in the Ruth story? Is she “Stacy” or “Stacey”? I no get it. R u playing games with the reader, or is it you just can’t edit? Either way I flog you when I get my hands on you.
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