Note to a Writer

” Ascending sexual compulsion” … what does that even mean? Are you walking around with a hard-on twenty-four seven? Are you grinding in the sheets?  Are you spurting in your jeans?

You do realize, lover, that when I’m sitting in the audience at your book signing during Q&A, I will be wearing a short skirt with a translucent G-String – white lace for the purpose of contrast, because I won’t shave my pubes for months in advance. I’ll try not to be obvious to others when I open my legs for you during your discussion.

Your glances will become extended and frequent, particularly when I start flossing my furry, pink lips with that tiny, sheer triangle of fabric that hardly comes close to covering the curls of my muff.

But you know the purpose of my panties was never to hide my assets from you.  It was only to accentuate what you cannot resist.  You can smell it like oven baked cookies.  You can taste it in your mind.  You can feel it wrapped around that pulsating shaft you keep tucked in your trousers.

 

My husband will be appalled that I’ve let myself go, that the hair on my cunt has grown wiry and thick like some amazon dominatrix from the jungle… like some 70’s porn star with her cherry lip gloss and her bright blue eyeshadow smile. My pussy will be for you, lover… not him. It will be your hot, sticky semen that clings to the glistening ringlets on my mound… your cock that combs through my cum-caked cascade of black bristle.

You like the look and feel of it, don’t you? You love burying your bayonet into the pelt of my beaver, ramming and slamming until the gooey excretions mat down my fluffy shag carpet. You like the tickle of my pubes on your face as you probe me with your tongue and savor my American pie.

 

How will it be when I come in your mouth, baby? Reminiscent of your teenage romps with girls who were still growing tits? My little ones should make you remember. My tiny nipples might cause you to wonder how I ever sprouted such a flourishing bush.

I’ve never been with a man who wanted me this way, natural and unscathed by a razor.  Make me your island girl… your blue lagoon bitch in the sand, stranded on a beach without a prayer for rescue.

I relish your load like a handful of no rinse conditioner, massaging in the oils and the scent. It’s the sheen of being seeded by a strong, virile man that brings the sparkle and glow to my nest down below… a man who just might make me pregnant.

Yeah, give it to me good.

You… the risk taker and the mess maker. You cream me up and send me back to my patiently submissive hubby like a sopping wet rug.

It must please you to learn how my husband licks my fur like a cat. I insist he clean me thoroughly, that he slurps every slimy thread you’ve coated in sperm. Now, he understands my retro fascination and the essence of my well-seasoned lover.

And I understand the pleasure of how you fuck me raw and wipe your sloppy cock on my doormat.

Before the week is out, you might shave me smooth and collect my pubic curls as a remembrance. You might tuck them away in your bedside drawer and study them at midnight when your wife is asleep. I might give you my G-String as well, stained with our sultry love making… and send pictures of my bump as it grows, my tits as they plump with milk, my ripening magenta nipples. I will birth your baby through a forest of lush, tangled swirls left to grow since the day I left you – nine months thick and begging to be fisted by the clinch of your fingers.

 

Tonight, you will jerk off in the sheets because I tell you to… and it pleases me to think of your cum and hard cock at your book signings… that stain on your trousers when I’m finished with you in the back between sessions… because you’re a risk taker, love maker, cunt breaker. I want you to be my titty shaker.

I’m wildly apathetic about your embarrassment over that tent in the front of your pants. You should have thought to bring a wider podium. Yes, you have to keep talking. Sign some paperbacks for your fans. Take a sip of your coffee. No, your dick is not going down at all. Everyone can see you plainly… and you just keep looking between my legs. Can’t keep your eyes off my hairy, wet gash.

I’ll take care of you when I’m good and ready… maybe in front of everyone here. Did you notice my swollen clit? Take a good fucking look. I’m spreading myself for you, baby. Fingering myself. Stop staring. Someone is asking you a question.

I think they want to know why you’re so hard.

I just quietly mouthed for you to unzip your pants. Did you see me?

I’m holding up a napkin that says, “SIGN MY ASS WITH YOUR CUM”. I wrote that with red lipstick. Am I screwing up your concentration? Think about the flavor of my asshole when I make you lick it in the lady’s room. I want to show the crowd your shit eating grin. If you ask nicely, I’ll piss in your mouth.

Yeah, I’m wearing my spiked leather boots, feeling pretty ruthless. It’s my book signing apparel. Scribble your name up my crack while I sit on your face. I’ll give you a mouth full of punctuation.

 

When are you going to shut up and sign books?

Fuck it. I’m tired of looking at the penis imprint on your crotch. I know you’re aching. You’re stuttering. Everyone can tell that you’re just not into this. I don’t give a shit there’s a room full of people and publishers. The zipper is coming down. The dick is coming out.

On second thought, I’m just jerking your trousers to your ankles… underwear too. No fighting. Put your hands down. Yes, I know what I’m doing. You don’t think these people have ever seen a hand job before?

Jesus, you’re hard as shit. Damn, I love cranking this thing. Better spit on it.

I bet you shoot halfway across the room.

Fuck yeah, let it go…

Feel better?