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Subject: {ASSM} A Writer's Fantasy {-} (MF, cons, Mdom, span, ScFi) <*>
Date: Sun, 14 May 2000 23:10:11 -0400
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Before you buy.
<1st attachment, "AWFpost.txt" begin>
DISCLAIMERS:
This story is written for an adult audience and contains graphic
language and explicit sexual material. If you are underage, if
it is illegal for you to possess such material in the
jurisdiction in which you are reading this, or if adult sexuality
of this type offends you, STOP READING NOW!
This story is a work of fiction. It is not a true story, it is
pure fantasy. Any resemblance to any person, real or fictitious,
living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintended. This work
is intended solely for the quiet and private enjoyment of adults,
and any other use is a violation of the copyright.
COPYRIGHT NOTICE:
This work is Copyright 2000 by Left Side Signals.
The material contained herein is intended for the personal use of
the reader. Permission is hereby granted for duplication,
without additions, changes, or omissions, for personal, non-
profit use, provided that the entire contents of the disclaimers,
copyright notice, and author's notes are included in the
duplicated complete work. All other rights are reserved, and
making copies of this material or any portion thereof in any form
for any purpose other than that for which permission has been
granted is a violation of United States and other international
copyright laws.
Archiving of this work is permitted, except where a fee of any
sort is required or earned for access, provided this disclaimer
and note remain attached to the story. All other rights,
specifically rights of commercial use, are reserved. Commercial
use is defined herein to include posting on membership web sites,
banner-funded web sites, and web sites protected by fee-based age
validation methods, such as AdultCheck and AdultSights. However,
exception is specifically made for web sites, such as DejaNews,
that provide archiving and access to all Usenet posts in a
particular group without editing or selection for content. No
modifications may be made to this story without express
permission from the author, and permission for anyone to repost
this work is specifically and explicitly denied.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Two ASSM posters whose work I generally enjoy, E.Z.Riter and
JackofallTrades, recently posted stories that dealt, in different
ways, with the same basic theme: a writer of erotica has an
erotic encounter with a fan of his (in these cases) writing.
This is a favorite fantasy of mine, one that I've had the
pleasure of bringing to reality on more than one occasion, and I
suspect most writers in this genre share it. Reading these
stories by other writers motivated me to dust off and polish up a
piece I initially drafted two-and-a-half years ago, when I was
posting to ASS* under the pseudonym of MountainTop. The story
below is my *other* favorite fantasy.
In accordance with GAAP (Generally Accepted Authoring Principles)
for Internet postings, the "_" is used to bracket what would be
Italics (for emphasis or a character's internal thoughts) in
normal typesetting. Constructive comments and feedback to
ph00@my-deja.com are welcome.
A Writer's Fantasy
By Pat Harvey
I was sitting on a bench in a mall when I fell through the
looking glass into my ultimate fantasy.
I glanced up as I turned a page in my book and saw a woman
standing across the atrium. The second thing I noticed was that
she appeared to be watching me. She wasn't staring, exactly, but
her eyes would twitch away and then return to gaze intently in my
direction. Her brow was furrowed, and her facial expression was
a cross between consternation and confusion.
The first thing I noticed was that she was wearing high heels, a
rare sight these days. They weren't the prim, thick, squatty
heels that career women wear to try to remind themselves they're
female; she was wearing tall, spike-heeled pumps, the kind
favored by strippers and hookers. Centerfolds wear high heels
along with their smiles for a reason, and it's not that feet are
the ugliest part of the human body and should be covered up. A
lot of men think shoes like those are sexy-looking; wearing them
enhances the look of a woman's legs and causes interesting
changes in her walk.
I looked up again, and the woman I'd seen hadn't moved. I knew
I'd never met her, so I read on, letting my subconscious chew on
the question of why she seemed vaguely familiar. When I glanced
up a third time, our eyes met, and there was something about her
that grabbed my attention. I moved my hand in a come-here
gesture, and she nodded and started threading her way through the
throng.
The woman was a well-preserved forty-something, and her long,
straight, dark hair hung almost to her waist. Her coat swayed
open as she strode toward me, and the feeling of familiarity
became a stubborn itch as I absorbed the flashes of her dark
hose, pleated black skirt, and teal silk blouse. Then my heart
started pounding and I felt throbbing pulses in my temples; there
was a dark slash of fabric across the base of her graceful neck.
I felt disoriented, the victim of a vertiginous dizziness, and
then my view of her became crystal clear, as though momentary
double vision had resolved itself. _This can't be happening,_ my
mind screamed. _She can't be who I think she is._
I started to stand as she approached, but she waved me back down
and sat beside me. Somehow I managed to avoid hyperventilating,
and I kept my voice steady. "Why were you watching me?" I asked.
"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to be rude, but I thought I
recognized you as a man I met last summer."
"I don't think we've ever met before," I said, mentally adding,
_in real life, that is._ "What was his name, the man you met?"
She turned toward me, and I saw the band around her neck more
clearly. It was black velvet, and it bore a silver ornament that
looked like three sixes, but the digits weren't in a straight
line; they went up at a slant, from left to right. _Oh, God,_ I
gasped inside, _six to the sixth to the sixth power, the true
number of the beast in the gospel according to Saint Heinlein._
I held my breath, suddenly certain of what she would answer.
"His name was Robert," she replied. Her eyes got a faraway look,
and then she added, "You look enough like him to be his twin."
_I should,_ I thought to myself. _I described myself when I
wrote about him, because I wanted an ordinary-looking, middle-
aged, middle-class guy to get to have a good time for a change._
"I'm not his twin, Karen, but . . ."
_"How did you know my name?"_ Her eyes had widened, then
narrowed nearly to slits, and she was staring at me with an
expression of utter incredulity. I took a deep breath, then let
out a long sigh.
"I know everything about you, Karen. I made you up."
"Are you all right?" she asked anxiously. "You look kind of
pale. Do you need help of some sort?"
_Oh, great,_ I thought, _now she thinks I escaped from the funny-
farm._ I shook my head, then said, "I'm okay, really. It's just
that this is . . . well, a little hard to explain."
"Try me." Her expression was frankly skeptical, not quite
challenging but definitely sending the message that she would be
hard to convince.
"A few years ago, I started writing a story. It was fiction,
pure fantasy, but the woman I wrote about looked just like you,
and I named her Karen."
"What was your story about?"
"It was an erotic story."
The corners of her mouth curved up in that mischievous smile I'd
described so often, and she arched her brows. "And was I good
for you?"
"The story wasn't about me, and yes, you were very good, the
best. That's what Robert thought, anyway."
She giggled, then quickly stifled it. "Sorry. I was almost
starting to believe you, until you mentioned Robert. How could
you possibly know what he thought of me?"
_This is crazy,_ I thought, _but I might as well tell her the
truth, at least as I know it._ "I know because I made him up
also. I wrote the scene you had with him, and I know what he
thought because, in a way, I'm Robert."
Her gaze now was wary, and a bit frightened. "Is this some kind
of weird pickup line?"
"No way," I said forcefully. "I have a diskette in my hotel room
with your story on it, two books' worth, almost 150,000 words I
wrote without ever meeting you or even seeing you before. I'll
show you some of it, if you'd like."
She thought for a moment, then looked at me sharply. "I think
maybe I'd like, but I've got more questions for you first."
"Sure. Can I buy you a cup of coffee while we talk?"
"I need something stronger than coffee, but yes, and I've got to
make a call first."
Regardless of how it'd happened, I was absolutely certain I was
sitting next to the incarnation of a fictional character I'd
created, so I went for broke. "Got to let Steven know you'll be
late, hmm?"
Her head shake was rueful as well as negative. "I guess I'm not
totally surprised you know about him, but no, he's away at the
moment." Her expression turned quizzical. "Who else would I be
calling?"
"Probably the girls . . ." Her eyes showed I could still startle
her, but the pieces were all in place for me now, so I continued,
". . . and, before you ask, Steffie's the older, and Connie's the
one with the emerald ear studs; Steffie has rubies."
Karen rose abruptly. "Let's go," she said firmly, "I really need
that drink you offered."
*
A few minutes later we were sitting across from each other in a
quiet restaurant. I'd startled her again by ordering the same
drink for her that she'd had when she was with Robert, but she'd
slipped off her coat and slid into the booth without speaking.
She sipped at her drink, then said, "Tell me about myself. How
far back in my life did you start?"
"About four and a half years ago." She got that faraway look
again, and when she refocused on me I nodded. "Yes, Karen, I
started with the retreat week, the time when it all began for you
in terms of the lifestyle."
"Then you really do know about me." She paused, then added,
"_All_ about me."
"Please try to understand that this is as bizarre a situation for
me as it is for you. I think every writer fantasizes about
meeting a character he's created, and, from my perspective, I
invented your personality, your mind-set, even your physical
appearance. Yet here you are, in the flesh, and I don't quite
know what to say. I feel like a doting parent, which is
ridiculous."
"Is that _all_ you feel?" She gave me a knowing smile, and I
blushed.
"Of course not. I feel as though I know what you look like under
your clothes, how you think, what your hot-buttons are, and how
you'd react to different sensations." My mind raced into fantasy
overdrive, and I struggled to keep myself under control. "I told
you it was an erotic story, and I can't help thinking about you
that way."
She was silent for almost a minute. When she finally spoke, her
face was serious, but there was a twinkle in her dark brown eyes.
"I believe you," she said quietly. "I want to see what you've
written, but I believe you, and there's no need to apologize.
From what you've said, you made me the way I am, and I'm not
ashamed of what I've become since the retreat." She hesitated,
then asked, "How much of my story have you written? Do you know
my future?"
"Some of it," I admitted.
"How much?" she pressed.
"I don't know if I should tell you," I temporized. "Do you
really want to know your own future?"
"Not in detail," she said immediately, "but I'm concerned about a
few things."
"Most people fret about their futures, Karen. Do you think you
could keep from letting on that you know about events before they
happen? Maybe I should just give you a few hints . . ." I'd
created a strong character, so I didn't think she'd settle for
that, and I was right.
"That won't work," she replied, "but I'll make you a deal. You
tell me about my future, and I'll give you the chance to
experience your fantasy." She smiled again, and this time it was
deliberately lascivious. When she licked her lips suggestively,
my heart fluttered and the swelling in my groin became
uncomfortably large. An erotica writer's favorite character is
probably an appropriately gendered and oriented sex toy, and she
was offering herself in that way. But, if she really believed
I'd written her story, then she knew something else, something
she'd hinted at with her remark about my knowing all about her.
I write stories about erotic power exchange, so I figured she was
offering to submit to a serious SM scene as well.
I still wasn't sure how smart or how safe it would be to reveal
what I'd written about her future, but I couldn't deny my
curiosity. I pictured her in my mind, as I'd done so many times
when devising her fictional adventures, and I knew I'd never
forgive myself if I didn't at least see her naked body. "Very
well," I said, and she stiffened at my use of one of Robert's
typical phrases. Then she relaxed, and her smile grew wider; she
knew she'd hooked me.
When we got to my room, I slipped the diskette into my laptop,
opened the manuscript of my first novel, and gestured for Karen
to sit at the desk. She glanced at the screen, then turned to
face me. "Is that your name?"
"It's the pseudonym I publish under."
"Is that how I should address you? Or would you prefer something
more formal?" She gave me a sly grin and added, "Like 'Sir'?"
I said, "Pat will be fine for now," and she stuck her tongue out
impudently. "You'll pay for that," I added mock-sternly.
"I hope so," she answered, and the pact was sealed.
Karen read for over two hours, mostly skimming but occasionally
slowing and reading every word of a passage. She remarked
frequently about remembering the events I'd described and how
accurately I'd discerned her thoughts. I sat in the room's easy
chair, smoking and listening to her reactions with a mix of pride
and sheepishness; this was, after all, a woman about whom I'd
written some _very_ personal and intimate things. The first few
times, her comments were tinged with awe, but after a while her
manner became matter-of-fact; she'd apparently accepted,
regardless of how it happened, that I'd written her story without
knowing her. I stopped Karen's reading when she'd reached the
chapter that represented her present time.
"Why do I have to stop?" she asked.
"Because from there on, it's your future, and you agreed to not
read those details."
"What's going to happen to me?"
"The rest of this book continues your story through the end of
the year."
"But that's not very far away," she complained. "It's already
October. Have you written beyond that?"
"Yes, there's a whole second book about what happens to you next
year."
"Tell me about the rest of this year."
"Steven will throw a big Holiday party at your house." I was
going to say more, then stopped myself, but she'd caught my false
start.
"And?"
"And . . . Steven will send you away for a while."
She gulped, then took a sharp inward breath, and I thought for a
moment she might faint. But, as I rushed to her side, she waved
weakly. "I'm okay," she whispered. "You just shocked me a bit."
"I'd say more than a bit," I told her, kicking myself for being
so blunt.
"Where will he send me?" she asked; her voice was timid now.
I chose my words carefully this time. "Did you like Robert,
Karen?"
"Oh, yes," she breathed, and then a small smile creased her lips.
"Thank you for telling me." She turned as she stood and let
herself tip forward, forcing me to put my arms around her to keep
her from falling to the floor. She snuggled against me, pressing
her breasts into my chest; her fingers stroked my neck and down
my bearded cheek as her warm, sweet breath hit my ear. "Let's
have another drink and something to eat," she whispered, "and
then it'll be time for me to give back to you."
* * * *
That line of asterisks represents the scene I did with Karen and
the amazingly pleasurable sex at its conclusion. Why? Because
it was personal and private, a fantasy turned into reality in
more ways than one. Suffice it to say that I enjoyed it
immensely, all the more so because she made it clear that the
pleasure had been repeatedly mutual. We were sitting up in bed,
the rumpled covers pulled to our waists while we shared the
almost-flat remains of a bottle of champagne, when Karen said, in
her little-girl voice, "Pat? Will you tell me about next year,
please?"
I hesitated, then said, "Are you sure you want to know?"
She nodded. "You've made me very happy just knowing I'll be
spending some time with Robert, but I want to know more . . .
even if it's bad news."
"It's not bad news, don't worry about that," I murmured around
the rim of my glass. "You'll have fun; you and Robert will spend
lots of time with another couple, and you'll help Robert teach
him to be a good, responsible Dom." She'd shivered when I said
the word 'teach', and I snaked my free hand around her shoulder
and drew her close. "It'll be fine, Karen; you trust Robert,
don't you?"
"Yes, I trust him, and he's a wonderful man." She smiled again
and added, "Of course he is; he's you."
"That's a terrific compliment; thank you."
"What happens after my time with Robert?"
I shrugged. "You'll go back to Steven, and after that I don't
know."
"What do you mean, you don't know? How can you not know?"
"I haven't written past that point yet."
"But surely you've thought about it," she said, and there was an
undercurrent of urgency in her tone. "Of all my concerns, this
is the big one. There's a huge age difference, and Steven will
be out of school a year from now; what will happen with me and
him?"
As I pondered her questions, I sensed the inner strength of this
woman I'd created in my own mind. _All right, Karen,_ I thought,
_if your past, and even part of your future, has been predestined
by what I've written, here's your chance for the flip side. It's
free will time; we're going to play 'you get to choose'._ "What
do you want to happen? I won't tell you the specifics, but you
already know you'll like living with Robert. You know Steven,
and I think you also know how Robert feels about you. You
decide; I'll write the story however you want your life to turn
out."
She was silent for so long I was afraid I'd sent her catatonic,
but then she shook herself and turned to face me squarely. "I
still don't understand how or why this is happening, but you've
offered me a gift I can never repay, and I'm more grateful than
you can imagine."
"I don't know about that; I have a pretty vivid imagination," I
chuckled. "Just look at what's happened to you in the last five
years."
"That's true enough," she said agreeably, "but I won't turn down
your offer. Make love with me one more time, and then I'll tell
you my decision."
I set my glass on the night-stand and slid down the bed, and
Karen followed my movements, nestling in my arm with her soft-
firm breasts against my side. I felt her left nipple rise to
poke at my ribs, and then she swung her leg across my body and
straddled me. She squirmed her way down my legs, her hips
wriggling as she slid her tight butt-cheeks across my crotch and
down my thighs, and I watched as she took my limp cock between
her lips and worried her tongue across its bulbous crest.
"Aah," I groaned, and she looked up and winked at me.
"Do you think we'll ever meet again?" she asked.
"I don't have a clue."
"Well, in case we don't, here's how I want you to remember me."
She seemed to swallow my cock, drawing its complete length into
her mouth, then letting it slide slowly between her lips as it
grew to its full length and girth. When I was hard, she moved up
and slipped me into her warm, wet tunnel, moaning and mewling her
pleasure as her hips started the age-old movement.
I'd lost count of her fabulous orgasms during our earlier scene,
but they'd been rare and precious beauty to behold and
wonderfully ego-boosting for me as their instigator. I'd gotten
off three times, so this would be for Karen's physical pleasure;
the psychic rewards would be plenty for me. I raised up and took
her nipples, as long and stiff and sensitive as I'd ever imagined
them, between my lips one at a time, licking and nibbling and
teasing and nipping them and feeling her sleek thighs and the
slick tightness of her shaved pussy squeeze me in reaction. Then
she was off to the heights again, streaking up the mountain of
ecstasy and roaring over the crest.
"Eeeeeeeaaaaaaaahhhhhh," she shrieked, "I'm coming, push me, push
me higher, please, make this the biggest one . . ."
I bit into her rigid right nipple and let myself fall back onto
the pillows, pulling her body down on mine. Her hips bucked,
moving on my cock with violent jerks and grinding her clit
against me on the downstrokes. I reached with both arms,
pinching her other nipple with one hand and slapping her taut
ass-cheeks repeatedly with the other. Then I slid a finger
through the flood between her legs and jammed it into her back
channel, and it was like goosing a cyclone.
"Ohhh, Godddd, yessssss," she hissed, and her lips were pulled
back in a rictus as she rose to a frenzied peak and then
shuddered against my chest.
We stood together under the shower's warm lash, then exchanged
tender kisses as we rubbed each other dry. I pulled on a terry-
cloth robe and watched as Karen dressed, and then we were holding
each other in a last embrace. Finally, inevitably, she stepped
back and looked at me; my heart was thumping and her breasts rose
and fell with her deep breathing. She raised her hand and
reached toward me, and I took it in my own.
"Thank you for a wonderful encounter." When I started to thank
her in return, she put her other forefinger to her lips. "Shh,"
she said softly, "you don't have to say a word. I know how you
feel, and you've helped me to make my decision." She paused,
then looked me in the eye. "I want it to be Robert, Pat. I want
him to care for me, and I know he will, and I want to love him,
and I know I will, and I want both of those because he's really
you. Write the rest of my story that way, and we'll all be
happy."
She moved forward and kissed me lightly, first on the cheek and
then with pursed lips pressed against mine, and then she turned
and was gone.
_Thank you, Karen,_ I mouthed to the closing door. _Thank you
for everything. I will always remember you, as you wanted me to
and as so much more, and your future will be exactly as you
wish._
The End
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