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[Author’s Note: A bit of a post-modern lark, this one. There’s the occasional winking joke for the initiates. Or maybe that’s just me. 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 her 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. Just the sheer daily volume was 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 fancied 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?Hardly.But all porno izle 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 a furtive intimation of transcendence lurking beyond the tormented reach of the haute bourgeoisie. And what she brought forth from the busy endeavor of her pen was–Smut.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, get them nipples hard, bitch. Tug her out of her modest-rise jeans. Leaving her exposed, cornered, not even looking for escape. Trembling and teary. Being told to do things– immoral, unhygienic, unnatural things. Oh but, with no other option than to–Hard unforgiving hands, male and female, grabbing hold of her bottom. Spreading her cheeks open– oh, but why are you doing this?– 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:To: SugarwallsflirtboxHi. 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 this person mean by “fucked by the dad”? The heroine amatör porno 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:Dear Sugarwallsflirtbox,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.Luv, ChristianWhew! 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. No matter how horny it might make her fans, just to imagine her doing such a thing, walking around out at the mall, dropping off books at the library, with the string of balls snaking around inside her booty, slick with Astroglide gel, soaking up her intimate heat and shaking around, her warm secret muscles clenching tensely and pleasurably around the row of smooth spherical intruders . . . .Nuts.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 anal porno 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 hotturHmm, 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 perky breasts, it seemed the thing to do somehow. Feedback could be so exciting! She decided, in honor of her unseen admirer, to heft her boobs up as an imaginary offering at the screen. It was the least she could do to repay her admirer. If only he could see! Still, it’s the thought that counts. 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, and with more messages ahead, she chose to take off her shirt.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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