Confessions of a Smut Author, Page 2

  “Why do you ask?” she shrugged as she leaned forward.

  My eyes shifted from her face to her breasts. Now hanging loosely into the top of what was probably some Victoria’s Secret magical boob suspending apparatus, her breasts seemed to defy the very laws of gravity. Absolutely petrified of where new Cheryl may take me, my mind told me to leave, but my body refused.

  “Just wondering. No big deal,” I responded as I forced myself to look up.

  She smiled.

  Her face was simply magical. I shifted my eyes once again to her breasts. They were like magnets and my eyes steel orbs. Maybe I opted to stare at her tits because I was afraid if I looked at her face I’d quickly fall for her gorgeous looks. If anything, I wanted to fall in love with her charm. Her personality. Whatever within her made her different than everyone else. Different than my Cheryl. As I continued to stare at what now appeared to be the top of her nipple, she coughed.

  I looked up.

  She smiled.

  “Hello?” she chuckled as she reached down and buttoned her shirt.

  “Sorry. It’s a guy thing,” I shrugged.

  “I’m used to it. The old men at work stare at my tits all day. It gets old,” she sighed.

  “I bet. I’m sorry. It’s just. Well, they like kind of fell out when you moved toward the table, I couldn’t help myself,” I said apologetically.

  “No biggie. It was kind of cute. Your mouth was open,” she chuckled.

  “Really? Like open?” I asked.

  She slowly dropped her jaw and widened her eyes. I began to laugh at the thought of myself staring at this poor girl’s tits, and what she must think of me. In an effort to recoup what little respect she might have for me – if any, I decided to explain a few things about myself.

  I leaned into the booth and crossed my arms, “I’m an author. I work from home writing adult romance novels. I was married, and my wife died a little more than a year ago. It was a freak accident. I haven’t been with anyone since, and to be quite honest, she was my first. I spend a lot of time at home, and it’s really easy to get lost in my work. I haven’t even been out in public since she died. Someone emailed me and said Ian was having a party for his twenty-fifth birthday, so I went in to see him. While talking to him, I met you, and here we sit at the ultimate dive, IHOP. That’s my story.”

  I sat and waited for her to stand up and leave. Instead, she leaned forward, and extended both of her arms, placing her hands palm up on the table. As she rubbed the inside of her fingers with her thumbs, she slowly raised her fingers, motioning me toward her. Half scared and half relieved, I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the table.

  Without thinking, I placed my hands on her palms. As our fingers touched, she clasped my hands softly in hers.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. You know talking about it might make you feel better. If you’ve been cooped up for a year, you’re probably about ready to go nuts. Do you have family?” she asked.

  “In Michigan,” I nodded.

  “I’m sorry. Well, I think you’re a great guy. At least what I know. And an author? That’s kind of sexy,” she paused and squeezed my hands lightly.

  “Adult romance, what exactly is that?” she asked.

  I rolled my eyes and gave her my best description, “Smut.”

  She coughed and raised her eyebrows, “Really? Like the kinky stuff?”

  “Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes just a really good love story with a lot of hot sex,” I half lied.

  I had never written a good love story. Not once. I simply wrote the most awful, aggressive, ass slapping, hair pulling, cum flying stories I could come up with. I wrote them under a pseudonym, Casandra Coxx. Women lined up to buy them at the bargain price of $6.99, and I sat at home and made a less than desirable income, but an income nonetheless.

  “I’d like to read one of them,” she said softly.

  She attempted to fight the smile which was forming on her face. I suspected she was thinking about what I may write about. Her mouth slowly curled up into a full smile. I grinned as she smiled, and in a moment, she began to giggle. After a few seconds of her giggling lightly, we both erupted into laughter.

  “What were you laughing at?” I asked as soon as I stopped laughing uncontrollably.

  “My mind kind of wandered off for a minute. It’s funny you said adult romance. I read erotica novels. Truthfully, about three or four a week, I love them. It’s my way of escaping the fact I still live with my parents and I’m single,” she said.

  Her hands were beginning to perspire. As I looked down, she pulled them away and wiped them on her pants. As she raised them to the surface of the table, she grinned. Seeing her smile was beginning to make me happier than I could recall being in over a year.

  “You sure that big banana cock wasn’t for you?” I asked, attempting to maintain a serious face.

  She began to chuckle, “No, it really isn’t. I have my own.”

  Somewhat shocked at her statement, I gave my offering, “Nice. Well, we all have to have something, I suppose. You have your rubber cock, and I have my fictional girlfriends.”

  I sighed at the thought of being alone, and shifted my gaze from her face to the table. Half way there, my eyes caught her now unbuttoned shirt. I studied the button. I stared at the button hole. Neither seemed to be broken, altered, or mis-made. Her boobs stared back at me.

  I wonder if she’s doing that purposely.

  “So,” I looked up from her well rounded breasts.

  “Do you want to do this again?” I asked.

  “IHOP? Or see each other? Wait, do you have to go?” she asked.

  “No, I can sit here all night. I just published a book, and I don’t have to do anything, really. I was just wondering if you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m having fun,” she said. As she responded, I realized we were holding hands again.

  “So am I,” I said softly as I stared at her eyes and tried to decide what color they were for sure.

  “Want to go out to the parking lot and make out?” she asked.

  Did she really just ask me if I wanted to go make out?

  Are we in high school?

  I glanced down at her boobs. They seemed to be growing with each tick of the clock. I shifted my eyes to her face. She smiled. White teeth emerged. I glanced at her boobs. I wondered if making out included fondling her massive tits. I released my grip and raised my right hand in the air. As I extended my index finger, I gave every indication of my intention.

  Well, sort of.

  “Check please!”

  CHERYL

  I searched Amazon for books written by Casandra Coxx. There were several. A series of four books; The Asphyxiation Series, two stand-alone erotic novels; The Gloved Hand, and Bound, one erotic romance; Desperately Loving You, one erotic thriller; Hung, and one D/s erotica, The Girl Beneath Me, came up. After seeing the dates of publication, it was obvious Shawn had been writing for several years and publishing the books under his pseudonym.

  After reading the synopsis for each book, I opted to by an electronic copy of The Girl Beneath Me. According to the synopsis, it was a story about a girl who had developed an understanding of her inner desire to become and act as a submissive. It sounded interesting enough, and of all the work he had published, it seemed the most erotic. Oddly, it was one of his first.

  Eager to know as much about him as possible, I began to read the book on my Kindle. Not really knowing if what an author writes is any kind of indication of what type of person they were, I quickly became immersed in the writing and story line. After a few chapters, I wanted to know more about Shawn and his sexual desires.

  “Cheryl, are you going to bed?” my mother screamed from the bottom of the stairs.

  “In a few minutes,” I yelled in return.

  “Are you reading?” she asked.

  “Yes, mother,” I responded.

  “Another book about zombies,” I lied, knowing she’d ask sooner or late
r. .

  “You know I don’t like you reading that filth. Get some sleep. Goodnight, Cheryl,” she whined.

  “Goodnight mother,” I responded.

  My mother had never, to my knowledge, ever allowed a cuss word to pass her lips. She believed everyone should go to church, marry from the parish, and live and breathe the word of God. I, on the other hand, believed people were just as likely to be as valuable regardless of where they came from and whether or not they attended our church or any church for that matter. Although I believed all of these things to be true, defying my mother was another story. In private, I seemed to become very comfortable doing and believing my own things. In her presence, it was another story altogether.

  I truly believed my mother would disown me completely if I ever ended up in a relationship with someone who did not fit the mold she had so carefully formed for my significant other. With each passing year, I became fractionally more comfortable with the belief I would always be single, or I would end up separated from my family and happily married. To marry someone who had the ability to make me happy would never make my mother happy.

  The thought of being alone, the away from my family type of alone, scared me. However, being in a relationship with someone I didn’t love or care for was far more frightening. I decided as a much younger girl I would never be in a relationship with someone to attempt to satisfy my parents. I often wondered how much my job came into play with my being single, and how much was truly a subconscious desire to prevent myself from fighting with my mother about the qualifications of my prospective significant other.

  My boyfriend from my senior year in high school and I stayed together from the time I was eighteen until I was almost twenty three. He was someone I met in church, and my mother was more than satisfied with him, his upbringing, and his family. As a result, she afforded me more freedom with him than I ever would have imagined. As a senior in high school, he often slept over, and sometime spent the entire weekend with us.

  Her acceptance of him wholly caused me to feel more comfortable in his desires being genuinely good for us as a young couple. We spent the majority of our time together having sex, and he proved over the course of five years to be very controlling, violent, and selfish. As soon as he graduated college, he broke up with me. Within a year, he was married to another woman.

  His quick marriage caused me to believe he was probably seeing someone else the entire time he was in college. My mother felt our breakup and his quick marriage was a result of my inability to commit to be his wife. There was no way on earth I could ever begin to explain who he really was to her, so I allowed her to believe what she believed. To me, he was proof finding a person in church was no assurance of their worth as a person. In five years, Kade changed me from a fairly wholesome young girl to a sexual deviant.

  Since Kade and I went our separate ways, I had not been in any form of a relationship. I had been sexual with a few random men as a result of a drunken night out with the girls, but none materialized into anything. Not that I ever wanted them to, but a girl always reserves hope she will find a man who is willing to love her. Instead, I settled for drunken sex, and random hookups whenever the men were able or willing to meet.

  If an outsider could see me, and truly witness what I was doing or the things I had either done or agreed to do, I would certainly be labeled a slut. Nothing could be further from the truth. I’ve continued to find it difficult to accept that having controlling parents has the ability to make a girl stray from their wishes entirely, and in an attempt to feed her own needs and desires, hides from who she really is or could be. For the most part, I’ve lived my life in fear of my parents either finding out who I really was - and not being able to accept it - or not ever being able to satisfy them.

  I rolled onto my side and placed the Kindle on my bed beside me. Too many times I had fallen asleep only to have the Kindle slap me in the face – a reminder I had spent far too much time reading. Dark circles under my eyes the next day often caused my father to question my previous night’s activities. Unlike my mother, he had very little concern for what I may be reading. Generally, he found the fact I was up all night reading far more comforting than being out with the girls drinking.

  Standing behind her, Stephan’s right hand slowly slid from Tara’s shoulder across her clavicle and to the front of her neck. As he pressed his palm against the thyroid cartilage, his thumb and index finger slid to either side of her jaw.

  Tara exhaled audibly.

  He pressed his bare chest against her back. As he lightly tapped the side of her jaw with his index finger, he positioned his open mouth against her ear. As he exhaled warm breath against her, goose bumps rose along the length of her arm. She shivered. Instinctively, she inhaled sharply.

  “Not a word,” he breathed into her ear.

  He lowered his left hand to her waist. After a long pause, he softly traced the outline of her hip with the tip of his index finger, following the curve of her inner thigh until the tip of his finger met her swollen clit.

  As Stephen worked a circular motion lightly against her sensitive button, Tara’s knees bent slightly. As she straightened her stance, he tightened his grip against her jaw and tilted her head to the side.

  “Look in the mirror, Tara,” he breathed.

  Tara opened her eyes and stared at her reflection. The woman who stood before her was different than she remembered her being. She was willing, understanding of Stephen’s desires, and capable of delivering what it was he required of her.

  “Who do you see?” he whispered.

  “I see,” Tara paused and studied the reflection.

  “I see her,” she responded.

  “And who might she be?” he asked.

  “The woman who yearns to satisfy you,” she responded.

  “Begin,” he said softly as he released his grip and took a step rearward.

  Tara eagerly turned to face him. Without speaking, she lowered herself to the floor. As she cupped his scrotum in her left hand, she greedily began to work her mouth against the tip of Stephen’s swollen shaft, circling her tongue against…

  I could hear my breathing. Nervous, I slid the Kindle under my pillow and listened for any sound from inside the house. I looked at my watch. It was well past midnight. My groin ached. After rolling onto my back, I slid my hand beneath the pajamas and into my panties.

  Oh God.

  I began to rub my clit with the tips of my fingers. After a matter of seconds, I felt as if my head were going to explode. I pulled the pillow over my face and bit into the pillow case. As I continued to press my fingers against myself, I came hard. It was the type or orgasm that leaves you staring at the ceiling as if you really aren’t sure if you’ll ever recover. I released the pillow from my teeth and slowly slid my middle finger into my soaking wet pussy. After about two deep strokes with my finger, my entire body began to tingle. I pushed deeper and held my finger in place. The palm of my hand was soaked with my juices.

  Continuing to slide my finger in and out of my tightness, I bit my bottom lip. Within thirty seconds, my eyes rolled back into my head so far it hurt. I bit my lip harder and rolled onto my stomach as I thrust my hips against my hand.

  After I reached a state of climax I’m quite certain few women will ever know, I opened my eyes and gazed toward my closet. Everything in it seemed unimportant. Lost in a world of ecstatic bliss, I stared at my clothes and realized I was without.

  I needed a man a man in my life.

  One who was capable of satisfying my needs.

  SHAWN

  I gazed out the window at the traffic below my apartment and wondered what it would be like to suck another man’s cock. As much as I tried to force myself to, although I could imagine it, I couldn’t imagine it. Me wrapping my lips around the head of some other dude’s dick and taking it into my warm willing mouth. Raising my hand to his nut-sack and cupping his balls in my palm as I sucked and slurped him into orgasmic bliss. It seemed fucking weird thin
king about it.

  A large percentage of the fans from my social media platforms had voted, and in doing so, decided the best piece of work I could produce would be a male-male erotic romance. The thought of it disgusted me when it was initially introduced into discussion¸ and writing it was beyond what I expected it to be. I often lived vicariously through my characters, and swallowing another man’s cum wasn’t on my bucket list.

  I’d just written a serious scene between two characters, John and Boyd. Best friends who decided one day to suck each other off. Over a short period of time, they’d fallen in love. It seemed impossible. Maybe if I added a little humor it would be easier to accept. Imagining it without humor was difficult at best.

  I looked down and presses CTRL/A, and highlighted the entire three chapters.

  Backspace.

  I stared at the blinking cursor. I began pressing my fingers against the keys and hoped for the best. Unlike many authors, I believed in starting with action. Backstory could come much later.

  Boyd glanced down and watched himself disappear in and out of John’s mouth. The wait, as far as he was concerned now, was well worth it. If John wasn’t capable of anything else, he was capable of one thing; swallowing a cock.

  Boyd pushed the tip against John’s throat. Another inch and his balls would be against John’s lower lip. Desperately, for some reason, he wanted to see it. As John opened his eyes and looked upward, Boyd heard a faint pop.

  His swollen shaft disappeared entirely into John’s mouth. As he felt his tightening scrotum press against John’s chin, he gripped the sides of John’s head with his hands.

  “Hold it. Hold it. That’s a good little whore,” Boyd groaned as he looked down into John’s watering eyes.

  This wasn’t Boyd’s first time at forcing his cock down the throat of an inexperienced man. He seemed to find more satisfaction in coercing heterosexual men into sucking his cock than the ever so willing homosexual who frequently offered. To him, having a straight man suck his cock was satisfying on an entirely different level.