A Writer’s Seduction

[image error]This is an erotic story about stories, about writing, about writers and readers.

If you came to this page believing yourself safe or immune to my seduction, perhaps it is because you need to. Perhaps you are a lover who wants to be taken and ravished. Perhaps you hope to come away believing yourself the innocent victim of my depravity. You know I won’t allow that. I can’t let you leave without making sure you admit, if only to yourself, that you were a willing partner. These are just words. I put them down here. Like obscene photographs of things you’ve imagined doing, or gaudily coloured sex toys. If they make your heart beat faster, or cause you to shift in your chair. If you moisten or grow hard, it’s because your mind has wandered into the places it desired to go. You have drunk these words in, and put them to the purpose of your pleasure. You are no innocent. You came here looking for eroticism and perversion and so you found it. Your thighs might be wet, your cock might be hard, your mind fills with lewd images – at the prompt of these words perhaps – but you came and you stayed and you read, you slut.

If you have come here demanding literary fellatio, I’m a willing lover, but don’t imagine yourself completely in the driver’s seat. I will take my time with you. I will make you itchy and impatient, I will tease you and, if I’m feeling particularly cruel, I may leave you with readerly blue balls. Perhaps this is one of those stories I will make you to finish for yourself? Hmm?  Perhaps you arrived in search of a quick and impersonal fuck behind the bus shelter. I may wrap my thighs around your waist, but not for free. I’ll force you to carry the sting of that sordidness, the stench of stale urine, the wind-blown wrappers of those disposable snacks with you. I’ll infect you with nagging questions of why you were so frightened to take me to bed. I’ll show you everything you fear you’ll lose in giving yourself over to me for an hour, an evening, a night.

Words are my sex organs. Not singularly, but in the aggregate. Characters are the arms with which I draw you to me. Settings are the bed, the sheets, the meadow, the back-seat of your dad’s car, the rubbish-strewn alleyway, the warm, wet sand on a twilit beach. Plots are the acts and there is always, always conflict. I may propose the game, but you must accept before the game is on, my dear.

My poetics are my touch, my fingers, my tongue, my lips and the tips of my nipples, the crown of my cock. Soft and soothing, hard and rapacious, greedy, hypnotic, comic, fumbling, disorienting.

Here we are, then, you and I. Body to body, eye to eye. Sigh and I’ll sup on it. Linger and I’ll fill you. Don’t ever mistake my pen name for an indication of my gendered intention. I can fuck you and engulf you in a single moment, here, now, like I just have. If you pause for a moment, you’ll feel me come, in you, around you, through you. That taste of something foreign on your tongue? That’s me. I’m in your blood now.

And if I have done my job well, and been a memorable seducer, you will exit this space with the fear with which all lovers take their leave: that I have marked you in some way, that my scent is on your skin, that something small but significant has happened and you won’t be quite the same again.