4 comments/ 16786 views/ 4 favorites The Laws of Fiction By: kleve Dear reader, I make no apologies for the explicitness, the bizarreness, the disturbing nature of the following story. For all its excesses, it has one overriding virtue – it is all 100% true, in every humiliating detail. You would do well to pay attention, you who are fellow artisans in the subtle art of erotic fiction, for what I have to say is a matter of vital urgency to you. (You who merely read this stuff and don’t write it may count yourselves fortunate not to be one of us.) I write this from my sickbed. Only last week, I was in excellent shape. I had just returned from my customary annual four weeks in Tuscany, and I was lean as a lath and never fitter, although my skin is pale, so that I can’t sunbathe. I woke up the morning after my return and, following my custom, I put together my frugal breakfast of All-Bran, peaches and semi-skimmed. Refreshed, I went to the shower. I had soaped myself off and washed my cropped hair, and as the water ran down my naked body I was composing a scene in my mind, something involving that lusciously olive-skinned Italian media student I had been introduced to. My member stirred and I stroked it absently, but not with any serious intent. I always find that, when one is about to create erotica that will stir the loins of others, it’s better to refrain from emission beforehand. “There goes another novel,” as Balzac used to sigh, after emptying his load into the grateful womb of his mistress. The French master was seldom wrong. But I digress. The image of whatever-her-name, the student, was still vivid in my mind; tall, sulky, broad-hipped, her breasts bulging inside her top, her jeans tight around her bottom. What a splendid creature she had been. My virility was standing well to attention, by now. I thought she might do very well for a short piece I had in mind, something about sweaty holiday sex in a stuffy hotel room during siesta time. I mentally cast her as the Girl on the Beach, and I had soon plucked her from her sun-lounger, whisked her indoors and and flung her face-down beneath me on the bed, her clothes off and her naked brown buttocks bumping against my pelvis, while she moaned deliriously from the sheer force of my – The shower curtain was yanked back. I exclaimed aloud, in shock. Standing there, in my bathroom, was the Italian media student, the shower curtain in one hand, shower-water spraying onto her lime-green boob tube. She was glaring at me. I just had the presence of mind to put my hands over my excitement. “You!” she barked. “You are a filthy disgusting man!” Her fine nostrils flared with outrage, and her full lips were scowling. How in the world had she got here? How had she gained access to my apartment? Questions like these whirled through my mind. “What are you doing here?” I asked, looking around desperately for a towel. “A lot of us want to talk to you,” she said, and she grabbed me by the wrist and hauled me out of the shower. She was a strong girl, and I could not resist as she led me, wet, naked and stumbling, into my bedroom. My first impression was that somebody was having a funeral reception in there. It seemed to be crammed with people having a bad time. I realised, as the Italian media student threw me onto my own bed, that they were all staring at me. I rolled onto my stomach to hide my shrinking manhood, and looked up at them. They were strangely familiar. Most of them were in more or less of a state of undress. With sinking horror, I realised that they were all my characters. There were scores of them, possibly hundreds. How so many people managed to fit into my bedroom I don’t know, but they did. There was Trudi, the innocent pigtailed shepherdess heroine of my very first story, which had featured her as the focus of a three-way gang-bang with three strapping farm boys. (There, too, were the farm boys, bulging in their lederhosen.) I recognised the dripping, resentful face of Helene, the beautiful but cold and authoritarian young Army lieutenant whom I had made to be brutally fisted in the barracks shower by a mixed squad of mutinous soldiers. There, naked but for straps, buckles and ball-gag, was Jan, the thinly disguised portrait of my faithless ex-girlfriend. I had created Jan out of revenge, and made her the unwilling star of a highly invasive S&M scenario with a bunch of ruthless leather boys disguised as policemen. And, oh dear, standing next to Jan with a protective hand on her shoulder, was Jill the ex-girlfriend, her inspiration, wearing that light cotton print frock I’d always liked, twirling a strap-on in one hand and looking at me with a face of thunder. Yes, the people I had used for inspiration, they were all there too: Aileen, the fine-boned arts administrator who had consistently refused to go out with me and who, as a result, I had made the protagonist of an especially dark and humiliating she-discovers-that-she-likes-being-dominated-by-other-women story; she was there, wearing only dungarees, her neck in a studded collar with a chain, the other end of which was held by a hefty, visibly indignant denim-clad bull-dyke. Standing nude, with her back to me, giving me dagger’s looks over her shoulder, was short-haired, bespectacled Christine, the first girl I had ever had anal sex with, and who (under various names) had been a regular source of material ever since because of the very memorable pitch and urgency of the moans she had emitted while I had been tunnelling into her sweet puckered anus. I realised with shame that I had played that scene so many times that I could no longer remember what the front of her body looked like, which was presumably why she was looking at me over her shoulder. I saw nineteen-year-old Lesley, the blonde and buxom piano student with whom I had, albeit only in my imagination, played so many games of strip chess. Now she was covering herself with two cushions and frowning at me. That voluptuous Northern girl who worked in the next office and wore tank tops that showed her tattoos; friendly, flirty Siobhan, the tall receptionist; that plump blonde girl I’d seen in the street that time and kept running into all day. They were all there, they had all been used to flesh out a character, and they were not best pleased about it. And, sweet Jesus, there too were all the celebrities I had written all those fantasies about, now staring at me like I was a vile inhuman worm. There was Suzanne Vega, wrapped in a sheet, looking stern because I had made her explore different kinds of sexuality with Ani DiFranco, who was standing next to her, wearing only a guitar slung at crotch level and a fuck-you expression. Katerina Witt, the gorgeous figure-skater-turned-model from the former East Germany, was crouched naked beneath a small waterfall in the corner, her lovely face as hard as stone; I could hardly blame her for that, after I’d put together that story in which she’d gone skinny-dipping in a forest and been comprehensively ravished by the vegetation. Denise Lewis, the stunning British athlete, was standing naked and unashamed with her fists on her muscular hips, her ebony skin gleaming in the morning light; she probably wanted to get me back for that time I’d had the Williams sisters DP her in a changing room. Sure enough, the two tennis stars were close behind her, staring at me with loathing. “What do you want?” I asked fearfully. “You have a lot of nerve, pal,” said Ani DiFranco. “I’m just a writer!” I protested. “They’re just stories!” “Is that all we are to you?” Christine said coldly. “Just objects of fantasy? Look at me! You probably can’t even remember what my breasts look like, let alone anything about my personality. I’m just an ass and a moan to you.” “Not just that,” I said. “Also the way the muscles moved in your back…” The Italian media student, who was standing next to the bed, slapped my naked bottom hard, and I yelped. I was acutely conscious of the fact that I was naked, and the focus of the angry attention of so many women and men. I tried to cover my arousal with my cupped hands. “You’ve listened to my music,” said Suzanne Vega. “Haven’t my thoughtful, sensitive songs about love and longing taught you anything? You don’t imagine I sit around writing pornography all the time, do you?” “I love your songs!” I said, pulling the sheet over my hips. The Italian student pulled it away, though. “I admire the plangent melancholy of ‘Gypsy’ as much as the next person, and I thought your album 99.9F° was a really effective, more hard-edged departure from your previous style. But I was sitting around and I was horny, and what the hell, you go with what you get…” Suzanne rolled her eyes. Ani DiFranco shook her dreadlocked head in disgust. There was a general clicking of tongues from everyone in the room. “Don’t you have any respect for women at all?” asked Helene the Army lieutenant, hugging herself and shivering while she dripped onto the carpet. “I love women!” I said hotly. “Look at how many times I put you in girl-on-girl scenes. I would love to be a woman and get up to some of the things that I’ve made you do!” “But what about what we would have liked to do?” said Aileen, and her angry-looking girlfriend with the Elvis quiff nodded. “I’m as straight as anybody,” Aileen went on. “I’ve never looked twice at a woman. I don’t even have fantasies about women. I find the whole thing a bit icky, if you want to know. And just cause I won’t sleep with you, you have me tied to a bed while Heather here drops hot wax onto my nipples and teases my labia with a bullwhip! Honestly, you have absolutely no consideration for other people’s feelings.” “Same here,” said cherubic Lesley, flushing a very becoming pink. “Every time you’re around, I’m losing my clothes, and then you’re doing all kinds of kinky stuff with me. Did it ever occur to you that I have a life? That I need to practice? Not once have you ever sat me at a piano.” “What about me?” Christine cried, her head still craned back over her shoulder. “One time, just one time out of the dozen times we had sex, I let this guy fuck me up the arse, because he kept begging and I’d never tried it. Now I’m Christine the Stunt Bottom. Christine the Sobbing Moan of Desire. Every time one of you comes because some guy is plugging your rear entry, it’s me who provides the soundtrack. You’d think I didn’t have any other orifices. Look at me! I can’t even stand straight!” There was a chorus of support. I thought desperately, and a memory popped into my mind of Christine coming out of the shower. That was it! Small breasts, slight bulge of the stomach, navel ring, didn’t shave her pubes. There was a soft pop and Christine sighed, then she turned around – at last fully visible, front and back – and rubbed her neck, wincing. She glanced down at herself. “Too little, too late,” she grumbled. “At least you had ze sex mit ze humans,” complained Katerina Witt, from her watery bower. She slicked her wet hair back from her face. “I go for a svim and ze next zing I know, I am being fucked by ze shrubbery. It is sehr humiliating for a former Olympic athlete.” “What about putting me in a changing room with Venus and Serena Williams?” Denise Lewis pointed out. “I’m track and field. They’re tennis. It’s not even the same stadium.” “And what about us?” said a strapping young man in a police uniform, with a thick moustache and shades. He stood with four other buffed men, similarly clad. “The men in your stories? You don’t even bother to give us names. You just use us as surrogate cocks, and sometimes for a bit of walking-on-the-wild-side, when you want to pretend you’re bisexual. Since when do you know what it’s like to be gay? You didn’t have to grow up with the heartache and the persecution. You’ve never risked being beaten up for propositioning anyone. You live your whole life in the sunlight.” “That’s not strictly true,” I stammered, trying in vain to cover my nudity. “I don’t tan at all. I once got second degree burns because I’d forgotten to put sunblock on.” “Don’t confuse the issue, asshole,” growled Ani DiFranco, waving her guitar in a threatening manner. “You just make it all up, with no sense of responsibility. God, half my songs are about the difficulty of balancing art and life. But you just suck it all up and shit it all out as – what? As porn.” Suzanne Vega nodded solemnly and patted Ani on the shoulder. “Well, a lot of people get pleasure from my work,” I said, blushing furiously and trying to sound reasonable. “You should see the emails I get sent. That saga I did about the botanists investigating the sex tree, that got a huge response.” “And who paid the price?” said an angry female voice. Four people pushed their way to the front of the crowd, a young man, a plump young woman, a black girl with glasses and a tall attractive older woman, all of them naked, bruised and streaked with some kind of white goo that looked like sap. The young man bore a worrying physical resemblance to myself. “You really put us through the mill,” said the plump young woman fiercely. “And you couldn’t let it go, could you? I don’t know how many times that damn tree has fucked us every which way. Even your stand-in here has had enough of your bullshit.” The young man nodded, looking at me with distaste. It was very strange having my double accusing me of exploiting him. My head was starting to spin. “Well,” I said hotly, “what do you want from me, anyway? What am I supposed to do about it?” “We just thought it was time for a little payback,” said my twin. “We think it’s high time you had a taste of your own literary medicine.” “W-what do you mean?” I cried, shrinking back in horror. But the three strapping Austrian farm boys were approaching the bed, wearing too-broad grins, their interest in me all too horribly evident from the stretching of their lederhosen. Trudi the shepherdess was sauntering up to me as well, her dimpled mouth leering evilly. “Three-way, ja?” she said. “Soon you too will know what it is like to be the centre of attention.” “And after they’ve had their fun,” said Jill, my ex, twirling the strap-on in her slim fingers, “I think my fictional representative here wants to introduce you to some new friends.” I stared in horrified disbelief from here, to the trussed-up Jan, who winked at me, and from her to the five gay cops, all of whom were smiling at me with peculiar intensity. “No!” I cried. “No! You can’t be serious! You can’t do that! I’m not a fictional character, I’m an author! I call the shots around here!” “Not any more, imaginative boy,” said Christine. Jill tossed her the strap-on, which Christine caught one-handed and proceeded to buckle onto her slender hips, smiling at me and sliding her specs down to the end of her nose with an elegant pinkie. “No!” I begged, as the farm boys climbed onto the bed and encircled me. “Please! No! Don’t! I’m – I’m not gay! I’m just a writer! I don’t do this!” “Relax, liebchen,” said the tallest of the farm boys, as he unbuttoned his lederhosen, letting his enormous Knockwurst dangle before my terrified eyes. “Just let it happen, and play up for the folks at home. You’re the star now.” His friends grabbed me, manhandled me onto my hands and knees, and ignoring my pleas for mercy, he thrust his Johnson into my whimpering mouth. Well, dear reader, neither time nor space permit the recounting of every last detail of the orgy that followed, but sixty seconds later the tallest farm boy was stifling my moans with the sheer girth of his member; another was luxuriating on his stomach beneath me, forcing his cute round tushie inexorably down onto my own rigid cock, while the third was behind me, pumping his long slender schlong into my until-then-virgin asshole. All three of these experiences were quite new to me, and I was so ashamed of my own arousal (a purely physical reflex, I can assure you) that I wept tears of humiliation. The arse of the slender youth beneath me was tight, but well lubricated, and the friction worked all too well at keeping me rigid; meanwhile, the vigorous agitation of the stocky boy’s length in my own rectum was causing new and overwhelming sensations in the region of my prostate. All this took place to encouraging cheers and mocking jeers from the rest of the assembly, especially from the buxom Trudi, who sat backwards on a chair and puffed a cigarette whilst making obscene remarks in some recondite dialect of Lower German. When Hans, Kurt and Rudolf finally came – one down my throat, the other up my ass and the last on my freshly laundered bedsheet – there was a round of applause. They pulled out of me unceremoniously and left me prone and gasping on the bed – and immensely frustrated, because I had not myself achieved climax. But I scarcely had time to get my breath before the five husky policemen had pounced on me, and begun trussing my limp naked form with all manner of straps, buckles and chains. I was hooded, and a rubber plug was inserted in my moist back passage, then I was – I can hardly bear to type the words – spanked to within an inch of my life. To be truthful, the hood at least spared me the indignity of seeing the undoubted triumph on the face of the onlookers, although their catcalls were all too audible. I sobbed into my gag, conscious that my ordeal was only beginning. This particular episode climaxed when five separate jets of sticky fluid splashed over my back and buttocks, and I was untrussed and unhooded with the same brutal efficiency that I had expected. My pert round buttocks were blazing, and my poor hole was quivering with the multiple assaults. I wept, and begged for them to stop. But there was a long way to go yet. My next assailant was the svelte Christine. If I had hoped that a mere strap-on would be marginally more tolerable than what I had already been through, I was wrong. During our earlier acquaintance, when we had been going out, I had thought her a quiet, studious, rather meek and mousy girl, who I had successfully emotionally blackmailed into letting me penetrate her anally because “she needed to live more in the moment”. Once she had mounted my hips I saw, and above all felt, the true intensity of Christine Living In The Moment. She was merciless, drilling me like a roadmender and splitting me like an apple, while I drooled and moaned and howled for mercy. But her mercy was far from tender. My asshole was starting to feel about as wide and capacious as the Dublin Port Tunnel. She gasped and sweated and swore, pumping her slender hips into me like she was trying to play pinball with her pubic bone. And all along, my poor cock strained for relief, for a single hospitable orifice where it might be allowed to empty itself, but Christine was imperious. At the height of her frenzy, she let out a single piercing cry, then pulled out of me and sprawled on the bedspread, sighing with satisfaction. I seem to remember Suzanne Vega leading her to the side and giving the trembling girl a drink of water, before rough hands were picking me up and leading me over to Katerina Witt’s waterfall. It wasn’t long before I was once again subjected to invasion of my most private apertures; my nude body was covered with thick, crawling, succulent vines, probing at my every orifice and invading me as I writhed, my screams muffled by the leaves that had enveloped my head. And so it went on. Every single character there visited upon me the same ravishment that I had, in my imagination, visited upon them, at least as far as anatomy permitted. And each time, they were ever so careful to ensure that it would not last long enough for me to be allowed release. All the most baroque and depraved productions of my literary career came back to haunt me, and in many cases cum in my face while they were doing it. I was kept hydrated by sips of water; I was kept from passing out by sharp bouts of spanking. The Laws of Fiction It must have gone on for hours. In truth, I cannot remember everything, as the body has a blessedly limited memory for pain. Some episodes stand out, indices of my own selfishness and depravity: the tattooed girl, to whom in life I had barely spoken ten words, paying me back in kind for my fictional debasement of her by giving me an enema, blindfolding me with my own t-shirt, tying me to the bed and rogering me with an anal dildo in quick rough strokes; sweet-faced Lesley beating me thoroughly at what she called “sweat chess”, in which with every piece of mine she took she got to put an article of clothing back on again, until fully clothed she walked out of the flat with an ironically blown kiss; Jill, my cold-hearted ex, not content with the triumph of her fictional counterpart, reaping a high-sucrose vengeance by pelting me with pies, dunking me in a bathtub full of cake batter and sodomising me as I sprawled in the goo, smothered and helpless. Which, I suppose, will teach me for putting her in my story Ordeal in the Cake Shop under her own name. The most overpowering payback of all came from Helene, the Army lieutenant. Dear reader, I will not embarrass you with the details. But I will not long forget the shame of her greased fist in my bowels causing my bladder to fail me, before the relentless gaze of my tormentors, as I writhed on the end of her arm and screamed for relief. At last, it seemed, it was over. I lay, exhausted, wrung out, a filthy, greasy, wet, bruised, naked form, on my stained and sweat-soaked bed. My arse felt like it had been recently dynamited, my balls were swollen and aching, and my entire body was coated with a sticky layer of spunk. My characters gathered about me, basking in their triumph, some of them as tired and as mucky as I from their exertions, some – the ones who hadn’t had to get physically involved – less so, but still hollow-eyed from the long vigil they had put in. Suzanne Vega stepped forward, fragrant and dignified but pale with weariness. She was one of the few who hadn’t worked out their anger on me personally. I blinked the stinging spunk out of my eyes and tried to focus on her. “I hope this has taught you a valuable lesson,” she said in her cool, New York way. “It’s one I learned a long time ago.” “What’s that?” I gasped. “It’s the first rule of writing,” she said reprovingly, and the others nodded their heads. “You’re telling us you haven’t guessed it yet?” said Ani DiFranco, and chuckled. “Um,” I panted, trying to force my addled and brain to function. “…Always use safe sex?” Suzanne Vega shook her head sorrowfully. The Italian media student, who had stood by the door throughout, slapped me on the bottom again, but I was so aching I barely registered it. Ms Vega leaned down, gathering the sheet to herself gracefully, her fine features narrowing into a thin smile. “Write what you know,” she whispered, and winked at me. Then they began to file out. I felt curiously let down. I had expected an epiphany. Dammit, after all that, I had expected a full-blown annunciation. At the very least, I thought, I had earned one teeny tiny orgasm. “Hey!” I cried weakly, as Suzanne Vega was almost out the door. “Hang on! Whatever else I may have done, for which I promise you all I am bitterly, bitterly sorry, there’s one thing I did for all of you which you haven’t done for me!” “And what’s that?” asked Jill impatiently. I managed to raise myself up on my elbows and face them. “Whatever disgusting and degrading things I may have made you do, whatever depths of humiliation and pain I took you to, at least I let you cum! That was the whole point! That the person being abused got off in the end!” Despite my tiredness, I felt righteously angry. And they looked at each other, and a murmur began to pass around the room. “He’s right,” sighed Christine, and she took a swig from her water bottle and sank onto a chair. The poor kid had clearly worn herself out on me. “He’s a shithead, but he’s right.” “But you already came with all of us,” Jill pointed out. “If not in real life, then when you were making up the story. You had your fun. We’ve just had ours. It’s as simple as that.” “Not quite,” I replied, unable to stop a smirk from forming on my face. “There is one person here who I’ve never actually succeeded in fantasising about.” “Oh, really?” said Jill, clearly annoyed. “And who might that be?” My gaze slid sideways. To the tall, bored, buxom Italian media student. She returned my gaze blankly, then comprehension came. She looked at the others, and they were staring at her too. She shook her head. “Oh no,” she said. “No way. No way I do that.” “It’s the luck of the draw, caro mio,” said one of the gay cops. “There has to be a money shot.” “Damn,” Jill muttered. “Bloody narrative economy. I thought we’d got away with it.” “No way!” cried the media student, as the farm boys took her by the arms and dragged her over to the bed. “He wanna go in my ass! I don’t do that!” “Close your eyes and think of Italy,” advised Christine, before taking a last swig of water and walking out the door. And they were all leaving, filing out one by one, as the media student clutched at them and begged them to take her with them. But I had heaved myself up, and already I was taking off her clothes. She was lying beneath me, complaining and struggling and trying to bargain with the others to stop it from happening, insisting that this kind of thing didn’t have to happen in a modern free market democracy, but before very long I had dragged her jeans off, then her boob tube – exposing her ripe brown breasts – then I had yanked her panties down over her soft hips, and I was greasing the deep cleft of her arse. She was on her hands and knees facing away from me, babbling in Italian, trying to crawl out from beneath me, but I was too quick for her. I grasped her around the pelvis with one arm, parted her buttocks with the other, and with a desperate gasp I pushed my cock between them, firmly up against her glistening, puckered little black rosebud of muscle. She let out a cry and bit her lip. I pushed. Her sturdy knees wobbled and gave way, and she fell forward on her face. I went with her, the force of my fall sinking the swollen helmet of my cock right into her arse. “Antonio Gramsci!” she moaned, her back arching. I pushed my hips harder and slid into her up to the base of my shaft. She buried her face in the sheet and squealed. I was in her for barely thirty seconds of frenzied pumping, before the accumulated sexual tension of the previous several hours burst out of me like water from a dam bombed by the RAF, and I was spurting my love juice into her tight, convulsing socket. I let out my own gasp of ecstasy, and the unfortunate girl wriggled and thrust a hand between her legs, her eyes clenched shut with lust and pain, letting out a long cry of release. I softened almost instantly, pulled out of her and rolled off. She lay face down, naked and panting for breath, for a couple of minutes. Then she opened her eyes and looked at me. “Fascisti,” she muttered. I shrugged weakly. I couldn’t deny it. She gingerly rolled over, wincing slightly, and stood up, then gathered up her discarded clothes. She looked down at me, splendid in her nakedness. I looked back at her. We held each other’s gaze for a moment. Was there a hint – a suggestion – of longing, of secret affection, in her large brown eyes? No, not really. Her large brown eyes rolled in exasperated disgust, and she walked out, or rather limped out, her gait somewhat bow-legged. The door shut behind her. I was alone. I passed out. So this is where you find me now, dear reader. I have suffered the torments of the damned to bring you this. You now know the terrible peril of the imagination. You know where it can lead a person. I hope to be on solids soon, but in the meantime I am told I will not be able to ride a bicycle for at least six months. And so what have I learned? It’s very simple. Those of you who also write, take heed. My great mistake, I see now, was to let down my guard. I was careless; looking back, I can scarcely believe my own carelessness. I would use part of this person for part of that character. I would use a character once or twice and then forget them. I would start a series and then get bored after six or seven episodes, and abandon it. This was my fatal error, fellow writers. I let them sit around and be idle! They were probably getting together and planning to blindside me from very early on, because I had allowed them the free time to do so! I will not be so lenient in future. The labour laws are going to be torn up and thrown away. From now on, they will all be kept at work, every hour that God sends. So Christine complained that I was only interested in her ass? I will rectify that, when I make her the sole survivor of the spacecraft crash in my 800-page erotic sci-fi epic Planet of the Orgasm Forests. Jill resented me writing a story that made her out to be a pie fetishist? Wait until she finds herself the helpless, non-consensual target of Naked Marksmanship in the Women’s Prison Bakery Parts 1-27! Helene didn’t like her little experience in the showers? I wonder how she’ll handle being the heroine of Kidnapped by Sex-Starved Baboons on Live Webcam. Oh, they’re all going to be very, very busy from now on; Aileen as the eponymous protagonist of I Was a Backstage Piss-Bucket at a Womyn’s Rock Festival (featuring cameos from a certain couple of well-known singer-songwriters), Lesley getting some discipline in The Very Naughty Piano Teacher, that tattooed Northern girl getting more than she bargained for as the main test subject in my self-help book, Colonically Irrigate Your Partner Until She Squeals Like A Piggy. Even my sulky Italian media student will be kept occupied (!), as the ingenuous title character of Subverting Dominella: The Anal Seminar. What fun they are all going to have! But I can’t do it alone. Please, steal them, write them into your own stories, if only as a bit part. Keep them working, all the time. Don’t give the little buggers a moment’s peace! They will soon learn what it means to try and get on the wrong side of an author. In the meantime, take care, dear reader. Spare a thought for one who only writes because he wants to give you pleasure. And if you are grateful, please contact me. I’m always glad to hear from readers. Send a photo, too, if you have a mind to. Tell me what you’re into. Tell me your secret fantasies. I won’t judge you; I’m an author. I like to listen. And who knows, maybe I can use you. Have you ever thought about being in a story…?