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Blocked

By: HoratioH



Lisa walked into my study to find me staring at a blank Wordpad screen.

"Still struggling?" she said after kissing me on the neck and dropping into the armchair by the window.

She'd been out jogging. Sweat still glistened on her bronze skin, and her long blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail. Her sports bra accentuated her large, full breasts and her running shorts rode up a bit. She was only 5'1", but in bed she was a giant...

She read over my shoulder, "'...in bed she was a giant?'" She snorted. "What, like I take a corset off when I go to bed or something?" She reached over my shoulder and deleted the lines. "Blocked, honey?"

"These things were supposed to be outlet valves so my other writing went more smoothly," I said. "I didn't think they'd be hard to write."

She laughed. "They're not hard for you to write. You just keep slipping into parody."

I shook my head. "I tend to think of it as homage."

"Homage, parody. Whatever. What was with that last one? It didn't even have an ending."

"That's why the working title was 'Lady or the Tiger?'"

"Ah." Lisa lit a cigarette before offering the pack to me. I waved her off.

"Anyway," I said, "the parody element isn't intentional. It just sort of happens when I think too hard about the scenario."

Lisa crossed her legs and blew a smoke ring at me. "I don't know. A guy's zaftig goddess of a daughter stands up naked and dripping from the bathtub and says 'Daddy, do you think I'm fat?' That's got to be intentional. Even if it's subconsciously intentional."

I leaned back in my chair. "You may be right."

She laughed. "You've read too much porn, seen too many movies. Once you question the absurdity of some of the conventions, you're doomed. Or doomed to figure out ways to write about those absurdities. Look, honey, give me a scenario. A standard scenario."

"What category?"

She stretched and then ground out her cigarette in an ashtray before responding. "Hmm. How about incest/taboo?"

"OK. Horny father sees his college-age daughter sunbathing topless at the pool."

"Good. That happens all the time. Now, being the upstanding citizen he is, he immediately wanders out to the pool in his swim trunks. He startles his daughter, who tries to cover up..."

"His 19-year-old drop-dead gorgeous blonde daughter with 36D breasts..."

"Well, sure, if he's a breast man. Dad feigns surprise when he sees her and says, 'Oh, honey, I'm sorry. But I don't want you to feel uncomfortable sunbathing topless...'"

"So he takes off his swim trunks, revealing an enormous erection. Then he looks down and feigns surprise at the erection. His daughter, attempt to cover up forgotten, stares at his cock, mouth gaping."

"Perfect!" She lit another cigarette and blew a couple more smoke rings before continuing. "Now, this guy's sexy 19-year-old daughter turns out to have never seen a penis before."

"Oh, that's good!"

"Yes, it is. So she says to her father, 'Daddy, I suddenly feel very strange looking at your beautiful, disturbing penis, if indeed 'penis' is the name for the mountainous growth between your two legs.'"

"And he says, 'Well, honey, that's because you need more suntan lotion on because you're in danger of developing sun stroke!'"

Lisa laughed. "Exactly. 'OK, Daddy," she says as she starts to roll over, exposing the two perfect tanned globes of her ass."

"The father says, 'No, honeybun. You need more suntan lotion on your breasts.' He picks up a bottle of lotion and walks over to stand above her."

"She says, 'Um, OK, Daddy, but I sure do feel funny. Maybe it is because I have never seen a penis before.'"

I laughed. "He says, 'Well, honey, if it would make you feel better, why don't you touch my penis?'"

Lisa said, "She says, 'Smashing idea...'"

"'Smashing idea?' What, suddenly she's British?"

"Sorry. 'Yes, Daddy, if you think that touching your penis would be normal and perfectly OK, I would indeed like to touch it.'"

"Daddy smiles reassuringly at her. 'Of course, pumpkin, it would be fine.'"

Lisa said, "The daughter reaches out and tentatively touches her father's cock. It's the largest cock she's ever seen."

I shook my head. "She's never seen another one, remember."

"Oh, right. Even in pictures? Yeah, yeah, OK. Well, it's a huge cock, as thick as a can of soda and twice as long. The balls are as big as tennis balls and attractively shaved. As soon as she touches it, she's filled with lust. No, she actually cums when she touches it, soaking her swimsuit bottom with her delicate sexual juices."

I nodded, typing frantically. "'Oh, Daddy,' she says, still quivering from her sudden orgasm, 'I'm not sure I should touch it any more.' She withdraws her hand."

Lisa frowned, deep in thought. "Her father says, 'Well, honey, why don't you just touch it with your lips? Maybe that would be OK.'"

"The daughter looks puzzled. 'Um, OK, Daddy.' Then she sits up and tentatively takes the head of his cock into her mouth."

"Good. Now we have several paragraphs in which the father educates her on how to give a blow job."

"Good, good." I typed in silence for awhile. "Finally, overcome with lust, he pulls out of her mouth and ejaculates all over her gigantic, perky, perfect breasts."

"Right. Oh, her boobs have nipples the size and approximate color of gold doubloons."

"Doubloons?"

"Doubloons. With baby carrots erupting from them."

"You're the boss."

She smiled. "And then the father immediately gets hard again, so quickly and violently that his penis slaps up against his stomach with a full, meaty sound, like a baseball bat made of meat hitting a ball made of meat."

"That's some hard-on. And his daughter says..."

Lisa thought for a second. "Um. Licking her lips, his daughter says, 'That's the best suntan lotion a daughter ever had, Daddy!'"

I rubbed my chin. "Not bad."

"Are you getting all this down?"

"My fingers are dancing as fast as they can. OK, what now?"

"Hmm." Lisa stretched again. "OK, filled with sexual energy, the father lies on a towel on the pool deck. He instructs the daughter to take off her swimsuit bottom."

"It's a white thong."

"OK, thong. And it's ridden way up and soaked in her maidenly orgasmic juices, so it takes a minute to extract it and get it off. She has a perfectly clean-shaved pussy."

I kept typing. "It's the most perfect thing he's ever seen."

Lisa nodded. "Of course it's the most perfect thing he's ever seen. Indeed, he gasps and nearly faints, his head swimming when he sees this perfect pussy. He's been traumatized for years by his wife's hairy pussy and by her refusal to let him cum on her breasts, and now all at once all his dreams have been realized on one perfect, sun-drenched afternoon."

"The daughter says, 'Oh, Daddy, I don't know that we should do this.'"

Lisa pursed her lips. "But suddenly she trips and falls right on his penis. He accidentally penetrates her right to the hilt of his cock. They both gasp!"

"And start screwing like rabbits."

"Right. The daughter is completely filled by the enormous cock, and cums almost immediately, screaming, 'Yes, Daddy! Oh!' But she's a trouper, so she keeps fucking him. His daughter's pussy is tight but well-lubricated, so the father is terribly excited as well. They grunt and groan and thrash. Periodically, the father sucks on the daughter's nipples or the two of them gaze longingly into each other's light-blue eyes, perfectly content for the first time in either of their lives."

"We need something to pump this up at this point."

"In between thrusts and grunts, the father reveals his fantasy of nursing at his daughter's boobs, of tasting her sweet breast milk. 'Ah,' he cries, 'if only you had just had a child!' She responds by sharing her fantasy of being impregnated by him. 'Oh, Daddy, if only I weren't on the Pill so that your cum could find purchase within my virgin womb!' They grunt and thrash some more."

I raised a hand. "Why is the virginal daughter who's never seen a penis on the pill?"

Lisa snapped her fingers. "Acne control."

"OK." I typed some more. "OK, what else?"

Lisa sat and thought for a second before responding. "Ah. Unbeknownst to the two of them as they satiate their lust, the daughter's twin brother has been watching all this from his bedroom window. He too is overcome with lust at the sight of his gorgeous sister and well-hung father going at it."

"Fraternal twin?"

Lisa laughed. "Unless this is a story about cloning or something, they've got to be fraternal, right? Can't have identical twins of different genders."

"Oh, right. Unless one had a sex change."

Lisa rubbed her chin. "Hmm. Sex change. No, let's leave that for the sequel. So anyway, the 19-year-old brother is overcome with lust because he wanted to sleep with his sister."

"Indeed, just the past month he drilled a hole through the wall separating their bedrooms so he could surreptitiously watch her dress and undress."

"Bingo. And every once in awhile he stuck his cock through the hole while she was sleeping and spunked all over the pile of used panties that was conveniently stacked up directly below the hole in the wall that his sister never noticed.

I typed faster. "That's terrific. Really good."

"Now, he's filled with lust. His cock is longer than his father's but not as thick."

"Maybe he'll fill out."

Lisa laughed. "Right. Anyway, he looks out the window and then down at his cock, which he's generously lubed up so he can jack off. He's naked. He's a bronze Adonis. He thinks a bit and then runs naked downstairs and out to the pool."

"Ah. Nice."

"The father and daughter are locked into their own world as she goes up and down on him. Suddenly, she yelps and then moans with ecstasy as her brother's lube-slick cock enters her ass from behind."

I was trying to catch up on the keyboard. "Sorry -- from behind?"

"Well, how else?"

"Oh, right."

"Anyway, the three are shocked at first, but they're all so filled with sexual energy that they almost immediately start fucking again. Several paragraphs of fucking ensue with the three in every possible combination."

"Including father-son?"

"Yeah. The two men have suddenly discovered that they're both bisexual. Finally, after a lot of cumming on the part of all parties, they end up with the brother cumming in his sister's pussy while the father blows his load in her mouth. Then they collapse exhausted and sweaty on the pool deck, bodies intertwined."

I finished typing. "Hmm. Then what?"

Lisa rubbed her chin. "How about, the father then lifts his weary head from his daughter's cum-covered bosom..."

"Bosom?"

"Sorry, boobs. Cum-covered boobs. And he says, "Now let's all go for ice cream!"

I sat and thought about it. "Or how about then the mother walks into the pool area, looks at the naked bodies lying there, and says, 'Now that's what I call a sticky situation!'

Lisa nodded. "And then she tears off her clothes and starts sucking her son's cock while the father does her from behind and the brother eats out the sister.

"Shouldn't the three of them be exhausted? I mean, sure, the mother probably is ready to go."

"They're overcome with lust."

"Right. Right." I typed some more. "So more fucking ensues and then the four of them collapse in a heap. The End?"

Lisa shook her head and lit another cigarette. "Of course not. They lie there entangled in a cum-covered heap when suddenly, there's a knock at the pool door."

"Aha. Pizza delivery?"

Lisa raised an eyebrow. "When did they have time to call for pizza?"

"You're right, that's totally unrealistic. So who is it?"

"Hmm." Lisa got up and paced around. Suddenly, she snapped her fingers and sat down again with a look of triumph on her face. "OK, the mother's a gorgeous blonde high school teacher. And in the house next door lives a former student who's now a 20-year-old college basketball player."

"African-American?"

"Hmm. Yeah, that's fine. He's always had the hots for the mother. And he's just watched this whole performance. So he walks into the pool area, all six-foot-eight of him, naked except for a massive smile and an even more massive hard-on. Seeing him, the mother scrambles over and starts giving him a blow-job while her exhausted family watches. But his cock's so big that the mother needs help, so the daughter also goes over to supply coverage."

"How big is this cock?"

"Monolithic. It's got its own gravity well around it. Light bends trying to go around this cock."

"That's a big cock."

"Yep. Aroused by the sight of this, the father and son start going at it, taking turns as top. The next-door neighbor is fucking the daughter anally while he simultaneously eats out the mother."

I stopped typing.

"Problem?" Lisa said.

"Just trying to envision...OK, I got it."

"Good. Hmm. Suddenly, there's another knock at the pool door."

"OK, who is it this time?"

"It's...the father's bisexual mistress, who had let herself into the house and has watched much of this production from one of the bedroom windows."

"Why would she let herself into the house?"

"Hmm. Because she's the father's 35-year-old half-sister who's into BDSM."

I paused. "Yeah, that works." I started typing again.

"She comes into the pool area in full bondage gear, complete with one strap-on attached and a second in her hand. Her breasts with their elegantly pierced nipples stand up proud, huge and erect from her leather peekaboo bustier, and her beautiful bald head..."

"Bald head?"

"Bald, mocha-colored head. She and her brother share the same white mother, but her father was a famous African-American athlete who had a one-night stand with their mother while their father was out of town at a Baptist ministers' convention. Anyway, this gorgeous, smooth, cafe au lait head glistens in the afternoon sun, as does the strap-on and all the white leather she's wearing. Everyone stops fucking, awed by her appearance. And she says..."

"'Don't stop on account of me.'"

Lisa nodded. "Yeah, that's fine. So now they form up into a giant daisy-chain. The daughter puts on the extra strap-on and starts fucking her dad up the ass. He groans in pleasure as he enters his half-sister, who in turn starts fucking the son up the ass with her strap-on while the son screws his mother from behind while she blows the basketball player. And then..."

"There's a knock on the door?"

"Yeah. Because unbeknownst to everyone there, the basketball team and the cheerleading squad of the college the ex-student attends have been watching this performance from the former student's living room. And now, overcome with lust..."

I stopped typing. "Lisa?"

"Yeah?"

"Leave something for the sequel."

She nodded. "Yeah, but we haven't even got to the part where the sexually curious hermaphroditic aliens land in the pool. Or when the principal of the school who's also a sexually frustrated werewolf shows up because he's got the dates wrong and thinks today is the staff barbecue the mother is hosting."

"Lisa."

She nodded. "You're right. Want to go for some ice cream?"

I saved the file and shut down the computer before answering. "Yeah, but only if we get into a sticky situation after."

She grinned and licked her lips. "I can think of a few things."

THE END

Blocked!



Prologue.

"Damn writer's block! Damn it to hell!"

I sat before my lap top in the large dining room waiting for inspiration. There was nothing. A hundred times, or so it seemed, I had begun to tap in words, and then deleted them.

"Rubbish, all bloody rubbish," I silently wailed. "I'll never be able to write another story, ever."

Chapter 1.The Mountain Hideaway. 

It had started weeks before, this confounded inability to string two words together in an intelligible manner, sod it. I had ranted and raved as I'd paced the floor of the flat, until my flatmate, Ivor, said, "For God's sake Chris, going on like this is getting you nowhere, and to be frank, I'm getting sick of it. You've become impossible to live with, I feel like clearing out for good."

That stopped me in my tracks. Ivor was an easy guy to live with except his girlfriends sometimes got a bit noisy when they made love. In addition, he was a good cook and I needed him to help meet the rent.

Ivor went on, "Look Chris, why don't you get away for a while. I've heard about other writers who when they can't write go away somewhere on their own for a while. It seems that the change and seclusion often gets them going again. Why not try it, there's nothing to hold you here?"

He was right about "nothing to hold me". Financially I managed on the miserable pittance I got from my publisher for my work. I was with a small publishing company called "Eros and Cupid." They specialised, as they claimed, in works "Erotic and Exotic." Ms. Eros was a sort of female-male and Mr.Cupid a male-female.

I had several works published by them and recently Mr. Cupid had said to me as he adjusted a pink tulle bow in his hair: "Christopher darling, we've been getting a little slack lately, haven't we? We've not been working as we should, sweetie, and Ms. Eros and I don't much care for that my love. We haven't written a great novel, have we precious? I mean, my darling, we haven't exactly written a rival to Tolstoy's 'War and Peace'. Thus we cannot rest on our laurels, can we? So, my treasure, we expect something from you very soon or we may have to consider your place on our books. If you need a little help, we can provide a suitable amanuensis should you so desire; the cost of course, coming out of your royalties" (they liked to use words like that instead of fee or percentage).

I thanked him very humbly for the offer of secretarial assistance at my own cost, and said I would let him know if I needed that sort of help. Mr. Cupid gave a final tug at his bow and dismissed me with the parting words, "Remember my sweet, something very soon." I left with my metaphorical tail between my legs knowing that if anything could help raise my writer's block to new heights of paralysis, that interview had done it. 

Another factor in the situation was that my most recent girlfriend had decided she preferred the assistant manager of a department store to an impecunious writer. Hence there was no current sexual attachment to hold me back from seeking distant solitude. 


"I think I know just the place for you," Ivor said enthusiastically. 

He was obviously eager to send me on my way with my wretched unpredictable outbursts. On the other hand, it might have been that he wanted to hold a sex orgy in the flat, and knew I wouldn't agree because the last time we had one so many things got broken. I hasten to add that I don't mean hymens got broken because there weren't any to break, the ex-maidens all being, as it were, well seasoned.

"All right", I said, "tell me about this restorative place."

"You'll love it", he said. "It's up in the mountains, a fantastic house built by some eccentric old gold fossicker called 'Jarvis Bleeby' who struck it rich back in the nineteenth century and built himself an imitation English Manor House. It's miles from anywhere and is looked after by an old lady called Mrs. McIntosh. The place is used sometimes by people wanting to 'get away from it all', or companies when they want to get their executives isolated so they can brain wash them."

"I couldn't afford anything like that," I complained.

"How do you know", Ivor retorted. "You haven't even tried asking, and its winter and therefore the 'off season'. Look, I know Mrs. McIntosh through my mother; I'll telephone her and ask, if you like."

"Mrs. McIntosh? I queried, "So the place went out of the Bleeby family".

"Oh, the isolation drove old Bleeby mad and he cut his throat."

"What! You want me to go up there and commit suicide?"

"Don't be so damned silly, Chris," Ivor replied crossly. "The old boy spent all his money building the place so he was near broke when it was finished. He wasn't married and couldn't afford servants, so he was up there in that great house on his own. He still fossicked but never had another lucky find; he just found enough gold to keep himself alive." 

"His body wasn't discovered for more than two months. About once a month he used to ride his horse, the only companion he had, into Wingalila Creek for supplies. When he didn't turn up at the store one month they were a bit puzzled. When it got to two months the local cop thought he'd better go up and see if the old guy was okay. That's when his body was found. It had been partly eaten by rats."

"Hey, I'm not going to a place like that," I objected vociferously. 

"For God's sake, Chris, it happened nearly a hundred and twenty years ago. What are you afraid of, the old guy's ghost? Mrs. McIntosh lives up there by herself during the off season. She hires in help when the season is on, but apart from that, well...anyway why is a great lump of muscle like you scared?"

"I'm not scared. " I mumbled, but I must admit I thought it sounded eerie.

"Look Chris, just let me ring the old girl and find out if she'll take you. If she says its okay, go up there, and if you don't like it after a couple of days you can leave."

"Oh all right," I agreed reluctantly, hoping the Mrs. McIntosh would say 'no'.

Damn it, she said "yes". So, two days later I was heading for "Mountain Hideaway" in my ancient and battered Volkswagen. 

Mrs. McIntosh had made it clear to Ivor that I would get three meals a day, bed linen and a "clean-up" as she put it, three times a week. "All else to be supplied by self." 

It took me five hours to get to the place including a brief stop at Wingalila Creek for a pie. The house was about another hour's drive along a winding dirt road. I'd almost decided that I'd missed the place when I saw a large sign, "Mountain Hideaway Conference Centre and Retreat." 

A narrow track led up a long gully, and there, nestling against a hill at the end of the gulley was the house, an ugly sort of place that looked as if it was a mixture of Georgian and late Victorian architecture. In fact I doubt if an architect had a hand in designing the place. Really I think it must have been Bleeby's demented concept of what an English Country Manor looked like.

I got out of the car and cautiously approached the huge front door. There was a lion headed bell pull that I tugged on to produce the sound of cathedral bells clanging somewhere in the depths of the Hideaway.

Chapter 2. Mrs. McIntosh

After a considerable wait I heard through the thick doors the rattling of chains being removed and locks being turned. Finally the door creaked open to reveal a woman of considerable stature in, I guessed, her mid sixties.

"Mr. Dennis?" she asked with a hint of suspicion in her voice.

"Er...yes. Mrs. McIntosh?"

"Yers. Gotcha room ready. Come in."

I walked into a huge hallway with a ceiling that seemed somewhere up in the clouds and was guided up the stairs by a silent Mrs. McIntosh to a slightly less huge but still very big bedroom with an impressive four poster bed.

"I've put yer in 'ere," she said. "Yerv got the use of the small dinin' room and usual offices. I'll show yer where they are and yer bring yer own stuff in. Breakfast at eight, lunch at twelve noon and dinner at six thirty, Two 'undred dollars down na an a 'undred a week. Orl right?"

I signified my acceptance of the laconic terms and paid up. I was then shown the "usual offices" and the "small" dining room. Actually the dining room could easily have accommodated three large families with room to spare.

Being winter and cold up in the mountains I noted that the massive fireplace was laid ready to be lit with a supply of, not so much logs as tree trunks, stacked on either side.

"More logs out the back if yer want 'em. Get 'em yerself an id'll cost yer extra. Orl right?"

Again I signified that I understood and accepted the terms.

"Leave yer na. Yerv missed lunch so next meal is dinner. Orl right?"

I said it was orl, I mean, all right, even though it wasn't because my Wingalila Creek pie had hardly served to satisfy the empty space within.

"By the way, as most of our guests want ter know, I'll tell yer. This is the room were old Bleeby done 'iself in, over there at the table. 'E was sittin' in that chair." She pointed to a throne like seat. "Some reckon they can still see the blood stain on the table. Can't see it meself. Orl right?"

Mrs. McIntosh moved off with stately tread leaving a depressed Chris contemplating with little enthusiasm the coming days.

I took a look at the table and failed to see any sign of a residual bloodstain, then decided how to arrange myself. 

The dining room seemed the best place to work in. Apart from the main table that was of a size to seat about twenty people, there was another smaller table that would serve to put my lap top on. I looked around and found, to my surprise, a fairly liberal supply of power points, so I lugged what was to be my work table nearer the fireplace, and went out to get my gear from the car.

Having dispersed the gear suitably around the bedroom, dining room and "usual offices", I lit the fire, and I must say it did lend a more cheerful aspect to the room.

There was no desk lamp, so I heaved a standard lamp over to the work table. I looked up and saw suspended from the distant ceiling a massive chandelier. "That will give plenty of light," I thought, and pressed a wall switch by the door. The result was disappointing. Had it been fully armed the chandelier would have been wonderful. Sadly it was but a shade of its former self, having had about seventy-five percent of the bulbs removed, and what remained of low wattage. 

I think I must have started to become inured to the situation, because I gave a mental shrug and thought, "Can't have it all, I suppose."

I set up the lap top together with its cheap printer and a pile of paper.

Having got that far, I fell into a lethargy that decided there would be no attempt to work that day. Instead I took a look around the rest of the mausoleum and found it impressive in size but hideous in appearance.

I strolled outside and tucked the car away in what must have been stables long ago. I then had a look around the grounds. 

Unexpectedly the surrounds were quite well cared for. Being winter the flower beds were not at their best, but a little imagination helped visualise them in summer. The mountain forest pressed close up against the grounds as if threatening that one day it would come storming in to recapture its lost territory.

By the time I had finished my wander around it was approaching six-thirty, and having calculated that it would not be wise to keep Mrs. McIntosh waiting, I retired to the dining room.

Mrs. McIntosh entered promptly at six thirty bearing a tray, and announced economically; "Yer dinner," and departed.

I looked at the contents of the tray to find three plates. One contained soup, the next a couple of chops and vegetables, and finally a plate containing a sticky mess covered with a yellow substance that I took to be a pudding disguised with custard.

Having all three dishes delivered at once indicated that speedy eating was required if I was to have anything approaching a hot meal. I munched and swallowed at speed, and if the food was not especially appetizing at least it filled an inner void. 

Finishing the meal I considered what I should do for the rest of the evening. As far as I could see there was no television set or even a radio. Fortunately I had brought with me a small radio, and retrieving it from the bedroom I settled in front of the fire in the dining room and roamed the radio dial for something interesting to listen to. 

I quickly discovered that the surrounding mountains did nasty things to radio waves and when I did find a programme that sounded okay; it crackled, hissed and faded in and out. The only station that came through clearly was one that seemed to consist mainly of advertisements, interspersed by an announcer who sounded like a demented parrot who screeched at the listener, "This is a great, great song". All the songs he presented were "Great, great songs," sung by "Great, great" singers," whom for the most part I had never heard of.

After half an hour of the parrot chatter I surrendered and turned the radio off. 

Having noted in the cavernous hallway an ancient telephone, I decided to telephone Ivor to abuse him. I got through to him, told him what I thought about his choice of a retreat, and heard in the background the shrill squeaks of female laughter and chatter.

Ivor, clearly intent on my not returning to the flat in the very near future, was placatory.

"Stick it out, old boy. Just give it a few days trial. You might get to like it."

I told him what he might attempt to do to himself, realising that in fact shortly it was what he would be doing to others, and slammed down the hand piece.

I even considered going in search of Mrs. Mcintosh for company, which indicates the desperation I was experiencing due to lack of companionship and entertainment. On second thoughts I decided against Mrs. McIntosh. She seemed to hibernate somewhere in the distant depths of the house, and recalling her terse manner, concluded that conversation with her, would be less than enthralling.

With that thought I decided for bed, a book and if possible, sleep.

Ensconced in the four poster, I went to sleep sooner than I anticipated and slept soundly.

Chapter 3. Came the Dawn. 

I awoke to a pleasant winter morning and the distant sound of magpies warbling in the dawn sunlight. I even felt in a slightly cheerful mode in contrast to my previous nights despair.

The cheerful mode was modified a little when, on entering the dining room for breakfast, I discovered that Mrs. McIntosh had already set out my meal. It consisted of a box of cornflakes, a small jug of milk and bowl of sugar, plus what I assumed to be coffee in a mug that was in turn encased in a container that was supposed to keep it warm.

I drank the coffee first while it still retained some semblance of heat, and then filled myself up with cornflakes. 

That over I decided on a brief walk round the grounds before attempting work. Half an hour poking into outhouses, sheds, stables and trying to view the house from various angles to see if it had any worthwhile architectural features added nothing to my previous aesthetic decisions about the place. It was simply ugly.

I returned to the dining room and noted that the fireplace had been cleaned and the fire re-laid. "Ah, there is some service around here," I rejoiced, but decided the day was too warm to light the fire.

I settled before the lap top and waited for inspiration. Nothing! I tried making a start pattering in words that when I read back made no sense. All that day I battered my brain to find a plot, a theme, anything. I typed and deleted over and over again until I was in an even more despairing mood than the previous evening.

At the point of hurling the lap top against the wall, I decided that I would hide my misery in bed. In contrast to the previous night I slept fitfully and awoke miserably to a dawn that revealed the temperature had fallen during the night, and the bedroom was freezing. Wrapped in my dressing gown I peered out of the window to see a grey dawn and a lowering sky. 

Chapter 4. An Unexpected Arrival

I hastened my morning ablutions so as to be in time for the arrival of breakfast and therefore coffee still with some residual warmth left in it.

I was in the dining room when Mrs. McIntosh arrived bearing the tray.

"Breakfast. Id'll snow before long." She left with her customary stately tread. 

I swallowed the already lukewarm coffee and ate the cardboard-like cornflakes. Being a student of cereal packets and sauce bottles I noted that one plateful of the packet's contents would sustain me for hours and ensure regular opening of my bowels.

The dreary aspect through the dining room window and the fact that the McIntosh predicted snow was falling, failed to tempt me into a morning stroll, so I set match to fire and attempted to work.

It was at mid-morning when I finally exploded with my "Writer's block" wail. I was in the slough of despond, the mire of misery. I saw myself as never writing again, and having to spend the rest of my life as a fettler in a foundry or some such inspiring task.

I lusted for a mid-morning cup of tea, but feared the terse Mrs. McIntosh's disapproval of such conspicuous consumption.

Then I rallied my scattered forces, what was left of them, and decided on one more assault upon the castle "Block".

"Something sexy to open with," I thought. "It'll catch the eye and interest of the prurient." 

I sat myself once more before the lap top and commenced:

"The young, lovely and unsullied Wendy lay upon the bed naked. I let my eyes traverse her beautifully body. The long blonde hair spread like a fan over the pillow; her splendid dark blue eyes, with their look of ineffable pleading; the pert nose and full sensuous lips with the tip of her tongue protruding slightly between them; the long neck with a full throat and soft round shoulders above the milk white swelling breasts with their pink nipples. A wedge of blonde pubic hair descended from her mons to the neat tight cleft between her long luscious legs that now parted to entice me to enter her virginal womanhood."

"'Dear God', I thought, 'the most beautiful female in the whole world', if only she was real."

There was a tinkling silvery laugh right beside my left ear and a soft melodious voice said, "That's a bit of an exaggeration darling."

I stopped typing and whipped my head round, my nose almost colliding with a face peering over my shoulder. My eyes were at such close range to the face I could not take in the features properly, but the voice went on; "I grant you I'm very attractive, but 'the most beautiful female in the whole world!' I think you'd better tone that down a bit, Christopher." 

The face stopped looking over my shoulder and withdrew a little distance from me. I could now see that its owner was a young female.

In a state close to shock I spluttered out, "Who the hell are you; where did you come from?"

Another silvery laugh; "Christopher, that's not very kind. You just created me and you don't know me?"

I was unable to absorb what she was saying properly so in my bewildered fashion I said, "I thought I was the only one in the house, except for Mrs. McIntosh. Who are you?"

"There was only you and Mrs. McIntosh until you made me. Look at me Christopher and see if you can recognise me."

I stared at the figure before me, and I must admit she was worth staring at. Long blonde hair, dark blue eyes, pert nose and...my God, Wendy!" The girl whose details were on the lap top screen right in front of me was standing before me!

"I'm going mad," I said out loud. "It's this place, this bloody awful house and its lousy food; it's getting to me."

"Well of course, darling, it is dreadful place but after all, you can change it."




Blocked!



"I'm hallucinating", I wailed, "it's all the stress I've been under. Go away whatever you are; I don't want to see you."

"You are a very unkind person, Christopher," the apparition said, looking as if it was going to cry. "You wanted me to be real, and now you're telling me to go away. Well there are plenty of other authors who will be happy to have me around, so if you don't want my company, just press the delete button and we'll both be happy."

Following her precept I let my finger hover over the delete button.

"If you press that button I shall never come to you again, never ever. By the way, you forgot to select the text you want to delete."

I withdrew my finger from the button and flopped back in my seat staring at the...it...her... It was the Wendy of my creation, not naked however, but dressed rather tastefully in a warm slack suit, her blonde hair falling down her neck in a cascade that fanned out over her shoulders.

"I wrote you naked on a bed," I admonished her. "You're dressed."

"Well yes, darling, but that opening paragraph was really a teeny bit brash, don't you think? It's my contention that even the most gross of our readers like a bit of a lead up; you know, the lustful looks and groping hands, the slow undressing of me by whoever the man is. Incidentally, you haven't said who he is. Can I make up my own sex partner?"

"Yes...no...please, I've been having a bad time of it lately, so just tell me this is all some weird sort of joke and you are a real person."

"I'm as real as you want me to be and as solid as you can write me," she answered with another laugh. "If you don't believe who and what I am, then as I told you, just delete me and I'll never bother you again."

"No!" I almost screamed. "This is insane. I'm getting out of here right now."

I made for the door and I heard her laugh again; "You can't leave my darling Christopher. No until you've ..."

"Oh can't I," I yelled, "Just you watch me."

I turned to exit through the door, and there was no door. My brain did a few somersaults and I made a desperate effort to find the door, believing I must have been mistaken as to its location. There was just no door and, looking around, no windows either. In fact there was nothing except a room with a large double bed and the table with my lap top on it.

"Oh God", I moaned, "What the hell is going on?"

The apparition was sitting on the edge of the bed looking at me with smiling concern.

"Christopher, why don't you calm down? It's obvious to me you've never had this experience before, no wonder you're such a poor writer."

That got under my skin properly; "I'm not a poor writer. I've had several novels published."

"I know sweetie, but whom with? That grotty Eros and Cupid. You don't think that makes you a Hawthorne or Dostoevsky, do you?"

"Well, no, but..."

"There's no 'Well, no, but' about it, my darling. Part of your problem is that your characters are never real. You haven't visualised them clearly. That's where I can help you."

"How?"

"That's better Christopher, now we can get somewhere. It's really quite simple. You started to write about me, Wendy, not very well, but you were trying. Then you wanted me to be real, so here I am."

"But the room, it's all changed."

"Of course it has you silly boy, you haven't written the room in properly. All you had was a bed with me on it naked and some unnamed and undescribed fellow staring down at me. If you want more, you have to write it. See, you've been left your little computer, so why not make a start. Of course, if you don't want to go ahead, as I told you, you only have to press the delete button – don't forget to select the text – and it will all be as it was before I appeared."

"You mean I can create my own room?"

"Of course; and your own characters and situations and I can help you. I've worked with a lot of authors and many of them became quite famous. You've heard of George Eliot, Charles Dickens, J.B. Priestley and Jane Austen, haven't you?"

"You mean you've actually..."

"Of course I have. I even did a stint with Shakespeare once. I missed out on Balzac; young Eugenie gave him quite a bit of help though, lucky girl."

"This is crazy...impossible."

"Is it? Did you or did you not start to write about me?"

"Yes."

"Did you or did you not wish me to be real?"

"Well, I suppose so."

"Am I or am I not here?"

"I suppose you're here."

"At last he sees it," she said with a sigh. "Now, my dear man, make up your mind. Do you want me to stay here and help you write or do you want to delete me?"

"I don't know."

"Heaven help me, he doesn't know. I can't delete myself, its one of the things we are not allowed to do. Only the author can do that. But I can give you suggestions on where you're story ought to go and its characters. Now come on Christopher either let me help you or get rid of me. I mean, it's so easy for you these days. At one time if an author wanted to get rid of a character they had to scratch lines out with a pen, or work away with those awful pieces of rubber. Do you know some authors have had to throw whole pages away, even chapters. A lot of people don't know this, but when I was working with Emily Bronte she had to throw away nearly a whole book once and start again. All you've got to do is give a few clicks and press a button. Anyway, I'm getting sick of this hanging around so make up your mind."

"I'll be very sorry if you delete me, of course. Lots of male authors have fallen in love with me, even female authors, but most of them were so unattractive. Just think of bald old Shakespeare. I never could understand what his wife saw in him."

"The authors fall in love with you?"

"Of course, that's the important part of it. What's the use of an author writing about a beautiful sexy woman if he doesn't fancy her himself. How is he going to write convincingly?"

"So I'm supposed to fall in love with you?"

"I hope so. I mean, when I saw what a sexy hunk you are I thought, "It'll be nice to have a really seductive author for a change."

"Do you fall in love with the authors?"

"Sometimes, if they're sexy enough, but it can get a bit awkward you see."

"Awkward?"

She failed to respond to my question and said, "Well, do we work or not?"

My mother's old saw, "Nothing ventured nothing gained", came to mind. "All right, help me."

Chapter 5. Notes for a Melodrama. 

"Praise be!" She exclaimed; "The boy has decided at last. Right, get to the computer."

"Now I suggest that we work on the location first. I think we couldn't do better than the one you were in. Mysterious forest clad mountain, old mansion – of course we can spark it up a bit, make it a remote mountain luxury hotel and improve the architecture and furnishing."

"And the service," I added.

"That's it, your getting the idea. We can have a proper hotel staff who waits to do our every bidding, but who are also very discreet. I know several characters we can call on for that. But let's get the place in order first."

"Well, we've got a bedroom."

"And a pretty uninteresting one it is too. All it's got is a bed. I suggest we scrub the bedroom for the time being, we can get back to it later. Let's begin with the delightfully quaint old entrance hall with its reception desk and wonderful pictures and sculptures by old masters. Now delete everything you've written so far except my name. For goodness sake don't delate my name or I'm gone like a puff of smoke."

I deleted and began to type in the opening scene in the entrance hall. As I did this the hall began to form around us with Wendy constantly making suggestions: "No, the Degas on that wall and the Rodin statue over there...no, no, no, darling, not that one. This is supposed be an erotic story, we want "The Kiss."

"What about the walls?"

"That sexy red colour I think."

I wrote in, "The walls were sexy red."

"My God, no," she exclaimed when we saw the result, "It looks too like a brothel. It's supposed to be an upmarket hotel not a sleazy whore house. Try "Cherry Red."

I typed it in and the result was somewhat more desirable. It still had the right hint of the erotic without being too blatant.

"It's still not quite right," Wendy said, contemplating. "Its paint and I think we want wallpaper, perhaps...perhaps with silver fleur-de-lis."

I typed.

"Mmm, wonderful darling. Now let's have a male receptionist clad in a morning suit with a carnation in his buttonhole...Oh excellent; now for my entrance. I've come meet my lover the famous athlete er...what shall we call him?"

"Spud Collins," I suggested off the top of my head.

Her lip curled. "Really Christopher, you are utterly hopeless. We need a romantic name, not someone called after a Potato". 

"Well what do you suggest?" I retorted, somewhat miffed. 

"What about Steel Wolf".

"Doesn't sound very romantic to me."

"That's because you're not a woman. To me it suggests someone strong and predatory; a man a girl would want to sacrifice her virginity for, and that's why I've come to the hotel, to offer him my maidenhood. I shall surrender my lovely body to his passionate embraces."

"If you say so. What next?"

"I go up to the reception desk; the receptionist who has seen me enter is transfixed by my beauty. He can barely speak as I give him my name. I am calling myself Mrs. Wendy Wolf and I ask if Mr. Wolf has arrived yet. He stammers out, "Yes madam, you are in the honeymoon suite. I shall ring for the porter to bring in your things from the Rolls Royce; meanwhile the boy will show you to your suite". He snaps his fingers, 'Boy'".

"I say Wendy, your laying it on a bit thick aren't you?"

"I'm only just getting started so just keep typing. As I cross the entrance hall following the boy I am suddenly frozen with horror. 'He' is here."

"Who?"

"Him".

"Who's him?"

"The incredibly wealthy, smooth, suave and sophisticated Duke of Rutshire".

"Why the horror?"

"He lusts for my gorgeous body. He has offered me wealth and status in the highest society. He says he will divorce his wife and marry me, but if I refuse he will kill me then himself."

"But he's old and ugly?"

"No, no, Christopher, he is young and handsome, women adore him, and it's his wife who is old and ugly. She's a wealthy American widow whom he married for her money. Are you getting all this down."

"I'm trying, I'm trying," I protest.

His sees me, and his black eyes flash with sensuous hunger for me. His wife is suspicious and drags him from the hall".

"Why don't you have him instead of this Wolf fellow?"

"Oh, you men can never understand. Steel is a virgin like me and I want his pure sweet adoration. Together we shall fly to a paradise of spiritual love".

"I'd go for the title and the money myself...unless...unless the Duke's wife takes the money with her if they get divorced."

"No, Christopher. That was all tied up when they got married. She handed the lot over to him."

"Go on, she wouldn't be so stupid."

"Christopher, this is a story. It's the struggle between good and evil, lust and love, power and purity. That old film director got it right...Cecil somebody...he said what you needed was a mix of violence, sex and religion. That's what people want. Virtue must triumph in the end, but before that you've got to have lots of blood, people being hacked to pieces, virgins violated, religious leaders thrown to the lions."

"In a mountain hotel?"

"Christopher, are you totally dense? I'm talking about broad principles, not specifics. Now can we get on with the story?"

"All right, so what happens next?"

"She goes to the honeymoon suite where her lover is waiting for her. She is shaking with apprehension, but the sight of Steel steadies her. His tall lithe figure – he's six feet two...no, make that six feet four – overwhelms her and she is soon ensconced in his arms, her vagina wet with lubricant her nipples hardening as he kisses her passionately".

"She pleads with him, 'Take me now my darling, I am all yours'. He tenderly unbares her..."

"Unbares?"

"All right, if you want to be so unartistic, strips her. He lays her gently on the bed – this is where your original opening comes in – then unba...strips him self. He stands beside the bed, gazing rapturously at her lovely body – that's me of course – his eyes take in her hair, her eyes, lips, neck, breasts and other sexual accoutrements. You can fill in the details you've used them often enough in your other stories".

"His manhood has risen like a splendid tower dripping etc."

"Hold on I can't keep up with you and your making me get horny."

"Just concentrate on the typing. She begs him to enter her. He says he doesn't want to cause her pain. She says she will rejoice in the pain of their love. Her legs are spread wide and he comes between them. He is about to thrust into her when the door bursts open. It's the Duke. He has a revolver and he cries out, "If I cannot have you no other shall."

"Bit melodramatic isn't it?"

"Look, Christopher, I'm trying to help."

"But Wendy, its all bits and pieces, I mean, things don't connect up."

"I'm not going to do the whole job for you, darling. You are supposed to be writer, I'm only a character in your story and I'm putting up with a lot. Just look at the bedroom, its right back where you started with just a bed. No nice dressing table or carpet. It's a honey moon suite, where are the cupids and hearts? Where is the champagne cooling in the ice bucket? I've even sacrificed a nice bit of lead up to the main event; you're going to have to put that in."

"Quite right to," said another voice – male this time.

"Do stay out of it Steel," Wendy said, and when I whipped round there the long streak was standing, stark naked like Wendy, his great shaft sticking up.

"No I won't stay out of it Wendy", he yelped, "This happens too often. I never get to make real love with you and always at the crucial moment some Duke or Earl or multimillionaire comes in waving a pistol and shoots one or both of us."

"Huh, you should complain Wolf, the only penetration I get with her is penetrating looks, and I'm the one who has to give them." It was the Duke, still waving his pistol about.

"Shut up you two," yelled Wendy. "If you don't I'll get Christopher to delete you."

"Don't bother, I'm of out of here," snarled Steel. "I've had enough of these stories. I'm going to go for stories about men washed up on desert islands where there are no women."

"I'm with you, Wolf," the Duke muttered, putting away his revolver.

"You ain't goin' nowhere."

It was the woman I had seen with the Duke in the hall. She is holding a nasty looking semi-automatic pistol. 

"Nobody double-crosses the great granddaughter of Edgar J. Wagonhooker the Third."

With that she let loose with her pistol putting one bullet into the ceiling then one in the floor, but finding her target with the next two bullets.

Steel crumples and falls neatly to the floor. The Duke staggers back a couple of paces, pulls out his revolver and fires at his wife. She gives a shriek and falls lifeless, followed by the Duke who expires almost immediately.

Naked Wendy stood surveying the scene for a moment, then said, "Very good. You've got the nice outline of a story there."

"But the bodies!" I exclaimed.

"What bodies?"

I looked around, and they were gone as if they had never been. "You mean...?"

"It's just a story, darling."

I focused on the nude Wendy. My penis was hard as steel – why did I have to put it like that? - It was ready for a penetrating scene.

"Wendy, you're wonderful, beautiful."

"I am as you made me, Christopher but I'm glad you like me."

"Like you! I'm in love with you. I want you like I've never wanted any girl before."

"Don't darling," she said softly. "You see I'm..."

"I don't care what you are, I want you, now."

I went towards her with my arms outstretched to encircle...nothing.

Chapter 6. A Fresh Arrival. 

A voice penetrated my consciousness: "Yer lunch."

I jerked awake. I had fallen asleep over the computer. 

"And there's someone ter see yer."

"See me?"

"Yers. Show 'em in shall I."

My brain was still foggy with sleep and the scenes it had brought me.

"I suppose so."

"Right. Eat yer lunch while it's 'ot."

"Who the hell would come up here to see me," I thought, as I looked at the unappealing bowl of soup.

The door opened and I looked round, and froze. A slender figure was approaching me, hand extended.

"Wendy Wolf," she announced, "from Eros and Cupid."

"Wendy?" I almost yelled.

"Yes, Wendy, and I'm not deaf."

Her hand was small but firm as I held it in mine. I thought I was about to pass out. She was the Wendy of my...what...? Dream...? Hallucination...?

"Are you all right," she asked, "You've gone very pale."

"Just give me a moment," I pleaded, "I think I've had a very strange dream."

"You think you have?"

"Yes, sorry." I took a swig of the washing up water that passed for coffee and I think it was the sheer unpleasantness of the draught that revived me a little.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Wolf?"

"Miss, and call me Wendy. I'm here for two reasons. The really nasty one is that Mr. Cupid sends his compliments and says if your story isn't in over the next fortnight, you needn't bother."

"Ah! And the other reason?"

"Mr. Cupid said you might want someone to type your manuscript, and that you'd pay me."

"Did he? Did he also tell you I haven't got enough money to pay you?"

"No, the lousy little bastard didn't. So I've come all this way just to deliver his message!"

"I'm afraid so."

"Have you written anything?"

"Oh yes, I've written thousands of words over and over again and deleted them."

"Ah, writer's block?"

She glanced over at the computer. 

"You may have deleted thousands of words, but you've got a whole lot on the computer; look, you're up to page twenty."

"That's impossible; I haven't been able to get past the first paragraph for weeks."

I looked at the screen and she was right. At the bottom left of the screen was the page number, twenty.

My world seemed to spin again and I heard her voice as if down a long tunnel; "Mind if I take a look?"

"Help your self," I gasped.

I plonked myself in a chair and tried to recover while Wendy scrolled back and started to read.

Silence ensued, and as I recovered I began to focus on her straight back and long blonde hair, as she sat neatly in front of the machine. I moved to another chair to get her in profile, and sure enough, it was my Wendy. The nose, lips, neck and brea...

"She gave a gasp; "You've used my name, 'Wendy', and you've got me na..."

"Have I?"

"You're very complimentary," she said, turning her head to smile at me.

I noticed the colour of her eyes for the first time, dark blue.

"It's me all right, except I don't think I'm the most beautiful girl in the...that's just what she says here..."

She read on.

"This isn't a proper story, it's as if you've been making notes. Is that what you've been doing, just making an outline?"

"I suppose I must have been," I muttered.

She continued reading then gave another gasp; "You've even used my other name, Wolf. How did you know my name?"

"I didn't, it just...er...came to me."

"Odd!"

"Yes, isn't it."

She read to the end of what I had written, if I did write it, and said, "You've got the elements of a decent story here. I mean, obviously you haven't finished it and there are a lot of corny bits, but it could be good."

"Could it?"

"It just sort of comes to a stop. What happens after the shootings?"

"I haven't er...worked that out yet." 

"Christopher...I may call you Christopher?"

"That's what you've been calling me all along. That and darling."




Blocked!



"I have not."

I considered for a moment; "Well, perhaps not, but call me darl...I mean...Christopher by all means." 

"Thank you. Now, Christopher, shall I take a chance on you?"

"Chance?"

"You've got very little time to get a story in to Eros and Cupid and I think you need help."

"You're right about that."

"Your typing is terrible and you haven't run the spell and grammar checker yet."

"Well, it all happened so quickly."

"What did?"

"Wendy giving me...I mean...dashing the outline down."

She looked at me speculatively for a moment, then went on; "Suppose I stay and help you. You can dictate the story and I can type it. I'm very fast."

"I told you, I can't afford you."

"I'm not a prostitute Christopher; I'm not demanding cash up front and a condom. All I'm saying is I'm prepared to take a chance on you and your story. If we come up with something really good and it gets published, you can pay me then."

"That's very generous of you, but Eros and Cupid don't pay much and..."

"I know that, but I do freelance work for several publishers, and much better ones than Eros and Cupid. If the story is really good I might be able to use a bit of influence, you know, be persuasive."

"No!" I yelped, "I don't want you to...you know."

"I do know and I don't, and I think it's insulting of you to even think such a thing. I've a good mind to leave right now."

"No please, don't go, Wendy. I apologise. Just put it down to the bad company I usually keep."

"All right, Christopher, I accept your apology. Now, I shall need to arrange for a room, and by the way, you haven't eaten your lunch."

"Would you?" I asked.

Wendy looked at the soup and pulled a face. "Ugh, is this what you've been getting to eat?"

"Yes."

"Hmm, well I got to arrange for a room..."

"Wendy, you don't want to stop here, it's awful."

"Perhaps if we are stopping here together it will be less awful."

She had a point, and after the briefest consideration I decided that having such an attractive girl around would brighten up my life considerably.

"I'll see Mrs. McIntosh," Wendy said, and as if we had called up the devil the lady made her entrance.

She looked at the bowl of soup and grunted; "'Aven't eaten yer soup."

Wendy cut in; "Mrs. McIntosh, I shall be staying here to work with Mr. Dennis. I shall require room. We shall be working rather long and odd hours, so we shall require breakfast at nine o'clock, lunch at one and dinner I think at seven."

Mrs. McIntosh looked stunned; "But..."

"I shall discuss menus with you the day before and perhaps you will be good enough to provide us with an electric jug or kettle and the means for making tea and coffee, and... Oh yes, make sure fuel for the fire is brought in before we run out. I shall probably think of other things, but I'll come and see you shortly to discuss terms."

Mrs. McIntosh seemed to go into a sort of daze and muttered, "Yes Miss," and began to leave the room. Did I notice a bit of a stagger in that stately tread?"

"Oh, just one other thing while I think of it, Mrs.McIntosh," Wendy called after her. "I do prefer a bath to a shower, so I shall require some large soft bath towels please."

Mrs. McIntosh continued her now less than stately tread.

I slumped back in my chair, amazed. The "Take it or leave it" Mrs. McIntosh humbled.

"Well, that's settled," said Wendy with a seraphic smile, "Now, our working arrangements; I think it best if we work late and rise late in the morning. After breakfast an hour's walk – I think I saw a track going into the forest as I drove in – then work until lunch. After lunch we can discuss where we've got to so far, and then carry on. Does that sound all right?"

"Er...yes, I suppose so."

"Don't sound so enthusiastic, Christopher, you might burst a blood vessel."

"Sorry, it's just that I'm not used to being so orderly."

"I can imagine," she replied. "Well, we're about to change all that. Now just let me go over the notes again and put them in some sort of order, then we can go ahead. Go and have a nap or a walk for an hour."

Christopher Dennis also humbled. I chose the nap.

Chapter 7. I Begin Again. 

From that moment onward a number of things became obvious. First, when I returned to the dining room Wendy had tidied up the notes and there were printed sheets for my inspection. Second, the cuisine improved far beyond my expectations. Third, Mrs. McIntosh addressed us as "Sir" and "Miss". Fourth, there was always plenty of fuel for the fire to hand. Fifth, the story began to flow and I worked at a speed I had never experienced before. 

I had thought it would be delightful to work with such a lovely companion as Wendy, but this brought its own problems.

To explain: I had seen and copulated with girls I thought attractive before. The trouble was, after a while they looked less attractive than my sexual craving had made them in the first place. I began to notice things like a wart on the back of the neck, blackheads round the nose, pimples on the forehead; things like that. With Wendy no such disillusion occurred. If anything she seemed to get lovelier.

So you no doubt see my problem. Deprived of sexual gratification yet in the presence of a very desirable specimen of the female gender, I got more and more frustrated. With most other females, and given the situation, I would no doubt have made a direct sexual approach. With Wendy I got the impression that such an approach would not only be unsuccessful, but might lead to her departure.

One day as I - I should say "we" – developed the story from the rough notes Wendy stopped typing and laughed. 

"You know, Christopher", she said, "This is almost my story."

I felt a bit threatened by this comment as I had to admit to myself that she was having a big hand in writing it; constantly throwing up ideas when I got stuck, suggesting rephrasing, and generally helping me along.

"If you want to have your name along with mine on the cover, I suppose you're entitled," I said, not very nicely.

"No, no, I didn't mean that," she said in a placatory manner; "I meant what is happening to the Wendy in the story is a bit like something that happened to me."

"Oh, in what way?"

She gave another laugh; "I had two men in love with me once. Not a Duke or an athlete though."

I felt a pang of jealousy spear through me. "What were they then?"

She sat back in her chair and looked into space for a moment, then went on in a dreamy sort of voice; "One was a successful publisher I was working for. He promised me a heaven on earth if I would let him be my lover. The other one was an arrogant young salesman who thought he was irresistible to woman."

The pang of jealousy got even more painful. "Which one did you choose, or did you take them both?"

She turned to look at me, anger flaring in her eyes, and said very slowly and deliberately; "If you really want to know, I told the publisher to stick with his wife and four kids, and the salesman to bugger off. He was so far up himself it's a wonder he didn't disappear up his own fundamental orifice. The publisher stuck with his wife and the salesman joined the navy. And here's something I'd like you to know, I'm bloody angry with you, Christopher. You were quite right about the bad company you've been keeping, but now I'm asking you very nicely not to include me among that company. Have I made myself clear?"

I was mortified and tried to make amends, but only succeeding in making it worse.

"I'm sorry," I said contritely, "It's just that the girls I've known would've, you know... would've..."

"Yes, I'm sure they would, Christopher. I'm not a bloody fool. I know quite well you'd like me to be the Wendy in the book so that you could stand by the bed looking down at my 'lovely and unsullied body'. My God that's a corny line, we'd better revise that. Well, I'm not the Wendy in the story, neither am I one of your girl friends. The only man who will look at me lying naked on a bed is one who can see something more in me than a sex organ, and has some respect for what he sees. In other words, someone who will value me for more than my cunt, if I must put it crudely; get my point?" 

"Yes, Wendy. I really am sorry." 

For once I really was sorry. I silently excused myself by acknowledging that the only other woman I had knowingly met who took the same stand as Wendy was my mother, but as much as I loved her, I had done the usual teenage thing and rebelled against her principles. Being fronted by a girl about the same age as my self still holding the old values was somewhat unexpected and awe-inspiring. 

"All right, Christopher, just so long as we understand each other. So let's get on, shall we?"

"Yes, Wendy," the humiliated self muttered.

For the next half hour I managed to not think of Wendy as a sexual being and focused on her skills as a typist and an editor, because that was what she was doing, editing the story as we went along.

Her constant proximity, however, took its toll. I found it nigh on impossible to not feel sexually drawn to her, despite my acknowledgement of her other many qualities.

Had Wendy continued to treat me coldly after our confrontation, it might have made things easier. The trouble was, she did not seem to be able to hold a grudge and quickly returned to her warm and friendly, if dominating, self.

At one stage I tried a little ploy. There are some people I love to hate. People who have looks, intelligence, physical prowess and sparkling personalities; what I think of as "people who've got the lot." I tried putting Wendy into that category. It didn't work. She had "the lot," or almost, but my trying to dislike her only made things worse. It made me concentrate on all the good things about her, and she became even more desirable.

To counter this, I tried to focus on what I felt were negative things about her. All I could come up with was her tendency to dominate. Even this didn't work because I realised that her dominating manner was leading me to write better than I ever had before.

I finally gave up and allowed myself to bask in her presence and put up with the sexual frustration. 

Chapter 8. A Monetary Crisis. 

At the end of two weeks the novel was still not finished despite the mighty effort we had made. My time to get the work to Eros and Cupid had run out, and to add to my woes, my money had run out with it. 

One evening I had to tell Wendy that I couldn't stay at Mountain Hideaway after the end of the week. She nodded but said nothing.

Two days later she said that we would have to cancel the morning walk and work because she had something to do in Wingalila Creek. Without saying anything further she went to her car and set out for Wingalila.

She was gone for three hours and I tried to make some progress on the computer, but having got so used to Wendy being there, I got little further ahead.

When she returned Wendy announced baldly; "I've just given Mrs. McIntosh our board money for the coming week. If we need to I can manage another two weeks after that." 

Humiliation heaped on humiliation. "But you can't Wendy! I won't let you pay for me; and anyway, where did you get the money?"

"I made a few telephone calls to people who owe me money for work I've done for them. Asked them to forward the money to the Wingalila Creek Post Office; three of them came up with the goods; I'll catch up with the others when I get back to town," she said with a glint in her eyes. 

"But I won't be able to repay you," I protested.

"I'm not really a gambler," she answered, "but I'm gambling on you and this novel. You can repay me when you're back in funds."

I was overwhelmed and said, "I don't know what to say, Wendy."

"Try 'Thank you'," she said, smiling.

I wanted to hug and kiss her, but having been given my warning I restrained myself and said, "It was a lovely and generous thing for you to do, thank you."

We continued the work, but now at a more leisurely pace. We could forget about Eros and Cupid since my deadline with them had passed. It was now a case of coming up with the best possible work to try and lure another publisher.

Now if you will excuse me, I must sidetrack.

Chapter 9. What is this Thing Called Love? 

As you may have worked out for yourself, my previous experiences with women, apart from my mother, had been of a somewhat superficial nature. I might, for example, mutter something about loving them when I got horny over some girl, but when I'd had my wicked way with her I usually felt a slight revulsion.

I'd used the word love in some of my previous stories, but the context was about as superficial as my use of the word in real life. In short, I hadn't really known what it was to be "in love" as opposed to being "in lust." Love, I thought, belonged to the realm of stupid people's castles in the air. It was a feeling or state that did not really exist.

To my horror I was now starting to feel what I can now only describe as "love" for Wendy.

Of course, I tried to persuade myself it was only lust and the sexual deprivation I was feeling, but whatever way I described it, the condition was serious. I couldn't eat or sleep properly. I wanted to constantly be in Wendy's company. To be apart from her even for half an hour was misery.

I'm a fairly hefty sort of bloke, but when I started to feel as pale and wan as a flower sniffing poet, I got really worried.

Chapter 10. The End in Sight. 

Wendy noticed the changes in me and commented; "Christopher, you're not eating properly and looking rather pallid, aren't you feeling well?"

"Just a slight touch of cancer," I replied feebly, trying to make a sick joke.

"Are we going ahead with the book too fast, is that it?"

"No...no...I'll be okay."

"I'll have a word with Mrs. McIntosh," she said;"See if we can do something about your diet."

"No, no, it's okay."

Never the less she did see Mrs. McIntosh, and next day items like calves foot jelly came onto the menu. It didn't help.

Dear God, here I was, trapped at last by the thing I didn't think existed. I was deeply in love with Wendy, overwhelmed, besotted; a helpless gibbering idiot. I was drifting around like a desolate wraith.

How we managed to finish the novel I have never been sure, but as we drew towards its conclusion a new debilitating terror weighed down upon me; Wendy and I would part company.

When the last paragraph had been typed and all had been saved to floppy discs and also printed, I tried to give some expression of how I was feeling, but in a roundabout way.

"I'm deeply grateful to you for your wonderful help, Wendy, "I began. "If only I could afford to employ you all the time...we make such a great team."

"Yes," she said quietly, "I've had a number of authors say the same thing."

The spear of jealousy was more agonising than ever.

"They've been in...I mean...they've appreciated you as much as I have?"

"Yes, although I've never been in a situation like this before, semi-isolated and with a deadline that we failed to meet."

Her mention of isolation brought me to the realisation that I had hardly noticed being isolated with Wendy around, and even the house had not seemed so ugly. It was as if her presence brought a touch of grace to everything around her.

As it had to, the hour of departure arrived.

Mrs. McIntosh, a transformed woman, told us we had been wonderful guests and hoped to have the pleasure of our custom again. We packed up and loaded our cars. Wendy had promised to try and arrange interviews for me with various publishers and she would telephone me about arrangements. 

I promised to pay her the first moment I got some money that in fact would be the miserly sums Eros and Cupid would still have to dribble out to me for my past work.

As we prepared to get into our cars Wendy kissed me on the cheek and said, "It's been fun, Christopher."

I watched her get into the car, start the engine, and begin to move off.

The demon in me came roaring to the surface and I yelled, "I love you Wendy."

Her car jerked to a halt. The driver's side window was partially open, and now it was opened fully. Wendy looked out at me for a full half minute, and then said, "I heard that Christopher. I'll be in touch." She drove away.

Our cars had been drawn up near the front door of the house and Mrs. McIntosh had been standing on the steps to see us off, or to make sure we didn't get away with the silver.

In a return to her laconic mood she said, "Marry 'er. Best thing that'll ever 'appen to yer."

She turned and disappeared into the house.

Chapter 11. Back at the Flat. 

I got into the Volks a thoroughly mixed up Christopher and began the journey back to the city.

"Marriage!" I thought, "Not bloody likely; that went out with the dinosaurs. A 'relationship', yes, by all means, then if the fire died down I could...but then, so could she. My God, supposing I still...and she...?"

To quote from something I can't remember, "I'll think about that tomorrow."

Getting back to the flat Ivor was still at work. I saw no visible signs of damage around the place and nothing seemed to be missing. There were several letters waiting for me, including a couple of miserable cheques from Eros and Cupid. There was also a letter from them which I shall quote verbatim:

Sweetheart,

Dear Eros and I have decided that we need to terminate your contract with us. Don't go to law, darling, until you read the very fine print at the bottom of your copy. 

As much as we have treasured your presence among us, I must point out that we depend just a teeny bit on literary turnover if you see what I mean. Your turnover of late has been less than satisfactory.

So, Sweetie, it's a sad goodbye.

We are constrained to continue to pay you royalties on the sale of your works, but I am sure that will soon tail off.

May we wish you an absolutely fabulosa future, but I fear our wish will be in vain.

Farewell my Treasure.

Lucretius Cupid.

"Bastards," I thought, but realised there was nothing I could do. Either Wendy could come up with the goods, or an unskilled future seemed to lie ahead.

The bank was still open so I paid in the cheques and drew out the lousy bit of cash that was available to me.

"Better see Social Services tomorrow," I thought, "Declare myself to be unemployed; probably unemployable as well," I thought gloomily.

As so often happens in such situations, when you're strapped for money more people than ever seem to be creditors.

"When Ivor got home the first thing he said was, "You owe me your share of three weeks rent." I stumped up and counted what was left. "Couldn't even buy a packet of arsenic to kill myself with," I concluded.

Ivor, having got the money, became very matey and asked how I had enjoyed my stay at Mountain Hideaway.

I was in no mood to be nice to him, so I told him to "piss off." He shrugged and pissed off to his room.

Following his example I crept to my room and flopped down on the bed. I had one printed copy of my novel so for about the hundredth time I started to reread it. I failed to get past the first couple of pages because I drifted off to sleep.

I dreamed but this time when I awoke I knew it had been a dream. No apparitional Wendy, but a dream Wendy who stood before me saying, "You see darling, I said it would be good." The only trouble was I couldn't work out which of the Wendy's it was.

"Who bloody cares," I thought, and then the nasty thought of how much money I owed the real Wendy came to mind. I felt sick. How the hell was I ever going to repay her?

I did some adding up, and with what she had given Mrs. McIntosh and the money I owed her for her work it came to about eight hundred dollars. 

When later Ivor and I came face to face I got all placatory and apologised for my behaviour, and then asked if he could lend me a thousand dollars."




Blocked!



"A thousand dollars?" he queried, a bit like Shylock in 'The Merchant of Venice'. "A thousand dollars, well, we have been spending up big, haven't we? Didn't you know there isn't that much money in the whole world?"

He didn't even offer me the pound of flesh option.

Next day I signed on with Social Services and was asked all sorts of impertinent questions by a girl who looked about fifteen years old, and this was followed by much form filling in. Finally I was told I would be informed by post if my application for the government's munificence was accepted or not.

"How long will that take?" I asked.

"Just as long as it takes, Mr. Dennis," I was not politely informed.

A State whipped cur, I left with my tail between my legs.

I began looking at advertisement for jobs vacant. I was enthralled to find that there were many openings. Had I been a brain surgeon, atomic physicist or designer of weapons of mass destruction, I could have been placed immediately in work. On the other hand, there were wonderful openings for washers up in restaurants, house sitters and cleaners. I tried to weigh up which among this plenitude of opportunities I would apply for.

No word came from Wendy, and although I had her address and telephone number, I could not bring myself to contact her. To do so might mean exposure of my dire financial situation and further degradation.

A few nights after my arrival back in the flat Ivor had one of his orgies. This consisted of a couple of male friends, a lot of food and booze, and an abundance of willing wenches. Despite the entreaties of one or two of the girls, I failed to discover any enthusiasm for their free and easy virtue, and amazed myself by shutting myself in the bedroom and failing to answer drunken pleas to, "come and fuck me, darling." I always thought we had an oversupply of females to males on these occasions.

Chapter 12.A Wolf at the Door.

Sunday I took my wretched self out for a walk and didn't return for two hours. Ivor had just risen from his bed of pain and groaned, "Some bloody bird has been ringing you; woke me up; says her name is Wendy Bear or Tiger of something."

"Wolf?" I yelped, springing back to life.

"Yes, that's it, 'Fox'. Says your to telephone her as soon as you get in if not before." 

I had no thought for what she might want, I simply rejoiced in knowing I would hear her voice. I pressed in the numbers and waited. Brrr brrr, brrr brrr...

"Wendy Wolf."

"Wendy," I nearly added darling. "Christopher here."

Cool and business like: "Ah, Christopher, be at (she gave an address) by nine thirty tomorrow. I shall be there to meet you. You have an interview with Mr. Cashman of Cashman, Cashman, Cashman and Sobers. They are publishers. Mr. Cashman has had a look at your novel and he's interested. I'll see you in the morning, goodbye."

Oh the joys of heaven, I had heard her voice and such a voice! It was a voice to be contemplated, meditated upon and if possible consumed. Above all, I would see her tomorrow, my lovely Wendy; Oh there is a God after all! I even felt friendly towards Ivor I was so happy, and that despite the fact several ornaments had been smashed during his orgy.

I slept hardly at all that night. Visions of Wendy, wonderful, sweet and delectable Wendy, the love of my life! I would see her on the morrow.

I woke feeling like a worm that had been out in the sun too long. The thought struck me, not only would I be seeing my beloved, I should also be seeing Mr. Cashman of... whatever it was. My magnum opus would be shaken, skinned, turned inside out and despised.

I looked at the clock. My God, eight thirty and I had to be there by nine thirty. I hurtled from the bed, passed through a perfunctory shower, grabbed a slice of bread and butter and chewing on it sent the Volks rattling down the street.

I arrived at an imposing old building in the heart of town. It was one of those places that made you expect to see a Dickens or Thackeray character emerge from its portals.

Nine twenty nine and there she was. Clad in a green dress and looking absolutely...absolutely...words failed me. 

"Ah, Christopher, just in time; Mr. Cashman likes punctuality, come along."

A somewhat detached greeting I thought, given the restless hours I had spent reflecting on her image in recent weeks.

We passed through the doors and into a cool mahogany panelled reception area. I expected to be greeted by a Uriah Heep at the desk, but instead there was an extremely attractive girl.

"Miss Wolf and Mr. Dennis to see Mr. Cashman," Wendy announced. 

The girl looked at a list then said, "Ah yes, Mr. Jacob Cashman. I'll let him know you're here. She pressed a button and after a pause said something into a small communicator. There was a squawk in reply and the girl said, "Very good, Mr. Cashman." She looked up at us and said, "You are to go right in."

Wendy obviously knew the way because she led me down a short passage, knocked on the door and entered.

I had half expected an ancient and sinister looking Semite, and although Semite he was, the tall dark haired man who rose to greet us was not more than thirty years of age, and handsome.

He shook hands with Wendy saying, "Wendy, my dear, how nice to see you." 

I was then introduced and we shook hands. "Welcome, Mr. Dennis, please sit down."

We sat and Mr. Cashman drew a manuscript in front of him. I recognised it as mine. He sat considering it for a moment then said; "Wendy tells me she has been working with you on this novel. She always seems to know how to pick the best."

As an opening gambit from a publisher this came as a bit of a shock. I was about to garble some response when he went on:

"I've had two of my staff read your work, Mr. Dennis and have looked it over myself. It...er...it..."

"Here it comes," I thought. 

"It has some very fine qualities, Mr. Dennis."

"Really?" I croaked.

"Yes. I think it has a great deal of promise and I would like to publish it...you're not committed to any other publisher, are you?"

"No, he isn't," Wendy butted in.

"Excellent. Would you be happy for us to publish?"

I got in before Wendy, "Yes, certainly..."

"Yes he would," said Wendy, too late this time. 

"You do understand, Mr. Dennis, we cannot offer you a great deal this time?"

"Oh God," I thought, "Eros and Cupid all over again."

"I've had a contract drawn up for you to look at and, if you agree, sign. I've got to have a word with one of my partners, so I'll leave you to read it over, I'll be back shortly."

He rose and left us alone.

To my utter surprise Wendy rose and flung her arms round me. "Oh darling, I'm so pleased for you. You don't need to read the whole contract. I know their contracts and there are no nasty small print bits. Just look here."

She pointed to one section and I read. Then I read again, then again. Ivor had said there wasn't that much money in the world; there was; there was more, much more.

The room span in coloured whorls and Wendy went on:

"Darling, I knew, I knew all along it was a wonderful novel. I wanted to tell you so, but was afraid that you might be shattered if it got rejected."

Just as the word "Darling" registered Mr. Cashman reappeared.

"Well, what do you think? Would you like to sign?"

I was still disorientated and Wendy got in first.

"Yes, he would."

"You have noted that the contract gives us an option on your future work?"

"Yes, he's noted that."

"Good. Then congratulations, Mr. Dennis...Oh, I should have congratulated you before; very remiss of me."

"What for?"

He looked puzzled for a moment and I saw Wendy signalling with her hands, but she was too late.

"On your forthcoming marriage to Wendy; I must say I envy you such a lovely bride. I think I can safely say we all love Wendy, and you're the lucky man who snared her." He laughed.

I think I must have been sitting there with a moronic glaze over my face. I know Wendy said something to Mr. Cashman and I heard him laugh and apologise.

He rose to bid us farewell saying that he would be in touch when I needed to see the proofs, but I didn't really take it in. We shook hands again then he said, "By the way, some authors like to dedicate their work; would you like to do that?"

I partially came to. "Er...yes." "To whom?"

"Wendy Wolf."

"We'll leave you to write the dedication then."

"Yes."

"Goodbye for now, then."

"Goodbye."

I staggered out on shaking legs followed by Wendy.

"You look a little overcome, darling. Let's go and get a cup of coffee somewhere."

"Could we make that a whisky?"

"Yes, so long as it doesn't become a habit."

We went to a nearby pub and after getting our drinks we ensconced ourselves behind a corner table. Wendy hastened straight in:

"Darling, about your next book, I've been thinking..."

"Hold it right there! What was all that about marriage?"

"Well yes, I did mean to tell you at the right time. I'm sorry Mr. Cashman let it slip out. I told the girl at reception the other day and she must have passed it on."

"But I haven't even asked you to marry me."

"No, but I did think you wanted to. You did yell out that you loved me when I was leaving Mountain Hideaway. You did, didn't you?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Don't you know for certain?"

"Yes I did say I loved you."

"Oh darling, I'm so pleased for us."

She rose and came round the table and planted her lips squarely on mine.

A couple of old codgers at the bar turned round to have a look. One of them called out, "Go on sonny give her a good one, lucky young sod. If I was forty years younger you wouldn't have a chance." They turned back to their drinks cackling.

I pulled away from the kiss and said, "Wendy, you're always taking over. You always try to dominate me."

"I know darling, but it's for your own good, and you won't always find me dominating I promise. I do know how to be yielding; you'll find out. Now I've told my parents we shall be coming to see them next weekend; I do like to do these things properly. Then I'll have to meet your parents...and..."

I stopped her with a kiss. 

Six months later we were married.

On the first night of our marriage the young, lovely and unsullied Wendy lay upon the bed naked. I let my eyes traverse her beautifully body. The long blonde hair spread like a fan over the pillow; her splendid..."