Author's note: this story is more D/s than BDSM.
*****
Molly was feeling apprehensive.
Her former editor, Charlie, had retired early so he could live his dream of sailing around the world. Her relationship with him over the years had been wonderful. He praised her erotic short stories, telling her how great they were. Telling her how little he needed to do to them, since they were so polished. Okay, maybe some of that praise from him was generated by his desire to get into her pants. He'd even asked her if she wanted to sail with him on his retirement venture. She liked him – a lot – but not quite that much.
So now she had a new editor, Gwendolyn, a.k.a. Gwen. Molly'd submitted her latest story collection in the usual manner. In the past, Charlie would make his minor corrections to it, and send it back to her for her final write up. Visits to the office were confined to discussions of Molly's upcoming projects. But this time, Molly received a call from Gwen directly, rather than getting her manuscript back.
"Molly? This is Gwen," she'd said. "We need to talk. Can you be in my office by 3 pm today?" The way she'd said it sounded more like a command than a request. And, in Molly's experience, any time a person said the words 'we need to talk' it was bad news. Therefore Molly was apprehensive as she rode the elevator up to the floor where Gwen's office was located.
It was Charlie's old office, so Molly knew right where to go. And she was well known enough to the staff that no one stopped her from walking back – mostly, they said 'hello' and 'hello Molly' as she passed. The door to Charlie's office was closed when Molly reached it, and that was unusual, in and of itself. It was just 3 pm, so Molly tapped on the door.
"Come in," Gwen called out.
As Molly entered, Gwen said, "Ah, Molly. Right on time. Close the door. Have a seat." All this was spoken in a flat monotone, with no lilt of greeting. Gwen didn't rise, didn't smile, and didn't offer her hand.
Molly looked at the stern-faced woman behind the desk, with her closely-cropped black hair, her dark irises, her lack of makeup other than a smear of lipstick. Her first impression was that Gwen was what might loosely be called a 'butch' in her general orientation, and maybe also a 'bitch' in personality, judging from her lack of warmth. The meeting was off to a very bad start.
It got worse when Gwen opened a desk drawer, pulled out Molly's manuscript, and tossed it onto the center of her desk. "This," Gwen pronounced, "is tripe, Molly. I've read all your collections, and each one seems as trite as the last. Your work seems to lack a true feeling for the subject matter."
Molly's jaw dropped. Charlie had never spoken to her like this.
"Your writing seems to be mechanical and hackneyed, rather than visceral," Gwen continued. "It's almost like you don't have any 'skin in the game' as they say. You write about sex and bondage as if you've never experienced them."
Molly's heart sank, hearing those words. The problem was that Gwen was deadly accurate in her assumptions. Molly had been writing about things she imagined. Charlie had never called her on this – was he just being kind? Had he been jollying her along, hoping to get her into bed sometime? Were people laughing behind her back? The thing is, Molly enjoyed writing. And she enjoyed writing in this genre, because it gave her a vicarious thrill, imagining the situations she described. She was crestfallen to think that this path of emotional release was being closed. And if Gwen thought her writing was this bad, would she be able to find another publishing house that would take her?
Gwen interrupted her train of thought, asking, "When was the last time you got laid, Molly?"
Her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, Molly was shocked by such a direct, personal question.
"How many hand jobs have you given? Blow jobs? How often do you have anal sex? When was the last time you had your pussy eaten? Do you yourself like going down on women?" Gwen kept hammering her with questions.
"As far as bondage goes, how many times have you ever been tied up during sex? Have you ever felt the bite of nipple clamps? How about spanking, flogging, caning, whipping – any experience with those?" Gwen was relentless in her inquiries.
Molly sagged in her chair, then slumped. She was having a difficult time holding back her tears. It had been years since she'd even had vanilla sex, missionary position, with an ex-boyfriend. She'd never had the opportunity to experiment sexually with another woman. She fantasized about bondage scenarios, and liked fantasizing about them, which is why such elements kept creeping into her stories. But she had no real experience with such things. Gwen was baldly exposing her inadequacies. Despair overwhelmed her, and she started weeping.
Gwen revealed her first scintilla of concern when she saw Molly's tears. She arose from her chair, and came around her desk to kneel next to Molly, asking, "What's wrong?"
Molly sucked in a breath of air and blubbered, "But I like writing these sorts of stories. Now I don't know what I'm going to do."
Gwen stroked Molly's hair in a manner designed to soothe. "Honey, I wasn't saying that you had to stop writing. I'm just trying to get to the heart of the problem. I can tell that you're a good writer, and by good, I mean you have a good grammatical style, and attention to details, and you attempt to invoke many of the readers senses. This publishing house has a strong bent towards erotica, whether the stories deal with bondage or not. We feel the stories work out best when they're based upon at least an iota of experience. That's why I was questioning your experiences."
"I don't seem to have much experience," Molly confessed. "All those questions you asked me. I just heard myself mentally answering 'none' to almost all of them. But what can I do about it?"
