Credit to Conversations, who gave me the idea behind this story, and who also wrote the delightfully funny "Saving Miss Stacey," which I highly recommend you read first. Although she quite literally stole my character from me, who now presumably resides in hiding, I suppose being a near-omnipotent, certified narrator has its benefits...
Once upon a time, there was a girl named Stacey, who lived in a small apartment near the downtown diner where she worked as a waitress. Stacey was a blonde Midwestern beauty with big blue eyes, a cute button nose, and full red lips. She possessed a wholesome charm that immediately made her a hit with the gentlemen. But neither a winsome smile nor a bubbly personality made her quite enough money to cover the rent.
"Yeah, that's right. Say it: say your check bounced, so you're bouncing like a whore!" ordered Frank, the odious apartment manager.
"Wait a minute, this is all wrong. Didn't this happen already? And besides, I'm in the Federal Character Protection Program!" protested Stacey in confusion, not realizing that among a certified narrator's many powers is the ability to move through time—namely, to chronicle any number of hot and nasty sexual tales set before the naughty little minx got away with an interloping... author-seductress. As our heroine was quickly discovering, you can never really escape your narrator.
"What... oh my God, you asshole... you wrote an interquel?" exclaimed Stacey. "And now you wanna make me fuck all over again? And how did— Ahhh! Who the hell is this?"
Our naked heroine squealed as she finally took notice of the muscular man lying beneath her. Carl, a plumber, had come to fulfill a work order, although he was not doing it quite the way she had in mind. Stacey found herself in the bedroom in the classic DP position: she straddled Carl, his massive cock deep in her tight pussy; while Frank's equally big dick was plugged firmly into her, wait for it... flawless ass. The naughty little tart had paid neither rent nor utilities, so it was altogether fitting for the manager and plumber to, let us say, snake the delectable blonde's pipes together.
"It was a leaky faucet, you idiots!" she snapped. "I don't need my 'pipes' snaked, metaphorically or otherwise! Is anyone even proofreading— Oh, who am I kidding? I'm having a threesome with my landlord and the plumber to make the rent—probably not dealing with a literary masterpiece here. Guess it's too much to ask to be written into some decent erotica that... that... mmm, that feels kinda good actually..."
As the two men began to fuck her, alternating their thrusts into her ass and pussy like pistons in an engine, Stacey began to remember that she was written into a male sex fantasy. She panted quietly at first, biting her lip in a futile attempt to conceal her enjoyment. Soon, however, she lifted herself up onto her hands to brace against their powerful thrusts, pressing back against Frank—and giving Carl a great view of her bare, jutting breasts. Frank's odor filled her nostrils, and she shuddered at the touch of his thick chest hair against her sleek shoulder blades. Before long, she began to vocalize her pleasure, each moan louder than the next, as they banged her with increasing ferocity.
"Are you a whore?" grilled Frank. "Look at you. You're a little whore, aren't you? Tell daddy you're his little whore."
"Oh God, the 'daddy' thing again," groaned Stacey, and then reluctantly: "I mean, yes daddy, I'm your little whore."
"Attagirl. Now sweetheart, you understand why daddy had to share you with one of his friends today, right?" asked Frank with mock concern, pulling her golden hair back into a handheld ponytail as he continued to screw her. "Tell that nice man under you why daddy's pimping you out."
Stacey sighed as Frank yanked her head into eye contact with Carl. Stacey found her new sexual acquaintance reasonably attractive—but more on that later. (Earlier?) She was repulsed at being used like this, but nevertheless struggled to rein in the pleasurable sensations that simmered with growing intensity in her nether regions. Before she knew it, she was ramming herself back onto their hard shafts, a willing participant in her own exploitation. She felt herself mounting toward climax as she fumbled for a response to Frank's question.
"Ummm... well, I still don't know why my check would have bounced," wondered Stacey, a glimmer of sass still left in her strained voice, "and it definitely covered the utilities... mmm... I don't know. I'm confused. You just started this thing in the middle! One minute I think I'm done banging Frank... ahhh... and the next I'm in a threesome with him and some guy I've never met? Oh God, that feels so good... Tell you what: can we just go back to the beginning?"
"Man, this girl is smoking hot, but does she always gab like—" Carl began to ask, baffled; but Stacey quickly hushed him with a finger to his lips.
"So? What do you say?" continued Stacey. "I know, I know—this is a 'sexy' story... mmm... but if I'm gonna end up getting fucked anyways, I might as well enjoy it, which is hard to do when you've written me into something that reads like a bad porno. On the other hand... oh yeah Carl, like that, right there... if you do me a few narrative favors and let me have some fun, I promise everybody's gonna get a good show!"
She slyly lifted an eyebrow at the narrator to accentuate her point, and then broke into a moan as she neared orgasm. Our heroine had made an intriguing offer, one that the narrator was obliged to accept on behalf of the readers. If she failed to make good on her pledge to put on a steamy performance, one could always reel her right back into filthy, hardcore porn. But first one must start, as requested, at the beginning of the story.
"What, right now? Oh, come on! Right when I'm about to cum? No wait, just a few more..."
* * *
One afternoon, Stacey returned from an aerobic workout at the apartment gym to find an overdue rent notice taped to her door, even though she had just submitted a check for SIX-HUNDRED SEVENTY-FIVE and 0/100 DOLLARS—the same check she had tried to use the last month. She was dressed rather provocatively in knee-high socks and a thong-backed lavender leotard that showed off her firm, shapely buttocks.
"...seconds. Fuck. I hate flashbacks," muttered Stacey, rubbing her headband-clad forehead. "And lavender? What am I, a bar of fucking soap? This is lilac. And they're supposed to go with leggings, you perv. But thank you, I work out a lot."
Our heroine passed an old lady in the hallway, who shook her head disapprovingly at the provocative attire. She knocked on the door to the management office near the front of the building and entered. Frank's workspace was predictably slovenly: empty beer cans on the floor, crumpled balls of paper next to an overfilled wastebasket, and glossy photos of scantily-clad or nude models plastered over the walls.
Frank looked up from his desk as she shut the door. Dressed in a wife beater and blue jeans, he was a tall, handsome man—early thirties, dark hair, muscular build—generally agreeable to Stacey's eye but for a creepy mustache that simply gave her the shivers. The calendar behind him featured a busty, bikini-clad beach blonde, who bore a fair resemblance to our heroine.
"Great. I guess I'm his type," grumbled Stacey with arms folded, before she addressed the apartment manager. "What do you want, Frank? I know I paid the rent this month—the narrator just said so," she announced as she glared at him.
"What are you wearing?" inquired Frank, ignoring everything the bodacious blonde said as he admired her... lilac... gym outfit, trying to peer around her hips. "Do you always dress like this when you work out?"
