"I'm sorry, I..."
"What the fuck, Jizzy? That's so not cool! I came all the way over here, I did your stupid incest script. Fuck, I even let you slobber all over my tits. And you have nothing? I'm sure glad I didn't let you stick that pathetic excuse for a cock in my mouth."
Kelly sprang up from the couch, tugging her shirt down over her straining orbs.
"Kelly, please! We can work something out!" Jizzy begged.
"It's not Kelly, asshole. It's Marta. And no, we can't."
Jizzy's expression of desperate humility turned into a twitching scowl of impotent rage.
"Get out of here. I don't even know why they sent you. I asked for a skinny blond eighteen-year-old, and they send me a middle-aged Spic with fake tits! You don't look anything like my precious little Kelly! My Kelly is a beautiful young lady, not a trashy whore!"
Marta laughed. "Look, you poor, deluded little man. 'Kelly' doesn't exist. Better stick to your sad little stories, if you can't even scrape together fifty bucks for a blowjob."
Marta let the screen door slam shut behind her and left Scourges alone in the dim, dank trailer.
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By now, you might be wondering just how your humble narrator, moi, knows all about that unfortunate night in the life of poor Jizz R. Scourges. It's kind of a long story, but it's pretty funny, so hopefully you'll stick around.
Some of you may know me already from the Literotica forums. I know, some people don't even think I'm real. But you know, just because the boss made up that nonsense about $ales and royalty checks and trips to Paris doesn't mean I'm a blow-up doll or a figment of his imagination.
Of course, there were still few whoppers in the post he made me write about how we met. No, it wasn't on a nude beach (here's hoping I NEVER see him naked), and when he made me write that bit about how there's this mutual attraction and we both want to sleep together, well, I seriously had to toss back about ten shots of tequila to stop gagging long enough to type that one out.
The truth is, I'm his niece. Uncle Jizzy is Mom's brother, and when I dropped out of high school my senior year and couldn't find a job, "working" for Uncle Jizzy was my mom's idea of a fitting punishment. I know, the irony, the irony. If Mom knew the kinds of stories Uncle Jizzy wrote, not only would I not have to work for him anymore, but she'd probably move us to another state to be sure he'd keep his horny little paws off of me.
And I'd tell, too, except I realized pretty fast that being on the inside at Scourges World has some advantages for a girl like me. Like getting to study a genuine crazy person up-close and personal, for example! I guess the writing bug runs in the Scourges genes. I've always wanted to be an author, and when I got a load of what Uncle Jizzy was up to, I knew I had the main character for my first story.
So I put up with Uncle Jizzy's...peculiarities. But I shouldn't blab everything out here. Gotta save something for the story, right?
So, where was I? Oh yeah, Uncle Jizzy, Scourges was standing there in his trailer, oblivious to the mildew vapors wafting up from the moldering carpet under the leak in the roof, his limp dick still drooping from his open fly. He seemed to have forgotten about the web cam he'd set up, hoping to catch his fifty-dollar blowjob on video to sell to some amateur porn distrubutor to make a few bucks to pay that month's rent on his space in the trailer park. Plunking down on the ratty, stained sofa, Scourges locked his eyes on his computer monitor, ogling rotating screenshots from his favorite 'Barley Legal' sites while he coaxed a half-hearted spurt of jism from his disappointed cock. His own calloused hand was a poor substitute for Kelly's thick lips, her long, pink tongue, her hot wet mouth, for a sloppy, sticky, slurping blowjob.
And then the web cam caught Scourges doing what he so often does when he's down in the dumps about something. He sat down at the computer, and started writing. Fast and furious his two index fingers hunted and pecked over the keyboard. Second by second, the expression of of hopelessness and misery changed, the little muscles in his eyes, at the corners of his mouth contracted until his face was the picture of complacence and self-satisfaction. Fulfillment, even.
Had he just dashed off a first outline for a new story idea? Had a paragraph of perfect prose just sprung from his fingertips, completing yet another Scourges best-seller? No.
A moment later, the laser printer screeched to life. Scourges leaned forward in his chair and, leveraging his weight against the edge of the kitchen table that did double-duty as a desk, pushed himself up. He wasn't getting any younger, and his sedentary existence had been taking its toll for many years, now. Still, he was jubilant as he plucked the piece of paper from the printer, read through the words in black and yellow and red and blue still drying on the page. He hobbled, still stiff from his stint at the computer, to the bedroom, and returned with a small, metal picture frame. When he'd sealed the piece of paper behind the sheet of glass, he hung the frame on the wall. His face lit up with pride, he stood back, crossed his arms over his chest, and read:
Dear Mr. Scourges,
I was thrilled when you posted you're most resent story. We all where. By we I mean all seven hundred and fourty-2 members of the Little Rock Ladies' Erotic Literature Aficionados Club.
Not only are you the best-loved and most famous author on Literotica, but this is the best story I've every read. All the ladys in the club agree.
But we were dismayed by some of the rude and ugly feedback we saw there, to, Jizzy. I'll tell you Mr. Scourges, everyone in our neck of the country was shocked. Why were they so mean?
They've tried to ruin it Jizz. Ruin the glory of Scourges World for not just you but four you're devoted fans everywhere. But you no and we know its just jealousy.
Don't let them get you down Jizz, we all still love you,
Christie Plowright (and all seven hundred and fourty-2 of your Little Rock fans) XOXOXO
# # # # # # # # #
To be continued.
