Foreword: The following story is meant simply as a satire and should not be construed as a personal attack on anyone. Additionally I would like to add that Literotica is a very well run site and their popularity can speak for itself. That said, nothing is beyond the occasional jab.
*
Long ago in the website of Writpornotica there lived a woman in the approval department named Jane. Jane was responsible for reading written submissions and quality controlling them before they were published on the site. While some level of quality control is indeed necessary in the world of Wiki-porn, Jane was what you might call an uptight grammar Nazi. How bad were things? Just see for yourself. . .
The messenger popped up on her screen, "You have got to be fucking kidding me!"
Jane, sipping her coffee, unfazed by the brash protest burning through her glasses, typed back, "Spelling and grammar are legitimate grounds to reject a story over."
"I misspelled one fucking word. This is un-fucking believable!"
"Spelling errors and grammar are legitimate grounds upon which to reject a story. Re-read the guidelines if you have any problems with that."
"It was one word! You could have fixed it yourself! Let me tell you, nobody treats Dick Spitzer this way. I have literally been to hell and back."
She rubbed her temples, exposed by her tightly tied-back brown hair, and fired back, "You really need to look up the definition of 'literally' some day. It might improve your grotesque grammar."
"My grammar sucks? Okay. Possible. It's also possible that you're in the first stages of toxic shock syndrome from a tampon jammed too deep up your cunt and I'm just the first victim of your symptoms. I'd rate the problem as about fifty-fifty either way."
Jane burned into the screen with her eyes, "Goodbye, Mr. Spitzer. Oh, and take your story with you."
She clicked the reject button on him once again, and blocked him from her messenger. How dare he! She knew how far to stick in a tampon. Granted, it was the only thing that had gone that route with her in the past fifteen months. This no doubt played some role in her increasingly stringent standards in story approval.
She stood up from the computer and shuffled over to the mirror. She was not an unattractive woman, though due to her position with the website she had perpetual bags under her eyes and was pushing the envelope on albinism due to the sheer lack of sunshine her skin would see on a daily basis, she had a certain regal beauty about her. That this regal beauty is so often associated with being a queen bitch is a matter for another fairy tale, but I digress. . .
She was thin both in figure and face. Her breasts were healthy handfuls. Her dark brown hair was tied back in a single rope, and with each passing cockless day that rope just got tighter, and tighter, and tighter. She screamed of an unfulfilled passion ready to explode from this taught mortal coil at a moment's notice. She saw this in the mirror, and decided to go back and reject some more submissions over petty bullshit.
At about a half past 8 there was a knock at the door. 'Who could that be?" Jane wondered, "I have no friends."
She shuffled on over to the door, and peaked through the eyehole. Through the hole she saw the distorted figure of a black man. 'A black man!' She gasped to herself. 'If I make sure to be careless enough, maybe he'll rape me!' She quivered in delight at the thought, and threw open the door with speed, passion, and total disregard for every safety guideline police drum into our heads every day.
The black man jumped back with a start. Jane heaved with passion when she saw him. He was tall and muscular, obviously a man who worked out regularly. His shoulders were broad and his frame large. He was adorned in a polo shirt with khakis and loafers. When he caught his breath from the startling manner in which she had opened the door, he introduced himself, "Hello ma'am. My name is Charles. My car broke down and I was wondering if you would call triple A for me. . ."
"Come in!" She demanded. Secretly, she was hoping he was a thug ready to shove her onto the sofa and ravage her over, and over, and over again. Not that she was a racist or anything. I mean, she could conceive of black men as things other than thugs and rapists and . . . Well. . . The jury is still our on whether or not interracial porn is fundamentally exploitative of black men or actually empowering of them, but I digress. . .
