Pearl Nicolas was a successful and somewhat famous writer of erotica and smut. While by no means a millionaire, she was able to write as her sole source of income and afford a lovely two-bedroom apartment on the seventh of seven floors in this newly constructed apartment building in a reasonably nice city. The building had a lovely miniature park in the middle, the building wrapped around it like the letter C.
As it turned out, 'C' was Pearl's favorite letter. So many great words started with C. Cock, clit, coitus, coochie, condom, chastity, come. (Pearl absolutely refused to spell that word with a "U.") Her apartment was on the bottom end of the "C," but how boring would it be if Pearl was only a bottom.
Most of Pearl's smut involved futanari, women born with penises. In smut, they could be given these penises by magic, transformation, spread from futa to women like an entirely beneficial disease, or perhaps most grimly, surgical intervention. But Pearl's own experience in becoming a futa was like every other one in the real world, a journey that started before she was even born, and one she would not repeat if given the chance.
In school, when faced with the guidance counselor who told her that high school would be the best time of her life, she sunk into the quicksand of self-pity for the first and only time in her life. Luckily, every day past graduation was better than almost every day before it. The entirely erroneous advice of the guidance counselor was packed away as the stupid observation of someone whose greatest achievement was being a guidance counselor at a high school.
They told her to figure out a backup career in case writing didn't work out. She did get a degree in psychology that she never used, except to think about the mental workings of her characters. Even if she had pursued that further, she always had a hidden arrow in her quiver: her fourteen-inch penis. If all else failed, she could enter the world of porn or, if things got very dire, become an escort. It was far from Plan A, but having a secret weapon and feeling the security it provided allowed her to pursue day jobs with an imaginary ripcord clenched in her grip. It helped her perform even crummy jobs reasonably stress-free.
This must have been why guys with big dicks were so confident. Maybe they would have second thoughts if they got a look at her. At about five-foot-six, her flaccid hang reached three-quarters down her thigh. Erect, it would reach past her knee, if her erection could be coaxed to point straight down, but its oaklike stature would not be deflected so far.
As writing smut was her job, and doing so required her mind to constantly swim in erotic thoughts, she often had an erection while writing. One might assume this meant laptops were out, as writing stirring erotica on this would be like balancing a pizza box on the point of an obelisk gravestone. Not so, as Pearl's travels to conventions and book signings forced her to use laptops more than not. She simply set it on a desk set before her large full-height window overlooking the rest of her building and the skyline. The desk was lined with a soft velvet on the underside so her boner could rest against it. When she really got going... it had to come out from under there and live between her breasts until she was finished.
When going out in public, where erections were not normally tolerated, Pearl normally wore tight cotton briefs to keep everything stowed. If erections were acceptable, she normally went commando. But sitting at a chair with nothing at all below the waist wasn't comfortable. She had a drawer full of undergarments that were thinner, lighter, and most importantly... stretchier.
Pearl sat at her table. She browsed her current projects, trying to figure out which one she wanted to work on today. She was free of the stress of deadlines, most of them months away. She hadn't had an orgasm in three days, so her mind should be absolutely pickled in deeply perverse thoughts and naughty scenarios.
And yet... nothing was coming to her. It happened sometimes. She couldn't always write with the fervor of a woman possessed, but the professional did not rely on that slippery serpent Inspiration to get words on the paper, or screen.
When presented with this, sometimes she would simply write anything she could think of into a blank document, to get the words flowing. Sometimes she would sit back and continuously fantasize about a scene in the future, thinking of every beautiful detail she could describe later. Sometimes, she screwed off and played video games or took a walk, maybe to that bodega where the proprietor of unknown foreign origin would openly flirt with her. Pearl still didn't know if he knew about her 'big secret,' or if he simply liked the attractive blonde with large breasts.
The one thing Pearl would not do, and would never do... she would never write about a writer. Especially not a writer who was struggling to come up with ideas. That was the ultimate cop-out. It was bad idea laundering, passing them onto a fictional scapegoat, and a direct translation of the thoughts of a writer's inability to produce anything worthwhile.
Pearl could definitely produce something worthwhile, slinging it into a wad of tissue. But she was afraid this would set her progress back even further. Instead, she decided to do something she had never done:
She would start an AMA on Reddit.
Pearl was alarmed to discover that someone else had the name "PearlNicolas," possibly some grandmother with that name. "RealPearlNicolas" was also taken, which bothered her a little bit. It had better be that grandmother again. She refused to add numbers to her username, attempting a variety of different ways to portray her sobriquet sensibly in a single word. The only way finding a proper username could be more annoying was if she'd gone by a name that was also common, like a word, or perhaps a single letter.
She wanted to put something like "PearlNicolasHugeCock," but wasn't sure if Reddit had a policy against obscenity in usernames. She remembered early chat rooms where someone could have a racial slur in their username, for some crazy reason. And not an obscure one, like something that only exists in Britian or Australia. She saw the big one that gets thrown around liberally in games of Counter-Strike. Yahoo Chat didn't seem to care back then.
Eventually, Pearl settled on "Pearl_Nicolas_Smut_Writer."
It was rejected for being too long.
Thus, "Pearl_Nicolas_Smut."
Pearl called her neighbor for help posting the obligatory photo that demonstrated that, yes, this really was Pearl Nicolas answering these questions. Not that most people who read her works knew what she looked like, in the same way a famous mime could call into a daytime talk show and nobody would know if the voice on the phone was legit.
She dressed up in her baby-bluest sweater vest and collared shirt to emphasize the 'nympho librarian' look, her big breasts stretching out the embroidered pattern. She sat on the black leather ottoman that came with her couch and held a small whiteboard with the relevant information over her crotch, her naked legs stretched out on either side of it.
Her neighbor Stephanie snapped a few pictures on Pearl's phone. Pearl made a few different arousing facial expressions, the smoldering eyebrow, the yearning pucker, the hand held to her cheek in mock surprise. All the while, she was watching Stephanie snap the pictures, her brown curls tumbling effortlessly around her face, her tanned skin shiny and undoubtedly soft...
Once Stephanie got enough pictures, Pearl stood from the ottoman just before her erection could climb over the top of the small whiteboard.
Stephanie saw it and chuckled, looking away. "What's got you excited?" She asked.
"Just the thought of everyone picturing it behind this thing." Pearl lied. "Though now the whiteboard isn't big enough anymore."
"Well, we got the shot, so..." Stephanie handed Pearl her phone back. "Unless you want to try something different."
Pearl's hand went under her lips thoughtfully. She looked across to her kitchen, where that empty party pizza box was still there from two days ago. Pearl felt lucky to have a friend with whom she was comfortable, not just half-nude and aroused, but one who would not judge her occasional sloppiness.
That pizza box... their Mega Pizza, or whatever they called it... it promised a fifteen inch diameter pizza.
On the lid of the pizza box, Pearl traced a pencil line over her erection, covering the cartoony Italian chef already on the cover. Stephanie carefully cut the line out as straight as she could. The opposite side of the pizza box was white, a perfect surface to write all the information again.
The new picture had Pearl standing in profile, holding this censor bar parallel to her cock. If only it was black with white lettering, it would have been perfect.
"How's this?" Pearl asked.
Stephanie peeked over the edge of her phone. "I can see your balls."
