Write Club

This story was written for the 2025 Literotica 750 Word Challenge. Below this line are exactly 750 words:

The first rule of Write Club is you do not talk about Write Club. At least, not to anyone outside of the craft. You might try to dress it up as erotic romance, but trust me, they'll know that you're just pushing pornography.

I joined Write Club like a lot of other disaffected men - middle aged, bored with life and seeking purpose. I'd endured a long patch of sexual dissatisfaction. I couldn't get the girls I wanted, and when I did they would never play along. I was achieving depressingly low sexual targets and it affected my everyday life. I couldn't focus at work, I couldn't sleep at night.

That's when I discovered literary erotica, and immediately progressed to writing it.

A whole universe opened up with boundless possibilities and limitless opportunities. In fiction I could be anything and do anything.

I started small and grew my stories longer and more adventurous. Fucking strangers whose names I didn't know. Anal sex with girls in public toilets. Threesomes. Ass to mouth. Tentacle sex. Alien sex. Anything you could possibly imagine could transform into a story.

I became obsessed, building a repertoire in multiple genres. Fucking other men's wives. Fucking the men too. Bondage piss play. The more I wrote, the more hardcore I became.

I turned to the author forums that they termed Write Club for more inspiration. That's where I met TylerTheCreative. He was like a God. A fucking legend. All of the writers followed him and he offered the best advice. If Tyler hadn't read your work, you might as well scrub it from the server.

We all knew each other just by pen names. MadMonk, PenIsMightier, OneHandWarrior. I coined myself JackHoff. I thought it was a clever name at first, but with time I came to hate it, though it was too late to change.

Noone knew our identities in the real world. Fuck, we could pass each other in the street every day and no-one would ever know. I might even work with them.

I would toil at night on my stories, building chapter upon chapter. At work I'd be a zombie from late-night sessions on the keyboard. The only solution was to give up work. I just stopped turning up.

Tyler responded to a few of my stories. He gave me some hints. Less build up, he said. Sucker them in, then get to the point. It worked for him, so it was going to work for me.

I started a fictional series about my life as a professional boxing fighter. My character had an addiction to coke and sex. I'd get high then fuck the card girls before the match, then afterwards, win or lose, I'd fuck more.

Trouble was, Tyler had the same idea. Only better and just ahead of me.

I'd prepare my plot, sketch the arcs and map the narrative. I'd flesh out the story, fill in the detail and write the dialog. When I took a breather I'd read whatever masterpiece Tyler had last published.

Fuck.

Time and time again, my story was already there. Different character names but undoubtedly the same story.

We battled it out in the comments.

"Fuck you!"

"No fuck you!"

He'd always prevail.

I panicked that he might have hacked my computer so I went off grid. Every word was hand-written and locked in my drawer whenever I wasn't at my desk. I changed my password. I logged in only to read his essays and comments.

There was no way anyone could copy me now. My whole process was on paper, and the only time my story touched the internet was when I typed the final draft, ran a spell check and then hit submit.

"Bad copy of a good story." That was Tyler's comment with a link to the same story that he'd published two days earlier. Fuck. I deleted mine.

It couldn't be coincidence but it was driving me nuts. I resolved to pull an all-nighter on a new story with themes as weird as fuck and I'd publish it straight away. No opportunity for Tyler to copy.

I had a prolific 24 hours fueled by tobacco and scotch, compiling 10,000 saucy words about Jack cucking Tyler. The essay was typed and ready to submit when I crashed into unconsciousness on the desk.

I woke the next morning, feeling woozy but accomplished. I rubbed my eyes and read the screen.

Thankyou TylerTheCreator, your submission has been received.