Writers Convention Hoo-Ups

Jake Wesley, known by the screen name CameraGuy2K, had been struggling to come up with new material to post on his internet website. In his current state of mind, there are only so many ways to perform the good ol' horizontal mambo, experience carnal knowledge, have coitus, fanning the sheets, jumping bones, getting laid, bumping uglies, rolling in the hay, and the dreaded and unremarkable - making love. Well, you get the picture. There are probably more ways to describe having sex using slang terms than there are actual sexual positions listed in the Kama Sutra. I don't know about that last part for sure, but I'd be willing to bet it's close.

While taking a break to work on his latest novel and a spec screenplay, his erotic short stories have taken a backseat. Snooze, ya' lose if one doesn't practice every day. His stories seem to sustain him and keep him occupied and at the keyboard. There's no money in it as there could be in eBooks or screenplays. It's just fun. And yet, these short stories give the most joy. People DO read them, and they hit the "like" button sometimes.

Sometimes, going to industry conventions can reenergize a career - create some new excitement for their craft. Watching someone more successful present new and exciting ideas -- or ideas never heard -- for other newbies can be uplifting. There is always something new to learn or ways to reinvent oneself in their chosen hobby or career. Maybe some new software has been invented. Perhaps some new consumers are emerging for the stories we write. There are always options or new ways to profit from our words. Those efforts take learning and connections. The bottom line is to be read and have one's thoughts and words enjoyed by nameless others. We write because we must. Writing or expressing ourselves is in our DNA. We communicate, but we can't do that alone in front of a keyboard. The reader must be involved. That's our job. Be respectful of our readers and grateful for the time they spend reading us. That's huge.

So, here was Jake at the Erotica Writer's Convention being held in a swank hotel in the heartland. It's Thursday afternoon and the convention classes begin tomorrow morning. He knows absolutely no one else attending. Some writers are more sociable, but Jake is not so much. It was a huge stretch to call Jake's work "literature". They were amateur short stories with a little bit of nastiness to them. Let the readers judge.

In the hotel restaurant, Jake was about to take the first bite of his strawberry shortcake dessert when a delightful interruption sashayed directly his way.

"Excuse me. Are you that CameraGuy2K? The Literotica short story writer?"

"Yes, I suppose I am. How would you know? I'm not wearing a name tag on my back, am I?"

"Oh, I'd recognize you anywhere, even without your fedora. You look like a man who appreciates a good Scotch and listening to jazz music until the wee hours of the morning. I'll go so far as to say you'd probably close the bar and still be dancing in the dark with a lover. Wouldn't you?"

"I've been known to. I wrote a short story about that once. It wasn't one of my most popular stories, but it was heartfelt. I felt like I'd lived it before, in another time. Men, it seems, don't like to be reminded to wear a condom. Most of that story was fiction, of course. Point of fact in those days, I was probably too drunk to get up and walk out, let alone have a woman with me. You know writers ... 10% truth, 90% fiction."

"Maybe so, but I could tell from your story, you were in love with me?"

The man looked at her, gazing at her figure up and down - not like low hanging fruit, but more in honest appreciation of the wonders of nature and feminine beauty.

"See? You're doing it again. You DO love me. Don't you? I know that look."

"Miss, I'm sorry, but I believe you are mistaken. We have never met. I'm sure I would have remembered you!"

"Of course we have. You know where I live, the color of each of my nightgowns, and ..." she began whispering. "... especially what I like in bed, under the covers, between the sheets." As she whispered, she sat herself down at the table across from him.

The man motioned for the waiter. "My guest would like a strawberry shortcake with French Vanilla ice cream on the side, please."

"So, what brings you to the Writers' Convention, Miss ...?

"Debbie. My name is Debbie. You should know that. You wrote me, remember? I came here so I could find you. I dance at the Burly-que around the corner from Jake Blue's Jazz Club. It's where we met and eventually fell in love. You name is Tim, and I'd know you anywhere, except you aren't wearing your beaver fur fedora like you always do. I'm here to see you. You never wrote an end to our story. You just sort of left us hanging. You never wrote that we were happy ever after. Speaking of which, how are you hanging? Miss me?"

"Uh, Debbie. I'm sure you're looking for someone else."

"Debbie slipped her right foot out of her heels and stretched her leg under the table and wiggled her toes into Tim's crotch waiting for a reaction."

Embarrassed and not wanting to create a scene, he tried to remain still. And yet, under Debbie's toe manipulations, Tim's cock grew hard.

"There he is. I'd recognize the feel of that cock anytime, anywhere. I hope you've been saving it for me because I'm always your girl. I hope you got a room here at this hotel. I think we're going to need our privacy soon."

"Wait a minute. I don't know you at all?"

"Timmy, Timmy, Tim-Tim. You know me inside and out. In fact, I'm wearing those black, lacy panties you bought me for our six-month anniversary."

"Maybe we should dance first. Ya think? I think the bar has a small quartet during happy hour."

"Ooh, Timmy. You read my mind."

Tim called the waiter. "We'd like two glasses of Prosecco, please."

"What's that, Timmy?"

"Prosecco is an Italian sparkling wine that goes great with your strawberry shortcake."

"Sounds great. You always know these things. I love that about you."

"If we slow down a bit, we could get to know each other better before the music starts in the bar. No sense dancing until we get in the proper mood. Right?"

"I'm always in the mood for you, but it has been a while since you wrote me into your story. I really wanted there to be more to it. We were just getting juicy with it. I was looking forward to a longer story with much more happening in the squeaky bedsprings department."

"Let's finish our dessert and have a couple of glasses of wine. I just want to say that you are sexier in person than the girl I wrote in the story. Some writers use too many words to describe their female characters. Other women readers tend to not finish the story if they're breasts aren't as perfect, or their asses aren't sweet -- like yours."

"I have an idea. We can skip the jazz and dancing in the bar and go up to your room and make our own sweet music. I can hum a song in your ear from my Burly-que act, do a little dance for you. Then you could give me a tune-up. I've waited too long already. You did bring condoms, didn't you? You like the way I put them on you with my lips. Don't you? We've talked about family planning and our careers. It's important. Oh, and we're going to need more than one."

After the second glass of Prosecco, Tim was beginning to succumb to Debbie's suggestions and her increased playfulness with her toes in his crotch. She had rearranged his cock straight up and down between her toes and was stroking him without mercy. Gradually, he could feel the transfer of command from his skull brain down to his cockhead brain. Debbie loosened the top two buttons on her blouse revealing her bra cup overflow and Tim was a hooked tuna. Not wanting to let a good wine go to waste, he finished his glass and Debbie's too, since she made no move to drain it. He signed the guest bill with his room number, tip, and signature. By then, Debbie was by his side, took his hand, and nearly dragged him toward the elevators.

Once Tim -- not his real name -- slipped in the keycard, Debbie pushed open the door. "Shall we dance?" She began to sing a little ditty to the old bump and grind of the Burly-que. First, she removed her blouse exposing even more of her chesty assets since there was yet more see-through lace to be revealed. Next, her skirt was loosened and dropped in a whirl around on her tiptoes. Her panties were also lace and matched her bra. She strolled over and loosened Tim's tie and pulled off his suitcoat. "C'mon, Timmy. Get in the spirit." She reached down to the front of his trousers and squeezed his cock. It was just as she raised it downstairs. "Hhmm, still interested, I see."

"Debbie? Where's the romance? If I remember correctly, we had romance in that story."

"Yes, we did. A great potential for even more romance, but tonight, I want your hard cock inside me as something to remember you by until you finish the next part of our story. Since you won't tell me when that will be, I'll have to wear you out tonight. Don't fasten your seatbelt, I want YOU involved." She drew closer and nibbled on his earlobe then whispered. "C'mon, Tim. Fuck me like you love me."

By now, that was what Tim wanted more than anything. She was beautiful and she seemed to know me. How does that happen? It had been weeks since he wrote pages of anything. He was stuck and he needed this convention to motivate him again. Debbie could be just the muse he needed right now.

Together, they undressed each other planting warm kisses all along the way. Debbie's nipples shined and she held Tim's face snuggly into them. He inhaled her scent -- a warm mixture of her cologne and body. This was something new that he would have to inject into the next chapter. She stood naked now in the center of the room. Suddenly, she struck a pose like the sculptures in a museum. Tim walked around her, touching here. Brushing there. Kissing the top of the crevice of her lovely ass cheeks. Stooping down so his cock could ride up her crack spreading precum along the way. Such a lovely thing it was. She should be a sculpture. Why wasn't she already? He slowly walked around her again and took his time with her nipples before heading down the treasure trail. She stopped him.

"My turn. Now you strike a pose." Tim couldn't think of anything at the moment's notice. He thought about some of his movie heroes but ended as a referee at a football game doing a touchdown signal. Seemed appropriate. Tim was going to get some. So, here's Tim, a naked referee with a hard-on standing in the center of the room. It looked ridiculous, but not to Debbie. She kissed him first, then gave each nipple a couple of licks while stroking his cock. Then she walked around behind him, kissed his neck and a few other places down his backbone, then bit his ass and slapped each cheek twice. "Take me to bed. Foreplay is over."

Tim picked her up and carried her to bed and stood her up at the end. He stripped off the bedspread and top sheet before picking her up again and gently placing her down in the center of the bed. He stood up and gazed at her in the light of the one lamp. It wasn't exactly Hollywood movie lighting, but the light and shadows falling on her body created that illusion. He laid down next to her and kissed her gently.

"Go on Tim. You know what I like. You know what I need."

If he remembered the story he'd written a year ago correctly, he knew alright. He kissed his way down her soft but toned belly and didn't stop until he got to her well of honey.

He gave it one long taste, then another just to moisten it. He dug his pointed tongue into the dimples inside her thighs, and she squirmed moving her hips to where his tongue was. He collected some saliva and dipped his tongue inside. She was already hot. Tim feasted like it was Thanksgiving and pulled out everything he could think of to please her. Her moans and squirms were incentives.

Then, he rolled her over onto her tummy and feasted on her bottom too. Just as his tongue sometimes touched her rosebud, his licking her bud sometimes touched her clit. She was dripping and couldn't take much more. He rolled her back over and moved up to face her. "Oh Debbie. Why didn't I finish our story? I was such a fool."

"I can't answer that. You're the only writer I know. But you're here now. I'm willing, so do what you'd like. Since our original story was back in the day, this story can be something different. In fact, I'm on the pill, so in case you didn't bring a condom, I want to feel all of you now. I have a feeling about that bare feeling, if you know what I mean."

Tim rolled over and positioned himself. Debbie was humping her hips up and down. Her pussy was glistening, and her lips seemed to be opening and closing in anticipation. "I'm here for you, Tim. Nobody else, but you."

Tim slipped the head of his cock into her lips and rubbed her up and down. Then, like a massaging sex toy, used the head of his cock to rub her clit. Her breathing grew shallow. Finally, Tim slowly pushed himself inside... little by little until he was all the way there. Once totally inside, he held himself there and allowed the two of them to grind together. Writhing, twisting, humping without withdrawing. She used her muscles to squeeze him. Tim took a deep breath. This felt too good for him to move.

Slowly, he withdrew and stopped. Debbie held her breath. "Put it back in. Put it back." Tim pushed in again and lodged himself inside. Her pussy was amazing. The truth was that he hadn't had sex in a long time and was fearful he would finish too soon. A few more thrusts were about all he could hold out for.

"Don't worry about it, Tim. You're too much into your head right now. I can see it on your face. It's you I love. Sex with you is never about the orgasm, although orgasms are very nice with you, they aren't the only thing I need. Right now, I need you to cum. I'm wet for you. I'm open for you. When you're ready to cum, I want to drink you all in. Can you give me that much?"

"That's the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me. Are you sure?"

"Fuck me, Tim. What are you waiting for?"

Tim slipped inside her again. She groaned. "More. More Tim." Again, he moved inside her with all his heated probe. "Faster, now. I'm on the edge. Push it. Faster."

Tim had no choice. His body was speaking too. He was ready. Holding it was no longer an option. As he pushed, he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her with his mouth open, catching his breath, tasting her tongue, licking her lips. His pumping became furious. They continually bumped their pelvic bones together, tapping her clitoris. Without notice, he began to moan into her mouth as he thrusted. Debbie knew what that meant.

"Now, Tim. Give me your cum now. I need to taste you."

At the very last second, Tim withdrew and held onto the tip of his pulsing cock to hold in his still escaping semen. Debbie held her mouth open and Tim let go pulsing his cream onto her anxiously waiting tongue. When the last drops were spilled, she closed her lips around his cock and sucked hard enough to collapse at least one of his balls -- if it worked that way. Smiling, she raised her finger in a come-hither motion. When he got close enough, she reached for the back of his head and kissed him. With her tongue she pressed into his lips and pushed some of his seed back into his mouth. Once they had swallowed enough, Debbie whispered, "It's so hot to share something between us. I know you like my pussy juices too. Now I can taste me on your tongue, and you can taste you on my tongue. Does that make sense? Doesn't that make us part of each other now?"

"I guess so."

"Let's take a rest for a while. I know you have classes or training sessions or lectures or something tomorrow and I don't want to wear you out. But when I wake you up later, I'll want your cock inside me again. You showed an interest in my backdoor, didn't you? If you have a condom, ... well, I can't promise anything."

They fell asleep - together in each other's arms. He held her close and threw his left leg over her legs to hold her even closer. They kissed until kissing became impossible after the sandman had properly dosed them.

Tim's hotel wakeup call came in, but Debbie was nowhere to be found. There were two wet bath towels in the bathroom and a note on the pillow. "Write me well, Tim. I really hope we meet again soon. I miss you already. Love, --D" He caught a glimpse of red on his cock in the bathroom mirror. He looked down at his cock to find fresh lipstick ring around the head. "Damn. She was real."

He looked at his watch. His first paid class was in 45 minutes. He barely had time shower, shave, and shampoo. Fortunately, convention dress code was dress casual -- no blue jeans. Who would he dress in a suit to impress?

***

Jake made to the Writing for Modern Times (BDSM) class on time, but he had to sit near the back of the room. Snooze, you lose. He could still see and hear, but he was happy to see the moderator provided printed handouts in a nice black with gold lettering folder. Being 'old school', the used an ultra-thin mechanical pencil to make notes in the margins and on the backs of pages, as the class reviewed the material. Question-Answer period went well. He did learn one thing. Model Bettie Page was not actually involved in the lifestyle, but she did enjoy modeling the clothing and fake spanking and fake whipping the other models in Irving Klaw's New York Studio. It was a modeling assignment that paid more. That's all. Together with the handout and the class conversation, it was worth $100 to know that.

On his way out of the room, Cristi or rather, Madam Wanton bumped into him. "Well, if it isn't the Brothel Inspector." She looked at the 10x8 poster board sign taped to the door. "What are you doing in a BDSM classroom that isn't MY Red Room? You still have that superior attitude, haven't you? Have you learned nothing from your visits to Madam Nandi's?"

"I, uh..."

"Shut up, Weasel. I didn't give you permission to speak. With or without your Brothel Inspector's Badge, you're just another weasel to me."

"You look like Christi, I mean Madam Wanton, but what are you doing here at a writers convention?"

"I'll ask the questions, weasel. Never forget that I'm in charge."

"Well, we aren't in Madam Nandi's Red Room, so you are just another attractive woman in the hallways of a nice hotel. Do you have a room or are you just walking the streets? Would it be rude to ask, how's business?"

"Hey, I work for a classy Madam in your town. We have connections to your sex therapist. Do you still have your little badge?

"No, I don't have the badge with me. It was just a gimmick souvenir from my visit to an Old West Town in Arizona. A hundred and thirty years ago, Wyatt Earp was the town's Brothel Inspector. I just used the idea of it in a modern era story. That's all. It was a $10.00 toy that I picked up to add to my hat pin collection as a travel souvenir. I have hundreds of such pins. That lame character to which you refer is a fictional character. I made him up. I purposefully invented him so that YOU could have someone to sexually torture in my story."

"As far as I'm concerned, the puppet master is the same as the puppet."

"You would think that way. Who pulls your strings? Think hard. Come on. Let's see the smoke come out of your ears. A little harder now"

"Nobody pulls my strings."

"Think. How about the fact that YOU would not have ever existed either, had I not created you for that story, too. The puppet master is me and my created characters are my puppets. So, stop the trash talking at me and walk with me down to the restaurant and I'll buy you lunch. You can order anything you like except the lobster. You really are more attractive when you aren't dressed all in black and your make up isn't overly done."