Stephen King And I

Disclaimer: This story is entirely fictional and is in no way connected with the subject. This story contains adult material and is only suitable for people over the age of 18. If you are under 18 please stop reading now. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living, dead, or otherwise, is purely coincidental. All characters portrayed in this story are over 18. Stephen King has not endorsed this fiction.

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Stephen King. A fucking legend. The greatest author of all time, not just in my view, but the opinion of writers worldwide. A veritable one man publication house.

I knew that he'd written over sixty novels and hundreds of short stories. The creator of iconic characters and entire genres - the Shining, It, Carrie - oh my God the list is endless. I myself was proud to have published a single novel after months of hard work that sapped me to the core. To have published as prolifically as he was just beyond my imagination.

My legs jiggled as I waited impatiently in the queue for a book signing by the legend. His appearance at the Downtown Grand Casino had been publicised weeks ahead of time, and since it was only a forty minute drive from my house I could not resist. I purchased a copy of the new anthology at the entryway desk and then joined the snaking conga line to await my turn for a short audience with God himself.

The line inched forward and I chatted nervously with other fans about inconsequential this-and-that. When I was finally the next in line I realised with panic that I'd not rehearsed any speech or prepared any questions. I didn't even know what I was going to ask him to inscribe in the cover.

"Hi Stephen," I stammered. "I'm a big, big fan. I love your work!" Groan! How banal and cliché. At least I didn't say that I was his number one fan -- I'm sure there were plenty of devotees out there a lot crazier than me.

Embarrassment washed over me but I was sure I could recover. "Or should I call you Richard?" Oh no. Even worse. Of course everybody knows that Stephen King used the nom de plume Richard Bachman.

He smiled awkwardly, with one of those expressions that barely conceals a grimace. "What's your name?"

"Emily. Emily Dawkins, Sir."

"Well Emily Dawkins, what would you like me to write here?"

"I'm an author too," I blurted out. Oh my God, did I really say that? This was going from atrocious to unplumbed depths of terrible.

"Well congratulations Emily. What do you write?"

"Monsters in the Bedroom. Perhaps you've read it?" I held out hopefully, but was not surprised when the greatest author in the world responded with a little shake of his head and whispered a 'sorry'.

"I write erotic horror," I continued, feeling like I was digging my grave.

"

Erotic

horror," repeated Stephen King with an upbeat tone and a piqued expression of interest.

"Mmm hmm," I replied with my heart lifting.

"Well that

is

interesting," he responded with a smile and a much more engaging tone. "What is your style? Direct or indirect? I mean, obvious or subtle?"

"I guess it's subtle," I replied unconvincingly. "Like, I try to build the atmosphere without revealing the actual --," I paused not wanting to spoil the plot in case he did want to read it someday.

"Is that regarding the horror or the erotic?" Stephen questioned sincerely.

"The horror, of course," I said. "The sex is all explicit."

"Good, good," he said excitedly. "I like it. Keep up the good work. I have a close friend who is very interested in the genre. Perhaps we can talk sometime. Get in touch with me. Phone, email, X, whatever."

Yeah right, I thought. Like a million other budding authors who also wanted to talk with him. I mused if he'd ever replied to even one. My gaze momentarily turned to the endless queue behind me and I wondered if he made the same offer to every fan. I returned my focus to see Stephen concentrate on the book as he penned a paragraph inside the cover before snapping it shut and handing it back to me.

"See you round Emily." He closed out our conversation, and with that our encounter concluded.

I loitered at the hotel for an aimless hour or so, taking an inquisitive meander through the casino tables. But I didn't have any real purpose to be there, and so I retreated to the car park, drove home and reheated a dinner for myself.

I sunk into my favourite chair at home with a warm foil dish in my lap, and gathered the new anthology that Stephen had signed just that afternoon. I realised that in my absent-mindedness, I hadn't even opened it to read his personal message.

Emily Dawkins, it is a pleasure to meet another author. I look forward to reading Monsters in the Bedroom and I'd like to get to know more about your erotic horror writing. Phone me anytime for a chat 414 694 555.

Surely this couldn't be the personal phone number of the man himself. At our meeting, he

did

invite me to contact him, but I couldn't bring myself to believe that the invitation was sincere.

I grabbed my phone and googled the number. It was likely a publishing desk, or an editor, or a PR person or some corporate rep. Google returned nothing, just a 0% spam score on some anti-hacking site. Perhaps it was just a fake number.

I'd always been careless with numbers and contacts and decided that I needed to save the phone details before I somehow lost them. I navigated to contacts and started to type. First name "Stephen", Last name: "King", Company: "Author". As I was saving the contact, my clumsy thumb hit the dial button, but before the first ring was even through, I'd cancelled the call in panic. That was close. Who the fuck knew who might have been on the other end? I'd been caught off guard once already today, and I didn't want a repeat.

My heartbeat had not even returned to a regular pulse when the phone started to ring and the text "Stephen King, Author" appeared on my screen. Fuck! Be brave Emily. I pressed the green icon.

"Hello," came a familiar voice. It was him.

"Hello Stephen. This is Emily."

"Emily?"

"Emily Dawkins. From the book signing today. You know, the erotic horror girl." Silence. I put it all on the line. "Or should I call you Richard?"

"Oh, Emily. Thanks for calling. Sorry, I was just finding a quiet spot." Pause. "Would you like to have that chat?"

Whoa? Would I ever?! I'd kill for a face to face. I decided then and there that I'd be fully prepared this time round.

"Sure. When does it suit?" I imagined that he'd have a diary and I could lock in some future date - hopefully this century.

"I'm at the Jax sports bar right now. Are you still here?"

I knew the Jax - it was a quirky little bar within the Hotel part of the Downtown Grand.

"Not quite, but I'm close." I wasn't going to let this one get away. "I'll be there in thirty, is that OK?"

"Sure. It's just me and the bar tender. And a bunch of kids playing pool. See you soon."

It was usually a forty minute drive, but I probably made it in 25 - a combination of clear traffic lights and a lead foot. I tried to compose myself between the car park and the bar, but I knew that I probably looked flustered. Calm down Emily, I told myself. I walked in with false confidence and scanned the room, looking for Stephen King's famous visage.

Stephen sat alone at a round table in a corner of the bar, still dressed in his fawn suit and blue tie, casually browsing through a magazine. He sat, leaning over the table and sipped from a short glass, glancing up from time to time, gauging the room before returning focus to his journal.

I strode boldly to his table, grabbed the back of a vacant chair, and cleared my throat.

"Oh, hello Emily." He smiled, stood and offered an air kiss on my cheek, and then gestured for me to join him, seated at the table.

"Hello Stephen. Thanks for offering to meet with me."

"It's a pleasure. You know, the world of literature is so wide and you'd think experienced professionals would have seen it all, but there is always more to discover and learn. And I'm keen to learn about the erotic. How about you?"

"I must admit, erotic horror has been the main focus of my reading. I don't read as much or as widely as I really should."

"None of us do, Emily," came a refreshing admission.

We continued to chat briefly about various genres of literature that had captured more or less of Stephen's interest across the years, and then he emptied his glass with a gulp. I was about to offer to buy us each a drink, but he beat me to the punch, waving with two fingers to the barman, who appeared momentarily with a pair of whiskeys.

"But let's talk about the erotic," he refocused the conversation. "It's something that interests me greatly, in literature, and in person. How does it make

you

feel Emily?"

"I guess I feel excited. When the horror and the erotic come together, it kinda delivers a double whammy.

Bam!

- there's the adrenaline rush from the fear and

Boom!

- there's the dopamine hit, or whatever brings that sex rush."

"Yes, I know what you mean. It's fun to pull the strings on those emotions isn't it. Would you like to explore more Emily? Would you like to come back up to my room and explore eroticism and emotions with me?"

Fuck! I was being propositioned. Stephen was over 70 and I was only 23. Despite his age, he was a really good looking guy and his physique was impressive. What was I to do? He might be older but he was still a legend. And who wouldn't want to be able to say they got laid by Stephen King.

"Sure. I'd love to."

He returned his glass to the table while I sculled my own, and then he guided me gently by the small of my back, from the bar to the hotel elevators. He swiped the access reader and before I knew it, he had ushered me through the doorway of room 808.

Wow! It was such an impressive suite that it took my breath away. So this was the lifestyle afforded to the best of the best! It was on the penthouse level with floor to ceiling windows that looked out over a sea of flashing lights and gaudy signage.

The room itself was cavernous with high ceilings and separate areas designated within the huge open plan. Messy paper was strewn across two desks that adjoined each other in one part of the living area with a dirty ashtray and discarded glasses littering the polished surfaces, while manuscripts were neatly stacked on the dining table at the opposite end of the apartment. I imagined that there were stories to tell from all those pages!

Stephen methodically removed his jacket and tie, placed them neatly on a wall hanger, then unfastened the top two buttons on his shirt. He unbuttoned his sleeves and let them hang loose.

"Another?" he offered, attending to the drinks station and upended two crystal whiskey glasses.

"Sure." I took up residence on a plush sofa and slouched into the left arm of the furniture. In keeping with the informal atmosphere I kicked off my moccasins and wished that I'd dressed in some more sexy attire. But an hour ago, who would have ever guessed that I'd be alone in a penthouse being seduced by Stephen King?

I heard ice drop into the glasses and clink around. He poured the spirit and turned to me, swirling the amber liquid with a glass in each hand. Stephen approached, taking a sip on the way and passed the other glass to me. He lowered himself into the armchair at my side, angling the chair and his body toward me. Stephen tilted his glass, quipped a short "Cheers," and took another sip, exhaling audibly and licking his lips.

Relaxed in the oversized armchair, he inspected me through his compact round spectacles, like a kindly grandpa ready to tell a night-time tale to children. I would have been happy to receive any of his stories, but he continued to quiz me.

"Tell me more about your writing Emily," Stephen requested.

I started to explain the plot of my novel.

"Sorry Emily, I don't mean to cut you off," he said, cutting me off. "I didn't ask you to recount your book. Tell me about your writing process. How do you do it? How does it make you feel? Where do your ideas come from? What delivers you

erotic

inspiration? What makes you

scared

?"

"Well, I just sit down at my desk, and I write and write until I get so tied up or so out-of-energy that I have to stop. And then I get up for a while and the ideas bubble around in my head, and I save them up for the next writing session."

"Right. And to come back to my question, what inspires the eroticism, or the horror parts of your stories?"

"I write about what scares me. And what turns me on. The characters are not me, but the stimuli and the scenarios - that's all me."

"I see," he nodded respectfully.

"But what about you?" I inquired, turning the tables. "You have written so much, and so creatively. It's incredible. I got exhausted just writing the one book over a year. Your output is just phenomenal. How do you do it?"

"Do you really want to know?" he teased with a fragment of a smile.

"Yes of course," I replied. I would give anything for the secret.

"It's not me."

"What?" I couldn't believe that

the

Stephen King was opening up to me and confessing that he was a fraud.

"Here's the secret. It's all Richard Bachman. You joked when we met at the signing, but that is the truth. Stephen King can't write anything. Well, that's not true. I'm excellent at grammar and book signings. The stories are all down to Richard Bachman."

Huh? It didn't make sense. "But Richard Bachman is just you, isn't he?"

"No. Richard is another person within me. I can't really take credit for any of the stories.

Stephen King

can't. Its all

Richard Bachman

. He's the genius. I just do the admin and accept the paychecks."

"But the Bachman Books? I thought you wrote a whole lot as Stephen King and then just introduced Richard Bachman later for some additional stories?"

"No, it was always Richard Bachman. He wrote everything from the very beginning. Even in my youth, Richard would appear to perform the creative work. He had the ideas and the content. I was just there for the ride. In the late 70's I thought that I'd introduce him to the world. Of course, no-one really understood. They thought it was just a pen name, but he's the creative genius."

"I'm shocked," I admitted, not really knowing what to say.

"Would you like to meet him?" Stephen asked, knocking me completely off balance. "He said that he'd like to meet you."

"Yes, of course," I responded, wanting to immerse myself in as much of the Stephen King experience as possible. I pondered where this interlude tonight was heading. I was excited that Stephen had clearly been on a trajectory to get me into bed, and I wondered whether Richard Bachman would take over the seduction? I looked to the door half expecting the other man to appear.

Stephen removed his specs and his expression transformed. It was like watching the transition in Jack's demeanour from the Shining. It shouldn't have been a surprise. If he had a similar

modus operandi

to me and drew inspiration from his own experiences and fears then the stories and imagery from his works would be reflections of his own character.

Richard stared straight into my soul and greeted me in a gravelly voice, "Hello Emily."

His spindly fingers combed from front to back through his impressive mane, drawing hair away from his face. Stephen had been reserved and formal, but the transformation to Richard brought a different atmosphere. As soon as he looked back up at me, I could detect him eyeing my cleavage and agitating to look up my skirt at every manufactured opportunity. To be honest, I was completely flattered by his attention.

It was incredible how the new expression changed the person. If you prepared a police identikit image of Stephen and Richard, then they would look the same. But in the flesh, in real life, they were completely different. The innocent and nerdy accountant had been replaced by a character with fire in his eyes and mischievous intent etched on his face. Stephen had been cute and cuddly, but Richard exuded animalistic sex appeal.

He stood, unbuttoned his shirt completely, peeled it off and threw it to the floor.

"Stand up."

A thrill coursed through my body as Richard marched into my personal space, his chest brushing my breasts and our noses close. He angled his head and I welcomed his mouth hard against mine in an aggressive kiss. His lips felt thin and bony and his mouth somewhat dry. He circled his hand to the back of my head and clutched my hair as he dragged his own cheek against mine. I felt the harshness of his stubble and the hotness of his breath, and my body melted with the sensation of a real man taking control.

I let my head fall backwards, presenting my neck and jaw. I saw his long tongue extend and then felt the tantalising rasp against my skin as he delivered a long slow single lick from my collarbone to my cheekbone. Abruptly he let go of me and turned away.

"Come and join me on the bed," he instructed. As Richard walked across the suite, he unbuckled his belt and his trousers seemed to glide off his body into a puddle on the floor and his underpants followed suit.

He adopted a posture naked on the bed, lying on his side, propped up on his elbow. He tapped the mattress beside him, inviting me to lie down.

His body was thin but sprightly and youthful for his age. I expected his penis to appear in some demonic form, like the barbed tail of the devil but to be honest it was quite beautiful. It was engorged in a semi-erect state, draped casually across his thigh and hung all the way to the mattress. It was long, and impressive in girth. The glans was swollen and protruded prominently from the tip, made all the more obvious by its deep purple colouring.

The entire evening had proceeded very strangely, and I could not determine if I was aroused or excited or just nervous. My pussy wasn't telling me much and I couldn't sense the hardness that arises in my nipples when I'm in the moment.

"Shed your clothes and come lie with me," Richard invited. "I want to know your desires and your fears. It feeds my imagination. That's where my material comes from. I long ago exhausted my own experiences and now I thrive on the minds of others."

I followed his directions and moved to the bed, gleefully stripping down to my panties and bra as I stood alongside. It was too weird to go completely naked just yet. I lay on my back beside him and let his forefinger wander delicately over my belly. "Why do you

only

want to know about fear and desire? There's more than just those emotions to a story isn't there?"

"These emotions are the heart of erotic horror, and that's why I want

you

, Emily. The perennial struggle between fear and desire. Desire draws you in, and then fear delivers the blow. Desire appears in many disguises - inquisitiveness, pleasure, lust, and fear lives on a scale from fright to unimaginable horrors."

I started to talk, but he interrupted.

"I don't want to hear it from your mouth. I need to read your emotions directly."

I wondered if he was hinting that he wanted to read my book, but soon I realised it was

me

personally that he wanted to read. His pointed finger glided up my torso and his hand stretched out across my face with fingertips jabbing into my temples.

"Now you see what I see, and I see what you see," he declared. I glimpsed the gaps between his fingers and discerned his eyelids flutter.

Images raced through my mind with a maelstrom of emotions following in their wake. I saw the trauma of my youth. I recounted my fear of spiders with an image of me buried in a pit of arachnids. My mind relived a near-drowning experience that I suffered as a child. I could feel him there with me through the memories, as if accompanying me at a film screening. And then I felt passion wash through my body. My first kiss. First sex. Being so horny at a skating rink that I let a stranger fuck me in the toilets. The tempo of the recollections sped up to an incredible rate and images, emotions and memories swirled through my mind at a pace so fast that I could not comprehend what was happening. The constant groan emanating from Richard's throat formed a soundtrack to the whole episode, and the pressure in my temples grew as the pitch of his voice rose.