The Laws Of Fiction

Dear reader, I make no apologies for the explicitness, the bizarreness, the disturbing nature of the following story. For all its excesses, it has one overriding virtue – it is all 100% true, in every humiliating detail. You would do well to pay attention, you who are fellow artisans in the subtle art of erotic fiction, for what I have to say is a matter of vital urgency to you. (You who merely read this stuff and don’t write it may count yourselves fortunate not to be one of us.)

I write this from my sickbed. Only last week, I was in excellent shape. I had just returned from my customary annual four weeks in Tuscany, and I was lean as a lath and never fitter, although my skin is pale, so that I can’t sunbathe. I woke up the morning after my return and, following my custom, I put together my frugal breakfast of All-Bran, peaches and semi-skimmed. Refreshed, I went to the shower.

I had soaped myself off and washed my cropped hair, and as the water ran down my naked body I was composing a scene in my mind, something involving that lusciously olive-skinned Italian media student I had been introduced to. My member stirred and I stroked it absently, but not with any serious intent. I always find that, when one is about to create erotica that will stir the loins of others, it’s better to refrain from emission beforehand. “There goes another novel,” as Balzac used to sigh, after emptying his load into the grateful womb of his mistress. The French master was seldom wrong. But I digress.

The image of whatever-her-name, the student, was still vivid in my mind; tall, sulky, broad-hipped, her breasts bulging inside her top, her jeans tight around her bottom. What a splendid creature she had been. My virility was standing well to attention, by now. I thought she might do very well for a short piece I had in mind, something about sweaty holiday sex in a stuffy hotel room during siesta time. I mentally cast her as the Girl on the Beach, and I had soon plucked her from her sun-lounger, whisked her indoors and and flung her face-down beneath me on the bed, her clothes off and her naked brown buttocks bumping against my pelvis, while she moaned deliriously from the sheer force of my –

The shower curtain was yanked back. I exclaimed aloud, in shock. Standing there, in my bathroom, was the Italian media student, the shower curtain in one hand, shower-water spraying onto her lime-green boob tube. She was glaring at me. I just had the presence of mind to put my hands over my excitement.

“You!” she barked. “You are a filthy disgusting man!” Her fine nostrils flared with outrage, and her full lips were scowling.

How in the world had she got here? How had she gained access to my apartment? Questions like these whirled through my mind.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, looking around desperately for a towel.

“A lot of us want to talk to you,” she said, and she grabbed me by the wrist and hauled me out of the shower. She was a strong girl, and I could not resist as she led me, wet, naked and stumbling, into my bedroom.

My first impression was that somebody was having a funeral reception in there. It seemed to be crammed with people having a bad time. I realised, as the Italian media student threw me onto my own bed, that they were all staring at me. I rolled onto my stomach to hide my shrinking manhood, and looked up at them.

They were strangely familiar. Most of them were in more or less of a state of undress.

With sinking horror, I realised that they were all my characters.

There were scores of them, possibly hundreds. How so many people managed to fit into my bedroom I don’t know, but they did. There was Trudi, the innocent pigtailed shepherdess heroine of my very first story, which had featured her as the focus of a three-way gang-bang with three strapping farm boys. (There, too, were the farm boys, bulging in their lederhosen.) I recognised the dripping, resentful face of Helene, the beautiful but cold and authoritarian young Army lieutenant whom I had made to be brutally fisted in the barracks shower by a mixed squad of mutinous soldiers. There, naked but for straps, buckles and ball-gag, was Jan, the thinly disguised portrait of my faithless ex-girlfriend. I had created Jan out of revenge, and made her the unwilling star of a highly invasive S&M scenario with a bunch of ruthless leather boys disguised as policemen. And, oh dear, standing next to Jan with a protective hand on her shoulder, was Jill the ex-girlfriend, her inspiration, wearing that light cotton print frock I’d always liked, twirling a strap-on in one hand and looking at me with a face of thunder.

Yes, the people I had used for inspiration, they were all there too: Aileen, the fine-boned arts administrator who had consistently refused to go out with me and who, as a result, I had made the protagonist of an especially dark and humiliating she-discovers-that-she-likes-being-dominated-by-other-women story; she was there, wearing only dungarees, her neck in a studded collar with a chain, the other end of which was held by a hefty, visibly indignant denim-clad bull-dyke. Standing nude, with her back to me, giving me dagger’s looks over her shoulder, was short-haired, bespectacled Christine, the first girl I had ever had anal sex with, and who (under various names) had been a regular source of material ever since because of the very memorable pitch and urgency of the moans she had emitted while I had been tunnelling into her sweet puckered anus. I realised with shame that I had played that scene so many times that I could no longer remember what the front of her body looked like, which was presumably why she was looking at me over her shoulder. I saw nineteen-year-old Lesley, the blonde and buxom piano student with whom I had, albeit only in my imagination, played so many games of strip chess. Now she was covering herself with two cushions and frowning at me. That voluptuous Northern girl who worked in the next office and wore tank tops that showed her tattoos; friendly, flirty Siobhan, the tall receptionist; that plump blonde girl I’d seen in the street that time and kept running into all day. They were all there, they had all been used to flesh out a character, and they were not best pleased about it.

And, sweet Jesus, there too were all the celebrities I had written all those fantasies about, now staring at me like I was a vile inhuman worm. There was Suzanne Vega, wrapped in a sheet, looking stern because I had made her explore different kinds of sexuality with Ani DiFranco, who was standing next to her, wearing only a guitar slung at crotch level and a fuck-you expression. Katerina Witt, the gorgeous figure-skater-turned-model from the former East Germany, was crouched naked beneath a small waterfall in the corner, her lovely face as hard as stone; I could hardly blame her for that, after I’d put together that story in which she’d gone skinny-dipping in a forest and been comprehensively ravished by the vegetation. Denise Lewis, the stunning British athlete, was standing naked and unashamed with her fists on her muscular hips, her ebony skin gleaming in the morning light; she probably wanted to get me back for that time I’d had the Williams sisters DP her in a changing room. Sure enough, the two tennis stars were close behind her, staring at me with loathing.

“What do you want?” I asked fearfully.

“You have a lot of nerve, pal,” said Ani DiFranco.

“I’m just a writer!” I protested. “They’re just stories!”

“Is that all we are to you?” Christine said coldly. “Just objects of fantasy? Look at me! You probably can’t even remember what my breasts look like, let alone anything about my personality. I’m just an ass and a moan to you.”

“Not just that,” I said. “Also the way the muscles moved in your back…” The Italian media student, who was standing next to the bed, slapped my naked bottom hard, and I yelped. I was acutely conscious of the fact that I was naked, and the focus of the angry attention of so many women and men. I tried to cover my arousal with my cupped hands.

“You’ve listened to my music,” said Suzanne Vega. “Haven’t my thoughtful, sensitive songs about love and longing taught you

anything?

You don’t imagine

I

sit around writing pornography all the time, do you?”

“I love your songs!” I said, pulling the sheet over my hips. The Italian student pulled it away, though. “I admire the plangent melancholy of ‘Gypsy’ as much as the next person, and I thought your album

99.9F°

was a really effective, more hard-edged departure from your previous style. But I was sitting around and I was horny, and what the hell, you go with what you get…”

Suzanne rolled her eyes. Ani DiFranco shook her dreadlocked head in disgust. There was a general clicking of tongues from everyone in the room.

“Don’t you have any respect for women at all?” asked Helene the Army lieutenant, hugging herself and shivering while she dripped onto the carpet.

“I love women!” I said hotly. “Look at how many times I put you in girl-on-girl scenes. I would love to be a woman and get up to some of the things that I’ve made you do!”

“But what about what

we

would have liked to do?” said Aileen, and her angry-looking girlfriend with the Elvis quiff nodded. “I’m as straight as anybody,” Aileen went on. “I’ve never looked twice at a woman. I don’t even have

fantasies

about women. I find the whole thing a bit icky, if you want to know. And just cause I won’t sleep with you, you have me tied to a bed while Heather here drops hot wax onto my nipples and teases my labia with a bullwhip! Honestly, you have absolutely no consideration for other people’s feelings.”

“Same here,” said cherubic Lesley, flushing a very becoming pink. “Every time you’re around, I’m losing my clothes, and then you’re doing

all

kinds of kinky stuff with me. Did it ever occur to you that I have a life? That I need to practice? Not

once

have you ever sat me at a piano.”

“What about me?” Christine cried, her head still craned back over her shoulder. “One time, just

one time

out of the dozen times we had sex, I let this guy fuck me up the arse, because he kept begging and I’d never tried it. Now I’m Christine the Stunt Bottom. Christine the Sobbing Moan of Desire. Every time one of you comes because some guy is plugging your rear entry, it’s me who provides the soundtrack. You’d think I didn’t have any other orifices. Look at me! I can’t even stand straight!”

There was a chorus of support. I thought desperately, and a memory popped into my mind of Christine coming out of the shower. That was it! Small breasts, slight bulge of the stomach, navel ring, didn’t shave her pubes. There was a soft

pop

and Christine sighed, then she turned around – at last fully visible, front and back – and rubbed her neck, wincing. She glanced down at herself.

“Too little, too late,” she grumbled.

“At least you had ze sex mit ze humans,” complained Katerina Witt, from her watery bower. She slicked her wet hair back from her face. “I go for a svim and ze next zing I know, I am being fucked by ze shrubbery. It is

sehr

humiliating for a former Olympic athlete.”

“What about putting me in a changing room with Venus and Serena Williams?” Denise Lewis pointed out. “I’m track and field. They’re tennis. It’s not even the same stadium.”

“And what about us?” said a strapping young man in a police uniform, with a thick moustache and shades. He stood with four other buffed men, similarly clad. “The men in your stories? You don’t even bother to give us

names

. You just use us as surrogate cocks, and sometimes for a bit of walking-on-the-wild-side, when you want to pretend you’re bisexual. Since when do you know what it’s like to be gay? You didn’t have to grow up with the heartache and the persecution. You’ve never risked being beaten up for propositioning anyone. You live your whole life in the sunlight.”

“That’s not strictly true,” I stammered, trying in vain to cover my nudity. “I don’t tan at all. I once got second degree burns because I’d forgotten to put sunblock on.”

“Don’t confuse the issue, asshole,” growled Ani DiFranco, waving her guitar in a threatening manner. “You just make it all up, with no sense of responsibility. God, half my songs are about the difficulty of balancing art and life. But you just suck it all up and shit it all out as – what? As

porn

.” Suzanne Vega nodded solemnly and patted Ani on the shoulder.

“Well, a lot of people get pleasure from my work,” I said, blushing furiously and trying to sound reasonable. “You should see the emails I get sent. That saga I did about the botanists investigating the sex tree, that got a huge response.”

“And who paid the price?” said an angry female voice. Four people pushed their way to the front of the crowd, a young man, a plump young woman, a black girl with glasses and a tall attractive older woman, all of them naked, bruised and streaked with some kind of white goo that looked like sap. The young man bore a worrying physical resemblance to myself.

“You really put us through the mill,” said the plump young woman fiercely. “And you couldn’t let it go, could you? I don’t know how many times that damn tree has fucked us every which way. Even your stand-in here has had enough of your bullshit.” The young man nodded, looking at me with distaste. It was very strange having my double accusing me of exploiting him. My head was starting to spin.

“Well,” I said hotly, “what do you want from me, anyway? What am I supposed to do about it?”

“We just thought it was time for a little payback,” said my twin. “We think it’s high time you had a taste of your own literary medicine.”

“W-what do you mean?” I cried, shrinking back in horror. But the three strapping Austrian farm boys were approaching the bed, wearing too-broad grins, their interest in me all too horribly evident from the stretching of their lederhosen. Trudi the shepherdess was sauntering up to me as well, her dimpled mouth leering evilly.

“Three-way,

ja

?” she said. “Soon you too will know what it is like to be the centre of attention.”

“And after they’ve had their fun,” said Jill, my ex, twirling the strap-on in her slim fingers, “I think my fictional representative here wants to introduce you to some new friends.” I stared in horrified disbelief from here, to the trussed-up Jan, who winked at me, and from her to the five gay cops, all of whom were smiling at me with peculiar intensity.

“No!” I cried. “No! You can’t be serious! You can’t do that! I’m not a fictional character, I’m an

author!

I call the shots around here!”

“Not any more, imaginative boy,” said Christine. Jill tossed her the strap-on, which Christine caught one-handed and proceeded to buckle onto her slender hips, smiling at me and sliding her specs down to the end of her nose with an elegant pinkie.

“No!” I begged, as the farm boys climbed onto the bed and encircled me. “Please! No! Don’t! I’m – I’m not gay! I’m just a writer! I don’t do this!”

“Relax,

liebchen

,” said the tallest of the farm boys, as he unbuttoned his lederhosen, letting his enormous

Knockwurst

dangle before my terrified eyes. “Just let it happen, and play up for the folks at home. You’re the star now.” His friends grabbed me, manhandled me onto my hands and knees, and ignoring my pleas for mercy, he thrust his Johnson into my whimpering mouth.

Well, dear reader, neither time nor space permit the recounting of every last detail of the orgy that followed, but sixty seconds later the tallest farm boy was stifling my moans with the sheer girth of his member; another was luxuriating on his stomach beneath me, forcing his cute round tushie inexorably down onto my own rigid cock, while the third was behind me, pumping his long slender

schlong

into my until-then-virgin asshole. All three of these experiences were quite new to me, and I was so ashamed of my own arousal (a purely physical reflex, I can assure you) that I wept tears of humiliation. The arse of the slender youth beneath me was tight, but well lubricated, and the friction worked all too well at keeping me rigid; meanwhile, the vigorous agitation of the stocky boy’s length in my own rectum was causing new and overwhelming sensations in the region of my prostate. All this took place to encouraging cheers and mocking jeers from the rest of the assembly, especially from the buxom Trudi, who sat backwards on a chair and puffed a cigarette whilst making obscene remarks in some recondite dialect of Lower German.

When Hans, Kurt and Rudolf finally came – one down my throat, the other up my ass and the last on my freshly laundered bedsheet – there was a round of applause. They pulled out of me unceremoniously and left me prone and gasping on the bed – and immensely frustrated, because I had not myself achieved climax. But I scarcely had time to get my breath before the five husky policemen had pounced on me, and begun trussing my limp naked form with all manner of straps, buckles and chains. I was hooded, and a rubber plug was inserted in my moist back passage, then I was – I can hardly bear to type the words – spanked to within an inch of my life.

To be truthful, the hood at least spared me the indignity of seeing the undoubted triumph on the face of the onlookers, although their catcalls were all too audible. I sobbed into my gag, conscious that my ordeal was only beginning.

This particular episode climaxed when five separate jets of sticky fluid splashed over my back and buttocks, and I was untrussed and unhooded with the same brutal efficiency that I had expected. My pert round buttocks were blazing, and my poor hole was quivering with the multiple assaults. I wept, and begged for them to stop. But there was a long way to go yet.

My next assailant was the svelte Christine. If I had hoped that a mere strap-on would be marginally more tolerable than what I had already been through, I was wrong. During our earlier acquaintance, when we had been going out, I had thought her a quiet, studious, rather meek and mousy girl, who I had successfully emotionally blackmailed into letting me penetrate her anally because “she needed to live more in the moment”. Once she had mounted my hips I saw, and above all felt, the true intensity of Christine Living In The Moment. She was merciless, drilling me like a roadmender and splitting me like an apple, while I drooled and moaned and howled for mercy. But her mercy was far from tender. My asshole was starting to feel about as wide and capacious as the Dublin Port Tunnel. She gasped and sweated and swore, pumping her slender hips into me like she was trying to play pinball with her pubic bone. And all along, my poor cock strained for relief, for a single hospitable orifice where it might be allowed to empty itself, but Christine was imperious. At the height of her frenzy, she let out a single piercing cry, then pulled out of me and sprawled on the bedspread, sighing with satisfaction. I seem to remember Suzanne Vega leading her to the side and giving the trembling girl a drink of water, before rough hands were picking me up and leading me over to Katerina Witt’s waterfall. It wasn’t long before I was once again subjected to invasion of my most private apertures; my nude body was covered with thick, crawling, succulent vines, probing at my every orifice and invading me as I writhed, my screams muffled by the leaves that had enveloped my head.

And so it went on. Every single character there visited upon me the same ravishment that I had, in my imagination, visited upon them, at least as far as anatomy permitted. And each time, they were ever so careful to ensure that it would not last long enough for me to be allowed release. All the most baroque and depraved productions of my literary career came back to haunt me, and in many cases cum in my face while they were doing it. I was kept hydrated by sips of water; I was kept from passing out by sharp bouts of spanking.