It's been over two weeks now since I've published a new story. Not for lack of effort of course. I've sat down in exactly this spot at least once a day, but the words just simply aren't coming. Who knew that writing semi-fictional stories about sex could somehow be unmotivating?
Sure, I keep scrolling through a dozen different partly written stories, looking for something that will motivate me to complete it. A little edit here, maybe an extra line there, but there's no creative spark coming. Even the stories that look like a good idea seem like they're going to take way too much effort to complete.
Here's one about anal sex in a hotel room. Yeah, that was hot, but it's already too long.
Then there's this one about doing it in the park on the swing. Again, great memory, but the story just isn't capturing the moment right - it's going to need a re-write and who has the energy for that.
This next one about the surprise blowjob at the office has real potential. I remember starting it a few weeks ago, and can vaguely remember all the good ideas that I had about the dialogue, and some very specific tongue motions I wanted to describe, but even that isn't inspiring me to start typing again.
When the knock at the home office door came, it was a relief. Good! I can talk to someone for a few minutes and have an excuse for not writing for a while. "Hi dear - mind if I come in?"
"Sure - one second." I reply. Furiously re-typing a line that was already on the screen so that my wife could hear my fingers moving furiously. One might call it faking an orgasm if I had enough creativity within me at the moment to think of that line.
"Come on in." I say, trying not to sound too excited at the excuse to not write for a few minutes.
The first thing I notice as she comes into the room is her legs underneath her robe. With the warmer weather, and this being a lazy Saturday morning, she's now wearing her shorter robe more often, which I highly approve of. Coming to just above her knee, it very flatteringly showed off the combination of her lean, strong thighs and calves with that silky, oh so delicious skin.
She caught me staring at her knees under her robe and smiled. "So, from that dirty look you're giving me, does that mean you're having more luck with your writing this morning?"
When I didn't reply immediately, she took a couple steps across the room to look over my shoulder at the half-written story. "Oh, I like this one." she said, "This is the one you were writing last month, isn't it?"
My prolific-writer ego took the hit, and the look on my face answered the question.
"Hmm. Writer's block still?"
"Looks like it."
"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked. Looking up from the screen at her face, I watched the expression on her face change. For a moment, it was a query of concern and an innocent question, but then her smile grew as her mind realized the possible innuendo of her question and turned much more mischievous.
"Are you - in need of some inspiration perhaps?"
Well, now THIS was an even better way to distract me from my writer's block for a few minutes!
I reached out one hand and put it on her hip, feeling the tight curve underneath the cashmere robe. Certainly, I was now feeling very inspired, even if it had nothing to do with the nearly forgotten laptop sitting on the desk next to me.
"Hang on there." she cautioned, taking my hand off her hip and setting it down on the desk.
"A long slow Saturday morning fuck is certainly inspiring, but how do I know that it's actually going to mean you get some writing done?" Damn, she knew me too well. Ironically, we'd actually been going at it often and creatively in the bedroom in the last couple of weeks, but it wasn't translating into the written word, and she knew it.
"OK, here's the deal." she said, her eyes now joining her smile in looking very mischievous. "Stand up and take your pants off."
Yes ma'am. Sounds like a good deal to me so far.
As I stood up from my desk chair to do as I was instructed, my wife slid underneath my big old wooden desk. I thought I had some idea what was coming next, but she was several steps ahead of me in this thought process.
"Now," she said, kneeling in front of my chair, eye level with the half hard-on I was now displaying. "You're going to sit down and type, and I'm going to provide you with some - inspiration...but there's a catch. I'll keep 'inspiring' you for as long as you need. But, whatever story you're inspired to write - you need to finish before you...finish - if you catch my drift."
