T his is a self-contained one-off story. It's perhaps not as prolonged and hardcore as some might like, but I'm happy to finish a story with some of the action still to come and left to the reader's imagination.
I'm a mainstream author, so I don't write "blow by blow" suck- and - fuckfests accounts of sexual acrobatics. If that is what you're looking for, perhaps move on... there's plenty of other 'stories' on here to give you that.
As with all of these, All Rights are Reserved by the Author, except for the (limited) rights given herein to Literotica. Any other Reproduction, in part or in whole, will be prosecuted.
I both love... and hate, doing Readings from my work. It's kind of part of the job being an Author though. Sometimes the crowd β well, audience... readers β is admiring, and then sometimes they give me no idea whether I've
got
them (interested) or not. I never know till the end sometimes, when the questions start getting asked, or the books start getting sold.
And in almost every audience, there appears to be a groupie. Whether she's (usually a she, but sometimes a he) is actually interested in my books, me or just 'being seen with an Author.
If she's cute or beautiful, I don't mind. But the one that walked up to me now, looked to be all of twenty,
may
be twenty-one. Dangerous territory for me to flirt my way into.
This one was on the 'quirky' side. She extended her hand. "Hi. I"m Charlene, but my friends call me Carl."
Ok
, I thought.
"Carl," I said with an obvious reaction. "Strangeβ"
"Well, they started calling me Charl, but then they wanted to get weird, so... Carl."
She was on the 'big girl' side, but was more rolly polly than chunky. "I see. So Carl. Are you a writer or a reader?" I asked her, with a catch in my voice. Did I really want to engage someone so young?
"I want to be a writer. Well, and I'm a reader, of course. Too, I mean."
Umm hmmm. "So do you want to be a writer? Or do you Want to be a Writer?"
"What's the difference?" she asked, her confidence from before fading quickly.
"Well, the first is you maybe sorta kinda have the idea that you 'wanna be a writer.' But you have no idea what you want to write. You just like the idea."
"And?" she asked, giving me a strange look.
"The second is you truly want to be a writer, have some ideas, but are struggling to get them down on paper or finished. One's vanity, and the other's a struggle. Right?"
She stood there and chewed on her lower lip for a few seconds, looking vacantly down at the floor... Until she focussed on my crotch. That got her looking hard.
Not that I was erect or anything. She was just looking. And then she giggled. "What?" I asked her, expecting her to shy away and rejoin her friend.
"Would you... I mean, could you... help me? Write, I mean?"
She was kind of cute, in a bubbly but not quite even pretty way, but I could see myself getting in trouble with this one. I was, after all, the adult here. I didn't need to get involved with a teenaged groupie.
"I know I'm not supposed to ask, but... How old are you?" I asked her, knowing that thing about not asking a woman her age was mainly for the 'older set.'
"Old enough," was her cute, but flirty answer. She kind of tilted her head, and gave me a flirty look out from under her eyelashes.
"No. I mean, really. You know how old I am?"
"Ummmβ"
"Old enough to be your father. If not older."
She looked up at me with a more adult, hungry look, and said, "I know."
My mind was flashing 'Danger!' at this kind of knowing look she was giving me now. She didn't look old enough that I could trust that whatever age she told me would be the right one. And I hated "carding' women. And if I had to "card her..."