The computer screen glowed a bright, vicious blue. It was a clunky, fat thing with a keyboard so sticky below that the letters were obscured with grime. That didn't matter to him. He sat typing away, chuckling gleefully with every stroke. His fingers flew over keyboard at a frightening pace, ignoring the way they occasionally stuck to the keys like sneakers on a movie theater floor. Spell check would take care of most of that, he knew, his fingers chewing up the distance between zero and the magical seven-hundred-and-fifty words with relative ease.
Ahhh, yes! Finished—exactly seven-hundred-and-fifty words—another breviloquent masterpiece, ready to be submitted. He checked his totals. Three hundred and nine gloriously brief stories in under six months! And there were only a few hours left to go until midnight! Well, there was no doubting that the man had kept his word. No human being could possibly write this much in so short a time frame.
Before his... investment... he had been able to do one, maybe two stories every few days, and they were long in comparison, a thousand words, two thousand, giving readers much too much character development and time to actually care about them. He had learned the error of his ways more quickly than he could have imagined possible, thanks to the machine.
His compulsion to sit and write, write, write had become overpowering the moment the strange man had made his visit, and he had spent his time doing little else. He wrote up a brief description, titled the story, made sure it was correctly categorized, and hit the "submit" button. It was time to write another—the ache between his legs had become overpowering.
"I'm going, I'm going," he murmured, squirming in his seat and looking down at the contraption in his lap. He remembered the first time he saw it, the smooth silver surface shaped like a long bullet or... it had made him think of the vibrator his ex-wife used to own, only thicker, somehow more dense.
"You want me to put it where?" he'd asked the man in the suit who had come to the door, saying he had "just the thing" for him.
"You want to win the contest," the man had said. His eyes were dark, but they gleamed, even in the dim light of the apartment. "You want your fifteen minutes of fame, your name in lights... you want that five hundred dollars. It should be yours. It will be yours."
The man's voice, so lenitive... there had been no reason to question or hesitate after that. Why would he? For a measly fifty dollars, he could have the key to unlocking his dreams, and in the end, his investment would pay for itself, tenfold! And then, when he slipped it over the thick, hardness of his cock the first time, he thought he had died and gone to heaven...
"A lovely specimen," the dark man had said, licking his lips and watching at the machine—it wasn't really a machine, it was flesh inside, like hungry velvet, attaching itself to the writer's engorged member. "Just sign here, and I'll be on my way."
