Writer of the Stars

My reflection blurred in the smear of concrete and greenery.

I was a passenger on the MetroRail, Austin's only commuter train. I stood against the window, steadied by my grip on a metal pole. As the train careened at its top speed of sixty miles-per-hour, I considered how everything about this trip was in transit--the place I boarded from was a temporary replacement for the downtown station, which was being rebuilt. It didn't have enough lines for the ever growing population of the city. One of the ticket machines had been out of service. I had found an empty mounting pole on the station's platform--it looked like it was designed to house a dot matrix info board, but given the station's temporary nature, I doubted it would ever be filled.

My eyes fixed on nothing in particular. I, too, was in transit, just another blur in the window of a crowded city.

It didn't bother me, mind you. I think I preferred it. I had a great appreciation for the smear of life, and the swirl of messy color and thought that comes from being in a world smoothed over by generations of advancement. There is a great, beautiful impossibility to my existence, and that train ride, uneventful as it was--as it always was--was evidence for it.

Because not a single man surrounding me would or could know the extent or nature of my lust for them.

I didn't need them to know. I was horny for concept, not cock. I am old enough to know what I want and what I am, and as I studied the disparate sizes and expressions and bulk of the men in repose around me, I was as aware as I ever was that I am burdened with sexuality without the need of sex. I don't have a "come hither" gaze because my eyes don't covet, they catalogue.

To my right, there was a black man in his mid thirties. He's clean shaven, with a smooth lineup I'm sure he paid plenty for. He's smiling at something on his phone. Beautiful white pearls peeked through thick, dark lips; lips that could swallow your tongue, your face, your soul. His orange tank and yellow sweats indicated a playful personality, and his muscled shoulders and broad chest hinted that he lived in a world of labor or fitness. You can find so many ways to build an aesthetic body like his; he was a sculpture I imagined many approved of. Perhaps he gave his approval back to them in long, sweaty nights wrapped in silk sheets. Assuming he was vanilla in taste--perhaps his gave his disapproval in swats across the rear or face, if he was a little more wild. Maybe only a difference of mood separated the two possible outcomes. Not knowing, but considering, was part of the fun.

To my left sat a bearded construction work. His overhung, hairy belly pushed out from an orange vest, hastily unfastened after a long day of work. He was talking to a woman across the aisle. He laughed, and waved his hands as he talked. I imagined those hands were strong, calloused, and in regular use. I wondered how much weight he'd put on in his days of hard labor. I wondered how proud he was of that bulk, and how much he enjoyed showing it off to smaller guys at the construction site. Maybe there was a nerd there--some accountant or intern for a manager he despised--that got grabbed by those strong hands and forced face first into his navel everyday. Or maybe there was a guy like me, unassuming and forgettable, who knew he was built to please. Who was looking at him and thinking about what he might look like naked, free, worshiped like the Dionysus he should've always been.

Across the aisle, I saw an old Latino man with silver braids. He wore a shimmering black suit, dark as night, still full of stars. His eyes hid behind mirrored shades, and his gray beard was neatly trimmed. He looked expensive. Too expensive for me, or anyone else on board. Which made you wonder what his price was. And was his price to have, or be had? Was this a powerful business man who hid a deep yearning for a dominate subordinate to throw him across his desk and take him? Was this silver fox ready to slip a few hundred into the waistband of a twink's panties, or a jock's strap? The grimy possibilities were there, made all the more salacious by often unspoken scandalous precedent.

The train pulled to my stop. I got off. None of them needed to know that, just as they were, they were inspirations to me. It had been my experience that most men can't handle the burden--or the truth--of their beauty. So, I never told them.

I much preferred to write about them, instead.

My apartment was a small one bedroom above a bookstore. The walls were painted a dingy green, like dried toothpaste, and there was little furniture except for a bed. None of these choices were mine--life made them for me. My writing table was a simple wooden slab I'd bought from the antique store down the street for twenty dollars. Sat upon it was my computer, several years out of fashion, but still up for the challenges I presented it. I had a few bookshelves filled with old paperbacks and a couple of pillows strewn across the floor. Any of these places would become dinner tables, depending upon my energy that day. I'd sometimes eat out, but mostly I ate cereal and drank coffee. No one would accuse me of good health, or confuse me for the gods I found in other men.

I rarely left the house for anything other than work. I didn't need to go anywhere else, though I won't pretend I didn't want to. I hated my job--it didn't pay enough to live. To really live, you know what I mean? To walk outside when you want to, take in the sun, go places without a schedule, to be where you want to be because it's curiosity and not a demand. When I think about life, I can't imagine it was invented to only pay bills and starve. Yet the latter two activities seemed to be all I did--which made those quiet moments between my dick, my mind, and the keyboard all the more special.

I wrote. No... I write. I still do. I always will.

I didn't need to flirt with those men on the train not because I feared an accidental run-in with violent straights, but because what really turned me on the most was narrative. Structure threatened my loins, character arcs unzipped my pants, the wandering prose of a sentence without end sent electricity from my mind to my prostate. I didn't have to specifically write porn to have a good time, but it was a good time I always found myself drawn to, all the same. The need to conjure rammed into me, and fucked my imagination with possibilities. I average around four pages or so before I came, and if I'm not playing with myself when I write, then I know it's not a story I'll finish. I am, and you may think lowly of me for this, madly in lust with making.

You'd think I'd write more often, horny as I was for the page.

Between my job and the hours to get to it and leave, most of my time was away from the keyboard. My brain never stopped, of course--all day, men would walk around me, and I deified them from afar. Every man's body was a story I wanted to tell, and the backlog of ideas in my mind was long. But writing is a terrible commitment of resources. If I had both the time and the energy to write when I got home, it would take the remainder of my night. If I lacked one, or the other, or both, I would read someone else's story, jerk off, sleep for 4-6 hours, then stumble back into work the next day.

I appreciated other people's words, and sometimes posted my own, on a sex-story site called, appropriately, Literotica. My audience was small, far smaller than I wanted it to be, but that size was deserved given the few stories that I had posted on the site. While I consider myself a workhorse--I could easily write 2k words a day for fun if I had that freedom--it was a struggle to finish anything. I would orgasm when writing the stories I enjoyed the most, then go to sleep, then get distracted by the burden of the real world, and by the time I got back to doing what I loved--and it would sometimes be days or weeks--I would, more than likely, have a new story or scenario choking my mind, my throat, my cock.

I sat down in front of the keyboard and opened my word processor.

Something about the train ride home stuck with me. I was horny--I was painfully horny, always--but I was also drowning in a frustration of particular heaviness that night. I thought about those three men, sitting across from me, laughing at something, joking with each other. I imagined their bodies, how they moved, what they were like underneath their clothes. I pictured the valleys of their muscles, and where they met. Their cocks, hard and stiff, jutted out from their pants, reached for the sky, begging to be touched. They deserved whores and lovers and gimps and masters and any sort of carnal craving they desired. They deserved novels unto themselves, each of them. They deserved three act structures that found them, whether heroic or villainous, triumphantly sexual. Those worlds didn't exist--couldn't exist--without imagination and time. Best I could give them, I thought, is an orgy with each other. On the train.

"Train on a train," I mused, unzipping with one hand and tapping away with the other. "There's a ring to it."

So I took notes. I gave those gods names, and motivations, and fetishes. I carved their descriptions in time with strokes across my blue cotton underwear. I was half-hard and fully finished with a layout for my story. Good progress on both fronts.

Or, it should've been.

I stared at the monitor, at the clock in the bottom right hand corner of the screen. I grumbled, then slumped in the chair. My dick begged for my attention, but I let it dangle unattended. Anger had set in, a new emotion that had never found its way into my work before. It was late. I had the energy! I had the motivation! I absolutely had the capability, but there was no fucking time! If I didn't go to bed soon, I'd be dead at work the next day. Dead for a job that I needed just to scrape by. And for the first time, I felt too angry at that fact to even finish jerking off.

I saved my work, slunk to my kitchen, and open the window. I draped myself across the pane, and let my arms dangle against the brick outside my apartment. I stared up into the sky, letting the cool air wash over me.

"Fuck this shit," I muttered. "Fuck my life."

The sky was dark. I counted the stars, few as they were. I knew that I was meant to be somewhere else, doing something better. I rarely believed in purpose, but there was too stark of a difference between my happiness in writing and the rest of my micro-managed time.

I closed my eyes and pictured a story, any story. Men taking off their shirts, getting their pecs sucked. A man on his knees, begging another for more. The wetness of a mouth on a dick. A needy hole clenched around a cock. I tried to picture any scene that I could conjure up, any scenario that would allow me to feel full. But every visual was drained out by the reality that I was chained to a cubicle that paid too little for too much of my time, and too much of me.

I opened my eyes again. There was a star I missed--a little more yellow, a little brighter than the others. I focused on its light, since the worlds of my mind, normally my refuge, had abandoned me. It grounded me long enough to think foolish thoughts. I thought that, maybe, I could make a wish on it. I knew that thought was lore inaccurate, of course--you're supposed to wish on shooting stars. But I was unaware of any repercussions for sending your dreams to any old part of the cosmos, and frankly, if there was something out there willing to respond to me, I was ready to accept them. Nothing else had worked out in my life, so why not this?

"Hey, you up there?" I watched my breath fade into the cold air. "Can you hear me?"

I waited, staring at the same point in space, hoping that someone would appear and tell me that it was okay. If the star just twinkled in a knowing way, hell, I'd be satisfied with that.

"Well, if you can..." I took a deep breath, "...all I want to do is write. The odds are impossibly against me that I'll ever be able to, though, what with the way my life is. With the way the world is, too. It's too expensive and risky to publish on my own, the market is saturated as it is, and I don't have the time with my job to do the work I want to do. I don't have family or a big audience to support me. I'm gonna die at this piece of shit job at this rate. I don't want this anymore. I want..."

I took another breath, then started to cry. I couldn't help it. These were words I had held deep within me, never spoken, never shared. Once I started to speak them, they tumbled out with desperate need. I had to get it out of my system, even though my system was designed to prevent this sort of thing.

And then, for some reason, a thought branched out from my spiraling mind, a distinct and curious one.

In my erotica, I played frequently with various kinks just for the sake of challenging my writing. Because I was so enamored by every syllable that came from a male throat, every drop of sweat and spit and precum that a man could make, I found myself often writing about a wide variety of different things, some more sexual in thought than practice. Just to explore these different ways of being turned on was fascinating to me. And yet, one I hadn't pursued, one that I found intriguing but hesitant to leap into, was financial-domination. "Findom," as its known, is a form of BDSM where a submissive showers a dominant with money, with little in return other than humiliation. Maybe if I wrote about that, and maybe if I posted it on Literotica, my writing could fulfill someone else's fantasy. Maybe they can pay me, and I can bury them with my prose, with the filthiest, grimiest stories I desired. Absolutely destroy them with a flick of the wrist, and make them beg for more.

I could live that life easily.

And so, with this thought, perhaps arrogantly, perhaps foolish;y, I looked up to that shining star.

"I wish someone paid me to write erotica every week, at my own pace," I said. "I wish they paid me enough that I could quit my job and live comfortably, and write stories all the time."

The star didn't answer. It suspended itself in the air, unwavering. The wind blew through my hair, and the sound of the cars passing by on the street below faded away.

Disappointed, I closed the window and went to bed.

***

Tuesday morning was as routine as any other. My phone alarm screamed till I woke. I fussed with my tie and slacks, and drowned my cereal with too much milk. I carried coffee with me in a thermos and drank it as I ran to the train platform. I did everything I could to avoid thinking about the temper tantrum I thrust towards the night. I wanted to forget about it, pretend it never happened.

But when I got to work, I found a message waiting for me. The wall of sound of call center phones parted, and silenced when I noticed a small yellow note was stuck to my computer monitor:

***

I like it when you beg.

- S

***

The simple signature was followed up with a smiley face.

I sat down at my desk and held the note between tight fingers. I had no coworkers whose name started with 'S.' None that I could think of, not even last names. John, maybe? I shot up and looked over the cubicle wall at my coworker-neighbor, an older woman named Margie.

"What's John's last name?" I blurted.

Margie blinked over her large bifocals, caught more off-guard by the suddenness of my question than its content. "Andrews, I think."

My brow furrowed. "Huh."

I sat down. Then, shot back up.

"Margie, did you see anyone come by my desk?"

Margie's tone this time reflected a bit of annoyance. "No, just you."

"Huh."

"Something wrong, Davey?"

I shook my head, "No. Sorry."

I fell back into my chair, looked at the note, then crumpled it and threw it into the trash. I didn't have time to think about it--I had to clock in for work.

***

The rest of my shift was largely uneventful--or at least, as eventful as any other day of work. I finished my shift and got on the MetroRail towards home. My normal pastime of observing men and dreaming of the fantastical ways they could achieve nirvana was put on hold. My brain was too consumed by the note, too busy sorting through the files of my life and connections I had made. I searched for anyone whose name began with an 'S.' There had to be someone. Someone I was forgetting--someone with access to my desk at work. Considering my cry to the sky the night before, it was likely someone in my apartment building. Did I have a co-worker that lived near me?

I arrived home and ate dinner alone, as ritual. I tried to watch videos on the internet, but couldn't focus. My mind was locked in search of the missing piece of the puzzle. After dinner, I checked my email and Facebook accounts, but nothing new had come in since the morning. I didn't know my neighbors. I had no other clues, no solace to calm me to sleep, no brain-space to motivate myself to write. I just laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering who the hell 'S' was. Hours ticked by. Frustrated, I decided I'd force myself to masturbate--maybe a good cum was all I needed. I turned on my computer and opened the browser.

Literotica waited patiently for me. My intent had been to just cruise around the "gay male" tab, flip through various kinky stories the way a audiophile browses vinyl records. I wasn't terribly picky, or at least I didn't think I was. Wherever that train of thought would lead to, though, I'd never know--because before I could make it to the tab, I noticed I had received a private message.

I never received private messages.

I clicked the link.

***

Hello Davey,

I've read your work on Literotica and find it compelling. I can't help but wonder what kind of man writes such beautiful words about such filthy things.

I hope you don't mind me contacting you directly. I'm curious if you're interested in working with me on something. If so, please reply with your email address and we'll discuss the details further.

I look forward to hearing from you.

-S

***

I read the message three times

I stood up from the desk, shaking slightly. I walked out of my bedroom and into the kitchen. I opened the window.

That yellow star, the same one I wished on, looked down at me with cool cruelty. I could find it easily, no matter how different the rest of the sky looked. I squinted at it with certainty and distrust.

I slammed the window shut and galloped back to my computer.

***

Dear S,

Thanks for the kind words. I'm really flattered--you're the first person that's messaged me on this site, and it often feels like I'm just another guy around here, you know? Haha.

I love writing, so, uh, yeah. You've got me curious!

Can I ask how you know my name, though?

***

I swallowed, and debated the possibilities in my head. Should I? Shouldn't I?

Ugh.

I typed my email address. Worse case scenario it's a scam and I just cut off contact.

I sent the message and stared at the screen with a disorientation that felt somewhere between punch-drunk and fear. My nervous stupor was only broken when I realized that I was hard as hell. With a shrug, I jerked off to thoughts of begging, my cock trapped underneath the heel of that older Latino man I saw on the train. In my fantasy, he was smoking a cigar, and slapping a stack of money across my face with idle amusement. It was a nice thought, and one that centered on my own body--truthfully, a rarity for me.

When I shot, it was much higher than usual. I cleared the desk and hit the wall. A drop of cum oozed down the screen. I panicked and ran to get some paper towels.

***

The alarm brought me to Wednesday morning. The heaviness of little sleep weighed me down as I reached for the phone. Through blurry eyes I checked my emails and found that there were two new ones.

I opened the first one. It was, unsurprisingly, from "S."

***

Hey Davey,

Just wanted to let you know that I received the payment, and will be sending over the contract today. I'm looking forward to working with you.

-S.

***

Payment? I didn't pay him anything! That was it--I should have known better. I had been stupid enough to think that someone might actually want to buy my work, even if my "work" was just porn. This was a scam, obviously. The only good news that I could think of was this: Whoever this "S" was, he only had my name and email address. If this slime-ball stole any money from me, it was probably just from my PayPpal. I logged into my account to see what damage had been done.

My brain rattled. I yelped in surprise.

One thousand dollars had been deposited into the account as an anonymous tip.

"What the fuck!" I bounced out of my bed and walked a circle around my room.

What the hell was happening?

I remembered that there was a second email. I flipped through the apps in a panic.

***

Hey Davey,

The contract is below. You should have received your first payment. Let me know if you have any questions.

-S.

***

"What... the hell..." I couldn't believe it. I sat down on my bed and read through the contract. It was a ridiculous thing written in short, simple demands. To call it a legally binding document was an insult to normal American bureaucracy--per the contract, I was to post a new story to Literotica by Friday at 7 PM. The story must reach at least 3000 words, and must be a new story I had not posted before. I was to also, every night before bed, beg aloud to the star outside my window. As I did so, I would be required to masturbate. If I failed to cum for the star, or if I failed to deliver my weekly story, the document simply said that "all parties would be void." If I met my duties, I'd be paid a thousand a week for my work.

I slapped my own face to make sure I wasn't dreaming. It stung in very real ways.

I realized, suddenly, that I was going to be late for work if I didn't run out the door. It was only my disbelief in the seriousness of the contract that propelled me out the door. I hadn't eaten yet.

***

I stared at the men on my train with some suspicion, as if anyone around me could be "S." But I knew none of them, and given that my obsession for men meant I remembered faces and bodies quiet well, I was certain that I had not encountered any of the current passengers before.

I arrived at work. I was certainly going to be late. I felt like I was on fire. My stomach churned. I ran up stairs, lacking confidence in the timing of our elevators. I arrived at my desk, out of breath, and found another little yellow note awaited me.

***

You'll like begging, Davey. I promise.

-S.

***

I don't remember much about the rest of that day. I stared at faces. I remember arriving home. I remember walking to my window and opening it. I remember staring at the night sky, at the yellow star that bore down on me. At some point, I glanced at my phone. I used a digital signer on the contract. I sent it off, then, with considerable embarrassment, pulled down the band of my sweatpants.

"I don't..." I felt oddly at a loss of words. When I write humiliation scenes for my stories, it felt so easy to make my subs moan sweet poetry to their doms. This was different. Far different. "I don't quite know what to say."

The star shone.

"This is dumb, isn't it?" I muttered. I looked down at my dick, which apparently disagreed with my assessment--it was half-hard already, despite my not having done anything to it.

"I'm sorry," I said. "It's just..."

I fell silent. I rested my weight against the windowsill, sighed with resignation, and stroked the length of my member.

"Please," I whispered, "I want this to be real."

I looked to the star. It burned. I moaned quietly under its light.

"I need this to be real. Please, I beg of you. Help me."

I gasped as my balls tightened. I spread my legs, and let my taint grind against the edge of the chair. I swiveled my hips in rotation, and used the chair's corner to grind up and down my saddle.

"Please, S..." my breath quickened, "...please let me write for you. Let me feel the pleasure I crave. Make me cum for you. I will do anything. I will beg. I will grovel. I will do anything! Just let me have the freedom to write!"

I released a low groan as I thrust into my hand. I was slick with some pre-cum, but it wasn't enough, so I spat into my hand to help out the friction. I clenched around my cock, squeezed the sensitive head between my fingers. I stared into the star in a trance. My tongue lolled.

"Please, S... please, let me have this. Let me feel this. I will write for you forever. I will write until my hands fall off. I will write until my mind goes blank. Let me write... Let me write... Let me wri--AH!"

I gushed. My submission splattered across the kitchen floor. I threw my head back, and tears streamed down my face. I had never cum so much in my life, never so intensely, and never with such instant embarrassment.

I laid slumped in the chair for a few moments. As my breath and senses came back to me, I muttered towards the sky, "...like that?"

***

Thursday's alarm screamed. I groggily looked at the clock. It was 5 A.M. I hated waking up so early for work. I couldn't remember the last time I slept in. As the memories of the night before settled into my head, I silenced the alarm and called my boss.

"Hey, uh, I know I've been with the company for a while now, but..." my call started out with a mutter, but clarity hastened my speech. "...I quit. Sorry. I'm done. I'm not coming in again. Bye."

I shut off the phone. I stared at my reflection in the black screen. I wasn't sure if I recognized it. It didn't matter--I buried myself in the pillow and slept several more hours.

When I woke up again--this time of my own accord and not a schedule's--it was the most beautiful feeling I had ever encountered. Warmth wrapped itself around me. Thursday was shining and saturated in color. I could smell the air, unseasonably alive in sunshine. Clouds parted for me to sprinkle light into my bedroom window.

I sat up in bed, stretched, and smiled. Looking at the phone clock, I saw that it was noon. Perfect. A perfectly lazy morning, I thought. I should indulge on my first day off.

I showered, put on casual clothes, and hopped onto the MetroRail. I didn't take my usual stop to work--instead, I went all the way downtown. I spent a few hours wandering through museums and galleries, soaking up art. I didn't know a Renoir from a Van Gogh. I was just happy to be in front of work made by possessed hands. Possessed much like mine would be, I thought. Didn't rich people pay artists all the time back in the old days, and fund their work just like "S"? They were called patrons.

This is how it should be. This is how the world should be.

This happy mantra spun my head downtown, through ice cream shops and sunny park strolls. I bought a pair of sunglasses and ate a disgustingly large burger for dinner. I watched a horror movie and, that evening, returned back to my apartment.

"Today, I did nothing of importance," I spoke to myself as I floated up the stairs. "Nothing at all. And it was fantastic."

I arrived at my door. There was a yellow sticky note on it. My smile thinned. I tore the paper off and read:

***

Yes.

Beg just like that, you fucking slut.

-S

***

I stared at the words for a moment. I wondered how long that had been on my door, and if any of my neighbors had seen it. Did they think I was some kind of pervert? They certainly would if notes like this became commonplace.

I stumbled into my apartment, the day turning a little bit more gray with anxiety. I realized all at once that it was Thursday--and that my new deadline was inching closer.

I flipped through the graveyard of my short stories. I had amassed a pile of unfinished work, some already the length required for my Friday submission. I was not concerned about meeting the word count as much as I was finishing--I was, after all, someone that liked to lose themselves in the act. It was my joy, and my weakness.

I opened up a blank document and began to type nonsense. Letters, numbers, words without narrative sense. Just things to move the fingers.

"What do I want to say? What do I want to write?"

I typed.

"It's hard to explain, but I'm stuck. I can't seem to figure out how to end this story."

I held my face in my hands and shuffled through possibilities. There were so many to choose from, and I wanted to do all and none of them at the same time. I needed something to inspire me, to get me going.

Then I remembered the star. Shit.

I lumbered into the kitchen and opened the window. The star waited in the sky for me, as it always had and, I began to suspect, as it always will. I pulled down my sweat pants, leaned, and stroked. My eyes were affixed to the star. I imagined the pleasure it derived from one little human's thoughts and lust. I felt its glare pierce me. I drooled stupidly as I mumbled, "Please make me write for you, S... please... I want to be your little story-slut..."

The sky grew brighter. I could feel the weight of it all bearing down on me. The light was growing, expanding. Heat prickled on my skin. I felt my place in the universe, so insignificant under the gaze of the old star. A ringing filled my ears. My eyes widened and teared up. I couldn't look away. I couldn't stop pumping my cock. I whimpered like a bitch in heat, like a worshipper lost.

"Please, S! Please make me your bitch!" I cried out. "I'm your little writing slut, S! I'm just a dirty little faggot who needs to be used and abused by you! Make me write for you, S! I'll do anything for you! Anything! I'm yours! Your slut, S! Please! God! Pleasepleaseplease!"

I was in a trance, lost to the star's power. I couldn't see anything else. All I could hear was my own voice, my own pleas, my own whimpers swallowed up in the sky.

"Please, S! I need you! I need you to make me write for you! Please, S! Please!"

The world around me became a blur. I was screaming now, crying out, begging for mercy. I didn't know where I was anymore. One might've thought I was being railed right then and there. And, perhaps, I was. I was being taken. Taken by the star.

I felt my cock swell and throb. My orgasm was upon me. The ringing broke. I cried out and came all over myself. Ropes of semen draped over my chest and stomach and face. I didn't care. I was beyond caring. I was drenched in sweat and semen and nothing else mattered except presenting myself to the star.

My heart pounded in my ears. I crawled back into my room and fell into my bed and went to sleep.

***

I woke up Friday morning unsure of the time. I smelled of the spice of the previous night's submission. It was awful and great in equal parts, gym sweat and stale cum. I spent plenty of time in the shower, desperate to wash the stench away. I put on fresh clothes, lumbered back into my bedroom, and jumped in mild panic when I realized it was already 1 P.M. I had but hours to finish my story, per the conditions of my contract.

I decided to open up the layout of the men on the train. While it wasn't the most fleshed out work-in-progress I had, it was one of my more recent obsessions and the orgasm I had a few nights prior--spurred by the vision of the Latino Daddy slapping me around with a stack of money--seemed appropriate, given the week I had. I sat at my desk and began typing furiously. I I'd never been so focused on something in my life.

The words flowed out of me as a leak in the reservoir of my mind. I typed faster than I ever had before. I couldn't help it. I only took breaks for food, which I ate little of, and to go to the bathroom. My eyes were wide, and my brow was furrowed. Sweet sweat poured out of me. I didn't have time to focus on pacing, or character arcs, or thematic underpinnings--instead, I was pinned to the story, caught hopelessly in the grasp of creation without concern of quality. Only the making mattered. No thoughts. Just making.

By the time 5 o'clock rolled around, I had finished the rough draft of my story. I was shocked. I hadn't written anything this quickly in years. 20 pages of filth, rendered by zest only I possessed. I took a break and went to get dinner. I had no idea what to eat, so I ordered pizza. By the time it arrived and I ate, it was 6:30. Thirty minutes to polish it and submit. No problem. I'm a fast editor, and a good one. No pressure at all.

I sat down at the desk and read through the story again. I was still amazed at how well it was coming together. The characters were alive, the plot was tight, and the climax was on point. I was on a roll. I'll just scan through and polish up some of the prose and...

"You're running out of time, Davey," a voice said. It was like scraping; it came from the walls, and inside my head.

I spun around in my chair, looking for the source.

Something grabbed me by the shirt and spun me back to face the monitor.

"You need to finish the story, Davey." The voice rose in volume. It spoke manically, as if through clenched teeth.

"Wha..." I babbled, "...are you 'S?' Are you here?"

"You NEED to get to work," my chair slammed forward and pinned me against the desk, "DAVEY."

I panted. I looked at the clock. 6:40. Maybe not as much time as I thought. I did a quick spot check. I considered fiddling with the ending of the story, but something cupped itself over my hand, and forced my mouse over to the save button.

"YOU NEED TO SUBMIT THE FILE, DAVEY!" The voice stabbed in my head. It was some horrid combination of laughter and screaming, spit-slinging cries that rattled me in my core. I tried to turn my head, and something closed over my skull and forced me to look back at the monitor. It held my head in place, keeping my gaze forward. "YOU NEED TO FOCUS, DAVEY! GET TO WORK, DAVEY!"

I opened Literotica. I scrambled for the 'New Story' button and began to fill out the fields. As I did so, I felt more things began to touch my body. They felt like hands, warmer than they should've been, with longer, more slender digits. They grabbed at my thighs and chest and loins and rubbed me hard and raw. They spread my legs wide, wider than I was prepared for. They groped at my taint and squeezed my balls. It was difficult to concentrate on the submission. I couldn't see where the hands came from. They seemed to swarm my body from some impossible angle, and manged to find my flesh from underneath my clothes without removing anything.

"YOU'VE GOT TO FILL OUT THE CATEGORY, DAVEY!" the voice frothed.

I clicked.

"MAKE SURE ALL YOUR TAGS ARE THERE, DAVEY!" it spat.

I cried.

"PREVIEW THE STORY, DAVEY! IT HAS TO LOOK RIGHT OR EVERYONE WILL HATE IT, DAVEY!" it cawed.

I typed wildly, never before having faced such terror from a submission form. I felt it insert slimy fingers in my mouth. It played with my ears. It pinched my nipples, and began to choke my neck.

"YOU BETTER HURRY, DAVEY! YOU BETTER HURRY, DAVEY! YOU BETTER HURRY, DAVEY!" every time it screamed, it became louder, more distorted, more violent and happy and terrifying.

I hit submit at 6:59.

All at once, I was freed from the grip of a thousand hands. I collapsed onto my desk, panting, sobbing, shaking. The voice had left, the room was silent.

"Does that..." I swallowed, "...do I still have to beg tonight?"

"Yes," the voice laughed in deep static. His booming snarl shook my ribcage. "Get in the kitchen, faggot."

I panted, and blinked, and drooled.

I slumped out of my desk, and fell to my hands and knees. My hair clung to my head. This felt like a natural position, more natural than I had ever found it before. And in that position, I crawled--like a dog, like a slave--to the window. I opened it. I sat on my knees. I was naked, and hard, and terrified. I looked up to the star, and I begged.