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Well, and Mr. Groucho – the alphahole, as Carly would say. But he’s going to be easy compared to living with my father and then trying to take care of my unpredictable older brother. A grouchy man with high expectations: I can do this with my eyes closed.
The guest room I’m staying in is pretty. There’s a double bed, armoire with television, and a huge window with a view of the park. Spending all my time in here I feel a little claustrophobic and creatively stifled, so when he’s not here and I’m not busy shopping or cleaning, I’ve decided I’ll work at that island in the kitchen. The nearby floor to ceiling window offers a billion-dollar view that I figure should be good for creative inspiration. I can stare out from my bedroom or here. One giving me a view of Central Park where I can imagine all sorts of fun guy meets girl in the big city scenarios. Walking a dog at the park or in the zoo. Waiting for the subway. Meeting up for a clandestine rendezvous in a local bar after swiping on a dating app.
The other window gives me a quintessential view of New York City with the Hudson river and it’s pretty inspiring to look at.
I parked my butt at the kitchen island late this afternoon, hoping the change of space – outside my bed - will inspire me to work on a different story than the one I’m currently writing.
No such luck.
Despite that I’ve tried to stop multiple times since I started it last night, somehow that document keeps getting opened back up. Somehow I keep finding my fingers pecking away at it, like some sort of addict. And it’s already over fifty pages and four chapters.
I blame Austin. Austin last night in his underwear, yelling at me in the kitchen while I was trying to make food. Looking so… hot. Flexing his muscles while he yelled and waved his arms. That bulge in those grey, skintight, boxer briefs.
Gulp.
The stories I’ve been writing up until now have been straight erotica between completely fictional characters that don’t exist. Most of my stories are straight sex for twenty pages max with little to no backstory. Not so with the story I started after the berating.
Each chapter has had a graphic sex scene and the chapter I just wrote was verging on not just erotica but erotic romance. Because there are interactions beyond sex.
Somehow I went from the male protagonist reprimanding the female for streaks on the windows that turned into sex against the window with him carrying her to bed and holding her while she cried, told him about her problems, and then he promised to fix them all for her.
She told him she was strong, had always been strong and wasn’t used to a man fixing her problems but he held her face and told her that she shouldn’t have to be strong all the time, that he wanted to give her a break, to take care of her for a little while.
I’m about to backspace that scene out of the story when Austin comes in, so I just hit save and shut the lid instead.
And I’m feeling all sorts of guilt about this story that I’ve aptly named my Austin Smut File, but I bury it under denial as I keep succumbing to the urge to go back to writing it.
Damn it, that guy that paid me that money for that first dirty short story created a monster. I’m some kind of a pervert now.
My male character for this story is bossy. And grouchy. And hot. In fact his name is Austin Groucho the Third, because the ‘third’ makes him sound extra pompous.
My female character was homeless and found a classified ad for domestic duties with room and board included. The job interview for being his housekeeper consisted of her mopping the floor naked while he watched and inspected. And he inspected more than just the floors, I tell you that much.
Chapter two was about her burning his toast at breakfast and this resulting in him sweeping her over his lap, yanking up her French maid outfit out of the way so he could spank her bare bottom. And then I totally shocked myself because he used the burnt toast between her legs, rubbing the toast against her clit and making her come with it. I completely shocked myself with that scene! I’ve never imagined something so filthy in all my life.
I’ve been celibate for three years, have gone on a handful of dates that didn’t turn into anything beyond a good night kiss, and now here I am having those filthy scenes fly out of my fingers? Picturing my jerk of a boss as I write them?
Chapter three opens with the female character (who I’ve temporarily named Jada Sweetheart) cleaning the tub and while she’s bent over doing that, he comes in, lifts her skirt and inspects her work as well as her while she continues cleaning before he uses his cock to rub her off, then spills his load all over her lower back. She wasn’t allowed to stop scrubbing the entire time.
