Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
A writer’s journey is of infinite steps and starts with a single word. Typically – and usually deservedly – that word is ‘Rejection’. However, we stumble onwards and, by degrees, approach our impossible destination. Please give this particular stumbling hack a chance – under the auspices of his attractive cleaner, his spelling, grammar, style and ambition improve with every meandering paragraph. * It was Saturday and I had all day to myself. I was feeling horny. I promised myself I was going to write a new story and post it online. Just to fill you in, I’m 30, 5’11”, 170lbs, fit and muscular with a tight bum, black hair and a wicked smile. I was wearing a tight black T shirt that showed off my muscular pecs and black jeans. I made a cup of tea and sat on the sofa with my laptop on my knee. I like to write erotic stories so tried to think of an original scenario, very difficult I know but I was feeling inspired by the bright sunshine outside. I looked through the window and saw a girl walking up the street. I tried to imagine how good it would be if she knocked on the door then came in and sucked me of. My stiffy became uncomfortable in my pants so I adjusted it and then jumped in shock as the doorbell rang. I looked through the blinds.it was her!!!! The girl in the street!!! Fuck! I hope she didn’tsee me with my hands in my pants. I went to the door and opened it. ‘Yes.’ ‘Mr. Smallwood?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘I’m Jessica from Maid4U.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘So can I come in? Or shall I be cleaning the garden today?’ she said. I didn’t understand. I’d cancelled my cleaner last week as she was rubbish and didn’t clean properly. ‘I cancelled the cleaner last week as she was rubbish and didn’t clean properly.’ ‘I know. I’m her replacement. You said you didn’t want her, not that you didn’t want me. Shall we see if I am any better?’ she said. ‘I said I didn’t want a cleaner. I’m busy today. Can you come back another time?’ I said. ‘No, sorry, I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’m booked up all week. Look: it’s cost me the bus fare to get here and I can’t afford to lose these hours. I have a booking here and now. I’m here and now. What is the problem?’ ‘The other one was rubbish and…’ ‘I know. You already said so. However, you will be satisfied with me, I promise,’ she said. The wood in my pants was throbbing at those words and so I let her in, she hung up her coat and looked around. ‘Where shall I start?’ she said. She’s wearing a short overall and looks at me in a funny way. ‘The bedroom? She just laughs at that, says you wish and looks at me funny again. I try again. ‘In the living room?’ ‘That’s better.’ She laughed again. This was confusing. ‘Where’s the cleaning stuff?’ I showed her. She started cleaning. I started writing. * It was going well. My words flowed like water onto the page and it was soon soggy and damp with words. That’s a metaphor. The cleaner dusted and stuff. her green overall was tight and short and when she bent over I could almost see her knickers. She was 18, 5’8, 120lbs, had a lovely hourglass figure, 38, 22, 36 and long blonde hair, green eyes, plush lips, a dimple on her chin she was suntanned and obviously worked out. I obviously fancied her and obviously really wanted to fuck her. She looked over my shoulder. ‘What’s this you’re working on?’ I closed my laptop blushing. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s a nothing that makes your heart race and your blood boil.’ Whatever the fuck that meant. I got brave. It was the hormones what did it. She was sexy as fuck and looking sexier by the second and I wanted her to stay a bit longer so I talked to her hoping to impress her. ‘I write stories. Sexy stories and post them online,’ I said. She opened her eyes wide and smiled. ‘Really?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Are they any good? she asked. ‘Lots of people read them and say their good. She looked like she didn’t believe me for some reason, her eyes burned into my soul as she pouted her lips in disbelief. ‘Close your speech marks,’ she said. ‘What?’ Her finger pointed at the screen. ‘There, after “good” and before “She”.’ ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘And you’ve repeated yourself there. And there. And there. And there.’ ‘So?’ I asked. ‘Don’t waste words. Pretend they’re a finite resource: like gold dust, words are!’ She laughed. I had no idea what she was talking about so pretended I did. ‘So you’re the expert now are yer?’ I said. ‘No expert, but I write a bit too,’ she said. That surprised me I thought she’d be thick. The last cleaner was. ‘Hey! Why so surprised? Don’t judge a book by…’ ‘Not a book, just short stories,’ I said. Her mouth smiled. Her teeth were a bit wonky which is unusual when you are writing a sexy story, but ok for real life. Then she spoke. ‘Are you for real?’ I had looked inwards at myself and considered myself from every possible angle before I answered yes in the affirmative. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘May I?’ she said. She reached for my laptop. I hugged it. She said oh come on. I thought about it then bam!!!! She took it. ‘How long have you been writing?’ she asked. ‘About 2years. You.’ ‘Since I was little. I never stop! Takes up all my spare time. Mind if I?’ she asked. I don’t mind at all. Her firm, round, luscious, delicious suckable right tit is pressing into my shoulder and she smelled lovely and her hair tickled my cheek as she looked at the screen and started speaking. ‘You’re mixing your tenses.’ ‘Am I?’ I asked. ‘Yeah. Present, past, past perfect…’ ‘Oh, thank you!’ I said. ‘What? No, I mean it’s wrong! One minute you say she laughs, the next she laughed. Here she smiles, there she smiled. Next thing she’s pressing her tit into your shoulder then her hair tickled your cheek. Is it happening now or did it happen in the past?’ ‘I’m not sure. It might be. It could have…’ To be honest, I didn’t know. ‘Well, you’ve got to make your mind up,’ she said. ”But it’s only a story!’ I added. If looks could kill, they probably did. ‘You need a question mark there. See? After “You”. And don’t type small numbers; spell them out. It looks better. That 2 has to go,’ she said. She tapped three times on the keypad Escort Erenköy then changed something else. ‘They’re? What’s wrong with that?’ I said. ‘Wrong their. There’s their, there and they’re.’ ‘Sound the same to me,’ I said ‘That’s the problem. English is hard like that.’ She seemed to be looking at my crotch as she said that which made me feel good, as if she was using a simile, something like: English is as hard as your cock. That was clever. I’d probably do something with it later when she’d gone. ‘It’s a work in progress, yer know!’ She ignored me and tapped again. ‘What?’ I asked. ‘I put a full-stop there, after “through the blinds”. See? Then a capital “I”. Nothing major.’ She read more and shook her head. ‘So what now?’ I said. ‘Never put more than one exclamation mark!’ ‘Why???’ I said. ‘Or question mark, for that matter. It’s just wrong. Schoolboy stuff. Look!’ I looked away. ‘I said look!’ I looked back. She was right. It looked wrong. I remembered doing that in Year 7 and getting told off for it back then too. ‘But what do you think in general,’ I asked. ‘Another question mark there… and you need a full-stop or a semi-colon here, before “she hung up her coat”. Or better still, change it around a bit.’ ‘How?’ ‘Well, perhaps, “After looking around, she hung up her coat”. Better?’ she asked. ‘But she hung up her coat first,’ I said. She sighed and leaned closer. Her overall had ridden right up her long legs. Her thighs were brown, smooth, slender, soft, inviting and nice. She spoke again. ‘Okay then. How about, “Her coat found a home on the metal hook then she gazed around the hall”?’ she asked. ‘That makes her coat sound alive or something!’ I said. And it did! Silly cow. As if a coat could do that on it’s own. She’d fucked up there, smart arse. ‘That’s the whole point. It’s called personification. Imbue inanimate objects or abstractions with human characteristics,’ she said. ‘What? Why?’ ‘Because it makes the writing more interesting, draws you in. And the words “found a home” are emotive,’ she said. ‘Come again?’ ‘Emotive: they make you feel. That’s the whole point of writing anything, isn’t it?’ She gazed into the distance as though looking at an angel or something. ‘Her lonely coat hugged the cruel hard hook, bringing welcome warmth and comfort to its cold barbed tip.’ She had a point. A cold barbed point. I felt drawn in by that and wished her lonely pussy was hugging my cruel hard cock. Fuck, that turned me on! I liked that. ‘I like that! Mind if I use it?’ ‘What? Course you can’t. It was intentionally tasteless!’ she said. I felt hurt by that and sulked a moment before speaking again. ‘You changed “looked” to “gazed”. Change it back! I like “looked”.’ ‘I can tell. You’ve used it twenty times already and she’s only just got her coat off,’ she said. ‘But……..’ ‘Get a thesaurus. Look words up and use more interesting alternatives. And ellipses only have three dots, though you can add a fourth as a full-stop if you like….’ I had no idea what that meant so ignored it. But I realised she’d just used ‘look’. ‘You just used “look”.’ ‘Yes, because if I’d said gaze, scan, ogle, stare, view, glance, glare… check, observe, eye, study, clock, or examine it up, it wouldn’t make sense. In that context, look was the best choice.’ I glanced at her and somehow knew she was right. She was always right. Smart arse. Double smart arse. Round arse. Nice arse too. Next time she stood I would examine it closely, ogle scan view study her tits as well, and include that research in my next story. I’d heard writers did that all the time. Fucking perverts. She spoke again. ‘Use more interesting vocabulary. English has thousands and thousands of words to choose from and most people only use around two hundred. It’s a sin to simply employ the commonplace. Would a painter only use black and white?’ ‘Zebras are black and white and they’re doing alright,’ I said. She ignored that altogether. ‘Would a painter only use black and white?’ she asked again. ‘Sometimes,’ I said. ‘Yes, true, but for effect, as a conscious choice; not because he or she couldn’t be arsed to clean their brush. Which reminds me…’ she said. ‘Of what?’ I asked. ‘Today, I’m a cleaner, not an editor. I’ll do the house while you clean up your story, though I hope the house isn’t as messy as this! There are far too many careless mistakes. Read it over and over and over. Slowly. Assiduously. Spit and polish away the errors till it’s pristine; till you can see your face in it.’ She stood, but I rested my hand on her forearm and encouraged her to sit once more. She studied my face then sank a bum cheek back onto the settee arm beside me. ‘But apart from that, the rest’s ok, isn’t it?’ ‘Honestly?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘No.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘You don’t use adjectives or adverbs. Well, rarely. And when you do, you use six all at once. Like here, where you’re talking about her tits. And here, about her legs. Spread ’em out a bit.’ She said ‘tits’ and ‘legs’ and ‘spread ’em out a bit’ a bit too close together and both Freud and I knew she was probably up for anything no matter how clever she thought she was. And I’d thought of a great excuse to counter anything else she might say. I suddenly felt as safe and powerful as Darth Vader on his Death Star. ‘It’s my style.’ She laughed scoffed sneered at that. ‘Style? It’s just lazy. If classic lazy is your style, you nailed it.’ My power, my security, exploded as young Skywalker rammed his twin missiles up my exhaust pipe. I was becoming angry. Mad. Agitated, fuming, incensed, enraged. No. Maybe just the one would do. Exasperated. Maybe two. Enraged and mad. Maybe not. ‘That’s not fair!’ I said. ‘Look, I’m trying to help. You asked me to help.’ I don’t remember asking her to help. She past me the laptop and picked up her feather duster, but couldn’t help herself and reached back. She changed ‘past’ to ‘passed’ I rolled my eyes. Slowly rolled my eyes. My exasperated eyes. I slowly rolled my exasperated eyes. ‘Spellcheck said it was okay!’ Her fingers içerenköy escort rattled the keys as she spoke. ‘It would. Sometimes it’s stupid. You needed the verb there. “Passed.” Your “past” is an adjective, a preposition or…’ My eyes glazed over. ‘You’re mixing your tenses again too. That “don’t remember” should be “didn’t remember”. See?’ I double-glazed over. She shook her head. She was doing lots of that. ‘Let’s leave it there and I’ll get on with what I’m being paid for. I’ve been here nearly half an hour already and I’ve barely cleaned anything.’ I’d been upset when she’d shook her head. I wanted to impress her, so struggled to think of some better way of describing it. I considered all her suggestions and came up with: swelling waves of blonde hair wafted a perfumed breeze as she once again shook her lovely head. No. It was hopeless. I was suddenly deflated. I realised she’d been speaking though hadn’t heard a word so gave her my stock answer in such circumstances. ‘Oh. Ok.’ ‘Speaking of okay, you have to be consistent. You have an “okay” and an “ok” no more than a few words apart. It doesn’t look good.’ She tip-tapped again though it had looked okay to me. She changed the subject * ‘If you change the subject, place, or time, start a new paragraph. Look at all that text above! It’s very hard to read.’ ‘I’ve used paragraphs!’ ‘Yes, you’ve hit return a couple of times, but not often enough.’ Her tit was still pressing into my arm and she was making lots of eye contact. I could see her pupils getting bigger and I’d read enough porn to know what that meant or maybe it was just dim in here. ‘Can I get on with the writing while you do the cleaning now please.’ ‘In a minute. Continuity.’ I shrugged. ‘What?’ ‘Check everything flows, like in a film. One minute she has a feather duster in her hand, the next she’s tip-tapping,’ she said. ‘You’re being too picky now.’ ‘Reality’s picky. Make sure what happens in your story can actually really happen.’ ‘Is that it?’ I asked. ‘Another question mark. There! After “you do the cleaning now please”.’ She pointed. ‘Even rhetorical questions need them.’ Her backside slid from the settees arm and she walked away. Rhetorical questions rang a bell. A school bell. Playgrounds. Scabby knees and gym knickers. Rhetorical questions rang an old school bell in the scabby-kneed playground of my gym-knickered mind. But that was all they did. It was years ago and anyway I’d not listened at school. How was I to know what rhetorical question meant? I’d look it up later. She turned and raised her eyebrows. ‘Something else?’ I asked. ‘Settees isn’t a plural; it’s a possessive, so needs an apostrophe.’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘The arm belongs to the settee.’ ‘Ok. Okay. Where? After the “s”?’ ‘How many settees have you got?’ she said. ‘One.’ ‘No brainer then. There. “The settee’s arm”. Okay?’ she said. ‘Yeah, if you say so.’ She walked away. She spoke again. She walked away and spoke again. As she walked away she spoke again. As she sashayed past – passed – past – she whispered. ‘New paragraph?’ * I started one though knew I didn’t need one. * She was messing with my style and I was becoming hesitant and uncertain. I liked her being here though. She was sexier than Elsie, the old cleaner. 40 Forty years younger too. As she walked about, she busied herself in places where she was forced to bend or stretch and I was getting hard again just looking staring glowering gazing at her walking prowling slinking by. I could see her nipples through her overall. The outline of her nipples showed through her clothes. Lonely nipples moulded her overall and longed to find a warm, comforting home between my eager lips. Which means the same as I can see them and she wants me to suck them, but sounds a whole lot fucking better. This was going to be my best story yet. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, imagined taking off her clothes and kissing her skin, pulling down her knickers and licking her slit. She imagined taking out my cock, giving it a good sucking and sliding it up her cunt. I typed as quickly as I could, making corrections and adding her suggestions to my story. It was going really good. ‘Finished in here, Mr. Smallwood.’ I looked around. ‘Yeah, looks okay.’ ‘Damned by faint praise! Where next?’ She was sweating and hot. I could smell her lovely smell and it made me even harder. ‘Kitchen?’ ‘You’re the boss.’ I liked that she knew I was her boss. I was paying her. It was kind of kinky. I asked if she wanted a cuppa. ‘Would you like a cuppa? I’m just making one. My last one went cold.’ ‘That’s very kind, thank you.’ she said. We went into the kitchen. * We were now in a new paragraph in the kitchen. I put the laptop on the counter and got some cups out. She was reading the screen again. I hoped she’d seen my nipples line and read the things the girl in the story was thinking about doing to the man. I knew she’d be impressed. I hoped she’d be turned on too and maybe want to act it out. ‘What’s this? Personification? Emotive language?’ ‘Is that good?’ ‘Very! I like it. And a metaphor! “Swelling waves of blonde hair…” Brilliant. Punctuation and paragraphing improving too! You’ll be paying me double at this rate!’ She playfully ruffled my hair which would have been erotic if not for the doubling the money bit which worried me a bit. ‘Do you like the other bit, the rude bit?’ ‘Listen… This is only my opinion, so don’t take it to heart. ‘ She was helping and did seem to know what she was talking about, so I was all ears – apart from the very hard bit of me that was definitely all cock. That’s another metaphor. Well some of it was. ‘How could I? As I said, it’s a work in progress,’ I said. She nodded and mounted a high kitchen stool that really showed off her long slender legs. I made the tea and pulled up another stool and sat beside her. Then she said. ‘There are other ways to infer someone spoke besides, “Then she said”.’ ‘Such as?’ I asked. ‘Well you could say whispered, pouted, suggested, laughed, shrieked, screamed, insisted, Tuzla escort bayan asked…’ ‘I used asked, just there! Is that good?’ I asked again. It’s an improvement, but there’s an even better way.’ ‘Such as?’ I asked… er, wondered. ‘You do it already sometimes… back here… somewhere… here: “She opened her eyes wide and smiled.” And then she delivered her line. Not a “said” in sight. That was good.’ ‘What’s wrong with “I said”?’ I said. ‘The occasional one is okay, but it’s better to say something about that person; how they looked, moved or felt. It implies they are about to speak and – this is the best bit – tells you how they looked, moved or felt.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘That’s bloody obvious! You just said it tells you how…’ ‘It’s so obvious that sometimes writers forget. Those little lines are like free gifts. They help build a picture in the reader’s mind without them actually realising what you’re doing. Keeps the flow going, too.’ I rolled my dark brown eyes again and scratched my square stubbly chin in disbelief. ‘You make it all sound so difficult. I just wanted to write a simple sexy story.’ ‘And you will! But don’t waste an opportunity to build a picture. These squiggles on a screen are all you have to pass on your ideas. The reader is aching to be in the action, so use all the tools you have to put them there.’ All this talk of aching tools and action was physically affecting me. I watched the words leave her plush red lips wishing they were plugged stopped baffled by my angry red cock. She slowly sipped her steaming tea as her eyes drifted back and forth across the screen. I was positive there were some good lines in there somewhere and I was sure she would find them. ‘”She imagined taking out my cock, giving it a good sucking and sliding it up her cunt.”‘ I was shocked and a little embarrassed when she read that out aloud, but also pleased she’d picked that particular line. ‘I thought you might like that bit,’ then realised she didn’t look like she had. ‘You say you imagined pulling down her knickers and licking her slit, and that’s fair enough if you like that sort of thing, but how do you know what she imagined?’ I answered smugly. ‘Cos I could read her mind. I’m the writer. I created her.’ ‘But it’s confusing if you do that. Generally speaking, the reader prefers a single point of view.’ ‘Why?’ I queried. ‘Well, in everyday life, do we know what everyone around us is thinking?’ She tapped her temple. ‘Can you read my mind?’ ‘No, of course not,’ I proffered. ‘Sure?’ ‘Yes,’ I stated. ‘I disagree.’ She disagreed. I was confused. I twisted my face in confusion. Confusion twisted my face in confused confusion. Personification. I love it. ‘What?’ I entreated. A bobble appeared from nowhere and she twisted it around her dexterous fingers then tied up her long blonde hair. ‘I disagree. You can sometimes tell what people are thinking, but only up to a point,’ she declared bluntly. I thought that meant she agreed with me, though wasn’t certain sure confident assured convinced positive. ‘Well, there you are then!’ I got that funny look again. ‘What?’ ‘You’re writing this in first person, from your point of view, so you can’t say exactly what she’s thinking. However, you can draw inferences.’ ‘How?’ She shifted in her seat, looked suddenly serious. ‘How does one ever suppose what another person is thinking?’ My face was suddenly a blank sheet and I had the feeling I was supposed to draw inferences on it. Whatever they were. ‘I dunno.’ She shrugged. Smiled. Held out her palms. Hid her face. Folded her arms. Stuck out her chin. Nodded. ‘Yes?’ she beseeched. I shrugged. Held out my palms. Shook my head. ‘No.’ She sighed. ‘Through body language!’ Long lashes fluttered and lust suddenly overflowed from her deep blue eyes. Her tongue ran across her bottom lip leaving a glistening sheen in it’s wake. She sighed, began to emit short squealing breaths then ran her fingers, her taut splayed beautifully-manicured fingers, across her heaving breasts. Fuck. A quote sprung from somewhere or maybe I just made it up: legions of dead rose to her sublime mystical whisper. ‘Now can you read my mind?’ she bespoke. ‘I’m… not sure…’ ‘Not sure?’ ‘Er…’ An overall button popped between her snapping fingers; the valley of her bared cleavage quivered with every noisy inhalation and her left hand massaged my thigh as her right swept unkempt hair from my eyes. Phew. ‘I’m thinking…’ her bare thighs pressed and moved together like snipping scissors, ‘that you ought to stick…’ A strangled whisper was all I had. ‘Yes?’ Her eyes broiled and sparked like a tropical thunderstorm. ‘Stick…’ a long nail tapped the cool, unforgiving glass, ‘commas in between those adjectives – “taut, splayed, beautifully-manicured…” – and lose the apostrophe in “it’s wake”: it’s a possessive pronoun therefore doesn’t need it.’ Our lips were so close, we were suddenly sharing air, like two kittens in a box. ‘Now go easy on the similes and,’ I suddenly, inexplicably, moved to kiss her mouth, ‘stop it with the suddenlies.’ She slid from her stool, apparently oblivious of my physical state. ‘Right. I’ll go clean the skid marks and piss stains off yer bog then I’ll scour the tide marks off yer bath. Anything else while I’m up there?’ A shaking head and stupid smile said all there was to say, but my whirling brain hadn’t quite worked that out. ‘No.’ She vanished, but moments later her pretty face poked back round the door. ‘Look, can I just say that when I write, I make mistakes two.’ ‘Really?’ ‘No. It’s like a joke.’ ‘Oh, okay. Is the joke over? Do I laugh now?’ She laughed in my stead then looked serious. ‘Fuck, I’m sorry! There are lots of positives. It feels like all I’ve done is slag you off! Some of those recent sentences are lyrical, poetical.’ She smiled playfully at that last word. ‘The “overall button popped” line… and mystical whispers raising the dead… Love it!’ I brightened. ‘Thank you.’ ‘You use alliteration beautifully too. That line about sipping steaming tea?’ I quickly scanned the text. ‘Er… “She slowly sipped her steaming tea as eyes drifted across the screen.” Is that okay?’ I was proud of that, though knew pride always comes before a fall. ‘It’s beautiful, but I think it could be improved.’ I fell, then dusted myself off and readied my hands over the keys.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
