Tony leaned back from his desk, the one hand, or more specifically the two fingers, with which he had been typing feeling numb. His other hand, however, wasn't so much numb at the fingertips as it was at the wrist. The penis he held in his hand, jerking up and down in his languidly flicking wrist, was hovering somewhere between achieving full arousal and subsiding back to its more normal torpor. In front of him was the old PC he'd bought years ago and never felt the need to upgrade. The CRT screen displayed his recently typed words, which had come almost directly from his semi-erect penis and found their way into the default Times New Roman font of MS Word 95 via only a brief traverse through his brain. Ancient dried semen stains were splattered on everything: the keyboard, the carpet, the fabric of the crappy old PC World swivel chair where he sat, and even on his Logitech mouse.
Tony regarded the words he'd written in the hope that they might propel him into a realm of fresh inspiration and take his turgid prose soaring into new heights of second- or third-hand sexual passion.
Joe's prick thrust again and again into the busty Venusian cunt, her extraplanetary cum dribbling down the shaft, while her massive mammaries bobbed and wobbled to Joe's hard, virile thrusts! "Ooooh!! Aaggghhh!! Uuhhh!!" she shouted in orgasmic desire. "You're the best fuck I've had since the Uranians came. I think I love you, Joe!"
Tony smiled with satisfaction, his penis twitching as it responded to the images it had inspired. His story, 'Women Come on Venus', was going pretty well, if he didn't mind saying so himself. He was a fucking poet. He liked his own coinage: 'extraplanetary'. If it didn't exist in the dictionary, it fucking ought to. And 'massive mammaries'! He deserved the Booker Prize for his prose. Now, what he needed to do was try and get his character, Joe, to fuck some of the other Venusians. He'd got him to stick it in Amarinda, the Venusian with the huge tits, the big thighs and the long tongue (which was about all the characteristics he'd given her). But there were other Venusians to fuck. All with big tits. And all up for it.
He wasn't sure how far his talent for invention might be stretched by inventing all these space age alien names. 'Amarinda' was pretty good. A pretty cosmic kind of name. But what names should he give the other outer space bitches? Perhaps he ought to consult his old John Norman paperbacks. Or perhaps those novelisations he owned of Dr Who, Star Wars and James T. Kirk era Star Trek. They were a reliable treasure trove of inspiration. At least for that kind of inspiration he couldn't pump out of his testicles.
Tony scrolled up the pages of his story while wondering how he could get Joe and Amarinda to piss on each other, maybe get a dog involved, and whether there was an opportunity to incorporate leather or bondage into his plot. He settled at the top of the third page, his penis twitching in his grip, the tip of his glans slightly shiny in the light given off by the angle-poise lamp, and re-read the paragraph he had written.
Joe could see that Amarinda had whopping big boobies, perhaps 46DD, with a slim waist and full thighs. She pulled off her clothes really quickly and then took off her stockings with the suspenders. Joe's cock was as thick and stiff as a Cumberland sausage, but straight and rigid, rather than curved round in a circle. The Venusian was gasping with desire as Joe approached her, his dick ready to thrust inside her creamy quim.
Tony repeated his breathless prose to himself. 'Creamy quim'! Alliteration. Shakespeare had nothing on him. Perhaps he could pause for a quick smoke, he wondered, glancing at his open packet of Bensons. Or should he just let his muse transport him toward towering new vistas of poetic inspiration? Dripping as it would necessarily be in plenty of cum, jizz and female ejaculate (the name of which Tony wasn't quite sure).
And then the door-bell rang.
Fuck! Who could that be? It was fucking nine or ten or something in the evening. And it was pissing down outside as well. Perhaps it was one of the guys from the office coming round for a pint in the Fisherman's Retreat. If it was, why hadn't he phoned Tony to warn him in advance?
The door-bell rang again, more insistently.
"Coming!" Tony called out, tucking his penis back into his trousers and buttoning up his flies.
He glanced at the screen where the unfinished 'Women Come on Venus' was staring at him. What would one of his colleagues make of that? He didn't really want to know. If they knew he was a sex story writer who'd had loads of stories posted on the Internet, he'd never be able to live it down. And it wouldn't do him any good to tell them that he'd once got a half-way decent review for a story. Nor that his stories got loads of downloads. And they wouldn't be impressed by his account of the occasional e-mail he received from his readers, who praised him for writing the sort of stories they most liked to read. He'd just be known as a kind of pervert.
Tony hesitated over minimising the window in which Word 95 was displayed, but reflected that the wallpaper he'd chosen for his screen - a large breasted woman being fucked in both the front and the rear - was actually worse than a screen full of text. Tony shook his head, leaving the screen as it was, and scurried out of the living room and opened the front door.
"Fuck!" he cried, in genuine surprise. "Maggie! What are you doing here?"
"Why can't a wife visit her husband? Is there a law against it?" Margaret wondered, standing in the doorway, shaking her umbrella, the rain behind her having eased a little. "Are you going to ask me in? Or am I just going to have to stand out here in the pissing rain?"
"No! No! Come in!" said Tony as his wife crossed the threshold of his one-bedroom flat for the first time since he'd moved in just over a year before. He looked her up and down as she shook her long, dark bush of curly hair and undid the buttons of her shiny black overcoat. He'd not seen her for so long, he'd forgotten what a fine woman his wife was. And how painful it had been for him when she left him for that bitch from the insurance firm.
Margaret held up her overcoat, the drops of rain sliding down its shiny fabric and looked quizzically at her husband.
"Well! What do I do with this?"
"Er... I'll take it," said Tony, releasing it from her grip, his heart beating thunderously inside his chest as he regarded his wife. Her bosom was just as proud and firm as he remembered, some kind of D cup, although, unlike the heroes of his fiction, he didn't quite have the aptitude of instantly determining their exact size. And those thighs of hers, full and womanly, narrowing from her slightly large arse down to her feet in the severe high heels she still chose to wear. It was obvious that living with a dyke hadn't damaged Margaret's dress sense one iota.
Margaret smiled at her estranged husband, her face as thick with eye-liner, foundation cream and highlighter as it ever was. Her lips now a shocking purple. And she still plucked her eyebrows. Maggie might be a woman in her forties, but Tony knew for sure she was still the head turner she had been when they'd got married five years ago, both on the rebound from their respective and equally messy divorces. And, as Tony needed reminding, she and he were still man and wife, even though they'd been separated for so long.
He turned round to hang up his wife's coat in the wardrobe he'd so carefully assembled from the IKEA flat-pack, while Margaret strode boldly and unaccompanied into the living room.
Shit! Tony hoped she wouldn't look at his PC. Please anywhere... anywhere at all... but not at his PC. Perhaps the screensaver had started up. Perhaps she'd think it was some kind of letter he was writing to a solicitor.
Tony hurried into the living room, glancing at his harassed expression in the hallway mirror as he passed it by, his round-rim glasses and greying hair making him look so much older and sorrier for himself than when he and Margaret had got married in the registrar's office.
And then, his worst fears were realised. His wife was standing by his desk, an unlit cigarette dangling from her right hand and leaning forward to read the words off the computer screen.
"Maggie!" Tony said, trying to retain some sense of normality. "Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?"
"Tea or coffee? What time do you think it is? Get me a whisky. You still drink whisky, don't you? A Glenmorangie would go down fine."
"Yes. Yes. I'll get the bottle from the kitchen," Tony said, anxiously looking at his wife. "But first, shall I turn off the computer?"
"What? And deny me the pleasure of reading the latest opus from the Cream of Sheba? That would never do. Just get me a whisky. And two cubes of ice."
Tony scurried back to the kitchen. What did she say? 'The Cream of Sheba'? Did this mean that she knew? That she'd known all along? Or maybe it was just part of the text of the story. He could pretend it was written by someone else. That he'd downloaded it off the Internet. That'd be better than confessing to the truth. And better perhaps than if Maggie saw the wallpaper on his screen.
"Here you are, dear!" he called as he came back, watching his wife who was now sitting on his swivel-chair and reading his prose, the cigarette lit and held in her right hand, occasionally flicking ash into his ashtray.
.... There is more of this story ...