Chapter 1: The Kid from Ohio

Josh

The Chicago sun was really putting on a show, blasting through the hotel suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows. It painted the rumpled sheets gold, but honestly, I could barely see it. Fatemah’s thighs, warm and slick with sweat, were clamped around my face like a vise. She had me anchored to the bed, her breath coming in ragged gasps, that gold chain of hers swinging wildly as she ground her hips against my mouth.

“Hiraya, get on top of him. Take him now.” Her voice was low, a delicious command I knew better than to argue with.

Hiraya, who had been sucking on my cock, froze for a second. Then, with a soft, wet pop, she slowly let go. I let out a quiet sigh as she shuffled away from the bed. I heard the soft crumple of her maid uniform hitting the floor. Fatemah’s ass, wide and powerful, was completely blocking my view, but I could almost feel Hiraya’s dark eyes flickering with nervousness.

Then I felt Hiraya move onto the bed, straddling my hips. Her fingers, light and hesitant, brushed my skin.

Man, I was running on fumes. Fatemah’s hunger had been relentless all night long. Even then, she had woken up with the same insatiable fire. As if she weren’t enough, she’d managed to get Hiraya onboard. They had gotten my spent cock hard again. And now, Fatemah wanted to test my endurance once again by asking Hiraya to mount my cock.

Okay, hold on a sec ... This isn’t exactly how I had pictured the Erotica Convention to go. Just yesterday, I was a total nobody from Ohio, chasing a half-baked dream.

My name’s Josh Brennan, twenty years old. A writer, or at least I’m trying to be. Back home, “writer” was just a fancy way of saying I had dropped out of college and become a huge disappointment to my family. But stories just claw at me—dark, messy ones about people trying to figure out who they really are. I used to stay up late in my cramped apartment. Scribbling my ideas in a spiral notebook. The words filled my mind like they were fighting to be free.

I had posted a few on some of the Erotica sites, raw and unfiltered, and somehow they actually hit. Like, really hit. That’s how I scored an invite to the Grand Hotel in Chicago, basically a playground for writers of forbidden fantasies and the folks who gobble them up.

I showed up yesterday, dragging a beat-up suitcase behind me, my head buzzing with dreams of chatting up authors who actually got it. The lobby was electric—writers in cool leather jackets, a poet with neon-green hair scribbling like her life depended on it, and a huge poster hyping the “Taboo Desires” panel. But my dream hit a brick wall at the front desk.

“What do you mean I have to pay for the room?” My voice cracked, a little too loud for the fancy lobby. I had totally thought the invite covered everything—entry, food, and a place to crash. Turns out, it just got me in the door.

The clerk didn’t even blink. “Rooms are separate, sir. It’s in the confirmation.”

Confirmation? I had been clutching that invite like it was my golden ticket to Narnia. I had nothing. Just a crumpled gas station receipt and a maxed-out debit card. Sleep in the lobby? Hitchhike back to Ohio? My big break was Dead on Arrival.