The old man was quite a writer in his day. Romance, Noir, Erotica. But he hasn’t written a lick in years. I’m sure many feared he was dead. I pulled on my trusty portal boots and went to investigate. It took some doing but I got him to his typewriter, a worthy seduction, if I do say so myself. I’m not your typical muse. Nowhere near voluptuous. My breasts aren’t big, my butt’s not bouncy, my puss sports but a demure puff of a muff. Call my allure’s ineffable: the beguiling scent of my sex; the smooth yet scratchy song of my voice. But more was required. And I was up to the task. Yeah, he knew what I was about: Romance. Noir. Erotica.

I perched upon his desk and got him started, slow at first, but as time went on and I did my stuff, his fingers flew. The musical clatter of those keys ... The rachet of that carriage return. Bing bing bing went the bell. Line after line, paragraph after paragraph, more and more and more. It was so good. Characters and plot, all coming together, and finally—climax. He finished up with a flourish. Oh, God, I was all but done in, my brain and sex and soul all mixed together, a swamp of fulfillment.

And then I took a look.

Not a single word. Not a single letter.

Page after page of nothing but pure white cum.

Best seller!