Read to me.

I never imagined that words, especially those three uttered by my girlfriend, would have had such orgasmic impact. They did.

I knew everything about her, or so I thought. Spent countless hours studying her face, her body language, all her mannerisms and quirks. That adorable little wrinkle she gets in her nose when she’s perplexed or how she bites the bottom corner of her lip when feeling frisky. Turns out, I had a lot more to learn.

Reesa’s teeth were pinching that luscious bottom lip when she approached, holding out what looked like a small transcript, and said, “Read to me.”

She handed me the thin folio of papers, neatly bound by an angled staple in the upper left-hand corner. I looked at the front page, then back at her. “Is this my story?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you... type this out? By hand?” I quickly poured over the pages.

“I did,” she answered.

The way each letter smartly indented the paper, it was clear it had not been laser printed, but typed using a vintage typewriter. I needed affirmation.

“Did you use my old Smith-Corona? I thought it was broken?”

“Not important how I typed it out, baby.”

“And, you want me to read it... to you?” I looked at her again.

She was smiling but serious. Her hands were clasped in front, swaying slightly, as if she was a giddy schoolgirl turning in last night’s writing assignment.

“Yes.”

“This?” I pointed again to the front page with a raised brow and an upticked pitch in my voice, still a bit flabbergasted.

“Yes,” she repeated, confidently.

“It’s, umm, pretty dirty.”

“I know, love. You wrote it. I’ve read it. And yes, I have typed it out.” Her voice was soft and stern, with eyes to match. “Now, I want you to read it. To me.”

“Out loud?”

“That’s usually how it works,” she purred.

I continued to stare at her. Was this some sort of trap? She had read some of my other pieces, with mild interest. But, The Taxman Comes? I ratcheted up the heat for that story. Was she upset? She wasn’t acting upset. The inquisitive crease in my brow held firm for a hard, contemplative minute as I tried to get a read of where this was headed.

My career in erotic fiction was happenstance, or maybe it was destiny. I graduated from UCLA the year prior with a degree in journalism; despite countless parental warnings. ‘It’s a dying profession.’ ‘Where will you find work?’ ‘It pays shit money.’

I heard them all, didn’t care. Heeded no advice. I am a passionate woman and something inside was telling me to write. So, I followed my heart.

I secured a job as a technical writer. Boring. It paid the bills though, and at least mom and dad were pleased. But, it wasn’t long before something felt missing, empty. I needed more. Craved more. My imagination was far too active to be satiated by penning manuals for software developers. It was stifling for someone who doesn’t just see the world, but feels it.

So, I created a pseudonym and made an attempt at writing short love stories. Hot, short love stories. A few of them gained popularity on a local story site and I was approached by a publisher who encouraged me to spice it up. So I did. It was the kick I needed.

The ensuing works were picked up and moderately successful. The readers were happy. The publisher was happy. I was happy, for a moment. But the happiness soon fed a desire and the desire drew me full circle to that need; the need to keep spicing it up. So I tried, but something just would not click.

I wouldn’t say I had a block, it was more like a repetitive rut. I was churning out the same drivel, over and over. Change the plot, change the characters, change the setting, yet the end result felt like the same story.

The Taxman Comes was an experiment of sorts; to see if writing graphic sex would break me from the cycle. It was a debaucherous story filled with raunch and filth. A story Reesa was waiting for me to read… out loud.

The subject matter tore through my mind and a bit more vacillation injected its way in. But, she did transcribe it. She had to know what she was in for. I looked at her, softened my voice and began:

“...The rain finally let up, enough for Mandi to step out from the bar she had scurried into for shelter. The sudden, but brief, deluge had thickened the night air in the French Quarter with a sticky, steamy haze. Disgustingly humid...”

My eyes floated up over the pages to see Reesa spin away with a jovial bounce in her step.

I settled into my armchair, pulled a blanket over my lap and continued.

“...Mandi was wet and her sheer floral blouse clung to her skin. It was unbuttoned halfway down her small chest. Nipples, unprotected by any undergarment, were erect and visible through the semi-transparent material. A lingering chill from the bar’s air-conditioning further pushed them…”

I paused.

“Sorry babe. But, why am I reading this aloud?” I asked.

She had already scooped up two oversized pillows and tossed them to the floor in front of the leather chair where I sat; a favorite when I wrote. Reesa would usually curl up on the adjacent couch and indiscreetly keep me company. She’d often read, or scour the internet for shoes and clothes, or just simply lay there and look inspirationally gorgeous.

But this time, she was preparing to settle at my feet with a scheming look in her eye. A look I was not entirely familiar with.

“Because, I want you to,” she whispered.

Fuck, she was provocative.

I watched her lower to the floor. Our eyes met as if we were strangers seeing each other in a crowded bar, communicating with just a series of looks. Mine were searching, hers were dripping with sex in an enigmatic way.

She laid back on her elbows, resting against the propped up cushions. A suggestive smirk bending into the corners of her lips. Her pale-yellow slip-dress had fallen from her shoulders. Dark, wavy tresses delicately traced down framing her semi-exposed chest. She was wide-eyed and attentive, visibly eager and awaiting the next string of words.

“...Mandi was desperate for a smoke. But, the spate that had soaked her to the core, made any attempt at lighting a damp cigarette impossible. Her attention was drawn to an alley across the narrow cobblestone street. She peered intently. Two men, huddled under a drab green awning.

‘Probably would have made for a better option than that icebox of a bar,’ she thought. The sounds of husky laughter, coming from the direction of the men, quickly shook the judgement from Mandi’s seedy mind...”

“Are you sure this is the story you want me to read?” I asked, again.

Reesa pushed back deeper onto her elbows. Her legs were bent at the knees and pinched together. Demure. She looked up at me and nodded her head slowly. Yes.

“What about the mystery short I wrote? Filled with sex and romance. It’s been well received. Let me read a few of the commen…”

“Not the same, baby,” she interrupted. “Now. Please, continue.”

Once again, our eyes connected. I took in a deep breath.

“...Mandi strutted across the unbalanced rue, making her way closer to the mystery men; eyes painted as red as her cheap lipstick. Neon lights rippled in the puddles as she strode in the otherwise dark night. Her heels purposely clicking against the wet stone to announce her approach. This was her street and tonight she was working it, soggy clothes or not. Maybe these gents would have a dry smoke and a couple of thick cocks to enjoy after....”

The words seemed clumsy as they spilled from my lips. It felt… awkward. We had enjoyed sextalk in the thralls of passion before. But reading this, as if I was reading my lesbian girlfriend a bedtime story, a naughty, obscene bedtime story, seemed a bit odd.

I looked up and noticed her cheeks were flush and I was sure I had heard a gentle moan earlier when I pronounced the word, cocks.

I pressed on.

“...Mandi was already creating backstories in her head for the men across the street. To her, cocks were like fine cuisine. Their taste was a key aspect, but the backstory behind the chef preparing the meal always intrigued her.

These boys were particularly perplexing in that regard. One was tall, the other short and portly. The tall one was wearing a leather vest over a Jethro Tull t-shirt, dirty jeans and leather boots to match the vest. He’d be called Jethro for obvious reasons.

The shorter one, he was more of a mystery. His head was strewn with sparsely thinning hair. Thick, black-framed glasses dominated his chubby face, and he adorned a short-sleeved button-down shirt and khakis, like he had just stepped out from doing Jethro’s taxes.

“What’re two fine men like yourselves doin’ on my block at 3:45 in the mornin’? Up to no good I’m sure.” Mandi said in her most seductive tone. Jethro looked at her, then turned to the taxman and erupted in a hearty laugh...”

I momentarily broke from the pages, half expecting to see an empty pile of pillows at my feet. Or contrarily, Reesa munching from a charcuterie board of meat and cheese in front of a crackling fire while I recited my naughty tale. To my surprise, I saw neither. Rather, she was now fully laid back, eyes closed, the top of her dress pushed down, hands covering her tits.

“...Up to no good indeed, princess. My newfound friend here was just about to suck my dick.” Jethro blurted out crudely while grabbing his crotch. He probably expected Mandi to turn and walk away, but she was no stranger to his kind. In fact, his retort quite intrigued her.

“Well,” she replied. “For a cigarette, maybe I’ll help him.” Jethro let out another dramatic belt, like a pornographic Santa. Then, fumbled in his vest and produced a pack of Marlboro reds and a smirk...”

Having read the story countess times in the course of editing, I had practically committed it to memory. I was able to fluidly recite the words while frequently peering up to gauge her reactions.

Reesa was a sensual site to behold, so for a moment, I did. I watched as her fingers curled their nails into the doughy flesh of each breast. Her breath was audible through her nose. She was tantalizing, seemingly lost in her head. I wanted to toss the papers and push her legs open to crawl between them.

“Keep reading, baby,” she whimpered to the ceiling.

“...An orange glow illuminated Mandi’s dewy face as she took a hard drag. The burn in her lungs made her feel good, alive.

Taxman was already on his knees, clumsily trying to release Jethro’s snake. She watched. She counted two drags of her smoke before Taxman was able to accomplish the simple feat. Mandi shook her head in disgust of his gawkish inexperience.

She pinched the cigarette between her fingers, took another scorching inhale, then dropped to her knees, nudging Taxman to the side. Jethro’s uncut cock was flaccid and bulbous. Thick. Mandi smiled and peered up at him.

“I’ll do this one for the rest of that pack-a reds. Your friend here’ll haf’ta pay, he wants his sucked,” she said in a dark cajun drawl.

Jethro stretched the smirk into a smile, exposing his offensively yellow, tarnished teeth and winked...”

I began to change the inflection in my voice; this wasn’t just a read anymore and they no longer seemed like just words. I feathered some to accentuate the sensual parts, then sharpened others to punch out the pure deviance. I was like a marianette and Reesa was my beautiful, masturbating sex-puppet.

“...Mandi turned her head to Taxman as she took Jethro in her non-cigarette hand and began to stroke. “First time, huh?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, just nodded and pushed the thick-lensed glasses up his nose with a single finger, like he was ready to take notes. A goofy smile on his chubby cheeks.

Mandi was starting to fill in the blanks about Taxman. He seemed to be what locals called, simple folk. She obliged his attentiveness and decided to give him a lesson.

She scooted slightly and let Taxman get closer so that Jethro’s growing shaft acted as a dividing line between them. Another sizzling drag of her Marlboro and she pushed back the sleeve of dick-skin covering Jethro’s head. She could feel his girth inflating...”

A moan pulled my attention to the floor. Ree’s legs were spread and the delicate material of her skirt had ridden up, to bunch at her waist. My eyes had a clear view of her pussy. I had seen her treasure so many times before, but in the light of this salacious read, things felt different.

Maybe it was the fact that she was already visibly moist, even though her hands had not yet made their way down from her chest. Pieces were coming together, but I was still bewildered how the visual imagery of Jethro’s cock was making her wet.

“Your words, baby. I need to hear them, please,” she moaned.

‘Fuck.’ I flipped the page and kept reading.

“...Mandi slid Jethro into her mouth. He was swollen and getting harder by the second. The taste was strong, pungent. She didn’t care, engulfed the whole rod, straight down to the base and swallowed.

Every cock she sucked tasted different. But somehow, even after fifteen years of blowjobs, she could never erase that vile bitterness of her stepdad from her mouth...”

Reesa let out a cry. Two fingers were now pushed deep inside her pussy. White, translucent juices gathered just below and I could see her palm laying flat, pressing firmly against her clit. The dainty muscles in her forearm rippled as she wiggled her digits in and out, effortlessly.

I felt a stir as I watched. She was astonishing.

“...Jethro’s thick calloused hands snaked into Mandi’s curls. She felt him grip tight, almost too tight, but that was ok. He pulled her down further, pressing her nose into the underside of his sweaty beer-belly with a grunt. His thickness stretched her throat. He held it there until she swallowed again, fighting for a gasp of air.  

While continuing to cling to her cigarette, she pressed her palms into the brickwall behind his ass and pushed back. He slowly released his clench with a howl.

“Jee-zuus Christ girl, you sure knows how to suck a cock. Hope you’re payin’ attention, boy...”

I shifted my foot so I was sitting half indian-style in the chair, my heel strategically positioned under me. The blanket that covered my lap was now bunched in a heap at my feet. Reesa had her thighs pressed together, trapping her hand. Humping it. Her breath was heavy, a sound I knew well. She was close to an orgasm which had me insanely turned on.

I had watched her masturbate before, plenty of times. But during those moments the object of her fantasy was me. The thought of my girlfriend getting this excited by listening to my perverted narration was sexually riveting. It was metaphorically filling the air between us with a warmth, like feeling the heat trapped amid two hands just before they touch.

“...Mandi ran her wrapped fist the length of his shaft. It was slick, almost slimey, from her thickened saliva. She took another drag of her smoke and pointed the glistening head towards Taxman.

“You’re up, sweetheart. I’ll help you.”

He looked eager and moved in tighter. His hands remained plastered to his folded knees, leaving Mandi to hold Jethro for him, like she was feeding him a veiny sausage. She puffed on her cigarette. Taxman only took the first inch or so between his lips, kissing and slurping like he was drinking a thick milkshake. Mandi shook her head and let him have his fun; Jethro wasn’t voicing any complaints.

She wondered in her head what taste Taxman was trying to erase. She let the dick go and cupped under Jethro’s balls. If she didn’t lend a hand this was going to take all night. A growl from up top indicated that the effort seemed to be working...”

Gentle slaps layered under my words; Reesa’s hand was now working more aggressively. The papers dropped to the floor and I fought to stay seated.

“...Jethro’s hips pushed forward, forcing more of himself into Taxman’s waiting mouth...”

Reesa moaned. I was no longer simply reading the story. It was coming entirely from memory. My lips kissed each word, carrying them to her ears letting the tones and vibrations feed her reverie.

“...Grunts filled the musty alley. Taxman spluttered but Jethro held him close. Mandi watched intently. She’d seen a man suck dick before but there was something about the innocence of Taxman, something about how and why he wanted this, made her warm, made her feel again. It had been far too long since she had had that...”

Reesa was writhing. Her body pushed between the pillows to lay flat on the carpet. I left my perch and crawled towards her. My words, my story, continued to flow, continued to stroke and feed her. Her eyes held shut. Her cunt, so inviting, begged me for a kiss. I inched closer.

A bare foot raised up and met my forehead with precise accuracy, halting my advance. A gentle nudge of her toes pushed me back. ‘Fuck’.

“...There was no doubt Mandi was turned on. She had sucked a myriad of men and fucked more than a few. Countless men, from all over the world. Men of different class and stature. Even some women. Some turned her on. Most did not. But, Mandi could not remember the last time simply watching the action had thrilled her so much...”

Reesa’s hips lifted off the floor, then pressed back down as fast as they raised. She echoed the room with a growl.

“...Jethro’s balls had cinched up tight. Mandi knew he was flooding taxman’s throat with cum, still holding him snug. She was about to reach in and pull him free. His body was twitching, small subtle convulsions like he was struggling for air, only he wasn’t. Mandi peered down...”

Ree was shuddering. Her body clearly in the thralls of an orgasm. Her skin was painted with goosebumps, mouth gaping, whispered breaths fluttered into the air.

“...Taxman had his own cock in hand. The shaking was not from a lack of oxygen. He was jerking-off while Jethro finished in his mouth. He let out a guttural moan and Mandi watched as Taxman painted the brickwall between Jethro’s legs with his cum...”

The room fell silent; just the sound of my heart racing. Reesa still had a hand cupping her pussy, like she was holding on to her orgasm for as long as possible. One leg laid flat to the side while the other curled on top. Her body rolled into a loose fetal position.

I crawled to her, no foot obstruction blocking my path this time. I curled next to her on my side, face to face, and gently brushed away a few loose strands of her hair. She was glowing, elated.

“What was that, baby?” I whispered. “I mean I know what it was, but… where did that come from? I have so many questions.”

She smiled and took a breath, prim and timid; blinked a few times before she lightly spoke.

“Last week, you were reading Taxman aloud as you edited. Seemed like you were trying to get a feel for its flow, its pace. The words floated from your lips and tickled my ears. You didn’t know it at the time, but they touched me.”

She took another breath, still coming down from her orgasm. I had never felt so attracted to her. I wanted to fuck her, to taste her, to bring her back to another climax. However, this was about her and not about me. Not singularly, anyway. It was about us, undoubtedly joined by a common energy.

“It wasn’t so much the subject of the story,” she continued. “It was the what, combined with how you were reading it. I’m sure that doesn’t make sense.”

I leaned in and kissed her. Softly. Letting my lips just press to hers, finally connecting the heat.

I whispered into the kiss to ask her, “And what about the typed pages?”

Our lips remained just a hair’s breadth apart as she answered. “I know how much tactility compels you; feeling your words, feeling the paper. How they seem to come alive for you when inscribed on parchment. Being able to hold them in your hand and run your fingers over the indentations. It drives you. That consistent fervor seems to be missing, has been for some time.” She paused. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t fix your old typewriter.”

She guided my chin in the direction of the far corner of the room, to a desk we often used for bill-paying or sorting through junk mail. She had cleared it of all the clutter.

Sitting neatly in the middle was a pristine, aqua-blue, vintage Smith-Corona Sterling, case included. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I had no words.

“Amazing what you can find on ebay. But please,” she cooed, “I would like the next fantasy to be lesbian.”

There are stories, poems, essays, works of literature in all shapes and sizes, categories and genres. So many where the author’s vision of life, their appetite and pure lust for adventure, absolutely bleed through the words.

What drives them? What drives us? What feeds that need, that crave to use text to express the world we live in, the world that surrounds us, the world we feel? Maybe it’s an outlet. Maybe it’s their love for the written word. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Or… maybe what fuels that flame is just words, typed from an old typewriter, and a girlfriend’s fetish for hearing them read.