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 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 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, 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.

She frowned, looked apologetic. 'These are only my opinions, yer know?'

'I know. But it's good. All good. You're really good.' 

'Good? You'll be saying I'm nice next.'

I snorted a quick laugh and googled 'good'.

'You are - wait for it - awesome, excellent, capital, first-class.' None of those were quite right and I looked harder, searched deeper. 'Accomplished. Adept. Desirable.'

She chewed her bottom lip and smiled her lovely quirky smile.

'Thank you.

'Quick, before you go upstairs, tell me how it could be improved? The steaming tea line?'

She took a deep breath.

'Well... you seem to start the majority of sentences with personal pronouns.' I shrugged. She tilted her head. 'I, she, he, you?' 

'But what else can I do?'

'Actually, you do it sometimes, so it's nothing new to you. Swap it around, like with the coat sentence earlier. Think of another way of saying it.' All I could think of saying was unbutton the rest of your overall for me, love, but somehow resisted even though I knew she was all but naked underneath. She frowned. 'As an example, there was a line earlier... "I closed my laptop, blushing." That would be better as, "Blushing, I closed my laptop." Get it?'

I looked back, glanced back. My eyes darted back. Searching, my eyes darted upwards towards their primary target.

'Okay...' It took me a moment, but the penny eventually dropped, and when it did, it clanged and bounced and rolled around endlessly inside me. 'I've got it: "As blue eyes surfed across the screen she slowly sipped her steaming tea." Like that?'

'Not really, but that's almost too beautiful to change. "Surfed across the screen..." And you added an adjective too!' 

She was pleased with me. Confidence swelled my chest.

'Blue, yeah, but should I have used something more exotic? Aquamarine, azure...' 

'What colour are my eyes?'

The question pricked me and I deflated. Her eyeballs rolled, distorting their closed shaded lids.

'Let me see them.'

'No. You're the writer. You decide. You've described them as green and blue. Which is it? Blue, green, or one of each? Make your mind up.'

Momentarily perplexed, I realised I had no choice but to play along.

'Er... blue. Sapphire blue.'

'Sure? There's no going back!'

'Yes.'

Lengthy lashes rose, lids peeled back and the twin gems sparkled.

'Good choice.'

Checking for continuity, I swapped an earlier green for a blue then read the eye line aloud.

'As blue eyes surfed across the screen she slowly sipped...'

'That's great. I can hear the surf in all those esses... and it's good to sometimes start with a connective. As you did then? Try others too: although; while; whereas; despite, meanwhile. There's lots of 'em. Maybe even try beginning a sentence with an adverb: slowly; quickly; eventually; seductively.'

'I'll try.' 

She spoke slowly and deliberately.

'While you're upstairs, I'll try.'

'Okay.'

Quickly I made for the door.

'Where are you going?'

'Upstairs. You said that while I was upstairs...'

Incredulity twisted her features.

'Sit down! It was just an example.' Slowly confusedly I sat down. 'And don't forget the comma.'

'Where?'

'After the adverb - quickly, slowly - and always after the dependent clause.' A shrug raised my shoulders. 'After "across the screen" in that steaming tea sentence.' Sighing at my obvious incomprehension, she reinforced her point. 'After the bit you took from the end of the sentence and put at the beginning. Yes?'

'Okay, but please stop using long words.'

'It's you who should start using long words. And short words. Different words. Don't forget to use the thesaurus. Constantly, unswervingly, unremittingly, steadfastly.' Her enthusiasm bounced off the walls and ceiling, settled on the computer's keys and gradually seeped into my waiting fingers. Slowly and seductively, she winked. 'After me, a thesaurus is a writer's best friend.'

*

After machine gunning another thousand words, I paused and read it over. This was more like it. Jessica came down from cleaning the bathroom. She rubbed her rubber-gloved hands together and raised her eyebrows. Rubbing her rubber-gloved hands together, she raised her meticulous eyebrows.

'Well?'

'Yeah. All ready for you to rip to pieces.'

She laughed.

'Before I do that... I didn't say anything earlier, but all those vital statistics, like at the beginning when you described yourself? They have to go.'

'What? No way! I was painting... no, building a picture!'

'Sounds more like you're introducing a contestant in a beauty pageant! You should show your characters to the reader rather than telling 'em about them.'

'Lots of people I know do it like that.'

'Well they shouldn't. It's rubbish. You don't introduce people in real life like that: here's John, five foot eleven, a hundred and seventy pounds, black hair, seven inch dick blah, blah, blah... Do you?'

My first thought was, 'My name's not John,' though somehow managed to suppress it.

'No, I don't suppose so.' 

'It's like, "Here's the vital statistics of the bloke and the bitch he's just about to fuck." No story, no mystery, nothing. He's like some kind of catalogue model and she's like a blow-up doll. So he fucks her! So what? Who cares what the fuck they get up to in their ill-described world?'

She spoke passionately and I had to admit there was something in what she said.

'Yeah,' I nodded thoughtfully, 'I'll work on that.'

As the gorgeous girl stood before me, eyes almost level with mine, she rested her bright yellow gloves on her shapely hips, accentuating the curve of her tiny waist. Though a few strands of her hair escaped to tickle her neck, the rest flailed behind her like an Akhal-teke's golden tail. Her short emerald-green overall stretched deliciously across her ample breasts, the buttons straining, offering me brief, flashing glances of her blood red bra with every breath. Crossing one long bronzed leg over the other, she absently scratched her calf with a smooth pale heel, and, as she eyed me up and down, a wide contagious smile split her lovely features.

'Okay, I'm ready; show me what you've got.'

Momentarily bemused, I simply gaped till her nodding head motioned to the LCD's glare. I passed her the laptop.

'Don't be too hard on me! I tried, really tried, to do all the stuff you said.'

'Listen, it's only my opinion. Ignore me if you like. You can write, I can tell; you just need a bit of confidence and a kick up the arse.'

The tall slender stool gratefully accepted the firm flesh of her tight pulsing buttocks.

'That line... there? Just say she sat down, pulled up a stool or something.'

'Oh, okay.'

'Right! What's the story?'

'Story?' 

She nodded and raised her eyebrows expectantly.

'Yes. Story. Don't tell me...'

'Er... girl turns up unannounced; girl gets shagged.'

'Is that it?'

'Yeah. Well, there'll be a bit of oral first. Probably. There usually is. Why?'

'A story should be like a good joke. It needs a set-up and a punch line, something with a twist that makes you think. People get shagged every day in real life, so that's not enough to write about. Intelligent readers don't want that. Something extraordinary has to happen, something unexpected. You know?'

Getting shagged by a stranger would be quite extraordinary for me, unexpected too, but again I understood what she was saying. I sighed.

'So I need a story now?'

She laughed.

'Yes. To write a story, you need a story to write. What am I going to do with you?'

Lots of possible scenarios played out in my imagination, and there were lots more things that I wanted to do with her.

'And what about themes? Not just a story, but consider themes too.'

'Themes?'

As a Double-O-Seven guitar riff reverberated inside my empty head, I pondered how question marks stalked pursued haunted shadowed followed almost everything I said.

'Not musical themes!' Her incisive words suggested this mind-reading thing was a two-way street. 'I mean ideas; motivation; what's your reason for writing it?'

'Can 'wanking material' be a theme?'

I expected more rolled eyes at that, but she remained serious.

'Perhaps... but that's not very adventurous. I was thinking of something bigger: love; death; revenge; jealousy; class... Let's say your protagonist is a working-class bloke who's won the lottery and the cleaner is the daughter of a discredited and disinherited Earl? Can you see how that would make for interesting reading? Status would be somewhat inverted and the dialogue could show who had the upper hand at certain points...'

'Yes. Er, are you a...?'

'No. Do I look like a...?'

'No. Yes. Well, maybe.'

'Did you?'

'Win the lottery?' She nodded. I laughed. 'I wish!'

While she read my story, my eyes devoured her. Her tits were magnificent and I was aching to touch them, to suck them. Cup my fingers around them then draw her nipples into hardness. Fondle them; lick them. Now her fingers were in my pants. I felt them close around me. Her lips. Her tongue. Sucking, teasing. Taking me deep. Her unexpected enthusiasm interrupted my sexual reverie.

'It’s much, much better. You are really quite good!'

I thought hard and spoke softly.

'Damned by faint praise, am I?'

That hit the spot and she laughed.

'Okay... Extraordinary, brilliant, outstanding.'

'Thank you.'

And you're starting to find a voice.'

'Am I?'

'Yes.'

For the first time today, I laid myself bare in all my naked ignorance.

'I don't know what you mean.'

She smiled warmly.

'And that's the first step. Honesty.'

'Well, if I'm being totally honest, I don't really have a cl...'

'Shush. Not that kind of honesty.'

'Oh.'

'Even though this is fiction, it must still be,' she gazed at me and her eyes subtly shifted shades, 'true. It has to be real, written from the heart. Writing, like most things in life, is about finding yourself.'

'A kind of masturbatory hide-and-seek?'

She laughed at that, but it wasn't a mocking laugh. It was appreciative and thoughtful.

'Yes. I suppose so. The way you speak is unique to you, and your writing should be the same. Someone should be able to read it and say, Hey, that's, er, Smallwood, isn't it? And it should be you throughout. That's hard to do...'

'It's beyond me.'

'It's not. I know you can do it.'

'Everyone else's stories seem so good. I can't compete!'

'Nonsense! And it's not a competition. Just be yourself. Look: most erotica is throwaway rubbish. It seems to me it's either poor writers peddling trashy porn or good writers trying too hard to be clever. Their styles are often parodies of good writing, overflowing with ridiculous similes and meaningless metaphors, sentences so stuffed with unlikely adjectives they split at the seams.'

'But you said use more adjectives, adverbs... use a thesaurus.'

'I know, but there's a balance. And it's a fine one. There has to be taste, style and substance. It's no good tastelessly painting and opulently decorating, fitting plush carpets and hanging expensive curtains if the house is falling down, is it? A man who sold you such a house would be dishonest; no less the writer who trades in such trash.'

In this, as in all the opinions she held, she was passionate.

'So my voice must be honest. You say there must be substance, taste... and my style must be balanced. So is that how you write?

I feared if she said yes, I would fall in love with her.

'No. But I try. I try like fuck... It's so important to me not to devalue the experience. If I lie naked on my back, my legs apart and my cunt open, allow another human to lie on top of me and enter the most intimate part of my body with an intimate part of his... then gaze into his eyes and see his pleasure, his gratitude, while understanding he is seeing the same in mine... why would I not give my all in trying to recapture that moment - and all the moments that led up to it - as faithfully and honestly as I can?'

All of her mind and body, all of her being spoke to me and there were tears in both our eyes. 

I fell in love with her.

The enormity of my task overwhelmed me, pressed a whine from my lips. I wiped my eyes.

'How long will this all take?'

'Don't worry! It's all already in there...' and she rubbed a rubber palm on my heart, 'it just needs polishing. Like that table. Look at the dust! I really should...'

A duster appeared from her pocket and she cut a shining swathe across the table top.

'Fuck the cleaning!' I grabbed her slender forearm. She was shocked by that and briefly struggled, yet I held on, regardless. 'I said fuck it! I want you to tell me more. Tell me everything. If only I'd had you for a teacher at school! I might have listened! Might have learned something!'

I released my grip. As she slowly drew away, she hunched and visibly wizened. Her voice became a scratchy warble.

'But I'd be an old lady now and I don't think you'd be quite so interested in what I was saying...'

'What? How shallow do you thing I am?'

She straightened and folded her arms then cocked her head, curled her lips and raised an incredulous eyebrow. Each of those exaggerated gestures sighed, 'Give over!' but together they screamed, 'Fuck off!' Despite my continued silent protestations, both she and I knew I was shallow as the seven inches of rigid flesh that my jeans were barely able to suppress, and deep as the tight slit between her thighs that those seven inches ached to invade. 

A smile lit her eyes.

'Fuck the cleaning? You'll pay me anyway? Really?'

'Yes.'

'Okay!' Her energy and enthusiasm were intoxicating. 'There is something. Something big.' She wasn't wrong there. 'This bit where you're fondling and sucking her tits. And here, where she sucks you off. It's not... not real, somehow. You've got to use all your senses; all five.' Mouthing their names, I counted on my fingers and she giggled. 'Close your eyes.'

'Why?'

'Because sight is all most people use when describing. Just do it. Trust me! And tell me every sensation. What you hear, taste, smell, touch... and how it makes you feel.'

I rubbed my hands together.

'Okay. But I feel like I need the loo first.'

Two minutes later, I was back. She hadn't moved an inch. I took up my position and closed my eyes. A long, still silence followed, interrupted only by a fly battering its buzzing bristly head insistently against a window. A floorboard creaked. Were these things relevant? Should I mention them? I wasn't sure.

'There's a fly...'

'Shush!

It began.

'Material tickling against my belly. T shirt lifted up to my collar bone. Perfume... lemon, flowers. Summer. Cool air washing over my chest, my nipples tightening. There's tension, anticipation. I'm nervous. Uncertain. My mouth is...' I bit my tongue, 'dry.'

Should I tell her about the straining, straightening, aching sensations? The sticky oozing damp sensations? The tingling? Desire? Longing? My hesitance bred impatience. Her whisper dribbled down my naked torso like hot honey.

'Tell me what you feel.'

'I can feel... your excitement. Shaking fingers. I hear you exhale... inhale, hear the air sizzle in your throat. My heart is pounding. Breath is... shortening, quickening. I'm heady and a little dizzy. Cold fingers... brush against me, trace my muscles. Tickling. Plastic fingers. Rubber fingers... Oh... Pinching, tugging. Hot breath on me. Soft lips. Moist. Wet. Sultry. Sucking my... nipple. Teeth nipping. There's a hand on my... you're touching my... cock. Oh, fuck!'

She pulled away. Evaporating saliva cooled my pulsing flesh. The T shirt fell like a curtain.

There was rustling. The snapping and slapping of rubber. Rasping breath. A quivering velvet hand grasped my wrist, lifted my arm. Fingertips pressed against mine and moulded my hand into a cup.

'Keep your eyes closed and tell me. Go!'

'Your voice is trembling; you’re shaking. Sweating. Fingers warm, soft, clammy. So gentle. Lifting my hand. Guiding me. Oh, God... are you sure?"

'Yes.'

'Alive, firm, pliant. Filling my palm. Heavy. Jesus Christ! Beautiful. Indescribable.'

'Try!'

Sounds were now inadequate. Fingertips slid across the short hairs on the nape of my neck and eased, encouraged my head forwards, downwards, guiding me. My lips touched her. Impossibly. Intimately. I was speechless. A hard nub brushed my lips; yielding flesh pressed to my nose, cheek, and chin. My poking tongue tasted her vague saltiness, her perfumed spherical sweetness. I wetted her, drew the incongruous knobbly hardness between my lips and sucked on her delicious teat. She gasped, whispered obscenities, and I heard rubbing, barely discernible squelching then I inhaled the heady smell of her liquid flesh, her primed primal gash. Whimpering, she guided my mouth to her other nipple. It was wet and sticky, slippery and musky and I knew instantly what her fingertips had done.

Instinctively, I reached for her. Radiant, vital, naked flesh met my fingertips - so firm; so smooth; so incredibly smooth - while veils of relatively coarse cotton assailed the backs of my hands. As I suckled, I sculpted the subtle curve of her thighs, crossing and recrossing the cuttings of her thong's elastic track, before testing the impossible soft solidity of her cool bare buttocks. She was supple bone and rigid muscle, a living, vibrant machine; a complex combination of fleshy ropes, struts and springs of intricate, unfathomable purpose and beauty. Within her frame lived myriad multi-dimensional creatures that simultaneously existed beyond these walls and these words, beyond this moment. A giggling baby with her doting parents; a child swinging with her favourite teddy; squabbling siblings, fiercely loyal friends and nasty, bitchy enemies; grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. She had tripped and scarred, fallen and broken, but mended, always mended. Fumbling kisses and earnest learner lovers had quickened her pulse, inflated then burst her trusting heart. She had mourned and wept, shouted, screamed and accused. And loved... Oh, how she had loved, though had never been truly loved in return. Today, chance had brought us together. A single simple change in either of our histories would have meant we never would have met. This unique coincidental moment was singularly amazing and whatever happened now, our lives were already irrevocably changed.

As I stepped forwards and pressed my constricted cock into her bare belly, she pulled away, tore herself from my grasp. Her breast popped from my mouth; her heat left my palms. I stood alone in a crackling cloud of expectation, my senses still firing though their target was missing. The carnal contact had charged me; super-charged me. I tingled, buzzed, needed her touch more than I needed breath yet was unable to move. And I suddenly knew the frustration of the fly, hammering against an invisible impassable impediment. I should have told her about the fly; he was relevant after all. A floorboard creaked. I opened my eyes.

Her back was towards me and she appeared to be buttoning herself up, palming her damp tits back into her bra, maybe even adjusting her sticky gusset. She was shaking and her hands suddenly clasped to her face. Where her voice had once been confident and carefree, it was now hesitant and broken.

'I have to go. I’ll see myself out.'

'Jessica? Stay...'

She couldn't even turn around.

'I can't. What was I thinking?'

I was desperate.

'Thinking? It was what you wanted, wasn't it? What I wanted. You said...'

'Fuck what I said. This is your story, isn't it? We're acting it out. Girl turns up unannounced: girl gets shagged. Listen!' Her voice rose in intensity. 'I'm nobody's blow-up doll; nobody's wanking material. I'm me! I'm real. Fucking real!'

I understood, but it was too late.

'I know.'

'I'm sorry. I'm leaving now. Good luck with your story.'

I reached for her arm at the very moment she stepped away. A fingertip brushed her sleeve though Jessica could never have known. Determined strides carried her to the door. She snatched her woollen coat from the polished brass hook and, in a manner similarly opposite to her unexpected arrival, she vanished.

The laptop had died along with my urge to copulate, though the dull ache in my groin could have suggested otherwise. I nipped upstairs for the charger, plugged it in and, while it rebooted, made myself a strong coffee. Then I sat on her stool and started to read, saw my story through her eyes and quickly released it was a trite pile of crap. However, near the end, I spotted a section in italics, a couple of paragraphs with elements I recognised but which had been extensively rewritten and extended. Christ, she was good; fucking quick too - I'd only been out of the room for a couple of minutes and yet she had written this? I read her words. My eyes grew wide. My cock swelled. My eyes grew wide and my cock quickly swelled as I read her words. Carefully reading Jessica's wondrous words, my eyes grew wide and my cock quickly swelled. I took him out, amazed by the flow of precum that smeared my black pants with its silken sheen. The hand around me was her hand and the lips around the tip were pure imagination. As I read, the absent beauty stroked slowly and firmly, sucked purposefully and imaginatively, and I knew it would take but moments.

Knowing her gaze was glued to the screen, my eyes devoured her, ravaged her with reflected light. Her tits were magnificent and I was aching to touch them, to suck them, wrap my fingers around them then draw the nipples into hardness. I longed to fondle them, lick them, slide my shaft between them. Overall and bra disappeared. Knickers fell away. Her pussy was a perfect peachy paradise and her shockingly smooth sex lips were swollen and glistening. My tongue added to her wetness, then dipped between the hot folds and tasted the delicate sweet and sour of her complex and copious lubrication. I eased her open, pressed my nose to her pink, pungent innards and slowly inhaled. Heaven. Two fingers teased the length of her slit then forced their way inside. Her heat enveloped me; her body clung to me, sucked on me. Squelching foam filled my palm as I opened those rigid digits and fucked her furiously with a jabbing angry V sign. A hand on her pubic mound pinned her down and, pressing upwards, exposed her tumescent clit. She sighed as I sucked it, moaned as I licked it, cried out as she climaxed, cumming in a frenzied fit that thrashed her bucking body to replete exhaustion. 

In moments, fondling fingers were in my pants. They closed around me; freed me; liberated me from the Lycra bonds of penile servitude. Her lips saved me. Her tongue salved me. Sucking, teasing. Taking me deep. Beatific horror froze her face as I blindly grabbed her ponytail and pushed my tool even deeper. Then she was struggling. Choking. Swallowing. Coughing. Guzzling. Gasping. I was stunned by the raw power and outrageous duration of my orgasm; was in awe of her absurdly subtle skills. Rhythmically pressing my perineum, she pumped the dregs from my aching organ, drinking every drop while gazing lovingly up into my face. She swallowed then emitted a satisfied sigh.

'You're a really dirty bastard! You could do with a cleaner every day...'

'I think you're right.'

'I could certainly keep polishing that cock till I can see my face in it.'

'I could put some more elbow grease onto that clit too.'

There was a pause as she untangled then pulled up her tiny crimson knickers. After squinting at the fastenings on her bra, she clipped it, swivelled it and filled the cups to overflowing. Its straps were slung on her shoulders and its priceless contents roughly readjusted. She slipped into her overall and began doing up the buttons. Her words were timed and weighted to perfection.

'Same time tomorrow?' 

'Yes, please!'

I nodded enthusiastically and held out the thirty quid. She grimaced.

'Fuck off!'

'No! For the cleaning.'

'I've hardly done any!'

'For the editing then... for cleaning up my story.'

'Keep it!' She laughed. 'It was a labour of love.'

'Thank you. Thanks for everything.'

Again she flashed her eyes at me then leaned forwards and gently kissed my lips.

'Happy?'

My response was delivered slowly and deliberately.

'Oh, yes!'

Her lovely mouth morphed into a smug smile that was both contagious and irrepressible. 

'I told you you'd be satisfied.'

Body numb and knees shaking, I watched helplessly, powerlessly, as skeins of hot cum arced and fell then spattered, sullied, the cold, bright screen.

*****

This story is included in 'Whatever happened to my teacher?', an anthology of short stories currently available from Amazon.

*****