From across my desk, I survey Dave with an arched eyebrow, my pen poised above his manuscript. His earthy, rugged appearance translates well to the back flap of dust jackets and is certainly a large part of his brand appeal. That's not to devalue his top-notch thriller writing, but he's easily eleven on the eye candy scale; a far cry from the usual potato-faced ex-lawyers, ex-policemen, or ex-cons who grace my doorstep wanting help bringing their mediocre stories to life.

This is, however, the first time I've seen him uncomfortable. Intimidated. Perhaps his Spidey sense is tingling. I take a breath as if to speak. Pause. Let it out. Take another and try to be diplomatic.

"When I said that branching out into erotica would be good for attracting new readers, I assumed it would be… up to your usual standards."

He develops a puncture, shoulders slumping. "Oh."

I debate glancing over the top of my graphite-rimmed glasses—the disapproving school mistress—but it would probably turn him on. Despite the grilling I give his work, I'm quite certain he fancies me. If he wasn't paying for my services, we might have broken our professional arrangement a while ago. It's unfair that fangirls get all the fun.

At every book signing, they fawn and giggle like teenagers. And that's just the middle-aged mums. The twenty-somethings lap up every dimply smile and choreographed compliment. The press have revealed he's been the naked filling in a Dave sandwich many times. Hasn't hurt sales. Millions more will cream themselves at a signed book of erotica.

If he can bring it up to scratch.

I study his reaction. "Wait. You think this is actually good?"

He rakes fingers through his black mop and swallows. "Well, I… yeah. I guess. At least, I did."

"Oh."

"So, be gentle. What's wrong with it?"

I glance across my home office at the bookshelf stacked with language texts and tomes on storytelling. Suck air through pursed lips. "You mean, aside from the title, introduction, and chapters one through," I flick to the end, and back up a few pages. "Seventeen?"

"Ouch. That's gentle?"

Smoothing my navy business skirt, I lean back in the chair and rock a little, side to side, playing the pen clicker across my lips. "Be honest. Did you get your kid to write it?"

"Alfie? No!"

"Just wondered. It reads like Year Ten coursework."

"Jeez, Emma. I pay for your candour, not abuse."

"Is there a difference?"

He says nothing.

"Bottom line, you pay me to make you a better writer. To help your natural storytelling… zing." I let what I hope is a disarming smile radiate on lips I'd accentuated with terracotta. "You're one of the most decorated thriller writers in history, Dave. It ought to be easy.”

"Is that flattery or rebuttal?"

I grin. "You decide. But your manuscript currently makes E. L. James’ work seem like Mark Twain."

He winces. Studies me. Knows that without my editing expertise, he'd be nowhere near as successful. I have this innate ability to cut what isn't needed. To adjust punctuation for clarity. To shuffle sentence structure until it resembles flowing art. And people pay handsomely for my craft.

With each successive book, he's learned more and I do less; for the same money, but that isn't the point. He trusts my judgement. My integrity. And knows I'll steer him to success.

He sighs. "Should I start again? Or is it salvageable?"

I lean forward and flick through the first few pages, scanning lines faster than news of a tabloid political scandal.

"Depends who you're targeting. If you're after the—" I mime a wanking motion in the air, "then they won't care as much. But to broaden the appeal, you need to make characters relatable to female readers." I turn another page and narrate:

Gina bounced over in her cheerleader outfit, her 32Bs drawing more attention from the gathered crowd than her twenty-year-old boyfriend Steve waiting by the touchline. Eventually, he looked up, taking in the eighteen-year-old's curves on her svelte, 120-pound frame. Her emerald green eyes shone in the sun. High cheekbones and a dazzling, infectious smile finished off the teenage girl-next-door look. He reached out and ran his hand up her thigh. "Hey, babe."

Dave blinks. "How can that be improved?"

"Avoid laundry lists of attributes for a start. Be more imaginative."

"I thought it was imaginative. I've sprinkled sparing adjectives and adverbs."

I rove my eyes to rest between his legs, fixating long enough to make him squirm in his seat. "Tell me… am I thinking, ooh, ten inches?"

"Pffft. I wish."

"But am I?"

He considers. "Probably not. Eight at a push."

I ignore his grin. "So, what do you think of when you see a great pair of tits under clothes? Ooh 32Bs?"

Whether out of embarrassment at objectifying women, or genuine cluelessness, he shrugs.

I cup my bra-clad tits, lift and squeeze them together. His eyes widen, cleavage drawing his attention, and I continue: "Don't describe these as 38B, they're…?"

He strokes few-day-old stubble that a third of his fan base probably dream will scuff their inner thighs. Flashes his attention to my boobs and the obvious pokies. A few times. "Uhhh, 38C?"

I let go, pick up a fat elastic band off the desk and ping it at his crotch. “No!”

He wriggles under the obvious stirrings of a hard-on, and my smile broadens, heart rate spiking. Playing with him until he damn well learns to show, not tell in erotica might get through.

Reaching behind to unhook my bra, I shuck free of it, slithering it off through the armhole of my low-cut blouse. I primp my hair and lean forward to accentuate the tantalising plunge framed by the onyx cascade. His attention swings from the garment I'd dropped on the desk, up to my chest, then rapidly up to golden brown irises. The lure of my breasts when I rearrange my top to show off a little more flesh is too great for him to resist. I lower my voice to a sultry purr. “How about now, Dave?”

He shuffles his hips, presumably to relieve the pressure on his swelling cock. Composes himself and offers a cheeky grin. “Double D?"

I know he's taking the piss, but whip up the bra and thrash his arm with it anyway. "Idiot."

"Ow! There are laws against that."

"Then stop delivering measurements! People want sexy similes, like doughy orbs, or how the flesh spilled over her hands as she massaged them. Not cheesy phrases like bags of fun, or endless vital statistics. It's not Miss World." I pause. "Think!"

Nothing.

I prompt him:

Gina bounced over in her cheerleader outfit…

He thinks a moment longer. "Apple-sized breasts drawing more attention from the gathered crowd?"

I sigh. "Better than a number, but hardly Pulitzer stuff. How about we switch the sentence around a bit? Maybe its structure is limiting your creativity."

Studying the paragraph, I offer an example:

The crowd whooped as Gina bounced and tumbled over to the touchline, bursting against her form-fitting cheerleader outfit with each flip. If anything, the crowd made more racket than they did for her boyfriend when he scored a touchdown. She came to rest in front of Steve, chest heaving, and beamed, sunlight catching emerald irises above those high cheekbones he loved to caress. Reaching out, he stroked her thigh. "Hey, babe."

Dave's jaw drops. "That's amazing."

I shrug. "Better. Not amazing. Notice I've pushed the observations outside, looking in. Rather than describing her chest size, I imply the crowd see it bursting from her outfit. The fact she's doing flips indicates she's fit and active. Most cheerleaders are teenagers: no need to say so. And instead of her eyes just shining, Steve notices them because he enjoys brushing her cheek."

"Clever."

"Not especially. Your thrillers are full of it. Maybe you're just intimidated by porn, or have preconceived ideas about how it’s written? It's no different; you're still telling a story."

He rubs his chin, gaze trying hard to stay out of my cleavage. His attention has my pulse thundering, and I continue: "Part of the issue is you're predominantly a visual species."

"Are we?" He drags his attention to my eyes. Then back to my tits.

I smile inwardly. "Yeah. If you tell tell tell, readers are going to get bored pretty quickly. Look at Fifty Shades. People swiftly dumped their copies at the charity shop when they realised how shallow the characters were. You need to involve all the senses to immerse people. Make them believe."

He brightens. "I do that. Find the bit where they're in bed. Chapter three."

I flip the pages and skim. Smile. "Okay, yeah. But it's delivered with the panache of someone cooking scrambled eggs on toast in the MasterChef final. Check this:"

Steve dove between her thighs and licked. She smelled amazing and he lapped every drop. Juices trickled down towards his chin and he hungrily licked his lips. When he buried his face in her slit again, she felt like she was flying and mewled at the top of her voice. "Yes, Steve. Yessssss!!!"

Dave nods. "Taste and sound. Two out of five. So how can I improve that?"

"I already did the last one for you. It's your turn. Use the same trick; external actors looking in. Just be careful not to overdo it or the entire thing slides into the passive voice. Keep things active. Any time you use words like heard, smelled, saw, felt, etc, they're trigger words to replace with actions. Instead of she smelled amazing, try her scent clung to my stubble."

"Okaaay. I can do that."

He holds out his hand for the offending sheet and I slide the leaf across the table. Our fingertips brush as he reaches for it. It's the tiniest touch, but it has a lightning impact on me.

This is where I do what I warn first-time authors not to do: break the fourth wall. You see, dear reader, I've not been entirely honest with you so far. I've perhaps given the impression that Dave is just another client. In many respects, he is. Albeit a cute one. But I want more.

Much more.

Did you think I was a bit too eager to remove my bra? Did it come from leftfield, without much build up or motivation? If so, I apologise. The truth is that the build up has been years in the making. At least from my side. Every time he reserves a slot in my diary to discuss book progress, I jump at the chance. Doll up more than usual. Wear more revealing clothes. Spritz alluring scent.

Of course I maintain my business air, despite leaking into my underwear at the cadence of his baritone or the way his physique stretches his polo shirts. He certainly doesn't skip arm day.

I doubt he knows how many times I've jammed my hands in my panties immediately after he left the office, and murmured his name as I climaxed in the very chair I'm sitting, feet splayed on the desk. Or the times I've dashed to the bedroom flinging clothes en route, thrown myself naked on my bedsheets and furiously masturbated, imagining his face clamped between my thighs.

I sometimes grab my favourite vibrator and plunder my pussy to oblivion, pretending it's his rigid cock pounding as he bites my neck. And, shhh, don't tell him, but last time he was here, I conducted the entire meeting with my panty vibe attached, buzzing in sync to some Spotify background music. After ninety minutes of that, I can assure you I was a fucking wreck. I spent the last third of the meeting concentrating on nothing but fighting the urge to cum. Couldn't even cross my legs because it intensified everything.

All I could think of was launching myself across the desk, tearing his clothes off and riding his magnificent prick until he filled my sopping snatch with ropes of thick spunk. He'd barely climbed into his car before his gasped name was pinging off my office walls and I quaked in the chair.

It's ridiculous really. He's eight years older than me. We've been working together for the same duration, and have developed a rapport. He confides in me, too. I've heard all about his string of girlfriends after his marriage fell apart… due to his first string of girlfriends.

Oh, I also adore the way he sometimes looks at me like I'm his next meal. I go all giddy inside.

As I said earlier, I'm beyond sure he's looking for an excuse to bone me. An opening, so-to-speak. But I’ve kept myself in check; professionally distant in his company.

Until now.

I’ve been struggling lately to suppress the overwhelming ache to taste him. And this moment when we're openly discussing sex, is my chance—his chance—to put his money shot where my mouth is.

Anyway, with that off my, well, 38Bs as he'd probably put it, back to the story.

He pulls the manuscript leaf closer and studies it. "How about—"

Steve dove between her thighs, her scent clinging to his stubble as he lapped every drop.

He grins at me and I roll my eyes.

Juices trickled down his chin and he savoured her arousal, hungrily licking his lips. When he buried his face in her slit again, she mewled at the top of her voice. "Yes, Steve. Yessssss!!!"

I smile. "You're getting there. One other thing: watch out for overuse of punctuation. One's enough. Multiple letters and capitals likewise: less is more."

"Got it." He slides the sheet back and I reinsert it in the loose leaf manuscript.

He's on a roll and I figure I can't stop now. My heart thumps as I consider my next move and flip the pages in front of me, skimming for the perfect spot to highlight. His stare burns as I provocatively lick my finger and curl the pages. "Ah, here."

Gina took off her panties and threw them across the table. Steve caught them and brought them to his face.

I level my gaze to his. "There's no drama here. You can amp it up a bit. Well, a lot. Women will appreciate the effort, trust me."

Blank. Nothing.

I sigh. "How does she take them off? Whip them down? Tease him? They're in a public setting so does she risk getting caught? Hide behind something? Nip to the loo?"

Dave ponders, stroking his stubble again. Those long fingers would be magic inside me. Searching. Probing as I leak around them. Hungrily tasting my sweetness when he feeds them to me. Tongue swirling. Eyes closing…

I snap them open when he speaks: "I guess she rolls them down."

"Fast? Slow? Does she eye him while she does it? Bite her lip? Look away?"

"Definitely eye contact."

I stare across the table at him. Chew my lip.

Now or never.

…

…

Fuck it.

I rise, rolling the chair back. Hiking my skirt just enough, I reach under and hook the waistband in my thumbs. Glide my panties down to mid-thigh. He stares slack-jawed as the fabric bunches and I fix him a wide-eyed, sultry pout. Wiggling my hips, the garment drops to the floor for me to step from.

With practised grace, I smooth my skirt. Sit. Stoop to give him another eyeful of cleavage, and fetch my underwear. Ensuring his eyes are on mine, I slide my knickers onto the desk and push them in his direction. "Tell me. Was something like that in your imagination when you wrote the scene?"

He gawps. Eyes my underwear, a little sticky. Alright, a lot sticky. Clears his throat. "Uhhh, yeah."

"Then describe it."

His mind's clearly spinning and it takes him a short while to compose himself. He runs his hand through his hair again.

Gina eyed him across the restaurant table. Shuffled her hips forward, her skirt rising to reveal tantalising thigh.

"That's good. Very good. Keep going."

Dave swallows.

Glancing around to ensure nobody was paying attention, she reached under her skirt, thumbed the waistband and rolled her panties down. When they reached her knees they dropped out of sight.

I clap. "Bravo. You've created intrigue. Doing stuff out of sight is magic. Your audience want more."

Finding his stride, Dave continues:

She leaned forward, flashing deep cleavage, and retrieved them. Slid them onto the desk and pushed the bunched material towards Steve, chewing her lip. The gusset glistened in the subdued restaurant lighting.

Throwing him a smile, I roll my hand in the air to urge him on. He takes the hint. Sits forward. Eyes me and inches his hand onto the desk edge.

Steve focused on her underwear. Caught her playful expression. Reached for the garment, pausing a moment before he made contact, its warmth radiating against his fingertips.

I say nothing, transfixed, pussy dripping onto the back of my skirt.

Curling his fingers around the material, he lifted them off the table. Brought them to his face. Watched her reaction as he inhaled.

Forget Gina's reaction, mine's pretty much instantaneous. My jaw drops and I whimper. I've never seen anyone enjoy my worn panties, and fuck me it's riveting. What's better is that after the first breath, he seems to lose himself. Starts to snarl and jam my scent against his lips and nose. Becomes totally absorbed, even lapping at the centre to draw the short strings of arousal into his mouth.

I drip more. Dave mashes my underwear against his face, utterly absorbed until he seems to have some crisis of conscience. Realisation of what he's doing, and tosses them back on the desk like they're radioactive. He reddens. "Sorry, I… I should leave."

Kicking off my heels, I lean back and hook one leg, then the other, onto the desk. Just wider than shoulder width apart. I wiggle bare toes at him. No way he can see under my skirt. Yet. "Shame. You're making such progress."

He eyes my foot. Tracks all the way up to the point at which thighs disappear off the desk edge and plunge beneath my skirt. Swallows. Half-whispers, "Maybe there is more to learn."

I part my feet a fraction further. "Plenty. The improvements in just those few paragraphs have led to this." I indicate my predicament with a wave of my hand. "Imagine what'll happen if you carry on."

His hands shake as he reaches for the manuscript between my calves. That act means he has to leave his seat, and my heart skips as his gaze wanders all the way up my thighs. Maybe he catches a glimmer of juices at their apex, maybe he doesn't.

The slightly crappy office chair creaks when he sits back down. He thumbs the manuscript. "There's a scene where they're in her bedroom and he kisses up her legs. That could probably do with fixing."

I squirm as he locates the section. My body is screaming for him to get on with it. His eyes flick across the pages. "Woah. This is shit. I can see that now."

"Which part? Read it."

After a moment of contemplation, he narrates, his voice edgier than earlier. My pussy approves.

Steve kissed the naked Gina from her foot to thigh. She thought he was going straight for the prize but he skirted it. Nuzzled her tummy and she felt the butterflies beneath. Her cock cave moistened and she couldn't wait to feel him inside her.

He stops. Looks up at me. "God. Cock cave? What was I thinking?"

I focus on him. Flick my eyes up and down his torso, imagining for the eight millionth time what's underneath.

"Do you think I have a cock cave, Dave?"

He rapidly shakes his head.

"Does any woman?"

"N… no."

"Then retell it. Make me want to be with him." My voice hollows. "To be her."

My flustered client clears his throat. Puts down the manuscript by my left foot and brushes the back of his hand across the instep. I twitch as a bolt of current zips up my thigh.

Steve lowered his mouth to her foot. Hovered above it, just his breath tickling the surface before skimming his lips to take her big toe in his mouth.

And, fuck me, he does just that. I sigh then gasp as he stoops, his tongue swirling my toe. First one, then the next, and the next, until my mind swims. I moan.

When he pulls away and caresses a path to my ankle, my feet begin to dry in the office ambience. Between kisses, he narrates:

He roved his lips north across impossibly smooth skin.

Dave runs his mouth up as far as he can from his position on the far side of the desk, then retreats. Kisses my ankle, stands fully and walks around to my side. I swing my legs off the desk and spin the chair to face him. He sinks to his knees and gazes up at me, chasing kisses up to the hem of my skirt.

Gina locked eyes with him. Proceeded to show him everything.

I shuffle in my seat and slither the skirt up. Up. Up until my wet pussy creeps into view and he inhales before continuing:

She assumed he would go straight for the glistening centrepiece, but he skirted it. Nuzzled her tummy directly above where the butterflies had set up camp. She craved him. Dripped for him.

My slack-jawed expression tells him all he needs to know; that he's getting the hang of it. His caresses leave my stomach, traversing a straight line down. He hovers over my mons. Skips out to a thigh and I gasp when he doesn't land where I need him.

He makes me wait, nibbling inner thighs alternately until I let out an exasperated cry. "What happens next?"

His breath tickles my folds. 

Steve hopped from inner thigh to thigh, his eyes flicking between her glimmering pussy and her half-lidded expression.

Our eyes meet. I don't need to beg. It's written all over my face. He scuffs stubble across my parted legs, erratic exhalations puffing the droplets of juice that cling to my wiry thatch. They intensify when his lips land on mine. He kisses my pussy like it's a world cup trophy. Then like it's not, tongue snaking inside as I tip my head, tresses tumbling down the back of the chair.

I grip the armrests. My moans bounce off the ceiling. It's like Dave is possessed by my scent. His hands creep up the outside of my calves, hooking the top of my thighs and pinning me to the chair, fingertips teasing apart my folds so he can flutter his tongue up to my peeking nub.

When he makes contact, I stiffen and judder. Groan, low and long while his tongue circles and laps. It's incredible. Before I can even stop myself, my grip shifts from the armrests and digs into his scalp instead.

Sensations scatter. His tongue. The scratch of his whiskers. The searing heat in each drop of juice that drizzles from my slit over the knot of my arse. Tremors are everywhere at once.

Whatever voodoo he performs, it intensifies when his tongue scales the edge of my clit and flicks rapidly left and right, tip across tip. I arch out of the seat, groan and lose control, grinding against his face, hauling in lungfuls of oxygen that never seem quite enough.

My stomach knots and unknots, as if it can't decide which it prefers. I gasp and grip his head, holding him to me for the duration of the mind-numbing orgasm. Clutch. Roll. Drift. Slump.

When I refocus, he's still right there, grinning up at me, shiny with my need. He backs away from my pussy and licks his lips. Gently laps at my folds, avoiding my hypersensitive clit. Well, mostly. The occasional breath or brush of his tongue prolongs my climax or restarts it or… something. If my body expected one orgasm to be enough, it's mistaken.

I stroke his cheek with a fingernail. He eyes me. Narrates:

Steve ran his gaze up and down her body while she trailed a fingertip across his cheek. Kissed her fingers. "I could do that all night."

I smile down at him and pick up the story:

Gina giggled, her body still aflame. "Well don't let me stop you."

Dave pauses. "Seriously?"

I trace my fingertips to his hand resting on my thigh, take it and guide it to my pussy. Press his fingers into the soaked mess of matted hair and frothy juices. "Seriously."

I let go and he carries on gingerly exploring. Parts my lips and gawps at the slick peaks of white cream that pepper my slit and bush.

"Fuck."

My eyes find his. "Precisely."

He selects the next gear. Stands, corkscrewing his fingers into my sopping snatch. Settles a hand on my exposed midriff and applies pressure, thumb of the other hand connecting with my clit. I gasp. Push it away and scrabble for his belt. "No. This."

I unbuckle him, free his impressive prick and stroke it. The string of girlfriends were definitely onto something. I let him take over, bending his knees to align hardness with my needy slit. He pushes. The chair wheels away from him, and he stumbles forward, missing the target. As he catches himself, I burst into a fit of giggles. "That never happened to Steve."

Dave grabs my hand, hauls me from the chair and backs me to the desk edge. "Lay back."

I hold a fingertip up. "Lie back. Don't cheapen this. I always gnash my teeth at that Snow Patrol song."

He rolls his eyes. "Lay, lie, cherry pie."

I hop up fully onto the desk, sprawling between the paperweight and pen pots. Grabbing the manuscript, I giggle again.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just wondered if you're going to pound my sopping sanctuary." I stifle a chuckle. "Or my bountiful box."

He snatches the pages from me, strewing them across the room to flutter to the carpet. "I'm going to ravage you, Emma Hooper," he snarls. "I've wanted you for so long."

Parting my legs, I beckon him. "That's more like it. Write like that next time. You'll have them all as wet as me."

His strong grip hauls me to the desk edge and I gasp at the thickness of his invasion. He's not wrong about ravaging. Plunges deep on the first stroke. Locks eyes with mine and as my lids drift shut in delirious pleasure, begins to saw out and in.

That invigorates me. I rock my hips, latent orgasm resurfacing. Clawing my fingernails up his chest, I bunch his shirt, pulling him into me harder. "That's it, Dave. Fuck me."

His belt buckle clangs the desk in sync with my elevating cries as his hammering intensifies. My pussy accepts everything, coating his cock in frothy appreciation. His fingernails dig into my hips and his breathing sharpens.

I mewl up at him. "That's it. Claim me. Fill me so your cum's all I can think about."

He tips his head back and exhales, hips slamming into mine one final time. The sight of him reaching the peak of pleasure triggers a secondary tremor inside me. Smaller than the first, but all the more powerful for being wrapped around his pulsing length.

We pant and puff together, orgasms cresting. intertwining and gradually waning, eyes flicking across one another.

Remaining joined until he softens, he pulls clear and a stream of thick cum oozes over my arsehole, settling on my wrinkled skirt. He smiles down at me. Offers his hand and helps me upright.

We say nothing as we make ourselves decent. I leave the bra off and trap his dangling strands of cum inside my panties. Smooth creases. Unruffle hair. Sit down and gently rock the chair back and forth, veins fizzing.

He starts to retreat. Pauses and eyes the scattered manuscript. "Shall I…?"

"It's fine. I'll shred it. Off you go." I dismiss him with a flick of my wrist. "Bring me back a better draft."

He flashes a mischievous grin. "Or a worse one if you're going to teach me how to improve again."

"Don't push your luck. But any time you need inspiration for your novels, my door's always open."

He tilts his head. "Which door?"

My jaw drops. "Dave Striker, you're incorrigible. Go write! Improve!"

He cocks his finger and mimes shooting. Then I'm treated to his firm buns leaving the room. The door clicks shut and I exhale. Smile. Laugh.

Spinning the chair to face the window behind me, I watch him cross the driveway to his Aston Martin and climb in. I lift one foot to the sill. Then the other. Splay my knees and lazily trace a path up a thigh to scratch my clit beneath the sodden, splotched material. Circle it as the throaty roar of the engine fires and he reverses onto the road, spinning rubber away.

I sigh. Touch myself. Settle back and gaze beyond my refracted image through the glass to the lawn and street. My fingernail circles.

After all, dear reader, one more climax is the basis of all good erotica, isn't it?