Chapter one: mental seduction
Amaryllis sat down at her desk, as she did every morning. She set her coffee on the desk and turned on the laptop, waiting for the password prompt. Everything seemed normal. Please, she thought, let me get some work done! Let me just get this book finished. One more book…
Amaryllis began typing:
Kayla waited nervously for Brett. She imagined his firm jaw, his sharp, clear eyes boring into her as she explained the delay in…
Suddenly, Amaryllis’ head filled with a now familiar voice: “Oh Jesus, are you still at it with her?”
Get. Out. Amaryllis thought, holding her hands over the keyboard, closing her eyes.
“Fuck you. Stop writing her in! I haven’t had Brett long enough…” The voice belonged to Starr, and Amaryllis felt the panic beginning to rise.
“GET OUT!” Amaryllis shouted.
“Hey, READER, are you confused?” Starr’s voice continued, and Amaryllis’ fingers flew over the keyboard, typing Starr’s words and Amaryllis’ reactions, the sudden bizarre conversation in her head becoming real on the page.
“Stop it, Starr! You aren’t supposed…”
“I’m ‘not supposed to’ what? You stupid writer. READER…Are you with me? This writer, Ms. Amaryllis Allen, usually so compliant, is trying to manipulate you, the Reader, into thinking this Kayla character could have the wit and confidence to actually capture the attention of Brett… my Brett.”
Amaryllis began, “Kayla has the wit and the beauty and the youth to capture the attention of anyone she wishes, with her sun-streaked hair, limber arms and slim, feminine figure…”
“Yeah, everything you lost as you aged, right?” Starr interrupted, as she did once these conversations began. “ You, the brilliant mystery romance writer, the inventor of Brett, every young woman’s Perfect Man. Oh god, and perfect man he is… I should know, I’ve been fucking him for… what is it, four consecutive books now? You’ve seen your bank balance rise as steadily as that man’s impressive penis when I enter a room. Me, with my flowing black hair, firm ripe breasts, and insatiable sexual appetite. Oh, yes, Brett and I were made for each other.”
“Shut up. I’m changing things now!” Amaryllis cried, pounding on the keys. “I’ve introduced another character. A woman who is ravishing actually, but with a soul as compassionate as she is physically beautiful…” Amaryllis stopped typing; her hands jumped abruptly from the keyboard, as if it were hot.
She thought, Oh dear god, what am I doing? I’m talking to one of my characters as if she’s real. Again! I haven’t had enough sleep. This can’t be real. Amaryllis dropped her hands in her lap, but they continued twitching, searching for the keyboard. Starr, the character in her head, was going too strong and Amaryllis finally began typing again, as Starr’s response made its way onto the page:
“Oh I’m real enough, Amaryllis, but this Kayla bitch… no one’s going to believe she could take Brett from me.”
“Fuck you,” Amaryllis typed in her own response.
“I knew if I pushed enough buttons I’d get the famous argument-ender… Fuck you! Oh my, what can I say to that? Jesus, you really are beginning to be a bore. You know I can always…”
“Shut UP! Leave me alone! If I have to stop writing about you to get you out of my head, I’ll stop! I mean it! I won’t write about you!”
“Oh yes you will.” Starr’s voice grew ominous. “You know you will. Without us, without Brett and me, your most successful characters, what are you? NOTHING. You are nothing. You know, we can always find another creative mind, another set of hands only too willing to let us dance and fuck on the page. You, you stupid, lonely woman, made the bizarre mistake of falling in love with one of your characters. Oh, I understand how Brett could make you sweat and pant and wriggle in your panties. God knows, I’ve done it enough. And I will keep doing it until I find something even more exotic that gets me wet. I’m a character! I move from creative universe to universe. That’s why you writers are so loath to discuss your own characters with other writers. You know if we find someone more creative, more pliable, we’ll jump ship without so much as a glance back. God, I’m beginning to sound like such a cliché. Sorry, I’ve never felt compelled to address a writer before now. Well, not a sober one.”
“Go to hell. You’re so smart, so fucking all-knowing, you find another writer, you cunt.”
“Hey, READER, She really hates it when I’m controlling the typing functions of her hands AND the imaging in her mind. She hates me, but she loves me, too.”
“Will you stop? If there were a READER, she’d be completely confused by now and probably just stop reading. Without a READER, you don’t exist!”
“Nor do you, Amaryllis Allen. Jesus, what a pseudonym. You couldn’t pick something creative? Something a little steamier? I live between the covers of a book in a truly wonderful setting, but your name, Amaryllis…”
“Hey, I like it. Jesus, why do I do this? You aren’t real!”
“Tell that to your millions of readers. If they knew you were going to get rid of me, hook Brett up with this… librarian… they’d be as pissed as I am. They don’t like change, Amaryllis, trust me on this.”
“They like juicy storylines with lots of drama and sex. You and Brett still have drama, but the sex is getting out of hand. Most of my readers think doing it on the couch in the daytime is wild…”
“Because your readers have had so little suggestion of true adventure. In the last book, when Brett fucked me under the staircase at the Governor’s mansion during the Christmas party, with people less than 10 inches away… oh my god, I had to stuff my dress into my mouth to keep from screaming. We fucked so hard…”
“I know, I know. I visualized it, remember? I heard Brett’s hoarse whispers, saw your faces inches from each other while you fucked and … Goddammit, stop!”
“What’s the matter, Amaryllis? Getting hot? You think I don’t know about the times you stop typing and start touching yourself? Think I don’t hear your own hoarse whispers when you’re writhing around on the chair in front of the computer? We know you bought a new, more comfortable chair that doesn’t roll and has padded armrests. You’ve moved your toys and lubricants into the drawer in front of you. Think Brett and I haven’t watched you fucking yourself with images of us in your head? We do, and it turns us on like you’d never believe. Listening to you, watching you, makes us hot, too. Brett gets so hard, I get so wet, we’re coming before…”
“Stop! I won’t listen! You’re in my head!”
“We’re almost right there, Amaryllis, stroking your breasts, kissing your belly, teasing your nipples, licking your juicy cunt…”
“Stop, that’s it, you’re making me crazy!”
“Funny, that’s what Brett says when I’ve got his cock in my mouth.”
“Fuck you, Starr, that’s it, no more today. I’m not getting anything done.”
“Wait, Amaryllis! Don’t…”
Amaryllis lifted her hands from the keyboard, curling them into fists, her head filled with images of Brett, his strong body, his flashing eyes and bright smile. She kept her eyes closed and dropped her head into her hands, focusing only on the images of Brett.
Images she had made come alive, images she would control. Dammit, if only Starr weren’t so strong. No! She thought, think of Brett, his kiss, his scent, his lovely, hard cock. Amaryllis kept her eyes closed and moved her hands slowly over her breasts, imagining Brett’s hands cupping them, then slipping her blouse off her shoulder, his lips brushing the soft skin. Still keeping her eyes closed she saw Brett moving over her, her hands moving over his chest, his hips, tugging his jeans off. She wriggled lower in her chair, lifting one leg over the padded armrests. Her thin cotton dress slipped easily up her thighs as she moved her hands into the moist valley between her legs. Her head filled with Brett, she stroked her soft inner thighs, her breasts, her cunt. Even images of Starr now were quiet and smoldering, bending to kiss her neck, and then slipping the dress off altogether.
Amaryllis sat naked, her eyes closed, head back as she fantasized Brett and Starr moving over her in shadowy, sensuous rhythm. Her hands moving faster now, she twisted in the chair and lifted both legs over the armrests, her head leaning against the backrest. Her hips moved against her hands, little groans escaped her throat. The shivers that began in her cunt traveled to her thighs, to her breasts. She moved one hand to massage her breasts while the other worked her cunt. She groaned louder, her breath coming in gasps. In her mind, Brett and Starr were fucking now, for her, inviting her to join them.
Amaryllis was caught up watching, pushing herself against her hands, her fingers. As Brett and Starr crashed against each other, Amaryllis cried out, the climax shrieking through her body. Brett and Starr moaned and shouted, tearing at each other, biting shoulders, breasts, digging their hands into each other’s bodies. Amaryllis bucked wildly in the chair and shuddered, slapping her hands against the armrests. She gasped, moaning, and finally opened her eyes. The computer sat in front of her, the screen saver quietly changing from blue to green, the only sound her own breathing.
She closed her eyes again and thought, Goddamn it. I cannot let Starr get to me this way. Starr is MY character. I have to keep her under control. I’m not crazy, this is really happening. If I can manage this, I can get so much more from them. And they can do so much more for me. So much more.
She kept her eyes closed as she thought, again, of the beautiful bodies writhing their way through her books, and out into her bed, her body. She knew this was blurring reality, but so what? It was between her and her characters, wasn’t it? If it made her happy, if it got her writing done, if it sold her books, how could there be a problem?
To be continued…