He controls everything I do. Like this, for instance: today. Today’s limit is five words. Each sentence only five words. I can’t call him Master. It’s forbidden to do so. He prefers I say Max. Max is his first name. Now he says Tell them. (He is watching me type.) He means you, dear reader. Are you dear, my reader? Are you more than one?
I can’t finish, I say. These limits are too binding. These limits are ropes, tight. I can barely breathe in. I can barely breath out. Exhale inhale exhale inhale: pant. This is not any good. I would rather be spanked.
But you’ll write, he says. The audience watches, he says. The audience reads, he says. Eyes skimming their bright screens. Small screens in sticky hands. Large screens on fat desks. You know why they’re here. They want a fucking story. A story of hard fucking. A story of unbearable humidity. Send blood to their organs. Make them hard with words.
I can’t do it today. My voice is a whisper.
This is not a choice. He is adamant and strong.
Can’t you just love me?
Not without a good story.
This post was written for Wicked Wednesday, a site where writers share erotic stories (fiction and non) every week. The fun is hosted by the bright light Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes, whose endeavors you can support at Patreon.
Read more fab Wicked Wednesday “Audience” entries here!