A Scribner’s Tale

A Scribner’s Tale    
    
     Brooke says, “John when you told me about those bitches from the previous agency who took the belt to you I cried for you. Just thinking of what that tough leather on your soft bottom must have felt like made me wince. John, know that I will never try to force you into a career mold by brute force.”    
     “Like their namesake flower, those belladonnas enticed me with beauty whose touch was poison.”    
     “What drove them to such cruel measures?”    
     “They felt like I discredited their program by turning down their job offers which were pathetic for a college grad like me. Their caveat was that if I didn’t submit to their sordid penance no other agency would take me.”    
     “You need not have capitulated to their sick game. Here I am living proof that another job coach was always waiting in the wings for you. Know that if you ever need correction from me it will never be meted by pain.”    
     “Presumably human females are unlike those of bees whose women are the sole stinger bearers.”
     “Women, like queen bees, mostly reserve their stingers or tongues for their other catty queens.”  
     “Brooke, you have my complete cooperation in all things job related and otherwise.”    
     “John, I know we usually meet at the coffee shop. But for me to understand your book clearly I need quiet. So this time let me take you to my apartment where we can work together without all the noise.”    
     Upon arrival, Brooke says, “John, my couch is all lumpy. Let’s sit on the bed and get comfortable. There is no need to be uncomfortable when getting down to the work at hand.”    
     She says, “I usually help people get on a payroll but for you, I am doing something different by helping you get your book published. However, after having read it I am trying to figure out how the pieces fit together and how the plot works.”    
     “Here is a passage that brings it all together.”    
     “That chapter is erotic which fascinates me. Your evocation of a female masturbating was clearly written by a man. The sensations you describe are not those of a woman.”    
     “I just based it on my reading of female-authored erotica.”    
     “I hope being with me here at my pad doesn’t make you nervous. Now be quiet while I finish reading the scene. All done. Your imaginary trip down the river of womanly self-pleasuring was clearly based on a studious reading of authentic female authors. Yet your description of the clitoral orgasm was clearly written by a male. Don’t feel bad. You have to be in our skin to feel what we feel. But I’m all sweaty. Do you mind if I take a shower?”    
     She walks out of the shower towel wrapped and dripping with her skin pinkened from the hot steam. I am on edge about not offending her with my lurid writing. But her questions are focused on plot structure though the risqué passages hold her interest.    
     Her hip sways so closely to me that I can feel the heat from the hot water of the soaked towel she wears. She says, “Let’s shed some light on the subject.” When she reaches over me to pull the light cord the droplets that flow from her thinly veiled delta down her inner thighs are near enough for me to lick them up with my tongue was I that daring.    
     I say, “This passage should pull it all together for you.” She wipes her hands on her derriere and takes the book.    
     Her hand rests on my knee but soon travels up my thigh. I laugh. She slaps me on the back. We laugh together. She says, “Sorry just wanted to make you feel more at home in my abode. You seemed a wee bit tense. I hope it wasn’t because of my roaming hand.”    
     “I know you are just trying to help me relax. Your hand is welcome.”    
     “John, tell me if I am correct, one of the key elements of successful fiction is to suspend disbelief. Well, there are some pretty fantastical scenes in your book from what I’ve read of it. So let’s act out some of your scenarios just as you described them in your stories. Here I am speaking of the intimate scenes.”    
     “Which ones are you referring to?”    
     “The most far-out ones are the ones that involve paddling. Those are the ones we should focus on. You’ve told me about being horsewhipped by those bitches from hell. But you’ve never had your caboose properly fetishized in real life. So this will be your opportunity to make your prose more believable by getting out of your head and into physicality.”    
     She places her hand on my chest and pushes me down on the bed. Her kisses start off soft only to turn aggressive as she paints my face with her lipstick. She grabs my hips, turns me on my stomach with my cooperative roll, and slips her hand underneath me to undo my fly. She slides my 401s and fruit of the looms off in one fluid motion. She says, “The welts that strap left on your tender flesh are almost healed but still pink.” Her fingertips move in lazy circles round and round my buns only to feather the crevasse between my cheeks. She says, “With my fingertips, I can read the Braille of your punishment barely legible like scars from childhood. Are they still sensitive to my touch?”    
     “Just enough to enliven my skin like the pelt of raindrops.”    
     Here fantasy ends and reality begins. She traces the pink stripes of my psychedelic zebra haunches with her fingernails. She smoothes out my memory pillows for a fresh impression wherein the ache of love replaces the sting of the lash. She caresses me lovingly like a woman does her hair as my timbre rises.    
     She has me ready for her softness that comes like liquid sunshine when she flips me over to feel her circumscribe my circumcision with the candy of her lips. The totality of her eclipse of my cone becomes a meltdown like ice cream on a June day at the state fair.    
     Then she says, “I’ll spank you but only with my hand. Belts are made for holding up britches. Besides, I’m just a kitchen witch whose bitchiness is limited to the subliminal sabotage of a soufflé.”