I originally intended this piece for something else. But it bled out of control and became too big to contain and bend to the requirements. So I decided to use it for Wicked Wednesday instead. And I also decided to share a bit of my writing process. Beneath the final draft, I have posted the prior drafts, along with the questions and revision ideas that came to mind as I crafted this story. Sometimes, I think people who read these short stories don’t realize just how difficult and time-consuming writing can be…how painstakingly some of us craft each and every word or phrase and how many drafts we create before finally settling on what we publish. Occasionally, I get lucky, and the muse blesses me with a fully-formed, perfected draft that just flows from me as if it were water. More often than not, however, it takes hours (days?) to produce something as short as what you are about to read.
Your Biggest Fan
Rebecca couldn’t help glancing occasionally at the subtle bulge, wondering at the size of him. As he read, her gaze swam slow laps between his lips and the pleated shadows beneath his belt.
Michael Parks was relaxed and confident before this crowd, smiling easily and gesturing with his hands. His voice, soft and deep, projected well. She let it in, feeling the vibrations travel from her inner ear, down the sides of her neck, to the tops of her shoulders, her back, and into her belly.
Reaching into the bag by her feet, she pulled out her own copy of his book to follow along. She touched the cover lightly, teasingly, as if it were his skin. She raised the book to her face and touched her lips to the paper, breathing it in, then lowered it to her lap, feeling its coolness through the fabric of her dress. Spreading it open to the correct page, she used both hands to flatten the curved pages. Taking her bookmark in hand, she raked the tip down the crease, imagining the twitching response of his skin. She licked both her lips, rubbed them together, and bit the bottom one, as she pictured her fingernail tracing these very words across his chest. She leaned forward a bit, squeezing her thighs together, transferring the pressure between her legs. She let her black curls hang forward to hide the deep flush creeping from her cheeks to her chest.
As the reading came to a close, Michael smiled warmly at the clapping audience. The signing would follow, and his fans rushed to be first. But Rebecca didn’t hurry; she wanted to be last, so she stayed put until the theater was empty. Alone in the dim light, she leaned into her seat, the corner of the book’s spine lined up with the top of her pubic bone. Closing the book, she pushed it down between her thighs, and squeezed, her hands nudging the point into her clit. She wanted release so badly. But, she would wait for his touch. This in mind, she re-opened the book and slowly trailed the tip of her tongue up the crease between two pages, conjuring that place at the top of his thigh, the musky scent, the soft, downy hair, and the heat.
Hugging the book to her breasts, breathing deeply, pressing into it, loving that the hard cover wouldn’t give way, she stood and fell in behind the rush of fans.
In line, she shifted her weight periodically, squeezing her thighs together, squirming gently back and forth until her cunt was pulsing with lust, and she was finally facing him.
Smiling softly, she handed him her book. He looked up at her, eyes sparkling, lips inviting. She imaged his hands reaching around and up the back of her thighs, pushing her dress up to hold her ass in his firm grip.
He reached out for her book, which she handed to him.
“To whom should I make this out?” he asked.
She stumbled slightly over her words, suddenly feeling unprepared.
“Rebecca…” she breathed.
He nodded slightly, opening the cover and placing his pen to the page.
He spoke as he wrote, “To my dearest Rebecca, may you never stop loving my books.”
As he closed the cover and handed the book back to her, every muscle in her body tightened in expectation. She brushed the back of his hand with her palm, and electricity singed the insides of her thighs, darting upward. What she had been holding in for the better part of an hour finally let loose, and she closed her eyes, welcoming the flood. Her upper body collapsed forward; her hands reached out to brace herself against the table. Opening her eyes, she looked at him, her pupils dilating to re-admit the light.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, out of breath, “I got a little…light-headed. I guess I’m just…such a…big fan…seeing you here in person…so close..must have caught me…off guard.”
Concern filled his face, as he placed his hand on top of hers. He stood and came around the table, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, leading her to a nearby chair. She sat, and he crouched beside her, one knee down to stabilize himself.
“Would you like some water?” he inquired.
A tendril of moisture, like a tear, ran down the inside of her thigh and dripped to the floor. She wondered if he noticed.
“I would appreciate that,” she replied, smiling to herself.
As he handed her the water, she pushed back her sleeves, uncovering a few of the words she’d tattooed there. Beneath her dress there were hundreds of them, jumbled phrases from books, some faded, others fresh and still pink.
She looked up at him and imagined herself, naked on her knees before him. What would he think if he could see his words, joined with so many others’, imprinted on her flesh, soaking in?
What would he think if he knew just how deep her need for him went and how far she was willing to go to add him to her collection?
She caught him looking at her wrist, the glossy black words outlined by the slight puffiness of her pink skin. They were new.
Looking up at his puzzled face, she told him, “I’m sure you hear this all the time, but I’m your biggest fan.”