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.”


Draft 1


The idea for the first image comes to me over coffee…don’t know what I’ll do with it – maybe he’s a boss? a student? a professor? Don’t know yet. Just start writing.
She couldn’t help glancing occasionally at the subtle bulge beneath his belt, wondering at the size of him. As he spoke, her eyes played a vicious game of tennis,
(this metaphor is too much/cut it – just say “her eyes played tennis”…) 
bouncing back and forth across the net of her porous ethics.
(oohhh…I love that phrase – *pats self on back*…) 
His words wafted off, unheard, and she squirmed in her seat trying hard to look like everyone else in the audience. She leaned forward a bit to squeeze her thighs together, transferring the pressure between her legs, and caught the verbal reaction to the movement in her throat.
(The story has finally come to me…I know who she is going to be…Rebecca…a stalker…ha! I didn’t see that coming…I am also struggling with the “sex” part. I’m actually performing the movement as I write to figure out: how does the shift change the feeling between my own legs? how best to describe that? what would my own reaction be?…)
She’d read his books. All of them. She owned them. And she’d touched the covers as if they were his skin, caressing them, running her lips across them, breathing them in. Once, she’d even run the tip of her tongue up the crease between two pages, imagining that place between his upper thigh and groin.
(This would be better in present tense… I may change that and put it elsewhere in the story. Caressing is a boring word. Also…would it really be “groin”? Do I even like that word? It’s jarring…not my style. I’ll come back to it later. Just keep writing….)
She let her black curls hang forward to hide the deepening blush spreading from her cheeks to her chest.
(I like “spreading flush” better than “deepening blush”…and two “ing” words so close together is bothersome…) 
Reaching
(good lord…another “ing” word to contend with)
into the bag by her feet, she pulled his latest hardback out and placed it on her lap. She opened it to her bookmark and ran both hands against the curved pages to flatten them. Taking her bookmark in hand, she ran the tip down the crease, imagining the twitching this would cause. She licked both her lips, rubbed them together, and bit the bottom one, as she imagined her fingernail tracing the words he wrote across his chest, digging in until he winced.
–Like this book, she would own him.–
(this HAS to be the last line…it just came to me…I’m writing it down so I won’t forget…this also means I will have to take the “owning” phrase away from earlier in the story…)
She looked back up at him. Salt and pepper hair, a trim build beneath a tweed jacket and khaki pants.
(trousers…)
He was relaxed and confident before this crowd. These were his people. His fans. A few critics. He smiled easily and gestured with his hands as he spoke. His voice was soft and deep, projecting well. She could feel the vibrations of it travelling from her inner ear, to the tops of her shoulders, down her back, and into her belly.
(I’m tingling…I am in Rebecca’s skin right now…feeling it…how would I react?…what would my body do?…)
She sat back in her seat, the corner of the book’s spine lined up with the top of her pubic bone.
(Yes…I’m doing this…)
She closed the book, pushed it down between her thighs, and squeezed, her hands nudging the point into her clit.
(Okay…fuck…I’ve hit a wall…time for a coffee break…I don’t know where to go from here…will she go to the ladies’ to finger fuck herself?…will she cum spontaneously in response to his reading?…what will happen at the signing after the reading?…I should also go back and make it more obvious this is an author’s reading, shouldn’t I?…)
She wanted release so badly. But, she would wait for him. Wait for the first touch.
As the reading came to a close, he smiled warmly at the audience, who clapped and began quickly gathering their things. The signing would be next. Rebecca didn’t hurry. She wanted to be last in line. She got herself a coffee and found a seat in the lobby of the theater where she could watch him and keep an eye on the line.
(not sure what to do with the action here….just want to get to the end…I’ll come back to this…I also don’t like to repeat words…gotta get rid of one of those “lines”…)
When only ten people remained, Rebecca gathered her things and joined them. She held his latest bestseller in her hands. He chatted amiably with each fan, which gave her plenty of time to shift her weight back and forth, squeezing her thighs together, squirming gently back and forth until her cunt was wet and swollen with desire.
(pulsing with lust…not wet and swollen with desire…that is overplayed language…I do love my “ing” words, don’t I?…)
At last, she faced him. Smiling softly, she handed him her book. He looked up at her, his eyes sparkling, his 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.
“Who should I make this out to?” he asked.
She stumbled slightly over her words, “Rebecca…”
He stopped briefly and looked up at her. That’s my wife’s name.”
“I know.” Rebecca smiled broadly enough to show her teeth and did her best to laugh like a lady.
He spoke as he wrote, “To my dearest Rebecca, may you never stop loving my books.”
(oh…that’s all fucking terrible…I can do better than that…)
As he closed the cover and handed the book back to her, she brushed the back of his hand with her palm. Electricity singed the insides of her thighs and darted directly to the mark. What she had been holding in for more than an hour finally let loose. She closed her eyes and breathed in sharply as every muscle in her body tightened. Opening her eyes, she looked at him, her pupils dilating to re-admit the light.
“Oh, I’m sorry about that. 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.”
A tendril of moisture, like a tear, ran down the inside of her thigh and dripped to the floor.
(Okay…let’s put this together and fix her up…)  

Draft 2


Rebecca couldn’t help glancing occasionally at the subtle bulge beneath his belt, wondering at the size of him. As he spoke, her eyes bounced back and forth across the net of her porous ethics.
(okay…I loved that phrase yesterday…but maybe this metaphor is too much? Let’s go with “As he spoke, her gaze swam slow laps back and forth from his lips to his zipper.” Wait…maybe that’s worse…Damn…I’ll have to save that “porous ethics” phrase for another time…) 
Focused as she was on her vision, his words wafted off, unheard, and she squirmed in her seat. 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 creeping flush from her cheeks to her chest. Reaching into the bag by her feet, she pulled his latest hardback out and placed it on her lap, spreading it open to her bookmark and running both hands against the curved pages to flatten them. She’d read every one of his books. And she touched the covers as if they were his skin, caressing them, running her lips across them, breathing them in. Once, she’d even run the tip of her tongue up the crease between two pages, imagining that place at the top of his thigh, the musky scent, the soft, downy hair, and the heat. Taking her bookmark in hand, she ran 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 saw her fingernail tracing the words he wrote across his chest, digging in until he winced.
(wanted to “spread” the book open…so I’ll have the flush “creep” instead – it gets at the mood better, anyway, and works with “cheeks” and “chest”…Too many of these sentences start with “She”…I’ll come back and fix that later…my favorite solution to that seems to be the verb phrase, so I have to keep myself from falling back on that too often as well…)
She looked back up at him, standing tall behind the podium. Salt and pepper hair, a trim build beneath a tweed jacket and khaki trousers. He was relaxed and confident before this crowd. These were his people. His fans. He smiled easily and gestured with his hands as he spoke. His voice was soft and deep, projecting well. She could feel the vibrations of it travelling from her inner ear, to the tops of her shoulders, down her back, and into her belly. She sat back in her seat, the corner of the book’s spine lined up with the top of her pubic bone. She closed the book, 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 him. Wait for the first touch.
As the reading came to a close, he smiled warmly at the audience, who clapped and began quickly gathering their things. The signing would be next, and his fans rushed to be first. Rebecca didn’t hurry. She wanted to be last. Hugging his latest best seller to her breasts, she breathed deeply, pressing into it, loving that the hard cover wouldn’t give way to her advance. She shifted her weight back and forth, squeezing her thighs together, squirming gently back and forth until her cunt was pulsing with lust.
At last, she faced him.
(This still seems abrupt…more action needs to take place before this?)
Smiling softly, she handed him her book. He looked up at her, his eyes sparkling, his 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.
“Who should I make this out to?” he asked.
She stumbled slightly over her words, suddenly unprepared. “Rebecca…” she breathed.
He stopped briefly and looked up at her. That’s my wife’s name.
“I know,” Rebecca smiled broadly enough to show her teeth and did her best to laugh like a lady.
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, she brushed the back of his hand with her palm. Electricity singed the insides of her thighs and darted upward. What she had been holding in for more than an hour finally let loose. Every muscle in her body tightened, and she closed her eyes, her upper body collapsing forward, her hands reaching 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 sorry about that. 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, placing his arm around her shoulder, leading her to a nearby chair. She sat, and he crouched beside her, one knee down to stabilize himself. She leaned in to him.
“Would you like some water?” he inquired.
But she was already wet enough. A tendril of moisture, like a tear, ran down the inside of her thigh and dripped to the floor. She wondered if he noticed.
(still can’t figure out how to work this in–Like this book, she would own him.–)
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https://brigitdelaney.com/2018/03/your-biggest-fan/

11 Replies to “Your Biggest Fan”

    1. Yeah…the tattoo idea came late in the game for me, but I thought it fleshed out her “stalker” character a little better.

  1. Thank you for sharing some of your writing process. It’s always interesting to see how others do it.

    As for the story, I like that there is a edge to it, a part of it that makes me feel uncomfortable and wonder just how sane she is and how far she will go. Love it when a story does this to me.

    Rebel xox

  2. What an fascinating insight into your drafting processes Brigit. I found the story both convincing and slightly disturbing. But what a clever concept the tattooing is, and how eerily it works. I can’t help wondering what she will do especially with the mention of the wife’s name…

  3. Oh Bridget this is fucking epic. It is Misery(esque) in that it is an obsessed fan and a writer but why sexier. There is something deeply scary about obsession but it makes for thrilling stories such as this.

    As for your writing process it is really interesting to me as I think we have extremely different styles but seeing how others work makes me think about my own styles and how maybe there is for questioning myself a bit more like you have done.

    Mollyx

    1. I started out with this as my Smut Marathon character sketch, but it quickly became much more. Epic? I love the compliment, and I did, indeed, spend hours on it. I’m pretty proud of it…so thanks!

  4. Excellent story. I agree with Molly about how it reminds me of Misery a little. I’d be curious to see what she’d do next, what he’d do next. Interesting process for you. I’m more of a sit and write, the words flowing out if they are there. I don’t tend to have a draft process because I’ll over think if I try that. It’s funny how different we all are when it comes to writing

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