Overcoming Writer’s Block was displayed in large, fanciful letters, superimposed across the head of the bowed, head-in-hands person on the monitor. After a few seconds, the image disappeared and the article began. Reading yet another inane position on self-help annoyed him, but she insisted. She promised he’d find inspiration in the article. She as much guaranteed it.

He’d tried everything – walking, running, reading, stewing, drinking, smoking, visiting, listening, sleeping, observing, playing, traveling, spanking – and still nothing. It had been months since he could focus for a sitting of more than a few minutes. The entire writing experience had abandoned him. The inspiration, confidence, and motivation were gone. Possibly lost forever.

Blending into an unsolvable crossword puzzle of black and white, the article’s words became a blurred dance. He courted them, some aloud, but their arrangement lacked meaning. It wasn’t justice, but just noise. Do this, do that. Blah, blah, fucking blah. Same shit, different writer.

But at the bottom, he noticed the link.

What do you see?

He knew this breakout exercise and was in no mood for describing the mating rituals of dust bunnies, or the hyper-excited fruit flies bounding over forgotten brown bananas, or the field-of-green sway of the hairy mold propagating on the unwashed dinner dishes in the kitchen sink. Nor was he going the introspective, micro-observational route and describing the internal cardio and thoracic pressure of his beating heart, the cranial echo from the room’s silence, or pondering the feel of fingernail growth. He decided to end this futile madness, but only after he activated the link. He quickly clicked and a picture appeared.

It was the woman from his slumber vision; the one who’d suggested he read the article.

She was disheveled, kneeling between two faceless, naked men who were standing on either side. Their engorged cocks, one in each of her dainty hands, appeared swollen and ready to erupt on the sides of her flushed face. Her just-been-fucked mess of hair rebounded with her stroking effort, and the mascara-mix of tears and sweat had run to the corners of her lipstick-smudged mouth. Her makeup-blackened eyes retained the post-orgasmic glaze of being overwhelmed and they dead-stared through the screen. The man’s hand immediately reached for the twitch at his groin, but he was too late. The picture disappeared and another link phrase appeared.

Where are you in that picture?

Aroused and engaged, he clicked the link and it opened a small, empty text box with a cursor flashing inside. A background watermark said, Fill To See More. He was intrigued. He contemplated. Was he one of the men? Was he taking the picture?

No. Something else. Something better.

As soon as the first key stroke was struck, the box disappeared and another text box appeared with a header.

Where do you WANT to be?

The same encouraging watermark appeared inside the new text box. And again, when the first key stroke was struck, the text box disappeared but this time was replaced with the same image except the men had sprayed their seed across the woman’s face, creating a slow motion drip of semen lattice work across her nose, lips, and chin, something reminiscent of a Salvador Dali melting clock.

Her lifeless eyes remained focused on that on the other side of the screen, but had a slight glint of invitation. Below the picture, the link said something that moments ago, would have loaded the insecure writer with trepidation. However now, he was champing at the bit.

Explain.

After clicking, a much larger text box opened with the flashing cursor beckoning his imagination. He began to write. It was ferocious, like a ravenous hunger being satiated. He gorged the screen with once departed words and phrases, like he’d been starved of them for the months he’d actually had.

His words described the most decadent of carnal fantasies. He was beneath the woman’s straddle, his whiskers grazing her sensitivity as his lips caressed her folds while his tongue cleansed her cummy insides.

They had long past the crossroad of inhibitions. It no longer mattered. Out of frame were two hands on his body; one with two fingers massaging slowly, moving against his own insides while the heel of that hand rubbed against his balls. The other mystery touch stroked his length like only another man could. It was a fantasy exchange imagined, but never shared.

The keyboard rang like hail on a tin roof as the man feverously filled the text box with his desire. As much as he wanted them to, his fingertips never cruised for pleasure and remained married to the screen, creating line after line describing how the men and woman interacted and exchanged.

He paused, looked at his latest words, and then continued, having the woman fall forward, taking the end of his erection in her mouth. Three. Count ’em. Three different persons were attached to his body, all working his pleasure from different angles and modes of attack. The man neared and feared the end of the text box, but was eager to finish, so he could then address his immediate need. But before he could share his envisioned end, the screen froze white.

Glaring at it in disbelief, the writer groaned his displeasure as he hunted and pecked for the magical key that would release his mind from its prison. Maybe fifty times he struck that keyboard. All text. Gone. No picture. No nothing.

“Fuck!” he screamed at his dreaded nemesis, the bastard desktop appliance that he had spent so much of his finite time and energy on and with. It was again, over. He then felt chilled, as if he’d travelled down the rabbit hole of improper surfing, fully expecting an FBI logo of seizure to appear. But it didn’t. Only a question materialized, enticing him as it scrolled across the blank white screen.

Want to continue?

The anxious writer shuddered after only being able to type the ‘y’ in yes.

We’ll be there in ten.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than Lushstories.com with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © 2015-2019 Ping. All rights reserved. All stories and poems are written by, and the ‘soul’ property of, Ping, and his real life alter-ego. No portion, in whole or part, can be borrowed, linked, or reproduced without their expressed written consent. Please don’t steal our stuff, just ask us if you want a copy. Thank you for your consideration.

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