I write.

Stories of make-believe, all kinds. Romance, horror, funny stories, sad stories. I write all the time, about all sorts of people.

I used to write about her. But I won't write about her anymore.

However, I will tell you about her. Before it all comes to an end. And you, if you write, should listen, you should be warned, so that you won't go looking for someone like her. I pray that you won't stumble upon someone like her.

The first time I wrote about her, she was just an extra, just part of the background to set the scene at the restaurant. I saw her, and I described her: blonde hair, blue eyes, a red dress, and a mouth that somehow seemed just a bit too small for her face.

That was all. I walked past her, that is, the “I” in the story walked past her, barely noticing her as she discreetly glanced up at me.

And that was it. My story went on without her, and in the end, I gathered the suspects in the living room and told them who the murderer was.

I forgot about her, but she showed up in my next story too, and she spoke to me this time. She was my wife's sister in that story. I needed someone to reveal her troubled past. I was the evildoer behind my wife's untimely death. She was crying at her sister's funeral.

I wrote her as if I had never met her before. I didn't even recognize her until she was there: blonde hair, blue eyes, and a mouth that somehow seemed to be just a bit too small for her face.

A black dress this time, of course, and a soft voice with words that felt like velvet in the air between us.

From then on, in whatever I wrote, she showed up. She was a bounty hunter in a post-apocalyptic world, she was in a group of castaways on a deserted island, she was a maid in the emperor's court, a waitress at a diner, a secretary, a nurse, a student.

Letter by letter, I created her beauty, sentence by sentence, I forged her soul. And letter by letter, sentence by sentence, I fell for her.

I gave her the words to speak. And then let those very words enamor me.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, and a mouth that somehow seemed just a bit too small for her face. A soft voice with words that felt like velvet in the air, skin as clean and smooth as silk.

Always there, always beautiful, always companionless.

Sometimes I missed her. Engulfed in the plot, she slipped past me, but when I read what I had written, I found her there.

Sometimes I watched her appear. Watched her come alive sans-serif, my fingertips greeting her welcome as my face lit up with a smile I didn't know was there.

When I didn't write, she was all I could think of. Where was she now? What was she doing? Who was she with?

In one of the stories, I gave her someone to be with; I gave her a lover. A nice guy, the captain of a starship. They were madly in love, and I hated him.

I thought I hated him because I had written him poorly. He was one-dimensional, stereotypical, and uninteresting.

I thought I hated him because he was that way. But he was that way because I hated him.

Still, I had to have him there, so I could see her smile. So I could feel her lips as they kissed. So I could stand in front of her, gaze into her eyes filled with love and lust, and hear her say, “I love you.”

“I” was back in my next story. She was just an extra again, unnecessary, just someone in the back of the room, and I was afraid to approach her. But I had to have her there. I couldn't not see her, even if only briefly.

I felt bad about it afterward, as if she had been waiting for me and I had let her down.

So in the next one, as if apologizing, I gave her everything. She was the protagonist, the main character. She was a dancer, a white swan, an angel, the one everyone looked up to, the one everyone fell in love with, but her heart belonged to someone else.

Who could it be? Who was the one she couldn't find? In her room, alone in the dark, she cried, and oh, how I wanted to reach out to her, to hold her, to comfort her.

As I wrote the last line:

With a smile that only the one she loved would recognize as pretended, she closed the door behind her, muffling the sounds of laughter and applause, and, alone again, she cried, I wiped tears off my cheeks.

There were stories where she could not be, where she did not belong. Where I diligently made sure that none of the women there was her. But that's when she would come to me in my dreams. I saw her in an empty universe, where nothing existed but her. She reached out to me from a darkness that was a story I hadn't told.

“I'm scared,” she said. “It's cold here. Where are you?”

And when I woke up, I threw away those stories where she wasn't.

And so I brought her back. I gave her life again. In anger and frustration, I made her a slut. I gave her to men, many men.

I gave her to an old man:

As the rain beat down on the roof of the bus shed, drowning out the sounds of the traffic that passed, she dropped to her knees in front of him. 

A stranger's cock was always a found treasure to her, a gift to unwrap. What would it look like? How big would it be? What would it feel like, taste like? How long would it take her to discover those just right things that would make him yelp in mind-bending pleasure and bring him over the edge?
It was as wrinkled and rugged as his face, but the taste was the bitter salt flavor she knew so well.

I gave her to a young, inexperienced man:

He looked almost in fear, eyes wide as she pushed him down on the floor and pulled his pants off his feet. She straddled him, raising her skirt and lowering herself onto him, a feat made easy by how she didn't now, and never did, wear panties, and as it slid in, she moaned in delight and triumph.

I let three men have her at once, and I made sure they gave it to her hard:

Sand had gotten into her every crack and cranny, the sun burned her back, and shells and rocks scraped her knees. The biggest of the three, the one she had first approached with her well-rehearsed fuck me - smile, was now indeed fucking her, hard from behind, with a thumb buried deep in her ass. The other two took turns shoving their cocks down her throat, pulling her hair when they felt they had waited long enough, which meant she had one’s cock in her mouth for merely a few seconds before she had to switch. 

The chatter and giggle and occasional groan from the crowd that had gathered turned into cheers when the guy on her right grabbed her head with both hands and, with a roar, filled her throat with his cum. With it dripping down her chin, the second guy pulled her away, grabbed her the same way, and face-fucked her until he too, could empty his generous load in her mouth.

Now face down in the sand, she was fucked from behind harder and faster than ever before, rubbing herself frantically as she came over and over again.

I stared at the words on the screen for a moment, stared at her lying there grinning, covered in sand and sweat and cum, and then I ran to the bathroom, fell to my knees in front of the toilet, and vomited.

“That's not her,” I gasped. “She wouldn't do that.”

“I wouldn't do that,” I heard her say.

It was all a dream, I wrote. 

Sometimes I had no stories to tell. I would sit down and stare at the screen, the cursor flashing in mocking defiance.

It was as if I could feel her, somewhere behind the white, longing for me as I longed for her, but I had no world for her. No place or time for her to be.

But did I really need it? All the worlds that had come to be since I met her, weren’t they just the stage setting? Just a frame to put her portrait in? Whatever her part, hadn’t she always been the central figure?

Wasn’t she all I needed?

“I’m all you need,” she whispered from behind the white.

So I wrote a room. And in that room I wrote a bed.

And there she was.

She was naked, and with her fingers she was beckoning me to come to her.

She’s naked, and with her fingers she’s beckoning me to come to her.

But I want to watch her first. She smiles and nods, understanding what I want without it being said, and then she lies down on the bed.

Caressing herself, letting her hands run over her breasts, her face, her thighs. And then she spreads her legs and touches herself there, touches herself the way I have dreamed of touching her.

I watched her as I stood up to pull my pants down, and when I sat back down, I grabbed my cock, gripping it tight in my left hand.

She smiles again, and her smile is a confession of love and lust. "Yes," she says. "Touch yourself too."

And for a while, that's how we make love. Staring into each other's eyes, fucking ourselves. Until I cannot take any more and walk to her. I climb onto the bed with her, between her legs. I feel the warmth radiating out from her as I put the tip of my cock between her pussylips. As I enter her, she groans and moans, "Finally."

Finally, I fuck her, slowly and gently.

Slowly and gently, I masturbated. Writing us, reading us, watching us. I felt her breath on my face, heard her moans in my ears, and heard the words she whispered.

She whispers, "I love you so much.”

"I love you too," I whisper back, and then she comes, and as her insides grip hard around my cock, I bury my face in her neck, breathing in the scent of her, relishing in the taste of her, and I come too.

Wheezing and trembling, I stared down at the cum in my hand, and a feeling of sadness and loneliness tore through me. A darkness, an empty universe where she didn't exist. It was never her. She can never be.

But without her, I can not be.

No, I won't write about her anymore.