Ronald looked at me from behind his desk, not even shaking his head this time. My latest manuscripts blinking back at him from the screen.

“My Summer with Henrietta,” he sighed. “Eight paragraphs on her hair. You could have told us she was a redhead, hot as hell, and left it there. But no. No, Klaus. Her hair shone red, so completely crimson. Like the sky at sunset when the clouds turn magenta. Her locks shimmered like copper under candlelight.”

Now he looked at me.

“What the fuck, Klaus?”

“I wanted to give her character—”

“When she turned and the breeze rustled her locks, it was as if autumn itself had caught in each strand, burning now against the setting sun?”

He sighed.

“No one cares about character, Klaus. And you made her twenty-five? You know it’s teenagers or MILFs that catch our readers. And he should cum on her tits while she begs for more. Always leave them begging, Klaus.”

“They’re in love, it’s supposed to be romantic!”

“Love? Romance? Klaus… fuck’s sake. The three C’s! Cum. Cunt. Cock. That’s the trinity, and no one gives a shit about how deep they feel. Only how deep she takes it.”

“Well, you want me to have her fuck his best friend instead?” I laughed.

“Yes! That’s the shit! In the backseat of her boyfriend’s car! Make it a muscle car!”

“Muscle cars aren’t known for their generous back seats, Ronald.”

“No one fucking cares, Klaus! The readers aren’t going to do the fucking math or measure legroom! As long as leather scrapes her ass and tits, the readers will cum before they turn the page!”

Something turned, alright. My stomach, not my career. I wasn’t supposed to write smut, porn, filth. But it paid the bills. Had for a long time.

<He did all right, nothing lavish, nothing that called for caviar or champagne, but enough to keep his clothes sharp and his bed warm>

<<Yeah…delete that>>

“I can’t do this anymore, Ronald,” I said.

“Bullshit!” he shot back. “You just need to find that Klaus from yesteryear. The one who wrote good shit, without all this backstory that hurts.”

“I can’t write Hannah, Chapter One, over and over again.”

“You ruined Hannah when you gave her a brain. She should’ve stayed blue-eyed, blonde, and kept her cunt wet and stupid!”

“You’re misinterpreting—”

“I couldn’t suck him. Not saying I didn’t want to. Fuck. I just couldn’t. So, I did anyway. That big, slick head slid between my lips, and my pussy ached. Nothing like it had been with them, something deeper, urgent.

I worked my mouth down his shaft, hollowing my cheeks, his weight heavy on my tongue. His groan sent a pulse through me. Fuck. I should’ve stopped. I didn’t.

He tasted like sin, hot and slick, twitching in my mouth, fingers twisting in my hair. ‘You feel so fucking good like that,’ he groaned.

The ache turned sharp. I needed more.

I pulled back, dragging my tongue across the swollen head. A thread of slickness stretched and snapped as I exhaled.

I was dizzy. Desperate. My thighs clamped tight, my body shaking, wired, wanting.

I didn’t think. I acted. I slid onto the bathroom counter. I couldn’t look at him. How could I? The words spilled out of me, sin and shame and damnation all at once.

‘Shut up and fuck me.’

That’s the shit, Klaus.”

“Shit, yes,” I agreed.

“Fuck off, Klaus.” He swiveled his chair from the screen toward me, leaning in. “I want something I can publish. By Monday.”

“You want five stories on MILFs, horny teenagers, at least one redhead—”

“Interracial, lesbian, and at least one submissive little slut who can’t get enough. Maybe throw in a stepmom or stepsister. A Russian exchange student! Fuck! A babysitter!”

I regretted writing Hannah. No one understood her. They read her as a bottomless slut and forgot the why of everything about her. Hannah was brilliant, dangerous, misunderstood—so misunderstood Ronald refused to publish volume two at all, as if burying her would save him from her genius. Maybe he was afraid of her, more than anything.

I stepped out into the Grünerløkka drizzle. My apartment was only five minutes away, but Hardigan’s sat at the halfway point—and right now, why not drink? Five stories by Monday. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t Friday afternoon and I hadn’t planned the weekend: a couple of plays, a Saturday movie, a Sunday premiere to review. Yeah. To dream up a Russian stepsister babysitter. And who fucks her? At least one drink. Just to get the job started.

Tom looked up from behind the counter. “The usual?” he asked. I nodded.

The usual turned into more usuals, and Tom found nothing unusual about it. Hardigan’s was the kind of pub that drew a mixed crowd before they scattered downtown. A meeting point at the heart of Grünerløkka, where art met—yeah, you don’t care about the scenery, do you?

You want me to get to her? Fine.

She sat at the far end of the bar. A brunette. Hazel framing her—

No. Not this again. Ronald’s still in my head. A brunette. Alone. Hot as hell, but not in a crowd.

When she smiled, it was as if—

Forget it. You’ll only roll your eyes. Forget about your hardon and skip the paragraph.

She had a great smile. A glint in her eyes that lingered as she made her way over.

“Hi,” she said. “Buy me a drink, stranger.” Something straight out of Spring Break Volume Sixteen. I’m not even sure whether it references the series or the age. Probably both.

Her directness caught me off guard, but why not? Why wouldn’t a bombshell smile wet and hot, slide a hand onto my thigh?

“Hi,” I answered. “What’s your drink?”

She was stunning. Maybe eighteen.

“I’m—”

“No names,” she cut in. “Beer and tequila.”

She slid onto the stool beside me, pushed her tits forward, brushed her hair back—like she wanted to make sure I saw. Her eyes were brown. Just brown (see what I did there?). Her top was low and short at the same time, and her tight skirt crept up her thighs like an invitation. Initiation. Infiltration?

Tom took my order, topped up my usual, and left us alone. Tom was good like that—never asked where the money came from or who the drinks went to.

“So, stranger,” she said. Her voice was warm, with a hint of… fuck. No, not a hint of fuck, just... she had a nice voice. Seductive, I guess... Fuck it. Let’s call it hoarse and needy, as if her throat was slick with her own pre-cum. “Why do you drink alone on a Friday night?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. I could’ve spun myself a backstory, but the truth was I didn’t remember why I went to Hardigan’s every Friday afternoon like clockwork.

“Well, you’re not alone now,” she said, sipping her beer.

I nodded, not sure what to say, as I looked at her.

“I’m not into prostitutes,” I said. “But cheers.”

“Oh, you’d pay to fuck me?” She laughed. “That’d be something. Jesus. Shouldn’t you call me a whore, though?”

She didn’t blink. She just stared warm, wet, and <some tired trope; willing? waiting? wanting?>

“Whore.” She repeated it. A hint of a whisper underneath it, before she tossed her shot back, then leaned in, tits pressing closer.

“So, stranger. How much would you pay for this?”

“How old are you?” I asked. Unsettled. Like I was filling out a survey instead of answering porn dialogue.

“Buy me another shot, stranger,” she said with a smile.

I could go on, but I’d lose you, wouldn’t I?

She drank, I drank. We drank. Turns out she really was eighteen, and we got properly drunk together, laughing at jokes that weren’t funny.

“My parents are gone for the weekend,” she said. “Want to take this back to my place?”

My whisky got stuck in my throat, but she only laughed at my choughs. It was time to cut myself off, because there’s no way she had just said that.

“I…I thought you said—” I started.

“I did,” she said. “I want you to fuck me. Come home with me and fuck me, stranger.”

I could write out my thought process, but why bother? The idea of a fifty-three-year-old, tired and failed writer going home with an eighteen-year-old bombshell to fuck her in her teenage bedroom while her parents are away — that’s what’s got you going, right? Maybe having the parents come home mid-thrust or while spraying her face—no, tits, Ronald said—with more cum than my old nut-sack could possibly hold?

“Why?” I asked her as we headed out into the drizzle.

“Didn’t you know?” she said. “All teenage girls get wet at the idea of fucking some middle-aged stranger, for no reason other than being wet and horny.”

I stopped. Stared at her. Thought about going home.

“You want me to blink like I’m stupid, stranger? I can do that, if it makes you more comfortable.”

Her lashes swept slow and wet toward me, and when she rose on her toes and kissed me, I wanted to believe her. When her palm pressed against my throbbing cock, belief wasn’t a choice anymore. It made perfect sense. Her. Me. In the drizzle like Astaire and what’s-her-name? Of course, I was her fantasy.

The apartment was on the third floor, three blocks from the pub. No elevator—Grünerløkka’s too old for that. She didn’t fumble with her keys, hot and bothered like the cliché; she just unlocked the door and waved me in.

Most Grünerløkka apartments are cramped, a little suffocating. This one wasn’t. She strode in with teenage enthusiasm, flipped the lights on, dimmed them again, then told Alexa to play her tune.

The room filled with drums and bass, a woman panting pussy and fuck between a choir of moans. I didn’t even get to complain about the volume—not that Alexa would give a shit about my hearing, or the neighbors’—before she was back with a glass of her dad’s whiskey.

“Here,” she said, stealing another kiss before she started to dance—stripping off layers as if I weren’t fifty-three, still trying to find my footing.

Surely, I can offer a few more words on her body? You don’t mind how I saw her in the dim lights of her parents’ apartment?

As she pulled her top over her head, what struck me was the smoothness of her skin—caught somewhere between the paleness of Scandinavia and the warmth of the Mediterranean. Her tits pushed against a black bra, a size too small, maybe on purpose, maybe just because she’d grown out of it.

The lines of her stomach had that inviting tautness of youth, not yet hardened by gym routines or softened by time. When she bent to slip off her skirt, her thighs curved with a natural generosity that made me swallow. She didn’t hide herself. She peeled down with the unthinking confidence of someone who still believed her body was immortal.

Her panties matched the bra, but not for long. She freed her tits first, stubborn rebels against gravity, springing free as if to prove a point. I could have stood there and watched them bounce and bounce and—

<Tits don’t work that way, Ronald>

I probably could’ve left it at that. Ronald would’ve wanted me to. But no, Klaus, no—you had to stare, didn’t you? Had to notice how she curled her thumbs into the waistband, how her glance said mischief and sin, how she peeled the last fabric down her legs.

Now she stood swaying to the drums, bass thudding like a warning. Her sex was smooth as—

No. You’re not getting eight paragraphs this time.

Besides, I didn’t have time to dig into the fruit basket and dream up a peach or melon metaphor, or some line about curves leading the eye to her slit.

She was already in front of me, batting her lashes like she’d rehearsed in the mirror.

“I don’t know, stranger,” she whispered hot against my neck, “but I think you need to be naked to fuck me. At least your cock should be out.”

I should’ve said something filthy, maybe grabbed her tits and squeezed them for effect—but before I could, she dropped to her knees and undid my belt as if her hands were born for it.

She was quick, tugging cock from pants and boxers, and I damn near poked her eye out with how stubbornly hard I’d gotten.

Achingly hard?
Pitiful?

No. Let’s say this: I nearly poked her eye out when my swollen, needy, desperate cock slapped her unsuspecting face—
making her moan like a decadent dessert
and howl like a banshee.

Banshee, Ronald’s favorite trope.

My swollen head—another favorite Ronaldism—felt clumsy against her lush (I can say lush, right, Ronald?) and wet lips. I thought I was hot, throbbing with need, but her mouth? Her tongue slid underneath, a quick lick, then another, before she swallowed me whole, like her hunger was more than I could ever give.

“Fuck,” I muttered. No—I moaned. Groaned. My breath caught like the room had been emptied of air. But Ronald insists I only muttered one word.

You want to hear how I twisted her hair in my fists and dragged her down on me. How I fucked her mouth empty of confidence, took advantage of her youthful innocence, fucked her throat raw while she begged for more. How she fingered her needy cunt and came on the floor in front of me while I pumped her full of seed.

That’s the script Ronald would love.

Yeah, except I’m fifty-three. Two orgasms on a good night, if I’m lucky. If I hadn’t been dulled by alcohol, I’d have blown my load right there and gone home feeling stupid and useless.

“Fuck,” I said again. “You’re going to make me cum like this.”

She glanced up.

“But I like sucking old cock,” she pouted. “All eighteen-year-olds do.”

Then she stood, kissed me again.

“I babysit next door,” she said. “Does that make you want me more? And my mother is Russian. Rraaaass-i-an.”

I wish my cock hadn’t twitched just then. I wished I didn’t have to conjure up a wife and three kids she could babysit—just to keep the fantasy running.

But she wasn’t expecting an answer. She just took my hand, led me down the hallway, into her room—pants dropping, cock swaying, head spinning.

“Eaten eighteen-year-old pussy lately?” she asked, sitting on her bed before sliding back, spilling her legs wide.

I wasn’t supposed to stand there, caught in awe, cock pulsing with a thirty-year-old memory. But give me this one moment, Ronald—to admire her cunt. Bare, smooth, already swelling with anticipation. Waiting for my tongue, my mouth, to split her open, to part her gently, to suck her straight over the edge of sanity.

I fumbled to the floor with all the grace my age allowed, her smooth thighs filling my palms with a surge I hadn’t felt in decades. Her youth was foreign against my skin, shame gnawing at the back of my mind.

But she was too tempting, and I hadn’t had a cunt like hers in years. I want to say I treated her slit with awe—that I was tender, parting her folds, letting her labia shape around my tongue while she moaned, clutched my head, wrapped her legs around my neck.

But no. I slobbered over her pulsing cunt like it was my first, desperate for her clit, unraveling nothing but my own hunger while my cock throbbed against the edge of her bed.

“Jesus,” she cried. “No one’s actually tried literary fucking eating me before, stranger!”

I froze. “Sorry,” I muttered.

“No!” she gasped. “I fucking like it! I’m eighteen, remember? Eat me—I’m about to cum!”

So I ate her. Her legs did curl around me, dragging my mouth deeper, devouring me as much as I devoured her. She was strong, holding me hostage until I paid her ransom—filling me with her nectar, clawing at my balding scalp as if blood might make her cum harder.

At last, she eased her grip and giggled.

“Jesus, stranger. Holy fuck. I’m both sore and aching for more. Your mouth—”

<Insert gasps for air here; maybe fall back on pillow; optional palm-to-eye-rub; spread wider than physics would allow>

“Your mouth has me wondering what your cock can do!”

Then she unwrapped herself, spun around—face down, ass up, cunt throbbing like an open invitation. Because she was eighteen, and had nothing but appetite and desire and a wet need that needed fixin’. <I’ll come up with a better line for this, Ronald.>

“Fuck me,” she groaned.

My knees protested as I pushed off the floor, steadying myself against her bed. I did admire her—the way her back arched, the way her pussy begged, the way her ass offered my hands a place to grip—

I slid into that invitation with throbbing, desperate need. It was quick. I came hard, remembered to pull out a little too late.

Ronald would return this. Demand a ten-minute sequence rewrite: fucking her sideways, upside down, cumming on my cock at least six times.

I’m fifty-three!

“Fuck,” she laughed, then rolled to her side, patting the space beside her.

I landed next to her, pants tangled around my legs, shirt slick with her, still refusing the idea of fucking an eighteen-year-old. Still trying to figure out how to breathe again.

“What do you do?” she asked, turning to face me, brushing a stray lock from her cheek. “For a living, I mean?”

I sighed. In reality, I just stared at her, breathing her scent. But in this story, I managed a little more confidence.

“I write,” I said.

“Oh.” The word hung for a second with teenage curiosity before she moved on, her thoughts already leaping ahead.

I felt the cleft of generations widen, the spin of her young world not pulling me in but flinging me further out, into some distant orbit.

“I think literature is hot as fuck,” she whispered. “All teenagers dream of meeting a writer. Someone who can write them beautifully. Purposefully. You think you can fuck me again?”

She grinned. “Written anything I might’ve read?”

“No,” I said. Hoped. “Unless you read the culture section of Aftenposten. Movie or theatre reviews.”

She laughed. “I was hoping you’d say you write porn. Filthy porn. With cocks and pussies gushing obscene, sweat and fucks dripping off the page.”

She didn’t kiss me. She sucked at my mouth.

“I love this one series,” she moaned into me. “Hannah. A college student who fucks everything in her way. Her friends, her enemies—”

She paused, eyes gleaming.

Then she said something. Something that would shove this story out of ‘Humor’ and into another category.

“I shouldn’t, I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t not get turned on by her. She fucks young cocks, old cocks. Her roommates’ cunts. I really want her to fuck her professor, but she refuses.”

She does, I thought. In volume two. The chapter Ronald refuses to publish.

“What?” I asked. I’d never met a reader before. Never imagined them as anything but fifty-plus, male, wanking in the bathroom to Hannah. Or Eva. Or Sapphire with her curves and oversized cock.

“Mhmmm,” she purred. “Hannah makes me want to fuck anything. I’m not in Uni, though, but I kissed a girl last week. She chickened out when it got too hot. Still—like all girls, eighteen and horny—she’ll want to fuck me sooner or later.”

Her hand found my shriveled cock, and she didn’t mock it. She just fondled me, whispering filth into my ear.

“I wrote Hannah,” I whispered.

“Fuck,” she moaned. “I know you’re lying. But lie hot enough, and I’m all game.”

She curled a leg around my thigh, grinding her wetness into my skin as if she were fucking a fantasy only she could see.

“What happened after Montreal?” she asked. “Gangbanged, used, but with a purse full of cash? I’ve never been gangbanged.”

She said it like it was a sorrow. Still, her hand never left my dick. Her hips kept their rhythm against my thigh.

“I’ve had that dream ever since I let my boyfriend fuck me last year. Taken, like a fuck-hole without a brain. Like a slut without dignity. But I guess I have to find my inner Anna before I can—”

“Anna’s a mental escape for Hannah,” I cut in. “A state of mind that makes her untouchable. Hannah’s not—”

“A slut,” the brunette finished. Her eyes widened. “Fuck. You really did write her, didn’t you?”

I nodded. Not with pride, just acknowledgement.

“And I get to fuck you!” she laughed. “Jesus. How long do you need to get hard again? I don’t mind sucking a flaccid cock, you know. It’s sexy. Like how all eighteen-year-old girls secretly find older guys hot. Like, don’t tell me you didn’t know that.”

First, she just looked at me with want and intent.

“Don’t tell me that doesn’t get you hard, stranger!”

And then she slid on top of me, then down, wrapping her lips around my soft, reluctant cock like she was taking communion.

“Does she ever fuck Kelly?” she slobbered, words dripping as much as spit.

“I can’t tell you that!” I gasped, half confessing, half choking on my own breath.

“Don’t tell me she loves her—tell me she fucks her! Ruins her, makes her hers! Red hair plastered to her skin, begging Hannah to unravel her, baptize her, crown her in sweat and moans!”

Her voice was liturgical filth, every obscene syllable offered up like prayer.

“Kelly’s not—” I moaned, swelling against her wet, greedy mouth.

“Oh shit!” she cried, letting my cock slip from her lips. “You love Kelly! You love her! You bastard!”

She tugged my cock hard. Viciously hard.

“You’ve got a thing for redheads, don’t you, stranger? Klaus? Klaus B. Renner? Is that even your real name?”

I tried to answer, but she was already moving on.

“Doesn’t matter. Shavonne drinking Hannah’s pee? Oh! Ooooh! You want me to pee on your face?”

It was a fever dream. Don’t let your fantasies become reality.

She slid up, straddled my face, grinding herself against me.

“This is so fucking hot. Will you drink me? When I do it—when I piss on your face—will you open wide and say ahh?”

She arched her back, split four different ways.

“Don’t just drink me—gargle me, Klaus! Let me baptize you. I’m so fucking cumming!”

I closed Word and pushed back from my desk.

So, yeah. Hardigan’s. Three whiskies, two beers. A brunette at the end of the bar. Stunning, maybe twenty-three. Tom never let anyone underage sit there.

Trash can? Absolutely.

I went to the bathroom. Masturbated to the thought of my eighteen-year-old fantasy. Came hard, spilling into an already stained tee.

The mirror didn’t lie. Fifty-three, unfucked for five years.

“Why do you do this, Klaus?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Don’t ask,” he said.

A deep breath.

“I don’t know.”