Thakerina read the entire story, slogging through all 10,000 words. She liked to look for new stories in her favorite genres, and always read them all the way through out of respect for the author’s efforts, no matter what.
The end.
She had no idea what the story was about. As stories go, that one was unremarkable. Immediately forgettable. No idea.
Scrolling back a few paragraphs, she reread a random passage and sort of remembered the character. Her name was Cherry, or she lost her cherry, or she was cheery. Thakerina scrolled elsewhere and read about sucking, sucking something.
Lord, this story sucks. She closed it to get back to do the things in real life that needed doing, but couldn’t get her mind off of what she couldn’t remember reading. Thinking she might have judged the story in haste, she read it again.
The end.
Maybe it wasn’t as bad as she remembered, but it wasn’t good, she didn’t think. She thought about it for a minute. There was sex in it, somewhere, and she scrolled up and down, the text flashing by too fast to read, until she just picked a part. Dick. Dick, deck, duck, dock. Sometimes why, or not. Who writes a sex story without dack? She sighed.
And what happened with Cherry’s cheery cherry? Or was it what happened to Cherry’s cheery cherry? Or was it two cherries? She sighed.
She gave up, for the time being, and vacuumed the carpet. Some things should be dirty, and some things suck.
The end.
Huh. The vacuum was within reach, turned off but still plugged in. Thakerina’s tongue swirled through her head for a while before she realized she had read the story again. There was something about the story she couldn’t put her finger in. She giggled at the idea of a tongue in her—hmm—head. In her head. On. She couldn’t put her finger on it.
That would be dirty. That would suck. Be sick. In socks. Who writes a sex story without seck? She decided that she should read it again later to look for the seck parts. Secky parts. Or she could read it again right now. Secksy parts.
Ooh. That’s where it comes from. Sex-Z. Word.
The end.
Thakerina’s bra really bothered her, like secks and dack, you know? She unclasped it, pulled it out of her sleeve, and tossed it aside. She groped one tit, and then the other. She looked at the bra, reached under her shirt, groped one tit, and then the other.
She wondered when she had taken her bra off.
She returned to her screen and zoomed in, filling it with super large letters because that would help her read between the lines. Something good was hiding, hidden in that story, somewhere, despite how dull it was, or how dull it made her feel. That part was fine because feeling dull felt good. She crossed her eyes to blur the lines, swapping black for white.
Nope, but almost.
Unable to find the bra clasp, Thakerina tried again with her other hand. She looked at the bra lying next to her and reached into her sleeve to pull her bra through. It felt like she did, then she wondered when she had taken her bra off. She groped her tits, then wondered when she had taken her bra off.
Good thing, she thought, because it was really bothering her. She zoomed the text back out.
The end.
Damn it! She missed it again.
The end.
Damn it!
The end.
“Oh,” she said. “Okay.” Thakerina took notice of the dashes. There were so many dashes. Em-mmm dashes, placed just so. Em-mmm dashes, spaced just so. They meant something. Em-mmm dashes that were like a code. She counted them: One, two, three…
The end.
Dashes were the swirling tongues of the literary world, and they made her brain spin. Trying to decipher their meaning was hard, but when she relaxed, the harder she relaxed, the easier it was, whatever it was that was easier.
Everything is easier without pants. Relaxing is easier without pants. Reading secks stories is easier when the reader is relaxed, therefore…
Something, something, pants.
Thakerina unzipped her jeans, and that alone made re-reading the story so much re-easier.
The end.
She wondered when she had taken her jeans off, shooed them aside with her foot, and wiggled her toes in her no-show socks. She couldn’t see her toes, but she could see her socks. That didn’t make sense until she looked at her other foot. She aimed her eyes back at the swirling em-mmm dashes in her brain.
Em-mmm dashes. I should take my jeans off.
Instead of wondering when she had taken her jeans off, she read the story.
The end.
“Oh,” she said. “Okay.” The notion popped into her mind that she would understand the story even more if she masturbated. It was a secks story, after all.
She looked at her socks. She slipped her hand under her panties (very briefly wondering why she wasn’t wearing her jeans) and wiggled her fingers and sighed. She wiggled her toes and gasped. She could see her toes, and yet they were hidden.
Whoa.
Thakerina’s instincts were right. The story’s mind-numbing toes were buried under a threadbare sock plot. The author was a genius, and she vowed to seck the dack until she understood every em-mmm dash.
Unable to focus on her screen, mostly because one cannot see properly with only the whites of one’s eyes showing, Thakerina listened to the story in her head.
Squish. Squish, squishity-squish-squish skwoosh.
Her tapping fingers touch typed the story on the keyboard of her cunt.
Every story has its climax, but where?
“I will,” she said, and started again from the beginning.
The end.
No! Why? She reached for its deeper meaning, reached with one-two-three-four fingers that refused to grow longer. There was a button. She pressed the button, the button of true meaning, but it was out of order. She groped her tits and found two buttons there, too, but they did nothing, too.
The climax eluded her.
They didn’t want her to understand. They plotted against her. She had to find their plot. She returned to the screen and zoomed in. Too close. She zoomed out, way out, back in, zoom-scrolling up and down, zoom-zooming in and out, and her unblinking eyes darted over the page, searching. Rapid eyes rabidly moved, seeking secks or such.
The uniform yet unique paragraphs blurred as they flipped past her, those dull and stimulating paragraphs. She could almost see it. Almost, almost, until they merged into a pattern: a flip-book animation.
Numbers. Purpose.
“Oh, okay. I will,” she said. She licked her fingers clean before she picked up her phone. Numb-num-numbers. She wandered aimlessly, looking for her phone, as she texted. She had to set her phone down before she could find it.
Huh. As important as it was to find her phone, it couldn’t have been important at all if she couldn’t fathom its importance. If you couldn’t remember, it must not have mattered at all. What was important was her search for reality, fathoms-deep between her legs. Every story has its climax.
Thakerina stood imperfectly patient with her heavily lidded eyes fixated, facing her front door. Squishity-squish. Her heavy tongue hung down from her unhinged jaw. Drool pooled onto her tee, but that was okay. Squishity-squish-squish.
A man wearing only a button-down shirt and sporting an erection let himself in. “I am the author,” he declared.
Thakerina sank to her knees and sat back on her calves. She made speech-like noises with her lips dancing around her dead tongue and then pacified her excitement by sucking on it. Her words were unintelligible to the uninitiated, but their meaning was clear: “I am the reader.”
The penis is the em-mmm dash of the let’s-get-physical world. The author stroked his and pointed it right at Thakerina’s face. Mindlessly delighted, she groped her tits while a far-off thought wondered where her bra was. She finger-finger-fuck-fucked herself while a far-off thought wondered where her pants were. She was well aware of who the penis was. Whose the penis was.
The first shot striped the side of her nose, just missing her eye. That was the trigger she had read about, and her own story reached its denouement. She crashed, satisfied and senseless. Her head tilted to the side like a powered-down robot, and sometimes she blinked.
The author silently left, and another man, another erection, came in. “I am the author.”
“Yeth,” Thakerina said around her tongue. She powered up and masturbated, happy that the author had, had, had arrived, finally. “I am the reader,” she said, and stared the penis down the barrel. It blew up in her face, and her pussy blew up around her fingers.
Thakerina had a lot of cum on her face, but the story wasn’t over. Author after author showed up, each happily sharing their endings on her face. She counted down from ten after the door closed for good, and she washed her hands (but not her very coated face) before taking a selfie.
She left a polite, noncommittal comment. Another person commented that they had read it and didn’t get it. Thakerina replied to insist that this was the kind of story you have to read more than once. “You’ll get it,” she promised.
Oh! She found a story and hoped it was a secksy one.
The End.
