Barry gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white as he grunted out his orgasm through gritted teeth. His cock pulsed violently as the soft, wet heat of the mouth around it continued to contract, gulping down each thick spurt.
"Fffffuck--!" Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and groaned in frustration. "Damn it, damn it, damn it..." He clicked save on the half-written document and closed his laptop. Pushing back from the desk, the dark cloth settled back to its hanging position, concealing everything beneath the desktop. Wordlessly, Barry walked out of his office, the door closing softly behind him.
While he didn't pout or stomp down the hall, Diane knew immediately that Barry was not happy. Glancing at the delicate watch around her wrist, she grimaced. Barely an hour, she thought disappointedly. As Barry strode bottomless past her, she dutifully handed him a soft hand towel. With a sigh, she began scribbling away in her planner.
Bartholomew T. Mathis was one of the most prolific writers of the decade, releasing no less than seven best-selling novels in the last nine years alone. His most recent success, Tryst, had been flirting with the number one spot for three weeks. His next work, however, was having some delays.
To say that Barry wrote "smut" would be tantamount to blasphemy among the erotica community. His work spoke for itself with its acclaim and popularity. But the process was a bit more... complicated than one might expect.
Every artist has a "thing." A technique, a habit, a ritual to help them summon the Muse and hold her attention. For Barry, it was a state of arousal. While erect and stimulated, Barry's creativity was like lightning; brilliantly leaping from one point to the next in a dazzling display. Unfortunately, Barry was so generally uninterested in having sex, maintaining his pace wasn't exactly easy. In spite of this impediment, however, he and his faithful assistant (slash best friend) Diane had worked out a method.
Four days a week and on alternating Wednesdays, Diane would arrange for someone to be in Barry's office at 9:45am sharp, positioned comfortably under his desk. From there, they would use their hands and mouths to keep Barry stimulated while he worked. On a good day, he was known to get through four or five chapters at a time before ejaculating a torrent of cum into the patient's mouth beneath the desk.
It was very important that Barry never saw or communicated with his "Muses," lest he be taken out of "writing mode," as Diane called it. She alone met with these most diligent of sex workers, filing out NDA's, negotiating fees (for which they were paid generously) and arranging transportation, refreshment, and of course, disease testing and vetting of potential partners.
The two of them had been friends since their freshman year of college and Diane always knew that Barry would change the literary world. She was just grateful to be a part of that process. And if she could keep her best friend out of trouble, all the better. There was no pining or jealousy between them; just a deep understanding and a mutual love of fried food and Mel Brooks movies.
The next day, Barry was back at it, forging galaxies out of words and humming thoughtfully to himself as an unseen Muse methodically fellated him. Diane knew better than to interrupt, entering and exiting the home office without a word, with fresh tea for Barry and water for his Muse. As she lingered a moment, seeing the fire in his eyes, she felt a familiar surge of pride in her friend's limitless talent.
Two hours thirteen minutes and going strong, she thought with a glance at her watch. Diane set herself to replying to emails from publishers, returning phone calls, and organizing Barry's calendar. With a satisfied sigh, she leaned back in her own chair to gaze wistfully at the bookshelves beside her. Barry's second best-seller, Paramour, always drew her eye with a nostalgic twinkle.
It had been a rough few months. Between the lockdowns, a lack of reliable Muses and one disastrous afternoon where the hipster escort had started talking in the middle of a flow, Diane had feared they would fail to meet the deadline and be ruined. Barry was like a lost puppy that week; his routine so abruptly thrown into chaos that he could scarcely get it up, let alone get any writing done. In a moment of desperation, Diane took matters into her own hands.
Or rather, her mouth.
Prospects were slim, especially given the time crunch they were under, so when Diane told Barry that she would be running errands most of the day but had arranged a new Muse, he didn't question it. He knew they would be in place and set about his day like any other, trusting that Diane would have things handled.
As her friend's bare legs and flaccid cock appeared before her, Diane scooted herself into position and got to work.
Beginning with his thighs, Diane slowly caressed Barry's legs, kneading the hairy muscles framing his groin. As he stiffened and began to type, she took her first tentative lick. She had worked with Barry long enough to know what he needed, so figuring that out was not her chief concern, only her own technique in providing it. She swirled her tongue slowly around the thickening head as her hands continued to gently brush against his legs.
It really is a nice one, she had thought, not for the first time. Outside of his creative process, Barry was practically asexual, so the idea of dating him never really crossed her mind, but Diane couldn't help but wonder what it might be like to sleep with him. His cock was a good size; maybe six inches or so with a fairly impressive girth and a slight upward curve to the shaft. I wonder how it would feel against my G-spot. She idly pondered that thought as her lips slowly and methodically slid up and down his length. A soft "mm" came from somewhere above her.
As Diane leisurely sucked Barry off that day, she was well aware of how aroused she was becoming. The slightly salty taste of precum mixed with the pleasant scent of the cedar body wash her friend used was doing more for her than she had expected. Wondering again what it might be like to fuck Barry, Diane's left hand softly squeezed her breast as her right hand delicately cradled the soft skin of his scrotum.
"Hmm," she moaned softly around the shaft between her lips. Catching herself, she resumed her silent ministrations before breaking Barry's concentration. His bulbous head throbbed once against her tongue, oozing more precum, but they maintained their rhythm.
Steady girl, she told herself. If he blows too soon, we're right back to square one.
Time flew away like leaves on an autumn breeze as Barry typed out page after page that day. His excitement grew as he neared not only his own climax, but that of the book as well. Beads of sweat trickled down the back of his neck as his fingers drummed out the final sentence.
""Nope," Marisha... teased. "Not... a... chance." There!" With a final quotation mark to close the story, Barry erupted with a roar. Seven and a half hours of edging finally released as waves of orgasmic bliss coursed through him like electricity. Barry's hands clutched the sides of the desk as his hips bucked, driving his throbbing cock further into the miraculous mouth. "Yyyeeesss!" He groaned, his throat going hoarse. "Fuck yes... finally."
Diane gulped down what felt like more semen than she'd ever seen, her eyes watering as Barry's dick hit the back of her throat once, twice, three times. She knew he must have finished the story, so she held onto his spasming calves and sucked and swallowed for all she was worth. She could barely breathe, but Diane was so relieved and horny that she didn't care. It wouldn't be the first time she had a mess to clean up from a Muse, but it was definitely one of the wettest.
After Barry had caught his breath, saved his work and (rather uncharacteristically) thanked the unseen Muse, she heard him leave the room and waited until she knew he would be in the shower to finally come out.
Diane didn't know what she'd looked like that day. Probably a mess with her hair stuck to her sweaty forehead, her lips swollen and her cheeks flushed, but rather than clean herself up, she plopped down in Barry's chair and let her hands fly over her sopping pussy, biting the hem of her blouse to keep from screaming.
Back in the present, another email "dinged" onto her laptop screen.
"No, Glenn," she muttered to the computer. "I told you yesterday that the signing won't be until October." Typing back a professional but curt response, Diane once again checked her watch, nodded, and slid her hand back under her skirt. "Right on schedule."
