Short true ish story from reddit

A writer path to submission

I was writing for one of my many stories as I get a message from a redditor. I posted a horny post trying to find something to write about.

His message. '25m aus, bwc gooner. Just relapsed after ,3months started back with you chyoa and saw that you have reddit. Think we could have some fun'

I didn't respond trying to work on a new story. My body and mind desperately trying to find a way to make a new story. The writer's block hitting hard.

A few weeks past as I get another message from this man. 'My gf is home rn but would love a beta bud to have some fun with when she's not. We can battle too to get a feeling for eachother'

I tease him pretending to be a petite pornstar. I send a cute selfie of myself in a crop top and tight jeans with my face half hidden. 'U think u can handle this?'

'Your face is super cute and your lips are so puffy. I'd definitely say yes'

I send him a small teasing message. "Hello sir. How's your day going."

He text. "Good, was trying to to be too visibly hard while my gf is in the other room"

"Ooo I definitely want to help get you off."

He text. "Oh I definitely want your help. But it's not that easy cutie. I just wanted to see how eager you are to please. And you do not disappoint."

I text. "I just want to help my superiors get off. My tight little cunt loves lending a few helping pictures."

I start being more bratty sending a video of myself twerking in nothing but a small thong. "Better yet let me help you now."

He text. "Calm down there you slut. You're being a bad girl. We'll do what I want when I want."

I text back, "Your little slut is sorry daddy."

He texts, "Good slut. For now I want to know what your biggest fantasy is."

I bite my lip, a thrill running through me at the command. My fingers hover over the keyboard, then dance across the screen. "My biggest fantasy? Being completely at someone's mercy. Used until I can't think, can't remember my own name. Just a toy for their pleasure."

The response is immediate. "Interesting. Tell me more."

I'm lost in the story now, the writer's block forgotten. "It starts with being blindfolded, tied up. Completely helpless. Then you come in, and I don't know what you're going to do to me. You could be gentle, or rough. You could use toys, or just your hands, or your cock. Every touch is a surprise, every sensation heightened by the blindfold."

"I like that. What else?"

"You're in complete control. You decide when I get to cum, if I get to cum at all. You use me for your pleasure, and my pleasure is secondary, a bonus if you decide I deserve it. You make me beg for it."

He text. "Yeah your not a real brat. Your just a dumb cock sleeve beta trying to get my attention. And I'll be back later cutie."

I wait.

Days turn into a week. No messages. My writer's block returns, heavier this time. My stories feel hollow, the characters flat. I keep checking my phone, my heart sinking a little each time there are no new notifications.

Then, a message. "I'm back, cutie. And I've been thinking about your fantasy. I want to make it real."

My pulse quickens. "Really?"

"Yes. But we have to do it my way. Are you ready to be my good girl?"

My fingers shake as I type, "Yes, daddy."

"Good. First, I want you write a short story about how I humble your writer ass. Show me how badly you want it."

***

And so I wrote. And wrote. And wrote. The words flowed out of me, hot and heavy, a river of filth and devotion. I wrote about being on my knees, about looking up at him through my lashes, about the way he'd grip my hair, the way he'd call me his "good little writer." I wrote about the taste of him, the feel of him, the sound of his voice as he praised me, degraded me, owned me.

I wrote until my fingers ached, until the screen blurred, until I was a shaking, panting mess. Then I sent it.

His reply came almost instantly. "Good girl. That's a start. But words aren't enough. I want proof. I want you to record yourself reading it out loud. I want to hear the desperation in your voice. I want to hear how much you mean it."

My breath hitched. This was it. The point of no return. The line between fantasy and reality, thin and shimmering, was right in front of me. And I was about to cross it.

"Okay," I typed, my fingers trembling. "I'll do it."

***

I set up my phone, propping it against a stack of books on my desk. I sit nude with my tiny cock out as I read the degrading the story that I wrote to satisfy this perv needs. I press record, my heart pounding against my ribs.

"Once upon a time," I begin, my voice shaky, "there was a writer who thought he was in control."

As I read, I get into it, my voice growing stronger, more confident. I'm no longer just reading the words, I'm living them. I am the writer on his knees, the "good little girl" **** for her daddy's approval.

When I finish, I'm breathless, my face flushed. I stop the recording, my hands shaking as I save the file. I stare at my phone for a long moment, then hit send.