Fiona Mabel was, once upon a time, a respected author. Her works of fiction flowed beautifully from word to word, enticing her readers toward the next chapter. Her writing launched fandoms, movies, whole new genres, putting her on a path toward the same literary heights as greats like Charles Dickens or Mary Shelley.
That dream came crashing down when a titan of industry bought out her contract with a few... amendments.
"Which book would you like, sir?" Fiona scowled, climbing the ladder.
Despite the many rare and expensive volumes in Sir Reginald's collection, the most precious of all in this day and age could be found on Fiona herself. Because she wore it. One of many dresses clung to her with its pages stitched together into a short girly skirt. The flap of paper served as a painful reminder that after years of struggle, pouring her creative juices into her art, this is where the finale to her acclaimed book series met its end. Not on shelves or in libraries, but on her.
Speaking of juices, she had plenty of those stained on her prose. Ink had smudged, and with each lost word went her literary genius. There were no backups. Her owner and master had destroyed them, leaving this one printing as the sole copy.
"I'd like to pick up where I left off," Reginald said, pointing to her.
Fiona scoffed, rolled her eyes, and stepped off the ladder. Slowly turning, she placed her hands on her hips and exposed the black string. It untied easy, revealing Reginald's real prize: her pear-shaped ass. She grunted as he entered, eyebrow furrowing with anguish.
"Is it to your liking, sir?" Fiona growled. Holding her pose became harder as he pounded, forcing her onto her tiptoes. She had no shoes. She had no need for them. This library was all she knew, all she would ever know, filled with reminders of the future he stole from her.
"Hm. It's a little pedestrian. Your style is too loose and sloppy."
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'll try harder to improve."
"See that you do."
Her hands slipped from her waist to the shelf in front of her, bracing for a pounding. Her pages ruffled around her legs. Wetness seeped from her thighs, soaking into the paper, destroying more of her legacy with its streaks. All the while staring at great works of prose that mocked her with what she could never be.
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Fiona Mabel was, once upon a time, a respected author. Her works of fiction flowed beautifully from word to word, enticing her readers toward the next chapter. Her writing launched fandoms, movies, whole new genres, putting her on a path toward the same literary heights as greats like Charles Dickens or Mary Shelley.
That dream came crashing down when a titan of industry bought out her contract with a few... amendments.
"Which book would you like, sir?" Fiona scowled, climbing the ladder.
Despite the many rare and expensive volumes in Sir Reginald's collection, the most precious of all in this day and age could be found on Fiona herself. Because she wore it. One of many dresses clung to her with its pages stitched together into a short girly skirt. The flap of paper served as a painful reminder that after years of struggle, pouring her creative juices into her art, this is where the finale to her acclaimed book series met its end. Not on shelves or in libraries, but on her.
Speaking of juices, she had plenty of those stained on her prose. Ink had smudged, and with each lost word went her literary genius. There were no backups. Her owner and master had destroyed them, leaving this one printing as the sole copy.
"I'd like to pick up where I left off," Reginald said, pointing to her.
Fiona scoffed, rolled her eyes, and stepped off the ladder. Slowly turning, she placed her hands on her hips and exposed the black string. It untied easy, revealing Reginald's real prize: her pear-shaped ass. She grunted as he entered, eyebrow furrowing with anguish.
"Is it to your liking, sir?" Fiona growled. Holding her pose became harder as he pounded, forcing her onto her tiptoes. She had no shoes. She had no need for them. This library was all she knew, all she would ever know, filled with reminders of the future he stole from her.
"Hm. It's a little pedestrian. Your style is too loose and sloppy."
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'll try harder to improve."
"See that you do."
Her hands slipped from her waist to the shelf in front of her, bracing for a pounding. Her pages ruffled around her legs. Wetness seeped from her thighs, soaking into the paper, destroying more of her legacy with its streaks. All the while staring at great works of prose that mocked her with what she could never be.