The Side Hustle - Molly
It’s hard to write about sex when you never have it, but even celibate people have bills to pay and, times being what they are, you do what you have to. You’d think having a Masters degree and a “good” job would do it, but money doesn’t go as far as it used to and small town college librarians don’t make that much, even at a school as prestigious as this one.
Small town college librarians also don’t have many options for dating. I knew there were lots of staff hook ups and relationships, and some staff student hooks ups and relationships, but that didn't seem prudent to me. I didn't want everyone on campus knowing who I was fucking. So, I resigned myself to solo sex for the duration of my stay here and ordered some nice toys.
The same was basically true of side jobs. I didn't want to be doing my co-workers' dry cleaning. So I started looking for online for "ways to make money from home," and found a posting on a message board: “WANTED - Sexy stories of all descriptions for online erotica e-zine.” It sounded easy - I knew I could write - and even if I wasn't having sex, I did like it, so it also sounded at least potentially entertaining. It would be like foreplay, I thought, a perk up to my all-by-myself sex.
The first stories I sent in were pretty mainstream. Girl meets guy, or already knows and dislikes guy, then girl sleeps with guy in a not too descriptive way, everyone has a spectacular, now-I-know-I-love-you orgasm, and they get engaged/married. Kind of like short story Harlequins. They were accepted, and were reasonably easy to churn out, but honestly after six months or so it got boring. Not that there’s anything wrong with gossamer descriptions of deeply emotional sex, mind you, or with deeply emotional sex itself. In fact I like gossamer sex, but I don't like only gossamer sex, and while I’ve never been what you’d call hard core kinky, I wasn’t completely vanilla, either.
For one, I knew what “vanilla” meant. I was 26. I’d been tied up more than a few times, smacked on the ass, some nipple pinching… so I decided to perk things up some more by adding in some bondage and discipline - nothing too outrageous - and maybe some threesomes for good measure.
Who knew? Once I started submitting that stuff, the magazine contracted me to send them 8 stories a month. That sounded easy, too, and it wouldn't make me rich, but it would help quite a bit. I did, however, run into a few problems.
For one thing, eight stories a month meant I was writing virtually every night - and I hadn’t really considered that writing about actually interesting sex almost every night meant immersing myself in fantasy and then putting it all on paper in graphic language, and the writing itself began to seriously turn me on. Which meant I was always - and I do mean always - excruciatingly horny.
Added to that, it's hard to keep coming up with new ideas, new stories, new ways to describe things. That meant research. So I’d prowl the web looking for inspiration, write stories about the pictures I saw, tuck images into the dirty little crevices of my brain, slide my fingers into my panties and get myself off… I cleaned my keyboard nightly, but it wasn't enough. I was exceptionally frustrated virtually all of the time, but had no one to fuck.
During the day, I went to work - shelving books, helping co-eds use the copier and microfiche machine, getting new books into the database... There were a few students who liked discussing what they were reading, and that could be interesting depending on the subject, but most of the time I was thinking about sex. I was always wet.
I turned writing into a solo sex game, and began imitating what I saw in the pictures I found - mostly teasing and edging, but also some sensory play. My stories turned into a combination of fantasy and narrative - what I was doing but also what I was fantasizing. Like this:
I’m naked from the waist up but have a black thong on, and black strappy high heeled sandals. My legs are spread, wrapped around the sides of the chair with my feet behind the pedestal. I’ve tied my thighs to the arms of the chair to hold them apart wider than I can on my own. There’s a vibrator in my pussy, barely turned on, just a light buzzing that’s enough to make me wet but not enough to make me come.
I think I should move my desk, put it closer to the window. Open the shade some. Would anyone see me? Maybe the guy who just moved in downstairs, the business looking guy with the nice ties. He could stand outside, near the street, watching. He wouldn’t see all of me, but he’d see my upper half - here, I’ll play with my nipple, roll it in my fingers and pinch. I could leave the door open just a crack; he might get tired of just watching, come up the stairs and walk right in, through the door to my right, and I'd turn my head as my stomach dropped because there's no way to get my legs untied quickly enough.
I'd fumble with the scarves, but he'd easily have time to walk across the room, stand in front of me... his fingers might close around my wrists, pull my hands away from the knots, press them against my thighs. Maybe he'd loosen the ties just enough to slide my hands through, then tighten them again, trapping my wrists against my legs, spread wide like an open book. He could say, "Nasty girls deserve nasty things," and then he could roll my chair closer to the window and swivel me around to face it, so my gaping cunt was there for all to see. He'd stand behind me, reach down to play with my breasts, squeeze my nipples into tight little balls, pinch and pull and flick his fingers over them. I wouldn't protest. He'd say, "tell me what you want," and I'd answer, "more."
I'd go on for pages, pages and pages of every fantasy I had, then close my computer. I didn't let myself come while I was writing - once I started I wasn't going to stop, and that would be it for the night - so before I went to sleep I spent at least an hour doing myself until my pussy was swollen and sore, then get up and be at work half an hour before the library opened at 8:00.
