Marcia Writes a Porn Story Pt. 01

Literotic asexstories – Marcia Writes a Porn Story Pt. 01 by Peter_Cleveland,Peter_Cleveland
Marcia Writes a Porn Story

And her partner suspects it’s not fiction

by Peter_Cleveland

First of Two Parts

Author’s note :

For readers’ convenience, this story will be published in two parts. It’s best understood as a single story, though–like a play in two acts–not as two independent “episodes,” as in a TV series.

The story is about fidelity and infidelity–and the often blurry line between the two. Unlike some stories on this theme, this one offers no shining heroes and no dastardly villains.

In real life, people are flawed. Loving relationships start out complicated and then get more complicated. People change, then their relationship with their partner must either change or fall apart. Caught up in changes they don’t fully understand, people may act unwisely. This story’s characters are like that too.

But I’ve tried to keep the tone light. With a little practice in loving your partner, and in forgiving your partner, intimate relationships start looking more comic than tragic.

Two long passages of Marcia’s porn story are quoted here in Part 1. Marcia is educated and literate, but she has little experience in writing fiction–and her new story is still a first draft. Let’s just say it could use a good editor and a rewrite or two. I hope you’ll make allowances.

Unlike Marcia, I had the benefit of good suggestions and advice on my story from Tennesseered, JBEdwards, R.R., and my long-suffering wife–all of whom I thank sincerely. Thank you too, reader, for taking a look at this story, and special thanks to those who add a comment. — P.C.

* * * * * 1

Across the small table, Jake squinted, raised his mug, and finished his beer. “Sorry, Phil,” he said, “I think I spaced and missed some of that. Run that by me again? You were snooping in Marcia’s computer and discovered she was cheating on you?”

“I wasn’t ‘snooping,'” I corrected. “We give each other access. We know each other’s passwords and stuff. That’s what’s so weird about this. It looks like she’s been hiding things from me.”

“College professors are weird in general. You must have figured that out by now. How long have you two been together?”

“Seven years since we made a commitment,” I said. I glanced at the ring on my left hand: a silver band with a small onyx inset. Mine was on my ring finger, Marcia’s on her middle finger.

“So she’s got the Seven-Year Itch. I’m sure a Ph.D. doesn’t make you immune. Probably it just makes you itchier.”

“It could be just another yeast infection,” I offered. “If we ever have a daughter, we might name her Candida.”

“Assuming she’s yours….”

“Exactly.”

Jake and I were close enough to give each other shit like this. We had met, years back, at the college’s Winter party–formerly known as the Christmas party–for the faculty and their significant others. Jake was the partner, now the husband, of a remarkably hot, young math professor, Jenny Bernardi. I was the lover of the new assistant professor of English, Marcia. But being professors’ boyfriends wasn’t Jake’s and my only connection. Unlike the other men at the party, we were both blue-collar. He was a carpenter; I was chief wrench at an auto repair shop specializing in Italian imports. Jake and I joked about being “faculty wives” and hit it off immediately.

The blonde waitress with the cleavage and our next round jiggled over to our table. Her name was Liz, if you can believe her necklace. We got a nice smile and a decent glimpse of boobs along with our brews.

I resumed my explanation. “And I wasn’t going through her computer. I was going through her desk drawer, looking for some staples. I was all out. I needed to staple some papers. It was all perfectly innocent. I find the box of deluxe Swinglines. Inside the box I find not just staples but a thumb drive with this lustrous, fake mother-of-pearl body. I’ve never seen a thumb drive that looked like that, and why is it inside a box of staples inside a drawer? Most of her thumb drives are in an old ‘Calvin and Hobbes’ coffee mug on top of her desk.”

“So you checked it out, and it’s Marcia’s ‘little black book’ with names and addresses of all her lovers?”

“Not exactly,” I replied,”but you’re in the right ballpark. I browse through the drive, and I find like three and a fraction dirty stories, all by the same author. Not PDFs but word processor files. Microsoft Word. So I copied it all to my own computer, put the fancy thumb drive back in the box, and closed up her desk drawer. Then I took a look at the stories.”

“Women masturbate too,” Jake offered.

I gave that reply the ignoring it deserved. “Here’s the thing. The most recent file is dated about two weeks ago. And the story in it looks like it’s just started. It’s only about 600 words. It doesn’t have a title yet. I gave it a quick skim, and I read the finished ones, word-for-word.”

Jake frowned and took a few long sips of beer, apparently mulling over what this all meant–if anything. “So how are the stories?” he asked.

“They were all pretty good. Decent plots, good dialog. And hot. Lots of really juicy, really vivid sex scenes. A lot of the sex is women cheating on their husband or their partner. And there’s a lot of connections between the stories and Marcia’s life.”

“Like?”

“Like, in one story, in December the main character, I think her name is Emily, flies to Chicago for a convention. She checks into the Hilton, gets sloshed, and is hostess to one hell of an orgy in her room. A little over a year ago, in December, Marcia flew to Chicago for the MLA convention–she was giving a paper there–and stayed at the Hilton.”

Jake opened another packet of Beer Nuts, popped a few into his mouth, and passed the packet to me. “I’ve seen lots of stories that include wild sex in a convention hotel,” he replied. “Let’s not get paranoid here.”

“Emily, the heroine, returns from Chicago with a little tattoo of a rose on her ass. Marcia returned from Chicago with a little tattoo of a rose just above her ass. She said that she and two girlfriends had gotten tipsy in a bar downtown and had decided to get inked together at the tattoo parlor a couple doors down. She said they all got the little rose.”

“How’d the girl in the story get hers?” Jake asked.

“The way girls in porn stories usually do. In Chicago she had a wild affair with a Black guy with of course a huge dick named Jimmy Rose. He owned a tattoo parlor. She agreed to let him permanently mark her as his own, so he tattoos a rose on her ass. The story ends with Emily flying home, wondering how soon she can get back to Chicago and thinking of a good lie she could tell her husband to explain the tattoo.”

Jake’s jaw paused in mid-crunch. He reflected silently for a bit, swallowed, and drank some more beer. At last he spoke. “You said the stories were by the same author? What was his name?”

“‘Virginia S. Fox.’ So I did a bit of searching the Internet and found the thumb-drive stories except the new, unfinished one on a porn site called ErotiClit–plus the biography page for ‘Virginia S. Fox.’ All the writers’ names are fake, of course. The biography says she’s a teacher, unattached, bisexual, and lives in New England. The ‘unattached’ and ‘bisexual’ parts are news to me.”

“I’ve heard of Virginia Woolf, the writer,” Jake offered.

“Exactly. Every English professor knows Virginia Woolf–especially every female English professor.”

“Why the ‘S.’?” Jake wondered.

“Maybe she thought ‘Virginia Fox’ was too obviously a play on ‘Virginia Woolf’?” I ventured. “Not that anyone but an English professor would notice. Wikipedia says Woolf was the lady’s married name. She was born Adelaide Virginia Stephen. There’s your ‘S’ middle initial.”

We silently sipped our beers for a minute. I could hear the gears of Jake’s mind rattling as they raced–much like an Alfa-Romeo gearbox I needed to get back to.

“So you think Marcia wrote the stories.”

“It does look like it,” I said. “Of course, writing dirty stories in itself isn’t the problem. It’s that the slutty, cheating heroines in the stories look awfully similar to the woman I’m living with.”

Liz, at a table nearby, caught my attention again. She was bending over a little, talking to a customer–a solo male–her hand resting on his shoulder. He was getting a nice view of those generous tits. She wasn’t exactly my type, but for sure I could see the appeal. She must get pretty good tips–though nobody’s going to get rich waitressing at the Spruce Tavern.

Jake was speaking. “Why not just tell Marcia you came across some porn stories on the Internet–or in the staple box–that reminded you of her, then see what she says?”

“Because the latest story has just begun, remember?” I said. “I want to watch the new story as it develops, and document what she’s doing in real life at the time, and collect evidence. If she’s doing anything like the girls in the stories are doing, our relationship is toast…. If she knows I’m on her trail, she’ll do her best to cover her tracks. She’ll certainly do a better job of hiding the thumb drive. Then I won’t have any timely updates on what she’s up to.”

To my surprise, Jake was scowling. “Phil, can I give you some advice you didn’t ask for? A tattoo is not cheating. Fantasizing about cheating is not cheating. And even real cheating doesn’t have to be the end of a relationship. It’s a pretty rare long-time couple where neither partner has ever strayed, even once, ever. Even when they’re officially married, which you two are not. Things can be worked out. Mistakes can be admitted and forgiven. Commitments can be renewed. It happens all the time.

“Here’s what’s more likely to kill everything you have with Marcia. Snooping around and spying, and not being honest, and failing to discuss problems soon after you notice them. Letting suspicions fester instead of talking things out. Figuring things out by yourself instead of figuring them out together. Searching for evidence after you’ve already jumped to a conclusion…. Thinking that love never requires forgiving…. I’m speaking from experience, old buddy, trust me…. And besides, dirty stories are fiction.”

* * * * * 2

Marcia’s the expert at reading literature and finding all the hidden meanings, not me. Though she insists that meanings are not hidden: you just have to have enough training and experience to understand what you’re looking at. Just like “reading” a spark plug, she said, which I do well and she can’t. The plug isn’t “hiding” anything, right? Anyway, a story’s fine points will probably escape me, but I can at least grasp the plot and the characters.

The thumb drive showed a new date for the latest file, newstory.docx. I found the tale was now about 900 words longer. I copied it to my hard disk and put the thumb drive back in the staple box. When I had some time and privacy, I took my first really close look at this unfinished story.

The main character is a small-town high-school English teacher named Martina (pretty close to “Marcia”). She’s engaged to Bill (rhymes with Phil), a mechanic who works for the local Chevrolet dealer. (I’ve been demoted!) He’s a nice guy, and he has a steady job, but he’s on the dull side and only so-so in bed. (No comment.) During the school’s spring recess, Martina and two other young, female teachers decide to carpool up to Boston for a fun and enriching couple of days.

At dinnertime, as the girls are starting on their appetizers at Legal Sea Foods, Martina feels an urgent need to pee. She runs into the rest room and gets onto the toilet just in time. Heading to the washbasins afterwards, she spies three urinals against a wall. OMG!

Washing his hands at a sink, wearing a beautifully tailored Italian suit, is a tall, handsome man who looks vaguely familiar. At last she remembers the photo on the jacket of a book she had studied in a graduate course.

“Professor DeJesus?” she stammers. That’s pronounced DAY-zhus, we’re informed. He is one of the stars of Harvard’s English Department.

“Good evening, Miss,” he replies. “And please call me Raoul. Don’t feel bad about this awkward venue. Misreadings like this happen all the time.” He put his arm around her shoulder to comfort her, and she felt a tingling between her legs.

“I’m sure we haven’t met before, he said. “I could hardly have forgotten you or your name.”

“Martina Plunkett,” she said. “I’m a high-school teacher from Connecticut. Of course I know your book, Signs, Signifiers, and the Web of Non-Being. Please call me Martina.”

“It has been a pleasure, Martina,” he said, drying his hands on a paper towel. “I hope we’ll meet again.”

“Raoul, wait,” she blurted. She came up to him, pressed her body against his, and stroked his cheek. “I’ve had this strange fantasy ever since I read your book. I can’t believe it now has at least a slight chance of coming true…. Before you go, would you give me a kiss… and perhaps fondle my breasts for a moment?”

Raoul’s smile was warm. With his left hand he skillfully lifted the back of Martina’s skirt; then he slipped his right hand through the waistband of her panties and over her soft bottom. His long fingers curled into her vulva. Only then did his left hand move to her breasts. He fondled them greedily as they kissed. Through the thin fabrics of her blouse and bra she felt the hardness of his wedding ring sliding against her distended nipples. Raoul’s other hand must be drenched by now, she thought, with more pride than embarrassment.

Her tongue probed his mouth. He tasted good, with just hints of butter, garlic, and French wine. She lowered a hand to his cock and, happily, found that it was hard.

“Martina, how about joining Sandrine and me for dinner at our table?” he said. “I’m sure she too will be delighted to meet you.”

“Yes,” Martina replied. It was the first of many times she would say that word tonight.

Raoul slowly withdrew his hand from her panties. She gave her hands a quick wash and dry, noticing that Raoul did not. They left the men’s room together.

Martina ran to her table, her eyes flashing, her cheeks flushed. “Forgive me for bolting,” she told her two friends, “but something amazing just happened. Please have them bring my lobster to Raoul DeJesus’s table. Got the name? It’s spelled like De-Jesus.” Her companions nodded.

“Like the guy who famously forgave the adulteress?” Beth cracked.

“I’m not married yet!” Martina grinned. “If my dinner stays on the same check as yours, let me know later what I owe you…. I’m also good for my share of the room if possibly I don’t make it back tonight. I’ll be back before checkout time tomorrow, and we’ll all drive back together like we planned. We can keep in touch by text in-between.”

“We’ll let you ride home with us if you’ll keep us entertained with racy true stories all the way,” said Lizzie.

“Oh, I hope I can do that!” Martina said, departing.

She soon found the table she was looking for. A waiter had just finished setting a third place. Raoul was holding two fingers of his right hand to Sandrine’s nose. He rose, smiling, as Martina approached. Sandrine, a beautiful brunette in her early 40s, elegantly dressed in a cream-colored linen suit, gave Martina a welcoming smile and extended her hand.

“Martina, thank you for joining us,” Sandrine said graciously. “I feel I’ve already come to know you a little.”

I’ve never made love to a distinguished, famous man, thought Martina. Let alone a married one. And I’ve definitely never made love to a woman…. I can do this. I am so ready for this. I want this so much. Her eyes landed on her engagement ring. Can I ever tell Bill about this? she wondered. Would he ever be capable of understanding? And if not… do I really want to marry him?

Raoul had caught the movement of her eyes. “The diamond solitaire is a symbol,” he noted. “A symbol invented only a century ago by the marketing department of the diamond cartel that calls itself DeBeers–but alas an established symbol by now. The gold bands Sandrine and I wear are symbols too, older ones. Your wonderfully moist vulva, Martina, is not symbol but sign–sign and signifier both. No need to elaborate on the significand. Both literature and experience are at their most exquisite–not when sign, symbol, and signifier are well aligned, and not when they are simply opposed–but when they are all slightly askew. As they are tonight. Let us then toast, and afterwards speak no more of language theory and semiotics.”

(What the fuck? I thought at this point. But back to the story….)

Raoul filled Martina’s champagne flute from the opened bottle of Veuve Clicquot then topped up Sandrine’s and his own. The three raised their glasses for the toast.

“To literature,” said Raoul.

“And to experience,” said Sandrine.

“And to the union of spirit and flesh,” said Martina.

Raoul smiled, the glasses chimed, and the three drank.

A minute later, Martina felt the hand, under her skirt, on her bare thigh. To her surprise, it was Sandrine’s, not Raoul’s. She parted her legs, gazed into Sandrine’s piercing green eyes, and gave her a small smile.

“Spirit and flesh,” Sandrine echoed, holding Martina’s gaze.

An old song burst into Martina’s mind.

“Teach me tonight,” she said.

“I will.”

And there the story stopped. To be continued… I assume.

* * * * * 3

I closed the file and turned away from my screen. Somebody should advise Marcia to knock off that graduate-school mumbo-jumbo about signs and signifiers and whatnot. I had no idea what Raoul was talking about. Readers on ErotiClit will crucify her in their comments for sounding like an intellectual.

And somebody should tell her not to have Martina throw herself at Raoul quite so quickly in the men’s room. Though a world where sexy female strangers come up to you and beg you to fondle their breasts does sound like a pleasant place.

Also, the tone of the story sounds like a weird cross between porn, a romance novel, and a soap opera.

But of course I couldn’t give her any of that advice because I’m not supposed to know about the secret thumb drive. I’m not supposed to know about Marcia’s fantasies… which seem to rely pretty heavily on female infidelity.

But did I just read my partner’s fantasies… or did I read a thinly-disguised true story… or did I read her plans for the future?

I knew not every detail of the story could be true. I don’t think Marcia has been anywhere near Boston for years.

Hearing her Mazda enter the driveway, I took deep breaths, trying to calm down quickly. Marcia can tell when I’m upset. Then she tries to find out why. It’s too early to let her know I’m onto her. The iron is not yet hot enough to strike.

It was Thursday. On Thursdays Marcia teaches a late-afternoon seminar, so I get home first, and I make dinner. I had done most of the preparation before I took a break and read her story-in-progress. I returned to the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, my lovely young partner and I were chatting as we dined on the sauté chicken breasts, rice, and salad I had prepared. To help her decompress on Thursdays we usually have wine with dinner. Tonight we had an inexpensive California white–not Veuve Clicquot champagne, which I gather is pretty ritzy stuff. So I guess I won’t expect a nice MFF threesome afterwards, like Raoul is going to get.

“Spring Break starts tomorrow,” Marcia reminded me. “I’m hoping to get a lot of work done next week on my Lenore Peabody project.”

“Remind me who that is?” I said.

“A little-known American writer in the 1940s and ’50s. Published four novels, a handful of short stories, some magazine pieces. She was quite a feminist–not an easy thing to be at that time. Thought to be a lesbian, or perhaps bi–also not easy to be back then. She might have had an affair with the poet Robert Lowell, but that one’s hard to pin down. She probably had a fling with Patricia Highsmith–another writer.”