Writing Will

by tinyjames

A young writer afraid his glory days are already behind him meets a well-muscled muse.

I’m a writer. Always have been. In fact, when I was a kid, about eight years old, I wrote my first book, Diary of a Trophy. Seven hundred and twenty-four pages long. An in-depth analysis of my relationship with childhood, my parents and the burden it was to be a single child. The book was pushed by my aunt, Helen, who used to get drunk with a few of her friends at the M. House every Thursday. Helen was always supportive of my writing, even when it did border on the creepy way-too-mature-for-his-age side. So she offered a copy of the diary to one of the soccer mom friends of hers, who was married to a major publisher.

And then, without any warning, I became a sensation: the Writer Kid. Won a few awards, too, and began working on the next installment, entitled Growing Pains: Ruminations of a Successful Child Artist. I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice to say that as fast as I’d become the world’s youngest successful writer, that’s how fast I became the world’s youngest has-been.

Growing Pains was a painful failure. And although my parents, Aunt Helen, and the publisher were trying their best to help me get through it, encouraging me to keep writing, I realized that, after all the theatrics of being a child celebrity, I was actually relieved. Relieved because I would be able to experience a normal teenager’s life when entering middle school. And in any case, it’s not like lots of ten-year old kids had read my books. No one would know who I was. And indeed they didn’t. Still don’t. Which I’ve come to see as a blessing in disguise.

Sitting alone, sipping my beer in the corner of the M. House, just like my Aunt Helen did, I sighed as I felt my pen drying out again. “His tears brushed against my...” was the last sentence to come out of my pen that evening.

Happy birthday, me, I thought. Twenty six years of dry pens and counting.

Setting it down and letting myself get lost in the serenity of the small bar I had spent so much time meditating in, I felt someone tap on my shoulder.

“Excuse me?” the stranger’s voice asked as I looked up at them.

“What? Uh, yes?” I answered, coming out of my haze too suddenly.

“You’re ‘Tiny Tolstoy,’ right?”

The man was undoubtedly expansive. It actually took me a few seconds to work out whether or not he was a man or my living-room cupboard. He wore a very large leather vest, which barely covered his long, thick wrists. It seemed to have been picked out of a pile at Goodwill, which gave his rugged look even more of a strange attractiveness, considering the ill-fitted ripped jeans he was wearing and the hobo beard that covered most of his face. I almost got scared, hearing the nickname I got when Diary became a best-seller, because his deep, almost uncanny voice was booming it out way louder than I was comfortable with.

“Uh, excuse me, who are you?” I struggled to say without choking.

“Sorry, I’m Will. It’s just that… I’m a big fan of yours. Alex, right? Alex Castle?” he let out, nervously. Which I found so strange considering how imposing he was physically.

“Yeah, that’s me. Nice to meet you, Will.”

I held out my hand, noticing with a belated feeling of self-disgust the faint dark spots that the dozen cigarettes I’d smoked in the last half-hour had left on my fingers. He shook it, relieving me of any discomfort, since his hands were covered in dirt, replacing it with the pain of how strongly he was shaking my hand.

“Same here, Mr Castle,” he replied, filled with apparent joy.

I must’ve given my pain away because he quickly relieved the pressure and smiled at me.

“Sorry, I always do that. Still have a hard time managing my strength,” he confessed.

“That’s fine,” I answered playfully, mainly relieved that I had someone to talk to in this lonely bar. “And you can call me Alex. No one’s called me Mister Castle since I was ten.”

He laughed and nodded along, sitting on the opposite side of the booth. My God, that guy is huge, I thought, seeing as though he seemed to be taking up the entire width of the booth. After a few seconds, I noticed that he wasn’t going to do or say anything except keep up this star-struck look he’d held since the beginning of the conversation. It was weird bumping into someone who was an actual fan of my work.

“So, uh… Still, huh?” I asked him.

“Huh? What do you mean?” he replied, sincerely confused.

His look of pure innocence reminded me of so many John Coffeys and Lennie Smalls, without the implied stupidity. In spite of his child-like demeanor contrasted by his giant frame, nothing about him indicated that he was dumb. Quite the contrary : he had that sparkle in his right eye that seems to hide a world of wonders. And what eyes. Brown, tinged with some light green. Big and getting deeper the more I looked into them.

“I just mean… Well, you said that you still have a hard time managing your strength. You’re obviously a big guy, you must’ve gotten used to it by now, right?” I said, not really sure how else to open a conversation with this man.

He suddenly turned red, which added to his shy, innocent attitude.

“Not really,” he answered honestly. “This is still fairly new. But thank you for noticing… Alex. And, uh… Happy birthday.”

He smiled and reached into his front pocket, taking a shiny new pen out of it and placing it in front of me. I laughed and smiled wider than ever.

“You know, you’re the first person to wish me happy birthday this year, let alone give me a gift. Thanks a lot, Will, it means more to me than you think.”

“Oh my God! That’s what Henry says to Catalina in Loving Kind!” he blurted out, more excited than I’d ever seen someone be about my work.

We spent another hour and a half talking about my books, what he loved about them, how strange it was being a child writer. And for the first time is so many months (years?), I felt heard. Listened to. Will turned out to be more than a fan, he was interested in talking about my work and curious about how it came to be.

He then confessed that he always kept that pen in his pocket, because he heard not long before that I used to write at the M. House. Apparently, he often wished he could give it to me and know that he contributed to my work, albeit in a small way. All in all, I couldn’t say if it was the attention he was giving me, his look of pure interest or his ironically ultra-masculine aura, but I felt myself shifting closer to the table, hoping to rub a tiny fraction of my finger against his.

“Can’t believe I’m twenty-six, Will…” I said, exaggerating a sigh.

“Well, you don’t look a day over twenty, Alex,” he answered, smiling.

“And how old are you?” I asked, guessing at about thirty.

“I just turned nineteen,” Will responded with all the calm in the world.

It took me a few seconds to start chuckling. “No, come on, how old are you?”

“I just told you,” he said, a little upset.

“But you’re not nineteen, I mean look at you. You’re like…”

“A monster? A freak?” he cut me off. “Because that’s the bullshit my classmates always gave me, Alex!”

I was shocked by two separate things: one, the fact that this mountain of man was nineteen years old. Second, that anyone could’ve even thought about bullying him for looking that way. “Will,” I interjected softly, taking his giant hand into mine. “You’re…”

Some tears were forming on the surface of Will’s gorgeous eyes and I couldn’t think of anything to say to express the way I saw him. Appreciated him. So I decided to kiss him across the table.

His tears were now trickling down my cheek as I felt his rugged lips push against mine. His big, calloused hand reached up to my jaw, making me feel like I was kissing a senior bodybuilder, not a nineteen year old boy. I let go of him for a few seconds, looking straight into his eyes.

“I’m sorry. And you’re not a freak. You’re beautiful,” I confessed before resuming the kiss.

Five minutes later, I saw myself hurriedly gathering up the scraps of paper that I referred to as my next book. Will was breathing heavily and didn’t stop looking at me for a second: indeed, the intensity with which he was staring at me made me feel weak in the knees. When arriving at my car, I realized with half-concealed amusement that we were going to have a problem: my new friend was, as he told me in the M. House that night, standing at 6ft and 4in high, and 225 pounds, which by all means meant that he would have a very, very hard time fitting in my tiny Kia Picanto. Nevertheless, too entranced by what we were going to do with each other once we got past that minor car-related inconvenience, we laughed it off. Although I can’t say for certain that watching Will struggle to fit on the passenger seat of my car and almost fail to close the door didn’t somehow contribute to my erection. His enormous thigh, which the ripped up holes in his jeans only allowed me to see a fraction of, was pushing against the gearbox but he did his best to contain it.

We arrived at my place at around 11 p.m. and calmly walked the length of my front-yard to the door.

“This is where you live?” he asked while he marveled at the big house’s facade.

“Yeah. You like it?”

“I love it!”

I locked the door behind us and before I could even process what was happening, Will pressed his entire body against mine and kissed me harder than anyone had ever kissed me before. I could feel his moans of pleasure in my mouth and his very obvious hardness against my thigh. I held on to his huge arms, feeling myself fall against the door from the intensity of the kiss. Only then did I truly realize the expansive width and general size of the young man. My fingers dug deep into the leather sleeves that seemed to struggle to contain the mass of his rock-hard biceps. His hips and legs pushed with so much force against mine that I almost felt crushed, but the pain paled in comparison to how much Will turned me on. It had been months since I’d been touched, let alone touched with so much intent and forwardness.

He then shifted to start kissing my neck. I looked up at the light gray ceiling above me and got blinded by the light of the chandelier that adorned it as he forced his lips into my neck, eliciting moans of pleasure that I didn’t even know I had in me. The way he handled me was so primal and powerful that I decided to let go and gladly let him take anything he wanted from me. This was not the adoring fan I’d met a few hours ago. This was a decidedly masculine force, that I was willing to give up everything to.

Will picked me up in his big, muscular arms.

“Where’s your bedroom?” he asked in a deeper voice than he had used a couple minutes before.

He put me down on the bed with more brutality than he probably intended and proceeded to take of his vest, revealing an extremely tight, black undershirt that seemed to almost give way, considering the size of his enormous chest. I sat there in silence for a few seconds, looking up at his beautiful frame with blatant amazement, which apparently made him a little nervous.

“You think I’m too much,” he said, visibly embarrassed.

“I think you’re perfect.”

I sat up on the side of the bed, lifted up his shirt and found myself face to face with his incomparable set of eight blocky abdominal muscles. My face was drawn to them and I started to kiss every single one of them with a softness that made him breathe more heavily than he ever did before.

“Fuck, Alex. Yes…,” he hissed while I made my way to his expansive chest.

If I had to guess, I’d say that his pectoral muscles hung from his chest by at least four inches. He held the back of my head as I licked past the deep cleavage that formed in between his pecs, pushing the shirt upwards when I reached his hard, rosy nipples. I felt him flex his chest against my face when I sucked on the right one.

“Oh my god, yes… Don’t stop!” he moaned, pulling me closer to his enlarged nipple. By then, I was almost sure that I’d burst inside my underwear before even touching myself : the combination of his deep, perfect voice with the feeling of pure power that emanate from his body, and the hard warmth against my mouth as I sucked on his chest harder and harder made me more erect than I’d probably ever been in my life.

A strange calm suddenly washed over me and I felt myself compelled to do something strange. My right hand came up to his abs, slowly caressed them and soon started to circle around. The circle I traced kept getting smaller and smaller under I was barely covering a single abdominal muscle. I ceased any and all other activity, but he still held me close as my index finger traced that circle over and over and over… I have no idea what triggered this instinct, neither do I understand what compelled me to keep going, or why it seemed to elicit so much pleasure in Will, who started to moan louder and louder until all I could hear was the never-ending echo of his pleasure above me.

“Keep going, Alex,” the nineteen-year-old titan bellowed, letting me feel the resonance of his deep voice inside his chest.

My finger traced the circle until it finally decided to move upwards, then lower, to the right, another circle… It took me some time to understand that my brain was doing something for me. Out of nowhere, a powerful wind of pleasure flowed through the two of us.

The world went silent. No more cars passing by, no birds singing their last song of the day. Not even a rustle in the trees. Not a single hushed hiss of October wind. Nothing, except the distinguishable sound my finger was making, rubbing against the skin of Will’s ripped stomach.

“Oh my God… It’s too much. Fuck!” Will said, tearing the silence of the room.

His chest pushed against my face. Was he flexing? It didn’t feel like it. He applied more pressure on my head, as if he never wanted me to let go of him or stop the movement of my finger. Then, after a few seconds of powerful and emotional pleasure, something else echoed through the room. A sound I knew and had heard before.

The sound of Will’s undershirt ripping right down the middle of his backside.

He let out a powerful moan.

“What the fuck is happening to me, Alex?” he said in an even deeper voice, which seemed impossible.

My finger kept tracing. Over the same two-inch surface.

I was doing what I’d always done best. Writing against his warm skin a word I didn’t even know the implications of:

BIGGER.

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