sequestered & Penned

     He loved the way these things flowed ink on the page. Ordinarily, he'd type when engrossed in writing prose, but occasionally the artistic side of him, craved manuscript.

     "Hey, what the . . !" This is fricken' weird. Stop writing." He shouted, yelling at the instrument in his right hand. An ordinary liquid gel pen he'd just bought from the Office Depot was writing on its own.

     His shock escalated. He threw the pen off into the corner of the den. He had an ominous inclination that made his skin crawl. He suspected it would jump out of its landing place from behind the couch.

     He had a sudden impulse. Furtively eyeing the couch, he decided to check what he'd already, or rather what the pen had written. He felt like he were being manipulated, "Possibly a transponder in the pen, subliminal programming."

     He leaned over the paper. The script was in cursive, unfamiliar writing. "Your eyes beguile my senses' arousal"

     That was it. He had violently resisted the pen's influence. The feeling had been magnetic, his hand steel - pen magnet. That was all he had allowed to be written. Intrigue prevailed.

     "Let's see what it writes now." 

     He walked to the couch, leaned over to look behind it. Nothing there. On his hands and knees, he spotted it, he reached, grasping it firmly. It felt hot, compelling a tighter grip.

     He walked to the dining room table, grabbing a piece of paper from his desk. He sat down gingerly, still a bit frightened and skeptical for the same outcome. He wondered if it were just imagination. "Here we go."

     He touched the pen's point on paper. He wrote: "My name is Josh Bur," a spark of electric pulse struck the tendons of his hand. Automated script transcribed itself:

"Your eyes beguile my senses' arousal, 

a moment's stroke of your firm hand upon my loins, 

beg my libido's spring from fountains deep within, 

my desire for you insatiable, my thighs unveiled, 

sequestered 'tween lines that lead to apex point,

fluid skin that covers my womanhood, pink filled capillaries, 

to me your own lips bring, encase my lovely petals' cusps, 

so near they, chaste guard the point, 

deep past my love's entrance gates, wet nectar filled, 

sweet flows its hormone scents, entice your tongue, the prize you've craved, . . . "

     He released his hold again and again. Each time the pen touched the page's surface, spurts of erotic prose proceeded. He lost caution to the wind, overwhelmed by sheer mental passion followed with a craving greed for endless words to come.

     He yielded to the pen. He sat transfixed to its sensuous writing motions. He felt as if his hand climaxed. The words were poetic ecstasy. What seemed an holographic form appeared. It was she. A voluptuous human creature. He fell into her nakedness. She carried him enraptured to a literary plane of existence. There he penned unending streams of romantic novels from which he sought no escape.