The Trope Troupe

"Isn't this supposed to be a slow build?" asked Boleslaw, struggling to unbutton tight jeans made tighter by his expanding wang.

"Better not be," said Liz, bent at the waist to get her hands back to her bra hooks. "If we took the time to get to know each other, we'd probably learn that we're selfish narcissists, and hate each other's guts. We'd still fuck, but it wouldn't be as much fun."

"Speak for yourself. I enjoy the inherent conflict when bodies defy minds."

"Drama queen," muttered Stacy, face beside her left knee as she applied polish to toenails. Try as she might to embrace variety, she always ended up using the same tangerine-ish shade. Not like it mattered. No author had ever described her toenails.

Victor was already nude, stretched out on a chaise lounge. He was partly erect, viewing Stacy's cello-curved back and youthful derriere. Yet he lamented the situation they seemed to be entering. "It's these modern women, I tell ya! Used to be, a female reader would tease one finger around her amusement park, and be happy to stare at thirty thousand words, waiting for the heroine to submit at last to her ardent swain. Now there are magic wands everywhere, and readers want immediate gratification!"

"They're busy," said Stacy, relishing the fact that she wasn't. She admired her finished left foot, then began work on her right. "No time for rhetorical flourishes."

"The authors are lazy," declared Boleslaw, tearing away Liz's underwear. It was his trademark, savaging his quarry's underthings into at least four shreds. "And they want to get their own rocks off. They don't want to wait through thirty thousand words either." Then he plunged his face between Liz's legs, smearing his tongue on her labia and bashing his huge nose into her clit.

"Ow!" she responded. "They should be careful what they wish for. When AIs start flooding the world with erotic content, it'll probably be flash stories, at first. Human authors might wish they were in the habit of churning out thirty-thousands, even if the demand there is dwindling." Her body instructed her to grip her swelling breasts, and lick at least one throbbing nipple. She complied.

Victor stood. "Precum's building up," he informed Stacy.

"Three more nails," she said. "We can slow-build until then."

Victor looked up into the featureless sky, squinting. "I'm picking up some exact words," he said. "Seriously?" he whined. "This loser wants to write that my Cowper's Secretions are drenching your Cooper's Ligaments!"

"Fine," said Stacy with ennui. "You can do that while I'm polishing. Just keep your slop away from my feet."

Lorenzo and Maude sauntered to the pool area, followed at a deferential distance by Tim.

Liz, spasming through her cunnilingus orgasm, tried to focus on the newcomers. "Are you blurred?"

"Yep," said Lorenzo, identifiable as a BBC by his extremely dark blur, with a protuberance to one side. "This author never describes in detail. Not sure if he wants readers to project themselves into us, or if he just doesn't care."

"My lover's bigness is conveyed by my initial pain," said Maude, her blur mostly pink but bright yellow at the top, "and my subsequent life-changing pleasure."

Splattering over Stacy's shoulder, Victor again launched to high dudgeon. "How can Maude be a hotwife if the reader has no idea what she looks like?"

"Her hotness is behavioral," said Lorenzo, sounding weary of the topic. "It doesn't have to be visual." His blob held still while Maude's and Tim's moved into position, hers on the tiled rim of the pool, his partly in the water with a small black blob above the surface, likely his video camera.

Catching a glimpse of the text tattoo at the side of her right breast, Liz said, "There can also be too much information. I'm being described as 38DD, five feet six and a quarter inches tall, with straight auburn hair extending to my second thoracic vertebra, hazel eyes flecked with yellow, 119 pounds seven and nine tenths ounces. My feet are size three. My G Spot is two and one-eighth inches inside my orifice, and my squirt pulses are in the range of five to eleven ounces."

"English, but not metric?" came Tim's voice from the tan blob in the pool.

"This author cares only about American readers."

Stacy closed the nail polish and set it aside. "Done," she said. "We're doing ass, right?"

"Yes, My Dear," said Victor. From behind, he gripped her shoulders, and assisted her to stand up. "I, at least, read the outline beforehand."

Stacy sneered at him over her slimed shoulder. She doubted that any real human had hair like his, mostly coal black but with bright silver streaks. But everyone here was, in one way or another, an outlier. Her own hair, thickly waved and strawberry blonde, sometimes seemed to flutter and bounce even when she held her head still.

Boleslaw straightened up, and repositioned to take Liz in missionary. Then he froze, looking up. "He stopped writing."

"Jerking off?" asked Liz.

"No... damn! He's trying to give me a different name."

Maude's blur was now Y-shaped, one lobe flat on the pool deck with the other two raised and separated. She asked, "Has any author ever used your name from here?"

"Not once," said Boleslaw, shaking his head. "It's a common name in Poland. Bad enough that people confuse it with 'cole slaw.' Am I going to have to be a Steve? Again?"

"American readers," Liz repeated with a sigh.

"My name means 'great glory!'" Boleslaw declared to the empty sky. "Wouldn't you agree that it goes well with my nine-inch penis?"

Chuckling, Liz said, "Shut up and fuck."

"Don't bother," sounded a voice from middle distance. "The site crashed."

The sybarites looked in the direction of the voice. Priya approached them, presenting as 'The Muse:' A white-toga'd female with hair plaited into a coronet around her head. She looked at a tablet and said, "Looks like an attack on the store, to get credit card numbers. The ID's could also be used to blackmail solid citizens who bought anal beads. The security bot seems to be holding firm."

"Poor Victor," said Stacy in mock-pity, caressing his cheek. "You'll miss this chance to gape my sphincter."

Tim hefted himself out of the pool, shaking his head rapidly as his blur dissipated. "Wonder if our literary lions can string words together from their own imaginations."

"Sure they can," said Liz, stepping into sandals and donning a short robe. "They just won't be any good."

"Stay put," Priya told them all. "If we don't reconnect in five minutes, you can split. But for now, maintain your overwhelming sexiness."

"I'll need fluffing," said Tim with a grin, moving on Priya. "Your damn toga covers everything up."

She smiled, but edged back. "My goodies are only for authors," she said. "Tits out when a finished story is submitted. Pussy undraped when the payment is confirmed."

"And nothing for gay authors," Lorenzo grumbled.

Stacy glanced where she had set down the nail polish. But it was gone. Without her paying attention to it, the VR had deleted it.

"Anybody up for bar-hopping after the shift?" asked Maude, splashing pool water on her abundant torso.

"My daughter has a recital tonight," said Victor with regret.

"I'll have to check my schedule," said Boleslaw.

Now with an arm draped around Priya's shoulder, Tim said, "What if the site picks up the tab?"

"I'm in!" said Stacy and Liz together.

Priya side-eyed Tim, even while putting an arm behind his back and fondling his taut butt. "You think the budget can handle that?"

"It's for employee morale," he declared. "It's good to spend time together without virtual reality gear."

"Which makes as much sense," she returned, "as a snowball-sucking cuck who needs to be fluffed."

Tim tried to firm up the stature of the slight, thin-haired body appropriate to his role. "We do what we must, to enable art! Like models posing for painters and sculptors. In our case, the sex is more overt."

"Yeah, art," said Liz snarkily. "Next time, I want in on a video game design. I still get residuals on those."