Confessions of a smut au.., p.1
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       Confessions of a Smut Author, p.1

           Scott Hildreth
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Confessions of a Smut Author


  Scott Hildreth


  This book is dedicated to everyone who has yet to act out a fantasy.

  Sometimes yet isn’t such a bad thing.

  Take a deep breath and think.

  Fantasies aren’t all that bad.



  This book contains scenes which certain reader’s may see as a trigger to past events. If during the course of reading this book, you feel as if it is causing you discomfort, please seek the help of a support group which works well for you. By all means, do not read this book and perceive the scenes depicted in it as any type of instructional tool. THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION.


  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.

  Unbroken 1st Edition Copyright © 2014 by Scott Hildreth

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Covert art by Jessica


  “Dude, you just need to get out and see what happens. Become social again, damn. Maybe you’ll meet someone at my party. It’s been eighteen months. I can tell you one thing for sure, nobody’s gonna come knockin’ on your door wanting to hook up,” Ian laughed.

  I hadn’t seen Ian in almost a year. Although we had been as close to inseparable as two young men could be, we’d grown apart in the last year or so. To be truthful, I’d separated myself from almost everyone since Cheryl’s death. Losing a wife at twenty-three years old wasn’t something most men my age would ever have to deal with. Six years out of high school and I’d already been labeled a widower. Talking about it was to admit it, and to admit it meant I’d have to deal with it. Dealing with it wasn’t something I was ready to do.

  I was still deep in denial.

  “I suppose so,” I sighed, hoping to change the subject.

  I pulled a ten inch long rubber cock with a suction cup on the base from the rack and held it in the air, “Seriously? Who buys this shit? And why the fuck does it have a suction cup on it?”

  Ian smiled and pointed toward the package I held as he ran his hand along his overly long beard with his free hand, “Dude, that’s the Shane Diesel. Fucker’s ten inches long and two inches thick. Chicks stick ‘em on the wall and back up to ‘em. They can stick ‘em on a table, desk, mirror, car windshield.”

  As he paused and looked up from the shrink wrapped cock, I stood with my mouth agape.

  “Or hell, they can even stick ‘em on the refrigerator. I had one girl who said she used to bang herself on the ‘fridge all the time. You’d be surprised how many of those I sell. I can’t believe you write about what you write about, and you’ve never seen a rubber cock with a suction cup on it,” he grinned.

  “I write about people fucking people, not people fucking objects. And holy shit with the refrigerator. That’s fucking crazy. They stick them on a refrigerator? I still can’t believe you work here, this is nuts. You’re selling rubber cocks, lube, and donuts,” I chuckled as I placed the cock on the rack and picked up a red rubber donut.

  “It’s not a donut. That, my friend, will keep you harder, longer. It’s basically a round red Viagra. The Ring O’s Penis Ring. For three bucks, it’s a bargain. Slip that bad boy over your cock and make your own glazed donut,” Ian nodded.

  Ian looked like he belonged in a tattoo parlor. He was six foot three, lanky, had short well-manicured hair, and a goatee which would be out of date, but slipped past the critics because it was a foot long. His arms, neck, and hands were covered in tattoos, and he wore black Rayban Wayfarer glasses.

  A tattooed hipster working at a dildo palace.

  I rolled my eyes and hung the rubber stay harder longer ring onto the hook it had been hanging from before I made the mistake of picking it up. As I worked my way back to the counter where Ian stood, I studied the five hundred tube display of sexual lubricants. I picked a tube of KY Yours+Mine Personal Lubricant and admired the purple color on the tubes. I had no idea half of these types of things even existed.

  As the bell on the door rang, indicating someone was coming in the store, I looked up. Although I had been talking to Ian for almost twenty minutes, there had been no traffic in or out of the shop. Embarrassed, I tossed the lubricant on the floor and stepped toward where I thought the counter was. As I meandered past the aisles of rubber schlongs and pussies, I couldn’t help but notice the new patron was a gorgeous young woman with jet black hair. Her resemblance to Cheryl was uncanny. As I stared over the tops of the racks toward her, I walked directly into another display of lubricant, knocking it off balance.

  “Dude, watch where the fuck you’re walking,” Ian bellowed.

  She turned toward me and smiled as I unsuccessfully tried to keep the rack from tipping over. Now standing amongst a few hundred tubes of lubricant, I felt like a miserable fool. An out of place miserable fool. Friend of Ian or not, I really had no business in a sex shop.

  Although Cheryl and I had a very graphic and active sex life, and I considered myself somewhat of a sex addict, I had not been with another woman since her death. I couldn’t bring myself to. My psychiatrist explained sooner or later I would find my own way of releasing her, eventually come to terms with the loss, and recover fully. Although I stopped going to the psychiatrist, I never stopped feeling responsible for what happened with her. Losing someone in the manner I lost Cheryl would take time.

  A long time.

  “Wow, you walked right into that, didn’t you?” she laughed as she raised her hand to her mouth.

  I nodded my head and considered speaking. As I stood and simply stared at her, I heard Ian speak.

  “Dude, say something,” Ian whispered.

  I realized as he spoke, if I could hear him, so could she. She and I stood a matter of three feet from one another. Partially stunned by her gorgeous looks and somewhat in shock by the fact she could pass as my late wife’s double, I maintained silence and made a larger fool of myself as I gawked at her.

  As Ian tilted the rack onto its little metal feet, I came to my senses. I hadn’t even noticed he had left the counter where he was standing. With the metal rack sparsely littered with lubricants in his fairly capable hands, he turned to me and shook his head.

  “Dude, you better go say something. Did you see how she was looking at you?” he said through his teeth.

  “She was laughing at me on the inside. I walked right into this motherfucker,” I whispered as I leaned down and picked a handful of Yes water based organic lubricants from the floor.

  “She was slobbering all over herself. Come on, Shawn. Back in the day, you’d have talked to her. I’ll get this shit picked up, walk over there,” Ian said as he tilted his head her direction.

  I turned toward where she was standing and craned my neck over a rack of pocket pussies. Bent over and alternating glances between two large rubber dicks, she inspected each one carefully. At minimum, her two selections were twelve inches long. I studied the cocks she held and glanced down at my wrist for comparisons sake.

  Holy shit.

I walked her direction.

  Don’t be stupid. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be stupid.

  “So, after a girl has one of those, how does she stay satisfied by man?” I asked.

  Okay, that was stupid.

  Caught somewhat off guard, she acted as though she wanted to toss the rubber cocks down the aisle. Instead, she stood, looked down into her hand, and smiled, “I know, right?”

  “I made a fool of myself back there when you came in. I was staring. I’m sorry. You remind me of someone. I’m Shawn. My friend Ian works here,” I said as I tilted my head toward Ian.

  Ian, half re-stocking the rack of fuck jellies and half paying attention to my progress with the gorgeous girl, nodded his head in affirmation of our presence. As I turned to face her again, I felt as if I needed to clarify my lack sex shop experience.

  “This is my first time. In a sex shop, not talking to a girl,” I paused, feeling foolish for having made the reference.

  “I’m buying a gift for a pink elephant party. Or whatever they’re called. I don’t live in here or anything, but it’s definitely not my first time,” she chuckled.

  “I just came in to say hi to him. I haven’t seen him in a year or so. Pink elephant, huh? I thought it was white?” I shrugged.

  “Yeah, pink, I think. You know the party where you bring a gag gift, like as a joke? And you pick names and go around the room and take someone’s gift and they take someone’s and you can pick an unwrapped gift and take your chances or take one someone’s holding?,” as she raised her hands in the air, she realized she was still armed with two powerful rubber weapons.

  As I nodded my head, she turned the packages toward me. I stared in awe at the bulging veins and perfect mushroom shaped tips. I began to feel rather inadequate.

  “So which one?” she asked.

  One of them was shaped like a banana. Other than the fact it was as big as my arm, based on my knowledge of the subject, the second one appeared to be shaped like the real thing. I nodded my head toward the rubber banana cock and chuckled.

  “What’s wrong with that one? It looks curved,” I said.

  “Oh, it is. It’s made that way. You know,” she moved the package back and forth as if she was fucking the air, “It hits certain spots the straight one couldn’t.”

  I nodded my head, “Gotcha. Well, I’d say the curved guy. I mean it’s a gag gift, so yeah, why not.”

  As she bent down and placed the arm sized straight cock carefully beside its rubber brethren, she handed me the curved one without looking up. Somewhat confused, I reached out and took the package into my hand, relieved it was sealed in a protective plastic package. As I stood and held the cock like a little girl would hold a handful of worms, she stood and smiled.

  She extended her now empty hand toward my cock filled mitt, “Sorry, I forgot. Nice to meet you, I’m Cheryl.”


  The restaurant, for the most part, was empty. We had been served our coffee, explained to the waitress we were going to talk for a while, and that we had no intent of ordering food. The good thing about an IHOP on a Tuesday night, if there was one, was that they weren’t terribly busy. The one across the street from the dildo shop was no exception.

  I sat across the table from her and stared, trying to convince myself regardless of what her name was I’d have done the same thing. A small part of me wished her name would have been Tammy or Danielle - something other than Cheryl. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced I wouldn’t be able to continue to see her. It would be all too strange calling someone by the name of my deceased wife.

  “So you said I reminded you of someone, is it a good someone or a bad one?” she asked.

  I blinked my eyes and continued to stare at her beautiful facial features. As I studied her, I realized she was far more attractive than Cheryl ever was. My Cheryl. The new Cheryl was one of the people who could lie and do advertisements for a particular make-up, stating how it made her look the way she does. Her skin was nothing short of perfect. Her eyes were the color of aluminum – if it had a thin film of blue watercolor over the surface. To describe her as breathtaking wouldn’t do her justice.

  I had never considered myself to be an ugly person. In fact, I had always maintained a reasonable amount of self-esteem, and believed I was an attractive man. Being realistic, I also admitted I was somewhat of a dork, a goofball, and a social misfit of sorts. I was an average Joe Schmoe on the inside and an above average looking man on the outside. In appearance, I was a good solid nine out of ten. I took care of myself physically, was six foot tall and weighed 190 pounds. I maintained my messy mop of hair for the most part, and my at home weight training kept me in a very presentable state clothed or unclothed. In stature and in being, I was a six out of ten in my eyes, and a probably a five in the eyes of others. Quite simply, I didn’t have what it took to be cool. I felt comfortable writing and having sex. Short of those two rather private scenarios, I often felt awkward. As I sat and attempted to devise a plan of escape, her beautiful face kept me pinned to my seat.

  “Hello?” the word lingered on the tip of her tongue for ten seconds.

  I blinked my eyes and stared.

  She raised the cup of coffee to her lips, “You faded away. Are you tired?”

  “No, I don’t know what happened. I was admiring your skin, I think. It’s really easy to get lost in you. Well, not in you. But. Shit. You know…”

  “Leave it at that,” she interrupted, “that was cute.”

  “So, what I asked earlier, before you went into the clouds,” she hesitated and lowered her coffee cup to the table.

  “A good someone,” I sighed.

  Please, leave it at that.

  “Good. That makes me happy. It’s funny, I never get to meet anyone my age. I’m like the preacher’s daughter or something. Doing this,” she waved her hands over the table and exhaled.

  “This is nice. It never happens. Well, rarely. My parents are always trying to fix me up with someone from church, but…” she paused and looked down at her coffee cup.

  “Do you go to church?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t. I’m spiritual or whatever. I believe in God and all, but I don’t really feel comfortable in church.”

  After I spoke, I felt I needed to clarify things.

  “Not that I have anything to hide, I just…I don’t know,” I shrugged.

  “No, I understand. I’m the same way. My parents are pretty religious. They own a jewelry store and I work there. All day, old people come in and buy Rolex and TAG Heuer watches. Then, there are the people who come in to buy wedding or engagement rings, but they’re always committed to someone. You want to know how many single people come into a jewelry store? Single and available?” she asked.

  I looked up from the table and shrugged, “None?”

  “You got it. None,” she nodded.

  “So are your parents protective of you or whatever? Do they let you go out? Date?” I asked.

  “Oh. Yeah, they’re cool. Well, kind of. I can’t cuss around them or anything. And maybe they think I’ve been sexual and maybe they don’t, but we don’t talk about it. I’m sure they tell themselves I’m saving it for marriage. I can’t imagine them finding out anything about me having sex. I think my mother would freak the fuck out.”

  The thought of her being the daughter of a religious family, and her parents being overly protective of her made her oddly more attractive. For whatever reason, I felt myself being drawn to her slightly more. Meeting her in a rubber cock factory, considering everything she had just said, seemed weird. Weird in a really sexy kind of way.

  I leaned into the table and clasped my hands together. As I lowered my chin onto the tops of my knuckles, I looked up into her eyes, “So let me get this straight. Your parents are protective of you, they try to get you to date the guys from church, and you basically decline. You’re gorgeous, single, and available. You don’t cuss or discuss sex around your parents, and I met you in the sex
shop where you were buying an arm sized cock for a friend?”

  “For a party. But yes to everything else,” she grinned.

  “What would your mother say if she knew you had a twelve inch banana shaped cock in your purse?” I asked as I leaned into the booth and crossed my arms.

  “It’s in my trunk. And she’d flip out,” she responded.

  She was a woman who could have said she was eighteen years old, and I would not have challenged her. She also could have said she was twenty-five and I would have easily accepted it. Her mannerisms and speech told me she was older, but her perfect skin and her protective parents indicated she was younger. I decided to roll the dice, hoping she was at least eighteen or nineteen. As I watched her raise the coffee cup to her lips I imagined kissing her softly.

  “I bet she would. So, let me ask, how old are you?” I asked.

  “How old do you think I am?”

  Fuck. You just answered, you’re seventeen.

  I decided to spit out a random age, attempting to make her feel better, “Twenty-three.”

  “Nope. Twenty seven,” she responded as she tossed her head rearward, flipping her hair over her shoulders as she did.

  My eyes widened and I leaned forward into the table and stared, “Get out of here? Seriously? Holy crap, you look like you’re in your early twenties at the very most. Wow.”

  Now she had my full interest, a twenty-seven year old girl with protective religious parents. She probably lived at home. I envisioned sitting with her on the couch at her parent’s home and as they prepared the Sunday dinner of roast, potatoes, and carrots. I simply needed to find a way to get around the entire Cheryl thing.

  “So do you have any nick-names? Do you go by anything other than Cheryl?” I asked.

  She shook her head from side to side. As she leaned into the back cushion of the booth, I noticed her shirt had three buttons unbuttoned. Ten minutes prior, if asked, I would have sworn it was buttoned to the top. I stared at what now appeared to be two very reasonably sized breasts, considering her small frame. Attempting not to stare, I decided her shirt must have popped open when she flipped her hair over her shoulder. Reluctantly, I shifted my gaze to her silvery-blue eyes.

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