The Poetry Reading

The Poetry Reading
by Lord Malinov

I had been struggling all afternoon with a composition when the phone rang. Tension gripped my shoulders as I rose to answer the phone. I knew the rhythms were weak and I still hadn’t decided whether to fix the verse with rhyme. As the metal bell clanged again, I realized I should jump to the heart of the story and look for patterns there. Sometimes the beginning is no place to start.

My publisher droned when she talked, word after word in an endless, often meaningless stream of syllables. After ten minutes, I finally figured out the gist of her call; a poetry reading for a club at a small university; three hundred dollars, transportation, lodging and food. My first impulse was to just refuse and get back to work on my poem, but I knew I couldn’t. Marge had only agreed to go to the expense of publishing my book of poems after I promised to do whatever support engagements she could arrange. I tried to come up with an excuse, but my imagination has a way of failing at just such moments.

“No,” Marge said emphatically. “I’ve let you out of speaking engagements for your novels, despite Ray’s complaints. Your romances sell enough to give you some clout. But the poetry was a self-indulgent project and you begged me. We’re still seven thousand away from just breaking even, and if the reading sells twenty more copies, you’re damn well going to read.”

I packed my bags, cursing and lost in swirls of images of three beautiful girls in a bedroom while a moron hefted a shotgun authoritatively. I wondered if I could capture the absurdity of that party moment in a poem.

The plane ride was quiet, and I spent the greater part of the flight scribbling lines in my notebook. The old woman beside me kept sneaking peaks and I was tempted to scrawl obscenities to see if I could make her blush, but I wanted to work on the tale of the idiot, three girls and a gun before the reading. For three hundred dollars, they should get at least one virgin piece. Throwing them a bone just seemed professional.

As I marched off the plane, I caught a glimpse of a sign held aloft marked “Malinov.” No one had ever met me at the airport like that before. I felt really cool. Better yet, the placard was held by a rather striking young woman. I pointed to the sign.

“That’s me.”

“Yes. You look just like your book jacket photo. You’d be surprised how many authors look nothing like their covers.”


“I’m Kristen,” she said, holding out a hand. “This is Kim,” she gestured to the woman beside her, who was equally attractive. I smiled at the good fortune. I’d expected blue-haired old ladies. “We’ve organized the reading. I’m so glad you could make it.”

“I’m always eager to please my fans,” I lied.

“Glad to hear it,” she said with a purr. I looked ascant at the beauty. I hadn’t expected that.

“We’ll drive you to the hotel, check you in and then get the reading underway.”

“Where will that be?”

“At the hotel. It’s a small club, but we’re eager to hear you read.”

We drove to a nice hotel near the airport. Kristen handed me a key and led me straight to my room. I raised an eyebrow as the ladies followed me in. They told me we should go over my schedule. I put my bag on the dresser and sat down. Kristen jumped onto the big king-sized bed. Kim slipped comfortably beside her.

“What time’s the reading?” I asked slightly shaken by their casual approach to our intimate environment.

“Any time you’re ready, lover.” Kim smiled provocatively.


“Read us some poems. That’s why we brought you here. “My heart began to race. The girls gave me a wicked look.

“We’re the club,” Kristen hastened to explain. “We’ll pay you three hundred dollars. You read us some poetry.”

“Really?” I asked, quite flabbergasted.

“Why not? I hope you don’t mind if we get comfortable.” Kim pulled her sweater up over her head. Kristen laughed as I blushed and unzipped her skirt. I swallowed hard, completely shocked.

“Um,” I said.

“Start with something sweet,” said Kristen, shimmying out of her panties. Kim turned over to kiss her friend’s freshly exposed vulva, lifting her still pantied ass high to wiggle before my eyes.

Not knowing what else to do, I pulled out my notebook and flipped to the first poem I’d marked for reading. I cleared my throat and started to speak the rhythmic words. Kristen moaned to the supple beat of words and tongue and my prick began to hurt, swollen stiff beneath the straight-jacket of my jeans.

“I told you he’d probably only want to read us some damn poetry,” said Kim, looking back as I tried to read. I threw down my notebook and tore open my jeans.

“Fuck that,” I said hungrily.

“Yes,” said Kim, wiggling seductively and turning back to lick Kristen’s pussy. I pulled the white lace over her full bottom and exposed the thick lips of Kim’s wet cunt. My prick slipped hard inside her sex.

“Mmmm,” said Kim as I rocked into her. Kristen scooted from beneath Kim’s moan and embraced me from behind, kissing my neck as she ran her hands over me, kissing me hungrily, deliciously.

“I wanted you,” she whispered in my ear as I fucked Kim. “I’m sorry we had to trick you, but I wanted you so badly.” I twisted to squeeze Kristen’s breasts while kissing her and Kim pulled away. Kristen lay me down on the big bed and sunk my cock into her moist cunt. I groaned to see this beautiful woman astride me, the gleam in her eye, the fire across her full, bouncing breast. Kim knelt over my face, setting her dripping pussy over my lips, tempting my tongue to tease her swollen lips and bulging clitoris. Rhythm overtook us and we melted in a fleshy poem of bawdy, naughty rhymes.

I gave them autographed copies of my poetry book, and a handwritten copy of the one I wrote the next morning before they took me to the airport. I felt funny taking the money, but they insisted and besides, that was the reason I had come. I don’t know what that makes me. A poet, I guess.

When I got home, I gave Marge a call.

“How’d it go?” she eventually asked.

“All right,” I said. “I have to say I enjoyed myself. If you have any more . . .”

“Why, Malinov, this is a change of heart. Sure. I can put you on a plane this afternoon. This woman from a small reader’s club in Phoenix has been begging me to get you for a reading.”

“Thanks, Marge.” I said. “I won’t even unpack.”

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
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