Book Signing
"She writes BBW erotica that's changed his life. He wins the charity auction for a private dinner with his favorite author. What she wants in return isn't money—it's research for her next novel."
I'd read every book she'd written.
Veronica Steele. Queen of BBW erotica. Twelve novels, four novellas, a hundred short stories—all of them featuring large women being worshipped, desired, consumed by passion.
Her books had changed my life.
Before her, I'd been ashamed of my attraction to bigger women. After her, I understood it was a gift.
When the charity auction announced dinner with Veronica Steele, I bid everything I had.
Ten thousand dollars.
Worth every penny.
The dinner was at a restaurant I couldn't normally afford.
Private room. White tablecloth. Wine list longer than my lease.
And Veronica.
Three hundred pounds. Fifty-eight years old. Exactly like her author photos—silver hair, knowing smile, presence that filled any space she entered.
"You're Alex," she said, extending her hand. "My biggest fan."
"Biggest donor, at least."
"Same thing, in this case." She sat across from me. "Tell me—why my books? There are other authors in the genre."
"Yours feel true." I struggled to explain. "Like you're writing from experience, not imagination."
"Interesting." She smiled. "What makes you think I'm not?"
Dinner was three hours of conversation.
Her writing process. Her inspirations. The lovers who'd shaped her understanding of desire.
"Every character comes from somewhere," she explained. "Some are me. Some are men I've known. Some are men I wish I'd known."
"Which category am I?"
"That depends." She leaned forward. "On whether you're interested in being research."
"Research?"
"For my next book." Her foot found my leg under the table. "I need a male character. Young. Eager. Devoted to large women." Her foot slid higher. "You fit the description."
"What kind of research?"
I asked it carefully. Professionally.
She laughed.
"The kind that can't happen in a restaurant." She signaled for the check. "I have a suite upstairs. If you're interested."
"I—"
"You spent ten thousand dollars for dinner with me." Her eyes held mine. "Tell me you're not hoping for more."
I couldn't.
"The suite," I said. "Let's go."
She undressed like she wrote—confidently, deliberately, every movement intentional.
"I write about bodies like mine," she said, letting her dress fall, "because bodies like mine deserve stories."
"Yes."
"And men like you—" she crossed to me, began unbuttoning my shirt "—need to see themselves in print. Your desires validated. Your attractions celebrated."
"That's why I read your books."
"And that's why you'll be in my next one." She pushed me onto the bed. "Now. Show me what my hero does."
I worshipped her the way her books had taught me.
Started with her feet—kissing, massaging, working up to her calves. Her thighs. The soft expanse of her belly.
"You've learned well," she breathed. "From the page."
"From you."
"Same thing." She pulled my face higher. To her breasts. "Chapter one—the discovery. He finds her. Recognizes her beauty."
I kissed her breasts. Sucked her nipples. Learned the weight of them, the texture, the way they responded.
"Chapter two—" she guided me lower "—the worship."
I ate her like I was writing the scene myself.
Every detail mattered. The taste of her. The sounds she made. The way her thighs trembled when I found her clit.
"Yes—exactly like that—" She was gasping, hands in my hair. "Character motivation—he wants to please more than be pleased—"
"I do."
"I know." She came against my tongue, still narrating. "Chapter three—the consummation—God—the consummation—"
I entered her while she whispered plot points.
"Rising action—" she gasped, pulling me deeper. "The tension builds—every stroke—"
"Veronica—"
"Complications—" she wrapped her legs around me "—he's worried he won't be enough—she shows him he's exactly enough—"
"I can't think when you—"
"Don't think." She grabbed my face. "Just feel. I'll remember for both of us."
We made love until 3 AM.
Every position she'd ever written. Every fantasy she'd put to paper. She directed and I performed, and somewhere in the middle it stopped being research and became something real.
"Climax," she finally said, holding me deep inside her. "He comes. She comes. They come together."
"That's how it ends?"
"That's how it begins." She kissed me. "The best books are series."
Six months later
The Devotee hit the bestseller list.
I read it in one night. Every scene, every character, every explicit moment—I recognized myself. My desires. My worship.
She'd captured me perfectly.
"Reviews are good," Veronica says over our now-weekly dinner. "But I'm already thinking about the sequel."
"What happens in the sequel?"
"He moves in with her." She smiles. "Becomes her full-time research assistant."
"That's not a book. That's a proposal."
"So it is." She takes my hand. "What's your answer?"
I moved in that weekend.
I help with her research. I inspire her characters. I live inside her stories and outside them simultaneously.
"People always ask where I get my ideas," she tells interviewers.
She never mentions me by name.
But every reader who understands—every man who loves large women, every woman who's felt unseen, every person who's found validation in her pages—they know.
The best stories are lived before they're written.
And ours is just beginning.