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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2004 Typewriter Contest
Honorable Mention

The Olivetti

I wasn’t in a bad mood until I had to pass through the third electronic security gate, and have my backpack searched, in order to enter the University Library. As this was not even where the rare book collection was stored, I had to wonder at the redundancy. Did those wands screw around with pacemakers and titanium knees? Luckily for me, I had neither, yet.

The circulation desk was littered with young work study students, who were neither working nor studying, but engaging in a routine mating ritual common in all species, post-adolescence. This particular ritual was invested with decorative accessories: studs and hoops through previously intact facial features, and a variety of shaggy black rags that passed for clothing. I walked up to the young man who was standing under the sign marked Information.

“I need a typewriter,” I explained. “Do you know where they’re stored?”

The state of his bloodshot eyes suggested to me that he was not the best choice for a tricky problem, and so it turned out to be.

“Hey,” he said to the gaggle of young women who were standing near and gazing at him. “This lady wants a typewriter!”

He turned to me with exaggerated patience. “Most people use computers now. You type into the computer, then the printer prints your paper! Maybe you can sign up for a computer class at the women’s center. They have stuff for, like, older women coming back to school. You know, like if they’ve been doing, whatever.”

Yes, well, God knows what older women have been doing. I leaned forward.

“I need a typewriter, and you need a urine drug screen. Which of us, do you suppose, is going to get what she needs?”


One of the young girls in his flock stepped up, stroked a hand down his flaccid ponytail.

“We need, like, our history geek. He’ll know where that old shit is stored.”

“So bring on the history geek, but move it along, sweetie,” I said to her retreating back.

The history geek was aptly named: tall and gawky, elbows like lethal weapons, with pale skin suggesting infrequent forays out of the library. His polo shirt was a faded red, with a pitifully curling collar, and his mass of curly black hair was three weeks past its due date for a visit to the barbershop. He nudged awkward black glasses up his nose with a knuckle and nodded at me.

“I need a typewriter,” I said for the third and final time. I invested in my voice the information that I was ten seconds from making a scene.

“Sure,” he said. “You need erasable bond? Carbon paper?”

“Uh, no. Just the typewriter. And thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “I’ll take you up. The typewriters are in one of the study rooms on the third floor.”

He went into the back to get a key ring, then escorted me to the elevator. Inside, he pushed the button for the third floor with one long finger and looked down at me.

“Do you want manual or electric?”

“Wow,” I said. “You’ve got manual? That would be great. What kind?”

Enthusiasm sparkled in his eyes. “An old Olivetti. She’s practically a virgin.”

I looked this kid over critically. Maybe I had a recruit on my hands. “Are you work study? What’s your major?”

“Oh,” he said, fumbling again with those pathetic glasses and moving awkwardly away from me. “No. I’m, well, actually, a grad assistant. I’ve still got the dissertation to go.”

“For your Masters or PhD?”

“PhD,” he admitted as if to a guilty secret.

“In history?”

He nodded. Well, probably too late, then, if he was at dissertation level.

“I guess that explains your lack of facial piercing,” I said. “You’re older than the rest of that crowd downstairs.”

“Did you see that guy at the Information Desk?” he asked.

“The one who was stoned?”

“Yea. He told the girls he got a little hoop put through his dick.”

“Oh, yuck. So did he? Haven’t you managed to get into the men’s bathroom at the same time?”

The guy sighed, knuckled his glasses back up his nose again. “Every time I think about it my balls shrink up. I’m trying to avoid him, you know?”

“Yes, well, I can see your point,” I admitted.

He walked me down the hal, unlocked the door to the study room, and flipped on the light. Two tables were covered with books and papers and articles, highlighted to within an inch. A laptop was on the couch, along with a pillow and blanket. A small cooler rested in the corner, and the walls were covered in locked shelves.

“What, are you living up here?”

“No, I have a place,” he said. “But sometimes it seems like I don’t leave this room for weeks.”

“I don’t want to mess up your system,” I began, looking around at the room, “If you’ve got things organized.”

“It’s OK,” he said. He moved a big stack of books and papers from one table to the other, then unlocked a cabinet to bring the Olivetti out.

I looked at his Chinos while he had his arms stretched over his head to lift the typewriter down for me. Two sizes too big, but they weren’t riding low on his hips, showing a flash of boxers. He had a belt cinched around his waist. God in heaven, somebody help this kid.

He moved the Olivetti to the table, dusted it, then handed me a stack of good bond paper.

“Listen,” he said as I sat in front of the typewriter and adjusted my seat. “Can I watch?”

“Watch what?”

“Can I watch you type?”

“Only if you take off those stupid glasses, which you do not need to see, and tell me the social purpose of your peculiar behavior and dress.”

He tossed the glasses down on the table next to me, and I looked up into beautiful hazel eyes surrounded by lush dark lashes.

“You’re an anthropologist, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, holding out my hand. “Laura Winter. Cultural Anthropology. Department Chair.”

“I’m John Glass.” He shook my hand, then held it for a moment.

“What are you doing with the typewriter?”

“Research,” I said briefly, stroking the Olivetti’s smooth lines. “Machines that changed history by changing women’s roles in society. This little baby is the Mother Lode of women’s machines. This machine gave women power. Your turn, John Glass.”

He looked back at me with those lush eyes, hands on the hips of his pathetic chinos.

“You tell me, Dr. Winter.”

“Very well. You dress like a geek so people will leave you alone, so you can get some work done. You do this awkward thing, like your knees and elbows are too big for your body, because that goes with the clothes and you are thorough and precise. And you wear those stupid glasses to give your hands something to do when you’re nervous, and because your cover would be blown if the chickies got a load of your gorgeous eyes.”

“So, can I watch?”


His mannerisms had dropped away once he had gotten off the elevator on the floor that held his room. He kicked back on the couch, watching carefully as I threaded paper into the machine and began pecking at the keys.

“Wait,” he said, coming over to me. “Scoot your chair closer and arch your back a little, shoulders straight.” He moved a big hand down to my lower back, then straightened my shoulders with the other.

“Good posture is essential while typing,” he explained. “Otherwise you’ll have neck and shoulder pain. My mom learned to type in high school,” he offered, apologetically. “You would have figured it out, though.”

“Well, thanks for saving me from neck and shoulder pain.” I typed a few random paragraphs, then played with the typewriter a little, learning her secrets.

“It’s not as hard on the fingers as I thought it would be.”

I stood, pulled my kimono jacket off, and tossed it to him where he lounged back on the couch.

“Hold that for me, John.”

I reached for the machine and lifted it, feeling its solid weight, then gently set it back down on the table.

“It’s heavy,” I said. “Most women wouldn’t have been able to move it easily.” I looked down into the machine, looking for the ribbon.

“It’s here,” John said, leaning over me. He pointed down inside, then showed me how to insert the inked fabric.

“Your jacket’s beautiful,” he said, picking it up again and stroking his long fingers over the silk lining. It looks like it was stitched by hand.”

“It was. It’s an antique kimono, cut short to be a jacket. I like the old stuff, too.”

“It smells like you.”

I raised my eyebrows at this.

“So, since I’m not in your department, there would be no conflict of interest?” He stroked those long, elegant fingers down my cheek, over the angle of my jaw. “If I touched you?”

He reached for the waist of my Japanese undershirt, pulled the tie, and unwrapped it. “If I undressed you?” He slid it off my shoulders. “I love these old Japanese clothes,” he explained, filling his hands with the fullness of my breasts. “Especially when women don’t wear anything under them.”

“Should I kick your ass?” I wondered aloud, “or let you proceed? What in God’s name has come over you?”

“You tell me, Dr. Winter,” he said, then lowered his head to take my breast in his mouth. His lips were very warm, and I was forced to clutch his head in a very female fashion, to keep myself upright.

“OK,” I said as my hands found themselves moving through his hair. “I think it has been way too long since a woman penetrated your disguise of that horrible polo shirt and pathetic glasses, not to mention those chinos. Are you licking me? God, what are you doing with your tongue?”

“It’s been longer than way too long,” he admitted. “No woman has figured it out, until you. It’s been a habit so long, sometimes I forget, you know, that it’s not me.”

“My knees are feeling a little weak,” I admitted. “Better let me lie down.”

“You’ll be more comfortable without those jeans,” he said, unzipping them and wiggling them over my hips. “They look pretty tight.”

I pulled the faded red polo off him and ran my hands over his chest. “I suspected you would have a gorgeous hairy chest,” I said, moving my mouth to his nipple and tasting him. “Because you have so much hair on your head.”

“And everywhere else,” he agreed, sliding his hands over my ass. He slipped a finger into the waistband of my underwear and slid them down over my hips. He knelt, slipped them down my legs, then off one foot. While he was down there, he moved those lush lips, that facile tongue, over my stomach, and down, until the trembling in my legs threatened us both with instability. I reached for him, pulled him up, then reached for the belt and pulled it off.

He wasn’t wearing any underwear. Who would have guessed? Hasn’t done laundry in awhile, I concluded. His gorgeous massive prick sprang out at me, demanding I taste it just a little, so velvety smooth on the tip, with just a tiny taste of saltiness, seashells on the beach, in the early morning.

“Dr. Winter,” he said, hands in my hair as I tried to swallow him whole. “Don’t stay on your knees. You’ll get rug burns. And I want you to let me fuck you, right away, face to face. You know, the old-fashioned way.”

I let him pull his gorgeous prick out of my mouth. “I want to finish that later,” I said.

I stood up, smiling, and walked closer to him. I stood with my body touching his, the hair on his chest and stomach tickling my breasts, close enough that he could smell my desire.

“All the power of women, throughout the centuries, is in me, right now.” I took his hand, put it between my legs, let him feel the wet heat of my body, my longing for him.

“And now I’m going to lie down and give that power to you.”

His eyes were nearly black with desire as he watched me lie on his couch and open my legs, then open myself a little more intimately to his gaze, with one gentle finger. I moved my arms up over my head, a position of vulnerability, and smiled at him as he walked closer, irresistibly drawn by an invisible thread of desire.

He reached into a cabinet, pulled out a condom, and covered himself.

“That hasn’t been there as long as the Olivetti,” he assured me.

Then he knelt between my legs, slid a thumb over me, and pushed himself into my body.

He moved into me, a flawless natural rhythm, his mouth teasing my nipple, my neck, until I had to moan a little with the pleasure his body was giving mine. My hips started moving in concert with his, a dance of natural grace and beauty. He moved up to my mouth, kissed me with tenderness, his tongue sliding into me. I was pinned under him, under the onslaught of his desire. He kept kissing me, over and over, making these sexy little moaning noises, as his body began moving faster. I was forced to wrap my legs around his waist, clutch his head, kiss him back, his soft sweet mouth so tender and erotic on mine.

He lifted his head and looked down at me. His hazel eyes glowed like amber.

“Let me look into your face when you come apart.” His big arms braced him on either side of me, and he moved against me rougher, harder. I started shaking, shattering around him, utterly out of control, and he laughed down into my eyes. In triumph. In power. He reached down, covered my mouth with his as a scream tore out of my throat.

He groaned into my open mouth, harder, deeper, then held me against him, like something precious, as his body exploded into mine.

His curly head was nestled on my stomach, one big hand cupped between my legs.

“When’s your next class?” he asked, lips moving gently on my skin.

“Nothing today. Eighth o’clock tomorrow. When’s yours?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Listen,” I said. I felt his shoulders tense, and I moved a hand to his face. “After we do that three or four more times, you want to go get something to eat?”

He buried his face between my legs, and I was forced to raise them and let them fall open so he wouldn’t suffocate.

“Are you going to drag me to the barber shop?” His tongue slid roughly over me. “Make me change my clothes? Ditch my glasses?”

His big hands pulled my hips toward him, but he stopped and looked up at me.

“In this room only,” I suggested.

The power I had given him lit up his eyes like a torch, and I was forced to catch my breath a little.

“Deal,” he said, and lowered his head again.

I am a Nurse Practitioner, working out on the Navajo Reservation since I retired from the Navy. I write erotic romances for fun and pleasure, and in the hopes that at least fictional characters have interesting sex lives. I was particularly drawn to your typewriter contest. I started graduate school 15 yrs after I finished my bachelor’s degree. My first week in grad school, I asked at the University Library for the location of the typewriters, which had been there, waiting for me, the last time I was in school. I hardly need say, however, that the rest of the story is fiction.

Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2004 Typewriter Contest
Honorable Mention