When Kyle Spencer fell into your lap at Miss Robichaux’s Academy, you weren’t sure what to do at first. He was passed around between the other girls like a competition which made you a slight bit uncomfortable, but you grew to enjoy it. He was a cute little undead boy who was only around to give pleasure these days. That brain wasn’t used for much else, no matter how much you tried to teach him. So - you eventually started to use him for your own purposes. He was only too happy to oblige.

Of course, he just so happened to be diving in between your thighs when the weekly call from your parents came in. He raised his head slightly with a questioning look, asking whether he should continue. You ran his fingers through his soft hair, encouraging him back down.

“Yeah baby, you just stay down there,” You cooed, picking up the phone with a smile, tongue between your teeth. “Good evening, mom. You called at the perfect time.”

The conversation went onward, hearing about your neighbors gossip, how nanny was doing, dad came on to announce his newest promotion, and all the while, that tongue was swirling. Oh, it was getting you to a good place. Your breath was hitching. It was getting harder to concentrate.

“Is everything okay, honey?” Your mom asked, concerned.

“I just -” Oh god, so close. “- I think I feel a sneeze coming on. Sniffles. I gotta go. Love you, talk to you-” You didn’t even finish your sentence before hanging up, dropping the phone onto the ground and letting out mewls of excitement and pleasure as Kyle brought you there. “Oh - Kyle, you’re such a good boy,” You said, slumping down onto the bed after the spasms finished. “Very good boy.”

Back in the golden days when I was first writing, my wife Lyn used to bring me elevenses. And with the elevenses came a lot of manuscripts and a lot of letters... My wife christened them Kevins. It's quite unfair. It was just that... well... one day the post included three letters all from boys called Kevin, and she wrote 'Kevins' on the small folder and somehow the name stuck. So now, once a week or whenever I'm feeling guilty, I write replies to the Kevins. Many of them are female. Some of them are grandmothers. I've never really counted them. All I know is that I write almost 200,000 words, about two novels' worth, of letters every year. Most of them are letters to Kevins.

— The Author, 1993, from A Slip of the Keyboard by Terry Pratchett.

I always read tags.