2 comments/ 7491 views/ 13 favorites Fucking Inspiration By: aussie_101 "Fuck," I hissed. "Fuck!" I spat. "Fuck. Fuck! Fucking fucken farken fuggen fuggin farking FUCK!" I screamed, pounding my fists upon the keyboard in time with my tirade. Writer's block. Everyone gets it. Some get it worse than others. Some suffer it shortly, for a day or an hour. Some suffer for months, years, significant proportions of a lifetime. I was right in the grips, deep in the doldrums of the very worst kind of writer's block. And I was not taking it well. It had started with my hobby-writing. The short stories, novellas and longer works that I do in my spare time - I couldn't get anything new to fire, I was getting stuck on pieces I'd had on the boil for a while, I was grounding myself at crucial junctures. I was unable to make plotlines align, my characters refused to behave, their dialogue lacked sparkle and began to clang. Exactly where I wanted and needed the momentum to push through an important scene, I would get snagged on the smallest detail and would be unable to work around it, past it or through it. Then the dreaded 'block' hit my professional writing, too. I write for the Business section of a major city newspaper; short spot-pieces which I normally cranked out over a coffee-break were taking me an hour, two hours, most of a morning or afternoon would be wasted trying to fix them. Then my more significant works - my weekly opinion column chief among them - also began to suffer; pieces I would normally luxuriate over through the course of the week were neglected due to my troubles with the spot-items, and so would be cranked out hurriedly just before deadline, totally lacking in my usual wit, pizazz and turn-of-phrase. My chief editor had noticed and she'd called me in, demanding better of me. I was on the big bucks, she reminded me. There were scores of people out there who bought the Friday newspaper purely so they could enjoy my latest pointed, pithy poke at Bernanke's newest blunder, or Europe's continuing descent into a new dark age, or Chairman Mao's latest grave-spinning commu-capitalistic triumph - so I'd best return to form soon, or she'd not hesitate in finding a new business-pages shock jock worthy of my six-figures-a-year. And now here I was, at one o'clock of the morning, eight hours before my latest Friday column was due... and I could barely even string together a sentence. It wasn't funny anymore. It had gone beyond a joke. My livelihood was at stake and my Muse was on strike. I sighed, and gave up. My violent outburst had rendered my keyboard unusable, bereft of several significant consonants and spelling out "kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk" on the monitor, so I switched it all off and called it a night. I'd imbibed far too much cheap and nasty coffee for sleep to come by natural means, so I stopped by my medicine cabinet, shuffled through my many bottles, and swallowed a half-a-sleeping-tab and a half-a-Valium. Then I nipped across the hallway in my apartment building, rapped on door 14C, and bummed a puff on my neighbour's spliff - my neighbour being the stoner-yuppie type who could always be relied upon to have a doobie blazing, any time of night - and then I shuffled back to my bedroom, the warm and welcoming embrace of sleep descending even as I took the final steps towards my bed. "Fucking Muse," I remember mumbling as I launched myself towards my bed. "What I would do, if I could get my hands on you..." The above may explain how I came to find myself sitting in a forest clearing under the soft light of a pleasant day, the sound of a breeze flitting gently through a million leaves. I blinked, and allowed it to make sense. In the back of my mind I knew I was dreaming; closer to the front of my mind - from somewhere perhaps in the region of my occipital lobe - came a gentle warning that, should I recognise this to be a dream, the dream-state would be broken. Right. Fine. Understood. 'So here I am,' I thought, slowly and carefully, 'sitting in a clearing.' And something stung my ear, light and fleeting as it flitted past. I blinked, but I did nothing. I was still wary, not sure of what I could and could not hope to get away with in this tenuous state of being. So I let it lie. Something else whipped past me, glancing off my bicep before thudding into the ground; it stung quite a lot harder, feeling as though it took a small piece of flesh with it on its journey. I winced but remained still, resolved to holding steady. I sensed I was being tempted to turn around, to seek out the source of these unseen, unknown missiles - I also sensed that turning around would be a capitulation on my part. I was being tested, and I desperately wished not to fail. Then something small, round and hard thunked dead-centre off the back of my skull, making a sound like a ball-peen hammer striking a globe of solid ivory. "Ow!" I yelped, and I turned immediately to spy my tormentor. She was a woman. She stood on a branch high in a tree, lithe and nymph-like and very extremely naked: skin ebony-dark, hair long, straight and blazing brownish-red in the filtered light of the forest. Slung over one shoulder and braced against her hip was what looked like a leather satchel filled with marbles, and in the other hand was a blow-pipe. She beheld me with a peculiar, particular light in her eye: quizzical, imperious, impetuous and challenging, the very definition of knowing cheek. I saw her chest rise, her nostrils flare as she inhaled, in preparation for speech: "Bounced right off you," she sneered. I frowned back at her. I knew her. I'd never met her, never met any woman like her in her life - meeting a woman like that, dark and tawny, naked and spectacular, I would definitely remember. But I knew her. I knew exactly who she was. "Muse!" I hissed, in a sneer of my own. My unkind greeting served only to heighten her haughtiness - her nose raised higher, her shoulders squared up, and I watched her breasts rise as she puffed up her chest again. "The contempt," she observed, as she reached into her satchel and pulled out a stone, small and round. "There was a time when you and I worked well together." "You've abandoned me!" I accused. "Nonsense!" she admonished; I watched as she slipped the little marble into her pipe. "You've closed your mind." "Bullshit," I spat in return. "You've left me with nothing. You've taken all I had. Exactly when I needed it, exactly when I needed you - you're gone!" Her eyes narrowed, and quick as a flash her pipe was back to her lips. I knew it was coming, I knew she was going to fire off another shot, but it hit me before I could move. She was too fast, dodging it was like trying to dodge a bullet - it collected me smack in the forehead and I reeled backwards, staggering and trying to regain my focus. "Aaaargh!" I cried. "Dammit, bitch - why are you doing that?" "You think this is a weapon?" she asked of me, strolling casually along her branch to approach me. "Do you think I seek to injure you?" "Definitely seems the case so far," I quipped unkindly. "This," she began, as she pulled out another marble and pointed it at me, "is Inspiration. This is what fires you, motivates you." I squinted at the proffered stone. It looked for all the world like a marble: spherical, polished, grey in colour. Utterly unremarkable. "Usually when I fire them at you - and when you're in a receptive frame of mind," she went on, "they pass through your shell and are absorbed." "'Inspiration', eh? So that's a bag full of ideas, is it?" I asked of her. "Got any good ones in there? Reckon you could reach in and find the next 'Harry Potter' for me? That'd be good," I added, smirking sardonically. "These are not 'Ideas'," she returned, with a hard glare for my mockery. "These are 'Inspiration'. You are operating under a misapprehension; you do not properly understand the role of the Muse." "Please: enlighten me," I asked of her. "I am not your puppeteer," she told me, sternly. "You seem to think I pull the strings. You seem to credit me with your creativity and to blame me when you suffer, as though I am the originator of your ideas. But that is not my purpose. I serve only to provide Inspiration. I do not give you your materiel, I do not create your concepts - I simply provide you with the urge to create. I give you 'Inspiration'," she said again, wielding the marble like a precious stone. "I fire off the Inspiration, and you soak it up. It's like a pellet of fuel, it stokes your fires and moves you to creativity." "Hurts like a bitch, too," I cut in. "It's not supposed to!" she nearly snarled - it seemed she was as unimpressed with me as I with her. "It's never bounced off you like this before! Usually - when you're in a proper creative frame of mind - it slips straight into your brain, it passes through your exterior and is absorbed, drunk up, consumed wilfully, greedily! When you're firing properly, when you're deep in the creative zone, you drink up these little pellets of Inspiration like they're going out of style. And if you're not in the mood and I try to shoot one into you, then it just passes straight through, harmlessly and unheeded. But now: they're bouncing!" she lamented. "I know!" I agreed, rubbing my forehead angrily. "I think you dented my skull with that little marble-bullet of yours." "You've changed," she nodded, all wise and sage, which only added to my vexation. "Your mind is closed. You've turned away from your creativity; you'll no longer accept my Inspiration." "What crap," I returned. "It's true. I've seen it before, many a time over thousands of years," she said again. "You have given up on your creativity. You have set your mind to other matters, you've snuffed out your own spark." "Bullshit!" I replied, arcing up again. "Turned my back on my creativity? Writing is my life! My lifeblood! My living! If I can't string my column together, I will be fired. I've wanted nothing more than to get published, to publish a work of fiction - it's my dream! And you'll have me believe your marble-bullets are bouncing off me because I don't want that anymore?" "Look inside yourself," she instructed - imperious, challenging, demanding. Long, lithe, and limber. Fit, fabulous... and utterly fuckable. "Go on and look!" she yelled, shaking me from my pervy stupor. "You know it to be true! You crunch numbers and observe markets and follow policy, you lose yourself in dollars and cents, you fill yourself with caffeine day by day and you rely on a cocktail of drugs to find sleep at night. You are lost. You have lost your creative spark, you have turned away from it, you've let it sputter and die! You're too far gone - I cannot inspire you anymore! My 'bullets' bounce off you!" "Really?" I asked of her - not believing a single word of it, and not caring about any of her cutting, uncomfortably-close-to-home accusations either. "Well, cool story babe. Thanks for letting me know. But, if I may ask: why am I here? Is there any reason you've called me to this wonderful place, other than to gloat and berate me and bounce marbles off my skull?" A short pause, while she beheld me. And there it was again. That look. A taunting look. Teasing... yet somehow, beguiling. "I'm giving you a chance," she murmured; she took another step along the branch, starting again on her slow, steady advance. "A chance that most of my charges never get. As a Muse, I am allowed to reveal myself to a charge only once in a millennium." "Lucky me," I growled - but I stepped too, closing the distance between me and her tree ever so slightly. "Damn straight," she returned, still advancing. "And I suggest you make the most of this chance, because you'll never again have an opportunity to win back your spark." "Uh huh," I returned, dubiously; we had closed the horizontal distance between us, but I remained on the ground and she in the air, balancing lightly and effortlessly on the branch above me. I was forced to look directly up at her, and she to look down at me through the gap between her feet - and it need not be mentioned, the eye-catching distraction that lay between us. "So then, tell me," I invited her. "How exactly do I win back this 'spark' of mine?" She said not a word - but the look in her eye spoke volumes. I grinned; 'I love dreams like these,' I dared to think. "Very well," I said. I made to turn away, dropping into a slow crouch as though I was reaching for something on the ground - but then I suddenly sprang, jumping as high as I could in an attempt to tag her feet on the low-ish branch. She was quick though, leaping up just in the nick of time; I caught a fingerhold of the skinny branch and it sagged beneath my weight, sinking a little further when she landed nimbly back upon her perch, grinning at my fumbling efforts. I squinted a little at her, and without warning I released the branch; I fell to land in the soft long grass, watching as the branch whipped upwards and threw my Muse into the air. Not that it fazed her any - she did an extraordinarily high, slow backflip, arcing through the air to eventually land in the grass about ten feet clear of me. I scrambled to my feet and watched as she tensed herself, ready to flee. "Must this be so hard?" I asked of her. "Must you demand that everything be so easy?" she returned fire, her teeth gleaming white against her face, her skin so dark that the daylight reflected with a bluish tinge. "Ahh, my dear Muse," I said to her, allowing the cold hard hatred that I held for her to colour my voice. "The things I'm gonna do to you when I catch you." "If you want it," she told me, in a low slow voiced that purred like a pleasured puss, "you've got to prove it to me. You've got to show me, leave me with no uncertainty, that you want it. That you want it back. That you need what I can give you." "Oh, I'll show you all right," I told her. "I'll leave no doubt in your mind, my dear." She grinned hugely at that. "Gotta catch me first," she teased - and then she turned tail and bolted. I leapt immediately to the chase, having been steeled and ready to pounce throughout our encounter. As my bare feet scrabbled at the soft earth and pounded the long, luxurious green grasses flat in my pursuit, my heart leapt and my mind sang at the thrill of the pursuit. She flitted quickly through the forest ahead of me, maintaining the distance between us with apparent ease. We ducked and weaved through the trees, leaping to clear low shrubbery, splashing through a babbling brook - I the hunter, my Muse the prey. As we ran, I drank in the intoxicating sight of her form. Her legs, strong and muscular, pumped and powered her through the undergrowth; her rump, delightfully perky and shaped like an upended heart, quivered and flexed with her every stride. Her arms swang free and easy, her hair rampant and free - and every now and again she would swing about to sneak a peek at me and my progress, treating me to a glimpse of her bosom, fulsome yet muscular, the beam of her grin and the glint in her eye, the glint that called to me, egged me onwards... I called on new reserves, tapping into long-unused tanks of adrenaline to surge forwards. I was closing the gap, but she would not make it easy for me: she would grab and snatch at twigs and branches as she passed such that they'd whip back at me, stinging my face and slicing holes in the sweatpants and t-shirt I'd worn while awake, while I'd been attempting to write. She was leading me across rougher terrain now, swerving easily around unseen obstacles that I'd stumble over and into - holes, roots and rocks chipped my toes and tried to twist my ankles. Yet onwards I ran, sucking in great burning lungfuls of clean cool air and pounding down upon my quarry. All of a sudden she tried a new trick - leaping into the air like a ballerina, she pivoted about and even as I realised she had her blowpipe at the ready, I found myself blinking as a solid little pellet of 'Inspiration' grazed my cheekbone and nicked at my ear. I watched her land gracefully and regain her speed, but the fancy manoeuvre had cost her some time; as I watched her reach into her satchel and reload her pipe, I closed the distance ever-more, bringing the gap down to a few scant feet. I could see the sweat gleaming dully upon her dark skin, I could hear the heavy breathing of her exertion; I was nearly upon her and she didn't seem to realise how close I had come. We were about to crest a small hillock, and I saw her tense up, preparing to pounce - I dived, throwing myself forward with all my might, and just at the very last second I managed to tag her ankle. She stumbled and fell; I had managed to tuck myself into a ball, but she did the same, and separately we tumbled down the other side of the hillock, still in pursuit. But I had her, I was sure. As her speed washed off I kicked into the ground and sprang over her; quicker than what was human, she had turned about beneath me and she kicked hard, connecting with my stomach and adding unwanted momentum such that I flew onwards and hit a tree hard enough to bounce off it. "Aaaargh," I groaned, rising to my feet. I was all set to launch into a series of unkind insults when I realised she was upon me, fists balled and punches flying, connecting shortly and sharply with my arms and chest before she cracked me a cropper right across my jaw. "Come on then!" she yelled as I reeled with surprise. "'Wait til I catch you,' he says - well then, go on. Show me!" She threw another jab at me, but I was ready now to roll with the punches - I poked a forearm out to deflect the blow, and then I raised a knee, though the lingering remnants of my chivalry saw me sink it into her fleshy thigh rather than the more intimate spot I might otherwise have aimed for. My knee connected fairly hard, all the same, and she was forced to stagger back heavily; I advanced on her slowly, arms raised more defensively than aggressively, and she picked up on my hesitance. "You're not going to win back your 'spark' if you treat me like a lady," she advised, with a grin and a wink. "Let me assure you, I am no woman - I am a Muse, a spirit, unreal and eternal. So come on, man! Show me what you've got!" And she came at me again, fists flying - her first jab caught me on the back-foot, another crack to the face which I managed to roll away from, turning it into more of a scrape against my cheek. She put all her momentum behind the second thrust, totally committing to the blow, which gave me a window - I let her second blow slip between my arm and my body and I clamped down, locking her in place for a rather nasty head-butt, my forehead connecting with her nose with a satisfying 'crack!' I felt her stagger, and I reared back to swing a punch; all the while I had to goad myself, 'she's your Muse. She's your Muse. The bitch has been holding out on you. She's made your life hell! Give her hell man! Smack the bitch! Smack her hard!' Whether I had hesitated again or whether she was too quick for me, I don't know - either way, I'd hardly begun to swing before she'd whipped her arm out of my clamp while simultaneously connecting her knee with my manly-bits, putting a stop to my attack and leaving me to crumple winded to my knees. "You don't want it," she taunted as she danced away, hackles still raised. "What is this shit? Where's the fight? Don't you want it, boy? Don't you want your spark back?" I was about to formulate a reply when I saw her hands move, and hardly had I even prepared myself for it, the too-familiar crunch of a marble-bullet rang off my forehead. "Still closed to my Inspiration!" she cried. "I'm wasting my time. Once in a thousand years, I get the chance to face down a failing charge of mine; once in a thousand years, and yet another wasted effort. I thought you'd be better. I thought you'd turn around, you'd open yourself to me and take in my Inspiration once again - but your bitterness and arrogance have won out. Forget this," she said, and she turned away. "I'm gone. Enjoy your life, boy." Fucking Inspiration "Fuck you," I returned, heaving through the tides of nausea brought about by her low blow. She stopped, and turned back. I looked up, and saw the light in her eye had gone cold. "That's right," I affirmed. "Fuck you. You fickle, capricious, unreliable, unrepentant bitch. Fuck you, good and hard." She was running. She was running, coming hard at me - and I saw in her eyes, she was ready to finish me. One well-timed kick to the head and she'd knock me out of her presence, out of this realm, and back into the cold sad lifeless world of my own. She was quick, but so was I - I rose just as she passed the point of no return, and returned charge, and in her surprise she was unable to slow or turn; I scooped her up and absorbed the momentum of her slight, lithe, tawny little body easily, gathering her up and charging her bodily into the broad trunk of a tree, crushing her hard in the impact before letting her fall to the ground. The blow stopped her, but only momentarily - I had to dodge another swinging leg aiming at my nether-regions, but I managed to grab her about the throat and I picked her up, choke-holding her at a good arm's length. "So then," I growled, wincing through the aches in my body, the dull burning pain in my loins and the complaints of my cracked knuckles - and I tightened my grip about her throat, subtly but meaningfully. "How hard do I have to squeeze, to re-earn your co-operation?" "You seem to forget - I am an immortal being," she croaked through my grasp. "You can't choke the life out of me. However..." Her arm shot out, she matched my chokehold with one of her own, and she continued: "...you are very much mortal. And I can, very much, choke the life out of you." We squinted at each other, deadlocked, as it were. I searched in her eyes, looking through the malice and violent intent, for the light I had seen earlier; she saw me searching, the heat of battle died out between us and I saw it again. It was a look in her eye - a look of intent. Not a look of wanting, or yearning, as such; it was more a mood, a conceit. But I knew what it meant. I knew what she was thinking. She would not give it up. She would not give me anything. If I wanted anything of her, I could win it; if I was able to win it from her, she would not begrudge me. If I could best her, then I could have her. Violence wasn't strictly the key. She fought me to rile me, she threw her punches in feeding off my hatred and rage. There was nothing to be gained in hitting or kicking. Time to try a new tack. I softened my grip on her throat somewhat, enough to allow the free passage of air but not so much as to allow an easy escape - and she followed suit. I advanced on her, pulling her closer to me; as I did, I allowed my free hand to fall upon her shapely hip, an unexpected contact that made her jump slightly. "You've seemed disappointed with my efforts," I murmured, as we suddenly found ourselves standing toe-to-toe, her back up against the tree against which I had earlier body-slammed her. "You'll have to forgive me; violence against a woman, even a sprite with the body of a woman..." and I think we both savoured the way the word 'body' came out of my mouth, loaded with heavy intent "...is a pastime to which I'm unaccustomed." "Probably a good thing," my Muse allowed, and I saw her repress a shiver as my hand swept up along her side, taking in the smoothness of her flawless black skin and the muscularity of her flanks. "Perhaps I'm more likely to impress you..." and I let my hand pass down low, over and along her hip, down and around her thigh to rise again, cupping gently against the lowest edge of her shapely rump, "...with pastimes I have enjoyed more frequently." I descended slowly upon her, watching for any danger - but there would be none, her eyes lolled heavily as I fell to her neck, and I laid my lips against her soft, warm, aromatic skin. I released my loose hold about her neck, and she did the same; her arms wound about me and pulled me closer, pulled me to her, and we fell deep into each other's embrace as my lips found hers and we kissed. We revelled in the sensation, the sudden juxtaposition against the violence of before. I pressed hard into her, making my arousal known against her belly - she moaned soft and low in response, and as our kisses continued I found myself with a pressing query. "Muse," I addressed her. "I must know..." "...mmm..." "I must know: why me?" "...hmm?" "Why did you pick me?" I repeated, as I moved up to graze my teeth along her ear. "Why feed me with your inspiration, why not another artist? Why choose to summon me, when you might pick any other of your charges in the next thousand years?" "Because your work is like none I've ever seen before," she whispered to me, her hands cupping my own buttocks and pressing my girth ever-harder into her. "You are a great. You write with a fire and a passion that I've not seen for millennia! You are the envy of all my sisters, all the Muses would kill to gain a charge like yourself! "I've never seen a man so thirsty for my Inspiration," she breathed in my ear, as I rubbed myself hard against her sex, able to feel the naked heat and moisture even through my own clothes, which we began to remove. "You drink up my Inspiration so hungrily, so greedily - I can barely provide it fast enough, all that I fire at you is absorbed so wantonly, you take all I can give you and then you take some more! "And your words - your words," she sighed, the pleasure heavy in her voice as my clothes hit the ground and we entwined, hot and naked, hard against the other. "You are an artist. You are a poet. You write with a vividness, a power and a passion so rare in this world, so rare through the ages... and the look you get on your face," she went on, "the way you bite your lip, the way your fingers fly across the keyboard when your fires are burning, burning on the fuel of my Inspiration... "There was no doubt," my Muse went on, her breath catching as I spun her around, as I pressed my naked cock hard against her back, as I let my hands fall down her body, down towards their hallowed goal... "There was no doubt in my mind," she went on. "I was due; it had been more than a thousand years since I had last challenged my charge. I had been waiting. Waiting for a man like you..." I stopped. My hands, having fallen so near to her sex that I could feel her heat at my fingertips, stopped in their descent - I leaned back, I spun her back around with my hands locked about her hips, and I fixed her in the eye. "Wait," I said. "Did you... did you bring this about?" She was suddenly frozen, staring at me, her eyes wide and - perhaps - somewhat fearful. "What?" "Did you do this to me?" I demanded of her. "All that talk of me having turned my back, having lost myself in my career, having become inured to your Inspiration... is it true? Or did you make it happen - did you keep it from me? Did you manufacture my block?" She said nothing, but I saw it. I saw it in her eye. "You did," I murmured in shock. "I was right - you did! You cut me off, you withheld your Inspiration, you tortured me... just to make me come here? You kept it back, you starved me, you starved my creativity, my expression - simply so you could have me?" I saw a twinkle in her eye, and a smile played about her lips - and then her knee rose hard. But I was ready. I caught her rising knee with my thighs, protecting myself from another sickening low blow. And my eyes narrowed. "So much for playing nice," I observed. "Now if you'll excuse me: I'm gonna have me some fun." Still with a firm hold of her hips, I spun us around and threw myself forward, so that I fell atop her. She struggled beneath me, bucking and kicking as I quickly reached up and grabbed her hands - she was strong but I was stronger, able to lock her hands above her with all my weight upon them. Hovering above her, I checked her eyes - I wanted it, I wanted to give it to her, to do it to her and break her, make her mine... but I hesitated. I had never taken a woman like this before. I had always won consent, very much so; never had I pressed the issue if a hint of reluctance was detected. So I looked to her eye... I mostly saw fight. She raged beneath me, bucking and struggling away. So I looked deeper... And still, that gleam in the eye was there. I sought it and found it: there was that little look, betrayed by a quick grin amongst her struggles, a little look that was there if it was looked for - if I could win it, then I deserved full well to take it. So I took it. I pinned her arms down, kicked her legs apart, lined myself up and plunged into her, deep and hard. She paused momentarily, her breath stolen away by my sudden penetration. I revelled in the sensation, the sudden enveloping heat and moisture - yes, she was wet, very much so - and my cock pulsed, seeming to gain in length and girth even as I held station within her. But I didn't fuck her. Not yet. I was waiting - I hovered slightly above her, still with her arms pinned, her legs forced apart by my own; I waited and watched her, as her eyes fluttered and lolled, as her mouth fell slackly in a wide, silent gasp of... surprise? Pleasure? Both? Neither? Eventually she came round; her eyes found their focus and fixed on mine, and in them I saw a lot of things: defiance; anger; a willingness to fight, a refusal to capitulate; and yet, even amongst all of that, I saw a hint of admiration and approval. I found myself grinning, partly in triumph but mostly in enjoyment. "You feel me, Muse?" I asked of her. "Damn you..." she growled through clenched teeth. I raised a scolding eyebrow, and almost as a reprimand, I pulled out slightly and slammed back into her - and I thrilled to watch her eyes widen, her jaw go slack again as I parted her inner depths, hard and rough. "So this is how it's gonna go," I informed her. "I'm gonna fuck you. I'm gonna fuck you, good long and hard. I'm going to take you, and make you mine. I'm gonna fuck you and take back what's mine - and it's going to be so, so good." I watched as her eyes remained wide, as a look of shock spread upon her face as I spoke - a look of shock mixed with something else, a hint of amusement, perhaps appreciation...? Enough had been said, so I did it again - still with her arms pinned down, I fed myself out of and back into her, this time in a long, slow, glorious stroke. "Can you feel it, Muse?" I asked of her. "Can you feel me?" She bit her lip as though fighting down her answer, so I did it again - sliding out, withdrawing slowly from her hot, tight, incredibly wet pussy, before feeding my twitching rod deep back into her depths. "Answer me, Muse," I demanded. "Can you feel it? Can you feel me, feel my cock inside you?" She bared her teeth at me in response, snarling like an animal - yet I could see her own excitement, her own arousal not far from the surface. "I'm fucking you, Muse," I told her, more for my own benefit than to help catch her up on current events. "I'm fucking you. I'm pumping my long, fat cock in and out of your hot, wet little snatch. And I know you like it," I added, with a grin. She snarled at me again, writhing under my restraint, though I could see the hint of a smile about the edges of her mouth. "I'm gonna take it from you now," I whispered to her, locking her in the eye. "I'm gonna take back what's mine. I'm gonna fuck you, Muse. I'm gonna fuck you, long, deep, slow and hard." My Muse's head was tipping back now. My base, guttural words were having their desired effect; I was triumphal and dominant, I was taking what was mine and I would make sure there was no doubt in her mind as to what was going on. And she liked it, her eyes lolled as she struggled to mask her building pleasure. "I'm gonna pin you down and fuck you, Muse," I told her, even as I did the very same. "I'm gonna pin you down and take it back, take back what you took from me. I can feel it, even now." She looked to me anew. "That's right," I told her, with a growing grin. "I can feel it coming back. With every thrust..." And I thrust into her, short and hard. "With every pump..." And I pumped into her again, just once, hard and fast. "Every time my cock bottoms out in your sweet little pussy I feel it, I can feel it coming back, it's coming back..." I saw now in her eye, a look of admiration. A look of respect. A look that told me that I had figured it out, that I had put the pieces of the puzzle together. "I know what I have to do," I told her. "I know what I have to do to win it back, to win you back, forever and after." "Yeah?" she smiled. "What's that, then?" "I have to fuck you," I replied, even as I kept on doing the same. "I have to fuck you. I have to take you, break you, and make you mine." "That's right, my boy," she purred at me. "That's what you have to do. But: do you think you can manage it?" I frowned slightly, and looked rather pointedly down at where my cock was slipping and sliding in and out of her ever-moistened depths. "Well," I began. "I don't like to brag, but I rather reckon I'm managing pretty well at the moment." "Ahh," she grinned. "But that's not the end of it, is it? It's not enough that you've managed to pin me down and stick it in me." That stopped me in my tracks. "It's not?" "No," she said - and she took my breath away as, all of a sudden, she grasped my cock with her cunt and squeezed me, kneaded me and played with me, even as I remained deep within her depths. "If you want to break me and make me yours, then you have to win." "Win?" I gasped, even as she kept doing that incredible trick with her pussy, seeming to grab me by the cock and fuck me with her cunt even as she lay perfectly still beneath me. "Yes," she replied, in a mixture of a purr and a hiss. "You have to win." And as she said it, I knew. I understood. I had to win - I had to win the race. The age-old race. The race that I loved and adored. I had to win the race, where coming last meant coming best. With an understanding achieved, the game began anew. I released her wrists, knowing now that she had no intention of fleeing - not when there was a new competition, when there was a new race to be won. I scooped her up in my arms and stood, bracing her against my friend the tree, finding the feat of immense ease as she weighed practically nothing in my arms. I heard her whoop with surprise and delight as I shoved her against the tree and fucked her anew. I settled immediately into my usual approach to fucking: I withdrew as much focus from the sensations coming from my cock as I could, setting up a mental block between myself and it, and pouring all my concentration and efforts instead into the focus of pleasing my partner. My hands flew across my Muse's body as I sought to take in every inch of her. I cupped and caressed her muscular breasts, laying kisses upon her muscle-rippling skin, tasting the delicious salty taste of her hard chocolate-brown nipples. I ran my hands across her back and over her ass, drinking in the shapeliness of her hind quarters with my fingers splayed wide, cupping my fingers deep around and under her cheeks to best enjoy the feel of her tawny perkiness in my hands. My Muse responded strongly to my new approach, melting somewhat in my arms as I retook the lead. I loved the feeling that I had momentarily overpowered her, this time in a new and far more enjoyable way, by unleashing the full fury of my arousal upon her. For a few moments I felt that I had gained the upper hand; she had relented, she had given herself over, she took me as I kept plunging my cock in and out of her sopping pussy, she took me in and welcomed my kisses and caresses as I paid worship to the divine awesomeness of her hotness, her sexiness. But her capitulation did not last long. With an effort of will I felt her resistance return, and she fought back - her pussy snatched at my cock and stopped me in my tracks, and it was my turn to freeze in astonishment as she did it to me again, grasping me and gripping me, pulling my shaft deeper into her and pumping back against it; she literally moved in my arms, pumping herself up and down upon me, slightly but noticeably with no other muscular effort than the grip of her cunt. This ethereal being must have filled her millennia with some fucking powerful pelvic floor exercises. Incredible as it did feel though, I would not be outdone. I would not be the one to come first. There was too much at stake, my job, my livelihood, my passion - my writing. And so onwards I fucked her, pumping her hard, aiming to hit her spot with the thick sweeping hardness of my shaft. Gradually, almost grudgingly, I sensed her resolve breaking down: her grunts of determination were morphing into moans and groans, and the grasping strength of her pussy was gradually dissolving, her sex feeling more willing and pliant as I plied into her. Not that I wasn't in a spot of bother of my own. My Muse felt incredible, her inner depths of a burning hotness and wetness I had never before experienced. This, combined with the sheer intense hotness of her body, the sexiness of this being, had my own pleasure building and mounting, doubling and climbing, threatening to peak. With a massive effort of will I beat down my gathering pleasure, focusing instead upon pleasing her. My hands moved across her dark bluish-black skin, taking in the strength of her muscular athletic body. My mouth swept across her skin, alternating between kissing her deeply upon the mouth, drinking up the fiercely savory taste of her, and sweeping up and down her neck and shoulders, trailing kisses about the hollow beneath her jawbone, the sweep of her collarbone, the power in her shoulders. The dynamic between us had changed. No longer were we working in opposition, trying to best the other. Our union was now one of equals, working with each other and for each other. My Muse had dropped her guard completely now, her appreciation for me and my skills as an artist and a lover were shining through, and similarly my admiration of her powers of inspiration and her fine womanly form could not be withheld. We were both of us well on the way now, our arousal mounting and peaking together, and as I felt my orgasm take root I could tell she was also on the brink as she gasped and cried out while I slammed into her, bracing her against the tree and fucking her with wild abandon, slamming my long hard cock deep and hard into her incredible hot wet tight pussy. We grunted, we gasped, we moaned, we groaned, we cried out and we screamed together, and we came, we came together, we came as partners and equals, we came as one. We rode the peak of our orgasms for the longest times, surfing them as though they were a wave, coming and coming together until finally we were spent; I collapsed to the ground and brought her with me, and we lay in the damp cool of the mossy undergrowth of the forest, gasping and heaving in blissed-out, contented silence. "So," I said at last, once I had regained the ability to speak. "Who won?" "I think we both did," my Muse grinned, as she snuggled up close to me. I was well satisfied with that, and we lay together for the longest of times, dozing in the cool of the forest for hours. That was the last I remember of her; at some point the dream-state ended, and I found myself back in my bed again, basking in a wondrous afterglow of well-rested contentment even though, according to the clock on my phone, I had slept only a few scant hours. Not wanting to waste such a fine feeling, I leapt out of bed and fired up my computer. I loaded up my Friday column, resolved upon a new approach, and with an enormous grin I watched as my fingers danced across the keyboard and belted out the required word count in record time. The first draft ended up the final draft: it was perfection itself, one of my best ever pieces, not requiring any revision whatsoever - there weren't even any typos or spelling slips to be found! Fucking Inspiration After firing the piece off to the chief editor - safe in the knowledge she'd be better than well pleased with it - I stayed on my roll, cranking out the required short pieces for the coming week in no time at all. I then went into the short stories that had recently had me stymied and I got them cleaned up and completed, very much to my satisfaction. And with great relish, I spent the next seventy-two hours putting the long-awaited final touches on my first novel, bringing it to a First Draft state of completion and ready for a round of self-editing prior to seeking out beta-readers and manuscript combers, finally primed on the path to publication. And my Muse? I never saw her again. Truth be told, I cannot be entirely sure she exists. The events of that dream-state were so vivid and felt so real. Honestly though, with the pressure I'd been under and the cocktail of drugs I'd been imbibing, I was due for either a release or a total nervous breakdown - it was a fifty-fifty shot either way, I reckon. Still though, I have my suspicions as to the realness of that dream, and the actuality of her existence. Strong suspicions. Proof in the pudding: as though it was a story she didn't want to be told, I had started writing this tale of Fucking Inspiration in 2011, and only now in late 2014 after getting stuck, forgetting about it, finding it, getting stuck again, losing it, finding it again, and so forth have I completed it... And finally, besting my fickle Muse once again!