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The Muse

By: asian_sensation



Deacon clenched his fist, enjoying the temporary relief as he heard his knuckles crackle. He stretched his fingers admiring them temporarily. They were different from that of normal men. Long and thin, but not disfigured in any sense. Delicate, would be a word to describe such hands. Elegant perhaps would also be another word associated with it. Deacon stared at his hands for some time, he imagined that they were the kind of hands that a skilled surgeon would acquire. Or perhaps that of a pianist. Million dollar hands Deacon thought to himself sarcastically as he turned back to the piano in front of him. 

Throughout the world, the mere mention of his name was often associated with thoughts of greatness, and a skill with the piano that unrivalled many. He had been dubbed the Beethoven of the 20th Century recently by an esteemed reviewer. With that god like status amongst the music world came power and with power came wealth. Deacon was still young, his raven black hair was short and spiked, whilst his lean figure and slightly feminine face had launched his god-like musical status amongst the classical arena into that of a rock star. Companies lined up at his door begging him for ad campaigns, appearances at events and various other charity concerts. He had sex appeal, class, and a demeanour that appealed to millions. It was this that had effectively revived the image of classical music. Breathing in a new breath of fresh air into the stale stereotyped images of an audience consisting of old men with atrocious British accents paired with women of the same age with an equally worse accent. 

But it was his eye's that captivated millions worldwide. Deacon was blind. His eyes by themselves though were just as unique as his talent was. They were violet in colour. The colours changed with his mood, at times they appeared as a light lavender colour when he was in mellower moods, but other times they changed to a brilliantly vivid violet with specks of azure throughout it; especially when playing. It was this vulnerability, this disability that had made Deacon such a successful commodity, not only had he mastered his disability, he had done what others with sight could not. If eyes are the window to one's soul, then Deacons soul was barricaded and impenetrable. 

With the lost of his sight however, Deacon had adapted his other senses to compensate. For example his hearing was extremely sensitive, he could hear a pin drop from the other side of the room and his hands were, well million dollar hands. 

His skills did not just lay with his music though. Deacon had bedded many women in his time; one of the many perks of being so sought after. He was a voracious lover and quite well attuned to the female body. Their moans of pleasure sent him into a world of enrapture as their bodies moved and flowed like music. Their rhythm building up in crescendo before slowing down, only to build up once again. But although he had enjoyed the physical contact, he had never grown emotionally attached to any of them. It was in his contract and he never felt the need. 

Deacon massaged the sides of his temples, they ached dully from his fervent concentration. Counting inside his head, his fingers floated across the ivory keys of the piano. A haunting melody rose to his ears as he continued to play, his fingers a flurry across the keys as the song continued to play in his head. His fingers complimented his thoughts until he reached that same blank spot in the song. The same blank spot that had haunted him for years on end. His fingers froze temporarily with his blank thought. In an attempt to fill the blank void that had enveloped his train of thought his finger's flew across the keys, but the more he played, the worse it sounded until it reached to the point where he could take it no longer. Deacon swore out loudly as his hand clenched, bashing down upon the keys as they voiced their disapproval. The sound of notes chaotically fusing together to beat down upon his ears. 

Grabbing the glass of half full red wine on the piano, Deacon took a large drink from it, draining the contents of the glass. His mind began to pound; he was feeling the effects of the alcohol as his senses began to swim. He lifted up the receiver of the phone perched besides his piano.

"Hello?" a voice answered from the other line, the voice was formal with a slight British epitome lingering throughout it. 

-"Yes, John can you get me two paracetamol's and my jacket? I need to clear my head with a walk."

"Yes sir, shall I wake the driver?"

-"No that wont be necessary, I'll walk." 

Deacon stood up, stretching his back. His legs ached as did his lower back. He could have easily gotten the things himself, he knew the house inside out. But he did pay his staff handsome wages after all, well his company did. The butler knocked softly at the door and entered the room carrying a tray with two pills and a glass of water. Deacon took the tablets from the butler thankfully and drained the glass of water. The butler handed Deacon his jacket, which he slung over his shoulder. Two pairs of footsteps barely audible against the plush carpet entered the room. Deacon looked at John and raised an eyebrow.

-"I did not ask for bodyguards."

"But sir, they are here for your protection."

-"I did NOT ask for bodyguards."

The butler stayed silent.

"There are a lot of sick people ou-" Bodyguard #1 blurted out.

-"Did I ask for your opinion? You must be the new bodyguard otherwise you would not have been so impertinent as to talk unnecessarily. Let me guess, Paul? Your... 6'2? Guessing by your elephant like strides I would say you're about 160-170lb?"

The bodyguard gaped. As arrogant and as blind as Deacon was, he was uncannily observant for someone without the gift of sight. The butler smiled as the perplexed Paul looked to his fellow bodyguard then at Deacon then to the grinning butler. Without so much as a pause, Deacon walked out the room, walking cane in one hand, jacket in the other. 

The cool breeze of the night air hit Deacon in the face as he struck out towards the main street. His mind had mapped this path many times; he knew every single crack in the concrete on the way to his destination. Being blind, one had to be more observant about the smaller insignificant things that people often overlooked with sight. He moved at a fast rate, mainly because he knew that the bodyguards were following him despite his disapproval. They were always following him, sometimes they even invaded his dreams. Like a pair of silent sentinels they remained alert and kept a low profile. Only revealing themselves at any hint of danger. 

Deacon could sense the nearing of the intersection by the way the path sloped slightly downwards to accommodate for the wheelchair bound. Three steps, two, one, click. His cane tapped against the concrete curb with the tip of the metal cane sounding off the edge of the kerb. Deacon listened for the sounds of any cars, the sound of the pedestrian crossing resounded, but judging from the distance of the sound Deacon figured that it wouldn't necessarily apply to the intersection he was about to cross. The chatter of people surrounded him, which he filtered through his mind in order to discern if there were any vehicles around the area. Satisfied, he walked across the treacherous road, his walking cane clicking against the bitumen in unison to his shoes. With each step closer he could hear the chatter of people growing louder. Laughter, garbled voices and the clinking of glasses filled his ear as he walked through the premises of his favoured pub. 

Deacon inhaled the air deeply. It smelled of nicotine, stale beer and sweat. He grinned, he was at home. Walking confidently forward, he weaved through the menagerie of strewn chairs and people drinking until he felt the tip of his walking cane touch the metal rung of the bar. The bartender looked up at him and smiled.

"Ah Deacon, it has been too long. Where have you been hiding yourself? No time to visit your old pal Gavin?"

-"Ah now that is a familiar voice. But I could tell straight away who it was from your breath which I smelt as soon as I entered the door."

Gavin laughed.

"Ah still ever so charming I see Deacon, didn't your mother ever tell you about being tactful?"

Deacon smiled.

"Tact? I did not mean to give offense, but surely someone such as yourself doesn't get offended as easily as I had originally thought."

-"Ha ha it was merely a jest, you would have to do something pretty awful to offend me, like marry my daughter. But then that would make me rich, so I guess I don't have much else to work with now do I? So what can I get you?"

"I have abit of a headache at the moment so I better not push it. Give me a scotch on the rocks."

-"Coming right up."

The people drinking merrily did not seem to notice the celebrity sitting amongst them, or if they did, didn't seem to care. Deacon didn't mind either; peaceful anonymity was blissful. Sometimes it was good to blend into the crowd. The people quietened down though when the lights in the pub darkened and the main stage lit up. Their voices turning into hoarse whispers as a woman walked out onto the stage. The people in the pub seemed to recognise her though as they all erupted into a frenzy of applause. The woman wore a simple red dress that hugged her ample curves. A large slit up the side of the dress showed off her long slender legs whenever she walked. Her hair was jet black in colour, while her azure eye's framed her beautifully sculptured face. Her full red lips breathed sensuality, giving her face a slight Spanish feel to it. Whilst her high delicate cheekbones hinted at some asian heritage somewhere down the line. The soloist thanked the crowd and waited til their cheering subsided before the soft melodious tunes of a piano filled the air. Deacon had already received his drink at this stage as he turned his attention towards the stage, sipping on the drink. Enjoying the warmth as the alcohol travelled through his body. 

The singer began to sing, a slow haunting melody. Her voice captivated the audience as well as Deacon for that matter. As it built in crescendo, her voice ethereally floated across the masses of entranced audience. Deacon listened to the words, it was a love song about the feelings associated with love and the pain associated with the loss of it. He felt a shiver deep inside of him, this woman's words touched at something deep inside of him and stirred something that had remained untouched until this point in time. He could actually feel her pain, her joy and her sorrow as her voice continued to weave its tale of magic at his soul. Deacon stirred in his chair, maybe it was just one of the effects of the alcohol. It disturbed him that someone could actually make him feel this way. He felt so vulnerable yet at the same time curious. The woman finished her song, her voice building up to a fortissimo as her voice reverberated around the room before slowly dieing down to silence. The audience erupted in applause. Deacon turned away disgusted when he found himself unknowingly applauding her. He tapped the bar with his knuckle until he smelt Gavin within talking distance.

"Who is that?"

Gavin grinned. "Like her? What a voice: angelic, incredible talent, Beautiful woman. Her name is Chastice, came to me at the beginning of the week applying for jobs. It mentioned that she was a singer in her CV so I asked her to sing. The rest is history. She is bringing in crowds like there is no tomorrow, business is booming and its all thanks to her."

-"I'm sure she is beautiful, with a voice like that I cant imagine her looking like a tramp. Tell me, does she sing everyday?"

"No, she has a tight schedule, she is only a student. So she only performs on Thursday nights. She will be back next week."

Disgusted with his infatuation over this woman whom he had not even met yet, Deacon finished the rest of his drink and left. The cold bitter breeze clearing his thoughts as he stepped back out into the night air. Later that night Deacon lay in bed, his sightless eye's staring out blankly at the bedroom ceiling. His thoughts were still in turmoil, a naked body stirred restlessly next to him as a naked arm emerged from between the sheets, encircling him and drawing him closer. It was the first time that he had not enjoyed sex, her moans of pleasure and her willingness to do anything seemed hollow and fake. An act- all an act to stroke his ego. Closing his eye's he drifted off to an uneasy sleep.

The crowd waited expectantly as Deacon walked out on stage. The crowd erupted in applause as he settled himself down in front of the piano. His fingers began to float across the keys as a melody rose in time to his skilful fingers. Halfway through the song his fingers suddenly began to feel tired, but he continued to play, trying to play through the pain barrier. But the more he played, the more painful his hands became. He looked down at his fingers, they were old and arthritic. Liver spots marked his hands leaving an ugly brown stain upon it. He glanced down at himself. He was old as his breathing became laboured, as he wheezed heavily he coughed. A small fleck of blood came up with his cough to stain the perfect ivory white keys. The blood took a life of its own spreading and growing, covering the other keys with its red viscousness.

Deacon felt himself growing weaker with each beat of his heart and each note he played. It was as if the blood-covered keys were that of his own, his hands felt sticky from the congealed blood solidifying upon his skin and the keys. Still he continued to play, ignoring the stabbing pain in his chest as the audience continued to look on. Sightless and emotionless yet still expectant nonetheless. All of a sudden a voice began to sing, its voice synonymous with the music. Deacon turned his neck to stare at the newcomer. It was Chastice. She looked at him and smiled her perfectly aligned white teeth gleaming in the light, her azure coloured eyes twinkled almost mischievously. As she continued to sing the pain began to ebb away from his chest. The piano keys slowly regained their colour, from a blood red it slowly began to pale, turning pink in colour before finally retaining their original white colour.

Finally the liver spots faded, the pain in his fingers disappeared, and the skin tightened once again, regaining its youthfulness. With the final key finally struck, Deacon finished. The crowd, previously silent and emotionless erupted in applause. Deacon stood up from the piano and walked over to Chastice enveloping her in his arms, before turning towards the audience and bowing in unison with Chastice. 

The Muse



I had lived next door to Nafula for over ten years. Originally from Kenya, she had been met her future husband Ken whilst he was vacationing in Africa some ten years previously and then moved back to England with him in the early nineties. We had all been friends for a long time, dining at each other's houses quite regularly and even sharing a holiday together one time when Nafula took my wife and I on a tour of her native homeland.

But things had changed. My wife and I had split up some two years ago, and it became hard to operate the friendship in the way we had grown accustomed. I was no longer part of a couple and that made things unbalanced so inevitably Nafula and Ken had gone on to develop friendships elsewhere. In an unfortunate twist of fate, however, Ken had subsequently fallen in love with the wife of one of his work colleagues, a couple with whom they had also been on holiday with, and as of six months ago, Nafula too was now on her own. Since then, we had had one of two coffees together and commiserated with each other over our changed circumstances, but Nafula had been very withdrawn. Understandably, the loss of Ken to another women she thought she could trust had changed her whole outlook on life.

That was until a couple of weeks ago. By chance we found ourselves chatting over the garden fence one Saturday morning and Nafula had asked me about my work.

"How's the writing going Jim?" she asked, "are your still working for that magazine?"

"Afraid not," I replied, "they let me go end of last year. I'm just doing occasional freelance stuff now and the odd bit for myself." At the time, I'm not sure what possessed me to add that last, throwaway comment, but now in retrospect I can see that my sub-conscious had already set an idea in motion.

"For yourself? What sort of stuff? You writing a novel or something?"

"Um, yes, something like that."

"Sounds very secretive. Do tell. You know how I like reading."

"It's nothing really. Anyhow I seem to have lost my way with it."

"Writer's block?"

"Kinda. I was seeing a lady for a while and she gave me inspiration..."

"You mean like a muse? You're writing a romance?"

"Yes, sort of. But things cooled off with her some months ago and ever since then I have been unable to get my passion back."

"I understand."

"You do?"

"Oh yes. It happens a lot with writers. My friend at work has actually written a book, about her difficult upbringing in the Caribbean - but she admits it was only because she had the urge to do it and was writing from her heart. You know, get it out of her system."

"That's funny."

"What?"

"Well, the women I was seeing was from there."

"You were going out with a black women?" the raised tone of her voice registering her acute surprise.

"Well, not going out exactly, just a very intimate friendship."

"Oh I see, so sorry" said Nafula with genuine concern.

"No its fine."

"Doesn't sound like it to me. You no longer have your muse."

"True."

"I don't like to intrude, but maybe...perhaps you would let me read a little bit of your writing. Maybe I could help you? I can give you that female perspective."

I looked away to gather my thoughts. 

"Sorry if I've offended. I shouldn't have said that. It's personal and none of my business," she added hastily.

All at that moment I realized our relationship had reached a turning point. I could say no, emphatically, right there and then and kill the conversation dead. Or, I could take a chance and explore her interest a little.

I looked back at her, directly into her eyes and said: "I'm not offended, really. I do need some help because I want my stories to appeal to women. But you may not want to Nafula if you knew what sort of stories I write, I'm not sure it's up your street." 

"I hate war and violent stories, even romantic ones - it's not like that is it?"

"It's, err ...erotic. I write erotic stories."

A look of shock came over her face. "Ah, oh, I see..." she blurted.

"Sorry, I've embarrassed you."

"Err, no, no, not really." It was now Nafula's turn to collect her thoughts. "Well I suppose I am if I'm honest..."

"Honest about what?"

"A bit embarrassed." She looked down for a moment. "I mean I do actually read quite a lot of erotic literature."

"In books, or on-line?"

"On-line."

"That's what I do. I post my stories on-line."

"I may even have read one then, without even knowing. I assume you write under an alias?"

"That would be telling." I said.

Nafula though for moment. "How about you send me a link to one of your finished stories and I can take a peek."

"I'm too embarrassed to do that. I'm really afraid what you might think. I mean about me, after you read it."

"I'm a big girl Jim... but in any case I need some serious cheering up. It will be fun, and I promise not to be offended."

"Not sure how you can promise that, but OK, I'll text you the link on one condition."

"What condition's that?"

"Well to make good on that promise that you won't be offended, I expect you to go through with your offer of help."

"This is getting very mysterious indeed! How will I be able to help do you think?"

"It will be very obvious when you read the story I'm going to send you tonight."

"Deal then," she said. "There's never anything on the TV on a Saturday night anyhow so I'll look forward to it."

"I really hope you're not going to be offended."

"I promised didn't I? I'll text you back with my offer straight away after I've read it." 

And with that she turned way and went straight back into the house, perhaps deliberately, giving me no further opportunity to back out from my commitment to let her read one of my stories. I immediately started to read through each one of them in my mind, and as I did so, I found myself substituting Nafula for the leading lady in each of the humiliating scenarios I had created. I think maybe, over the years, in the interests of preserving both my marriage and our good friendship, I had tried consciously to erase any sexual thoughts I might ever have had about Nafula. But now, having eased open the floodgates slightly, I found myself overwhelmed in a tide wave of very erotic and explicit imagery with Nafula taking centre stage.

Later that evening, as promised, I emailed Nafula a short story I had written about a black women who attends a very unique, secret club for what can only be described as 'pervert couples'. Their common interest, at least amongst the male members anyway, is a fetish for humiliating each of the female partners in the group by making them take turns in undressing in front of their co-members and showing their private parts and by request, any other unpleasant areas of their bodies deemed of interest by the men. This was bad enough, but the main element of the humiliation was to instruct the women to display themselves in the most undignified positions imaginable, one at a time, in front of each and every person in the room. The voyeur was allowed to look, stare, sniff, photograph and on special request actually touch and taste any part of the woman's anatomy he or her wished.

In the past, I had received a great deal of 'fan mail' from enthusiastic readers of the website, especially ladies from India and of African descent, several of them offering to provide me with intimate details of themselves so that I might write fully genuine and accurate descriptions of their exotic genitals and breasts. Only they know who they are, and one such was my recent muse. After some weeks of correspondence, and with considerable trepidation, she eventually agreed to a meeting. After a pleasant evening out, chatting quite normally and politely over a nice meal and glass of wine, we repaired to a nearby hotel where she agreed to bend over for me and let me smell her ass. Having read all of my stories and learned of my enthusiasm for inhaling a woman's festering genital odours, she had thoughtfully not washed between her legs for several days. The sweaty, shitty stench of her dirty black anus combined with the stale piss and vaginal discharge that had been absorbed into her three-day old underwear was just disgusting. For fear of spooking her completely, I complemented her on the pleasant, musky scent of her ass and asked if I might also be allowed to look between her legs. 

At a complete loss for words, though shame and embarrassment, she just nodded and allowed herself to be guided by my instructions. From that point onwards, she obligingly pulled down her panties and let me examine her dark, wiry haired cunt and her anus from every conceivable angle. First she squatted patiently on the dressing table with her knees held open wide while I sat before her and played with the little wiry coils of her scratchy pubic hair. She involuntarily looked away as I parted the hairs and unfurled her crinkly, inky coloured labia. I pulled them out, stretched them open, looked up her hole then bent them over to one side. I then peeled back the hood of her enormous pink clitoris to sniff it. I dabbed at the white bits of smegma that appeared under the folds of her hood, scraped out the paste that coated the innermost creases behind her lips, ran my index finger around the hairy rim of her pouting little anus and each time I sniffed the repulsive looking slime that coated the tips of my fingers.

Next I her asked her to climb down and kneel down on the end of the bed with her bottom in the air; big fat buttocks resting on her heels; the light coloured soles of her feet turned out towards my face, and her head and chest buried deep into the duvet. With my stomach churning with excitement, I knelt down on the floor below her and looked up at the incredible menu spread out before me - a veritable feast of stinking, hairy black genitalia. 

However, before treating myself to a good close-up look at her asshole, I decided to feel her tiny feet and explore the texture of the skin around her soles and heels. This, as I suspected, was hard and scaly to the touch and a little unpleasant to look at. After looking between her toes and sniffing her feet, I gently reached up to feel her ass cheeks and then proceeded to pull them wide apart for proper close look inside. It was indeed an amazing sight, dark hairy, dirty and very, very smelly. As I knew from my earlier experience, the combination of odours from her ass were indeed very strong, but nevertheless, I leaned right in and dragged the tip of my pointy nose right down the length of her deep sweaty ass crack, all the way from the base of her spine - pausing briefly to sniff in amongst the stiff little hairs that grew around her anus - right round to the hairless, shiny, spotty area of translucent skin between her two stinky holes.

An hour or so later, after following my every instruction and without once flinching or pulling away I had finally satiated my curiosity about the look, texture, colour, hairiness and smell of her dark West Indian genitals. It was at this point that I spontaneously ejaculated without ever having touched my cock, and collapsed on the bed from exhaustion. When I awoke, she was sat dressed and ready to say goodbye, hoping that I had enjoyed the experience and suggesting that if there was anything else about her body I was interested in, then perhaps she would consider showing me another time.

I thanked her enormously and said that my final wish for tonight was to go to sleep with my nose wedged firmly up between her buttocks - preferably right against her anus. She nodded quietly, stood up and took off her skirt and panties again. Then climbing right up onto the bed, she positioned one foot each side of my head, pulled open her ass cheeks, and slowly sank down onto my face. Just before bearing her full weight onto me, she paused briefly to allow me to wriggle my nose into position directly under her anus and then pushed down firmly so that her sphincter released itself and my nose was able to glide smoothly up inside - lubricated by the horrid yellowy slime that was her shitty ass paste. The little ring of coarse anal hairs that I knew to be growing around her hole tickled me as she squirmed her ass over on my face to allow my nose to burry in as far as possible. 

While breathing nothing but the stink of her asshole, she pulled down hard at the base of my fully erect cock and waited patiently to watch me to ejaculate again, this time right in front of her face. After I'd cum, she eased up on her knees and, with my nose still pushed firmly into her anus, we gently rolled over together on the bed. Without saying a word, which she had hardly done since we entered the room some hours ago, she intuitively curled herself up into a fetal position and I retracted my nose so that her anus was left fully exposed to my gaze and I could lean in to sniff it at my convenience. There lying ass to face, with the bedside light clearly illuminating the inside of her ass crack so that I could admire every detail of it, we both drifted off into sleep. 

Now in a semi dreamy state, my thoughts turned straight to Nafula. She was from Kenya so her genitals would be equally interesting to examine, and, not unlike my good friend, she was of medium height and build with a large bust, very shapely legs, smallish feet and the type of prominent, pert round bottom that is common amongst ladies from the African continent. She usually wore her long hair in braids which tended to hide the ribbon of coarse black, frizzy hair which grew like sideburns - petering out to nothing more than a slight fluff - down alongside the entire length of each ear. Her face was quite manly, though still highly attractive, with a very striking bone structure, wide nose, slightly flared nostrils, thick purple lips and large round brown eyes capped by luxuriously thick eyebrows. Although long suppressed in my imaginings, I now started to mentally undress Nafula. Every indicator I could bring to mind, including the time on holiday - some five years ago - when I had seen her lounging by the hotel pool in her swim suit, was that she was a very hairy lady.

Just as my mind immersed itself in a reverie of lustful thoughts about seeing my next door neighbour undressing herself for me, I heard the familiar 'ping' of my iPhone alerting me to a new message. I returned instantly to the present, my heart pounding and my stomach turning somersaults as I reached for the phone. Part of me was saying 'don't look, you won't like the answer, she will never look at you again in the same way, your reputation is destroyed'. But the urge to read the message was just too inviting.

I flipped open the cover, and read ten simple words: "Which part of me would you like to see first?" 

I was astounded. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined she would actually say yes - certainly not in such a firm and positive manner. At least I assumed it was a genuine 'yes' and not an attempt at sarcasm. How should I respond?

"Do you mean it? Did you like the story?"

"You really are a filthy pervert."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I really enjoyed the story. But if you write about me, then I want you to take it slower," came back the reply.

"How do you mean?"

"I mean the best parts of your story are the predicaments you place the women in, the wonderfully descriptive passages and the multiple assaults on the senses. I think those are the elements that most appeal to women readers like me."

"OK. So what do you propose?"

"I suggest each week we concentrate on one part of my body. I will show you whatever you request, and I mean anything at all, and you have to describe it in as much detail as possible and using all your senses. We can start tomorrow night if you like."

"No argument from me," I typed straight back.

"What would you like me to show you first?"

"Let's start with your...

"Silly question I know. Thought maybe you would like to start slowly."

"Can I give you a list?"

"Ok."

That wasn't going to be difficult. My mind was instantly overwhelmed with a thousand lurid images of Nafula stripping and spreading herself before me. I started to type out hurriedly, my fingers falling over the letters as the predictive texting struggled to cope: "under your arms, your belly button, bottom of your feet, places like that which are normally hidden." I tried to avoid the obvious in my first attempt.

"Is that all?" 

"and your breasts your nipples obviously. I can't wait to see them."

"Of course. Would you like to see my vagina as well?" came back the surprising response.

"I am desperate to see it Nafula."

"If you come round tomorrow tonight at 6pm I will show you some of those things. But only if you promise to write about me like you write in your stories."

"Are you very hairy down there? Can I see your black asshole?"

There was a pause of around a minute and for an anxious moment I thought maybe I had overstepped the mark.

"I have short wiry curls all round my vagina. My anus is also surrounded by little hairs. Would you like to see that first?"

"Very much."

"Would you like to see it clean or dirty?"

"Dirty."

"Ok. Be here on the dot of 6, don't be late!"

"I will, you can be sure of it."

The six o'clock appointment seemed to take forever to come and there was no chance whatsoever that I would be late! Dead on the hour, I nervously walked up to her back door and knocked gently. My stomach was churning madly with anticipation.

"It's open, come on in and lock the door behind you."

As I pushed open the door, I was amazed to find Nafula crouched down, fully dressed, on the kitchen table in front of me. She was facing away. The soles of her shoes were hanging off the edge of the table and pointed right at me; her lovely round bottom resting firmly on her ankles. It was all I could see of her really. She wore a mid-length white cotton skirt which contrasted vividly with the light mahogany colour of her shapely lower legs. Up top, she had nothing on but a black bra which was straining somewhat to contain her ample breasts. Her head was resting low down on her forearms so that I could not see her face at all, but lying out in this position caused her armpits to be spread out wide. I was immediately drawn to the two damp, ragged clumps of black, wiry hair nestling deep in each of her pits.

"I want to you to look at me like you do in your stories."

She had obviously been reading about my fantasy fetish club 'EWAC' and gone to some trouble to arrange herself in exactly the right position. She had even, thoughtfully, positioned a chair right behind her bottom.

"I am," I replied, "I'm just admiring your sweaty armpits."

"That's not the only part of me that's sweaty Jim. It gets much worse. I haven't washed since we spoke. You may need to sit down."

I pulled out the chair and sat down.

"You can take off my shoes and smell my feet if you like."

I grasped the heel of each of her cream coloured ballet shoes with both hands simultaneously and pulled them off. Compared with the colour of her ankles, the soles of her feet were extremely light coloured, quite hard looking but surprisingly smooth under the arches. Elsewhere it was not so pleasant. Her heels were quite yellow and calloused, with a sharp ridge of a very white, dried up skin around the backs with slight cracks starting to show at the edges. The pads of her heels and on the balls of her feet were dirty and flakey. I leant in to sniff them but they were not nearly as bad as they looked - very slightly cheesy but not overpoweringly so.

"Can I touch?"

"Only my feet."

I gently felt all around the rough skin on her heels and spread each of her toes apart to look in between. Here the skin tone went lightly darker and there were bits of dirt lodged in the creases behind.

"What do you think of my feet?"

"Not very attractive underneath Nafula. A bit filthy and smelly."




The Muse



"Yes, sorry, I tend to walk round the house bare foot." 

"Don't apologise. I want to see you this way."

"I don't think you'll be disappointed then when you look further up."

"What do you mean?"

"Lift up my skirt and you'll see."

I did as I was told without further hesitation. Letting go of her right foot, I dutifully lifted her skirt right up over her bottom to perv her ass. Underneath, she was wearing white cotton briefs that still concealed just about everything. 

"Can I feel your ass? I've wanted to for so long"

"I know. Go ahead."

I slowly ran my hands over her beautifully formed buttocks and gently squeezed here and there to test their firmness. Finally, after all these years, the crack of her ass - and all the dark smelly secrets it concealed - was so tantalisingly close.

"Nice," was all I could think to say. I then sat back in my chair, patiently and waited for her to speak again."

"You can pull my pants down now Jim and look at my asshole if you want. I know that's really what you want to see." She lifted herself up slightly to give me access to her underwear.

I had never heard Nafula use such crude words before. She was clearly right in the zone now. So without further hesitation, before she changed her mind, I immediately reached up and fumbled around under the waistband elastic of her panties. Then, with my breath held tight, I gently peeled them down and wrapped the gathered up folds deep under her buttocks. As her amazingly pert, firm cheeks were finally revealed to me, I was shocked to see just how mottled and blotchy her skin was underneath. Her bottom was covered in dark brown spots of various sizes, some raised and angry looking, others had healed long ago and were just now a scar. More incredible still, I could plainly see the crinkly wattle of Nafula's inky black labia and a messy clump of wiry pubic hair dangling out from under her ass. 

As she sat back down on the heels of her feet, trapping her rumpled up panties behind her knees in the process, I cautiously leaned in to sample the pungent smell of her sweaty genitals. It was a very heady scent, extremely musty and slightly smelling of shit. I looked down to see if there was any evidence in her pants of what her natural juices and fluids looked like. The garment was now largely hidden from view, save the thin flap of heavily soiled, damp material which had been scrunched up against her sweaty holes all day. This now flopped out conveniently on display to me between her feet.

"I can see the inside gusset of your panties Nafula."

"I can't believe I'm doing this. Is it bad?"

"Well, I can see two big blobs of thick yellow cream, a bit like pale custard, and a few of your pubes stuck in the residue - about six altogether. They're really very tight curls aren't they? Like little coils of wire!"

"Oh my God!"

"...and you've obviously been leaking some piss as there's a very strong smell of ammonia. How long have you been wearing these? I can even see an oval shaped brown streak where your asshole has been rubbing. There's a couple of seed like grains embedded in it. Doesn't look like you wipe your ass very well."

"This is so embarrassing!" Her voice came back slightly weak and croaky. "I wore them all day for you and deliberately didn't change them or shower before you came. In fact I've been out to the gym this afternoon."

"Wow - just for me?"

"Yes, for both of us. I really want to inspire you to write again and I want know what it feels like to have a man examining and smelling my dirty genitals like in the stories. I've never, ever let anyone do anything this humiliating to me before."

"Well then... I was temporarily lost for words, "I'd better get on with it before you change your mind."

"Yes I think you had. This is even worse than I had imagined. It is so absolutely humiliating and shaming."

"Yes it is, so I think its time you showed me what a Kenyan woman's dirty black anus looks like."

"That is such a degrading thing to say."

"I want to examine it and smell it so it would help if you spread your knees and feet further apart for me and then held open your ugly, spotty buttocks so I can get a proper close up look."

"I like it when you talk to me that way!"

Nafula reached behind her and taking hold of one cheek in each hand, she obligingly pulled opened her bottom for me. "I want you to describe what you see out loud."

"Wow, that's a sight! I've waited a very long time to see this. I'm lost for words! Your anus is huge! And so are your cunt flaps...so big and juicy... just hanging out between your legs. I really want to feel those."

"Pretend you are writing about me."

"Just inside the inner walls of your ass crack, the texture and pigmentation of your skin changes abruptly. About in inch out from your anus, there is a very well defined, oval shaped ring of dark brown with a few random hairs growing out. This extends up to the very top of your crack, turning into a lavender, pink sort of colour like a feint scar. Further down, deep in your ass, all around your sphincter, the colours are an interesting mixture of grey and purple, not the very dark brown I was expecting. The whole area is spattered in a patchy growth of tiny wiry coils of pubic hair. It's more like shiny fuzz really than hair. Most of it matted together with the sweat from your ass. In fact there's a thin whitish coating of dried on something from your ass plastered over your entire anal region. It's like a big sweat stain. You wouldn't see it on a white women, but because your skin is dark, it shows up really vividly. I guess the shape of it is formed by the inner walls of your ass crack when it's all sweaty and your buttocks are clenched tightly together.

What's really interesting though is that you have a weird patch of skin just behind your anus, on your perineum I suppose, which is almost white, like my skin - like there's no pigment in it at all.

By contrast, your actual anus is extremely dark, almost black. That's nice to see. And your sphincter is massive; I've never seen anything quite like it. Are all Kenyan women like this?"

"I don't know," muttered Nafula who was now feeling extremely awkward about the whole experience.

"It bulges out quite a bit and there are lots and lots of deep creases radiating out. I'm guessing your asshole must open up quite big. Do you shit out big turds?"

"Yes." Came the hushed reply.

"Can you work it for me; flex your anus and show me how it opens and closes."

Nafula grunted slightly and I watched in fascination as her anus dilated slightly to reveal the inner pink of her hole before tightening up again. As she did so, a tiny dribble of yellow slime dribbled out along one of the folds of her sphincter and down into the thin forest of curly fuzz that sprouted randomly in her ass crack.

"Would you mind if I sniffed your anus?"

"Smell it all you want. If I'm going through all this it had better be in a good cause. I want you to be totally inspired in your story writing."

"I would really like to feel those little curly hairs as well. Can I pull on them?"

"Yes, but no touching my labia or my vagina. That is for another day."

For the next half hour, Nafula crouched patiently on the table whilst I examined all around her anus, played with her curious little pubic hairs and dabbed my fingers in the deep creases of her asshole, before putting them to my nose and mouth so that I could enjoy the pungent smell and taste of her anal slime. Exhausted, I sat down in the chair behind her with my nose pushed firmly against here smelly asshole and masturbated furiously. When I was finished she asked me to leave so that she could get up off the table in private.

"I hope you enjoyed that Jim. I want you to go now. I don't want you to see me fully naked, not yet anyway. I want you to go away and start writing a new story. If you do that for me, then I will invite you back this time next week. Depending on how much I like it, I may undress completely for you and let you examine my vagina and feel my breasts."

"That's a deal," I said, as I left Nafula's house.

*****

Author's note: I would love to receive feedback from any ladies who enjoy my stories and would like to feature in one of them or correspond.



The Muse



Author's Note: Thank you to all those who have encouraged me to continue writing. Thank you Tim413413 for the hours of editing. 

***** 

Sleep wasn't coming. Reading almost worked. My eyes would close and my mind would drift; then reality would slam back in. I rolled over and looked at the clock. Eleven thirty. At least it wasn't too late yet. I could still get six hours' sleep if I could just calm my mind. I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to slow my active heart. I relaxed my eyelids and tried to think of nothing. Tomorrow's interview invaded again. 

The interview was just too damned scary. I really wanted the job. My career was in a holding pattern, circling through days of tedium. How I ended up as a buyer for a hardware chain is still a mystery to me. I blame the student loans. Their never-ending demands frightened me into taking the first thing with a paycheck. For five years I have trudged through wrenches and lawn mowers trying to do battle with my monthly bills. I was getting nowhere because there was nowhere to go. Every position above mine was filled with family members of Mr. Wilkerson, the owner. 

My true love was marketing. Matching people to products. Analyzing trends, identifying core customers and designing plans to make them love a product. I had a pile of loans that proved I had the degree. I just didn't have that first real marketing job. The one where I could shine and follow my dreams up the ladder. If I didn't get some sleep soon, the interview could go poorly. 

I rolled onto my back and reached blindly for my Kindle. The glowing words appeared and I tried to lose myself in the story. I read the same paragraph three times before I realized my mind was still centered on the interview. I had visions of an interviewer laughing at the dumb chick who dared apply, of the questions I couldn't answer or of simply getting lost downtown trying to find the office. More deep breaths. 

The alarm drilled into me at six. The last time I had glanced at the clock it was two forty-five. I felt like crap. I waddled into the bathroom and blinded myself with light. In between the long blinks, I spotted the zombie girl in the mirror. Yep, dark circles surrounding veins of red lace. It was going to be a Visine and concealer morning. I dropped my nightgown to the floor, admonished myself for only exercising once in the last week and slithered into the shower. 

I thought about lying down again after my shower. I was planning on being in the city an hour and a half early anyway. What's another thirty minutes of sleep going to hurt? I fought the temptation, knowing I would feel worse at the end of the nap. The interview was in a building I had never been to and downtown parking was always a question. It wasn't worth the risk to be late for the interview. 

My navy skirt was tight. I hadn't planned on that little bit of joyous news. It was my only real interview suit. The one that said 'organized and driven.' I should have tried it on a week ago. The dreaded mirror had warned me about my waist and I chose to ignore the bitch. Now I had to pay the price. I slipped the skirt back off and carefully tried to stretch the waist band. I went around the whole band pulling it in little sections, trying to extend it without misshaping it. An act of desperation to be sure. When I slipped it back on, I was surprised that my efforts weren't wasted. It was snug, but no longer tight. I practiced sitting down and it all stayed in place. As long as I didn't attempt any gymnastics, I would look respectable. 

My hair, surprisingly, gave me no trouble. About a year ago, I had it trimmed to shoulder length. The stylist talked me into a slight inward curl at the neckline. That gave it a bit of a style, something my head had always lacked, but remained manageable. I liked the way it moved. A sort of blond pendulum swing when I turned my head. It was my look now, one of the few things about my body I felt like I owned. Most of the rest owned me. 

My hair was making me feel a bit better as I exited my apartment. Leather briefcase in hand, I was feeling rather important. No one would ever know the case only held an empty legal pad, some pens and a few copies of my résumé. Even Richard Thompson noticed. 

Richard was one of those strange, lonely guys every apartment building had. They had trouble looking at you when you looked at them. They did most of their looking when your head was turned. It was creepy at first. After a while, it became apparent he had some kind of anxiety disorder that everyone ignored for his sake. I almost pitied him. Somewhere at the tail end of his thirties, he had no one and little chance of ever meeting anyone. Today, Richard gave me a double take as he exited his apartment. I was looking right at him and I got a few seconds of a stare, half a smile and then he disappeared back into his apartment. It was obvious he couldn't handle the stress of saying good morning. I took it as 'Looking good today, Mary.' 

The drive downtown was uneventful and way too quick. I was starting to get a bit nervous and wished for a traffic jam just to slow things down. Instead, I arrived and was parked with an hour and forty-five minutes to spare. It only took me fifteen minutes to figure out where the Brindle Building was and locate the elevators. I had an hour and a half to kill. I didn't want to work up a sweat by walking around so I ended up in a small independent coffee shop. Someone had left the morning paper on the table to share. I shared it with a cup of Jeju Island green tea. I was careful to lean forward when I drank and made sure the cup was well away from my white blouse. 

I killed a half hour in the coffee shop and played with my map app to find another distraction. I scored a bookstore two blocks west. I am the type of customer bookstores hate. I browse, evaluate and pick out my books in-store. I then buy them online. I used to feel guilty, but that wore off after some time. I walked slowly. My heels were sensible, but they were still heels. I figured two blocks wouldn't be too much of a strain if kept the pace down. 

The store was fairly crowded. It looked like the latest thriller from Donald Rickers had been released. The line to the cashier was at least a half hour wait. Luckily, I didn't need to get in that line. I headed straight for my 'heroin' - the romance section. The aisle was empty so I could browse in peace. 

It had taken me a long time to get over the tactile feel of a book. I, at one time, had the need to display my reading on a shelf. As my eyes cruised along the aisle, a little tinge of Kindle remorse set in. That small desire to have bulging bookcases that proved my voracious appetite for reading. 

When I moved into my current apartment, I donated most of my books. It was either that or rent a storage unit. My apartment just didn't have the room. The donation was emotionally difficult. Almost like when Daisy, my childhood best friend of the Golden Retriever variety, died. Those books were part of me. None of which I would ever read again, but they were my proof. Now my bookshelves have been replaced by a folder on my Kindle called 'Read Books.' No one, except the internet servers, knows what I have read. 

I ran my fingers across a series of titles by one of my favorite authors. Okay, I admit I miss my paper books. A digital list just didn't have the same weight. I sighed and looked for something new. I only had three unread titles and that would likely last me two months at most. 

A series of firefighter novels caught my attention. Well, actually, the guys on the covers caught my attention. I was sure fighting fires with exposed abs was dangerous, but at least they looked good doing it. I took out my phone and fired up my store app. I purchased the first book and relished the idea that a beefy firefighter was waiting for me at home on my reader. If the book was as good as its cover, I would get the whole series. New books always put me in a great mood. 

I knew I was using romance books as a crutch. My love life was a bit slow these days, not that some of my colleagues at work weren't trying to change that. There just weren't any firemen in my life. Those guys who were confident, decisive and could shed a tear at the right time. All of my past loves were exciting at first, but that feeling dwindled as time went on. I didn't need twenty-four seven passion, but being the obsession of a man once a week would be divine. 

I completed my guilty purchase and decided to head to the interview. Showing up early was better than being late. I went the wrong way down the aisle and realized I would have to cut through the customer line to make it to the door. 

"Excuse me," I said quietly. Two older men parted for me to pass through. One of them, a gray-haired gentleman in a dark banker suit, looked at me with a confused smile. The other gave me a muffled "wow" as I passed through the line. I took it as a compliment, thinking my suit was doing its job. Hopefully, the interviewer would think the same. 

I overheard some more whispers down the line. "No, right there." "No way!" "Could be." It sounded like they were directed at me. I ignored them, thinking I had to have misinterpreted the blurbs. 

On the walk back I let the words make me antsy. Self consciously, I stopped in a restroom before I headed up the elevator to the interview. I checked my clothes and ass to make sure I hadn't sat in gum or something. Once I assured myself I was clean, I headed out of the restroom, looking down at my skirt while trying to brush off a bit of lint I had missed. I walked right into a pair of brown leather loafers. 

I looked up into the shocked face of Richard Thompson, my neighbor. His eyes were wide and he reached out his hand, almost like he was reaching for my breast, then snapped it back. I almost cried when I saw the open cup of coffee in his other hand. Then I felt it. Hot wetness soaking into my white blouse. I didn't need to look, but, like a traffic accident, I did. A wet brown stain ran from my right breast and widened its way down to my waist. My dark skirt now looked like I had peed myself. I bit my lip trying not to cry. Foolishly, I chose anger instead. 

"You bastard!" I said more loudly than prudent. What the hell was he doing here anyway? We were in a rotunda near the front entrance. A lot of heads turned. "Are you trying to ruin my life?" I heard a small echo when I finished. Richard was trying to say something and couldn't find the words. I saw his eyes going red and his head turning back and forth like he was looking for help. I was pissed at his lack of compassion even when I knew I shouldn't expect it from him. 

"What the hell, Richard?" I goaded with anger. I leaned over a bit to try to limit the wetness on my skin. 

"Sorry..." Richard pleaded. There was pain in his voice and I could see his hand shaking a bit. I hated myself at that moment. I just couldn't stop myself from being me. 

"Sorry? You throw coffee on me, fuck up my whole day and all you can say is sorry?" My voice carried venom. I saw my marketing dreams disappearing. My best clothes were ruined. My shitty job would remain my shitty job. I kept being me. "You're an asshole!" 

Richard's eyes were blinking fast. I could see he wanted to run, but he stood, unable to do anything. At that point there was nothing he could do. I was about to send more of my anger at him, planning to break him for what happened. A gentle hand grasped my shoulder. 

"It was an accident, Honey," a sharply dressed older woman insisted calmly, "let's get you cleaned up." She led me back to the restroom. Richard just stood there near tears, staring at me as I left. The longest look he had ever given me. Just before I entered the restroom, a red-haired woman ran up to Richard. It looked like she was trying to console him. I let it go when the door closed. My anger evaporated and tears I could no longer hold back came. 

I spent a half hour in that restroom. Betty, my savior, and I talked while the hand dryer did a poor job of drying me out. There is something about having someone willing to share your pain. It made it tolerable. The interview was shot since I looked like I just spent the night drunk in an alley. I had wasted a paid day off, but I made a temporary best friend. Betty worked on the fifteenth floor for a lawyer. He was obviously an understanding boss since she didn't seem concerned about disappearing for thirty minutes. 

By the time I walked my stained self out of the restroom, Betty had me cooled down and wanting to apologize to Richard. I was secretly happy he wasn't waiting for me. A public apology would be a bit too emotional. I suspected I was his least favorite person right now. Probably number one on his to-be-avoided list. Betty was right, I had handled it without proper decorum. She made me laugh with how she said it. I think that was her intention. I thanked Betty and got a hug. I headed home with the strong desire to put on my pajamas and read about firemen. 

I tried knocking twice at Richard's door that evening. He wasn't home or, just as likely, he was not going to answer. I was feeling pretty badly about the way I acted. I had an excuse, but I knew Richard, and I should never have attacked him like I did. When I replayed the scene in my head, I convinced myself it was mostly my fault. I had barreled out of that restroom without looking. I estimated my culpability at around eighty percent. 

Before I headed to work the next morning, I tried Richard's door again. No answer. Now I was feeling awful. Sometimes I hated being me. The guy was fragile and I was beginning to suspect he was avoiding his apartment in order to avoid me. I hated the word 'bitch,' but I was starting to think of myself as one. This was becoming one of those 'shiver' moments. Those times when certain memories send a sickening shiver through your body. I already had enough of those stacked up for a lifetime. I tried not to think about it. 

Work sucked. Of course, it sucked before my new shiver moment. I spent the day matching invoices to purchase orders and verifying pricing. We had new forecasting models dishing out ridiculous numbers. It meant twice the work for me. A series of slow, repetitive calculations to verify numbers before submitting new requisitions. I would rather have been reading about firemen. 

I felt worse when my knocks went unanswered again. I had visions of Richard in a straight jacket, taking shock treatments. I turned to my apartment and saw a large package waiting in front of my door. It was addressed to me with a return address of Themes Publishing, located in the Brindle Building. The scene of the infamous coffee incident. 

Once inside, I opened the package. Inside the box was another box from La Casa di Moda, a ritzy downtown clothier. I had never been there since its prices don't mix well with my student loans. Inside there was a letter atop something wrapped in white tissue sealed with a gold sticker. The letter was from Richard. 

Dear Ms. Higgins, 

Please accept my apology for my appalling behavior Monday morning. My blunder and inaction after the fact were inexcusable. 

I have attempted to replace the clothes I ruined. As if my deeds could hope to improve on God's Flower. 

Sincerely, 

Richard Thompson 

I read the note three times. I had barely gotten more than a 'hi' from Richard in the five years I had lived in the apartment building. This letter used words with multiple syllables that were grouped in coherent sentences. I read the last sentence again. Vanity had me interrupting it one way and fear another. Its meaning was clear and vague at the same time. 

I felt my anger rise. I had meant to apologize first and now he had upended the whole process. I took a few deep breaths, trying to think it through. I had called him an asshole. That was the last thing that came out of my mouth. I collapsed in a chair and felt my anger turn to embarrassing guilt. That stupid shiver doubled in size. I couldn't even be social with the unsociable. I hated coffee and everything associated with it. I had a small cry. 

When I got myself together, I parted the sealed tissue to see what I had to return. I had already decided I would refuse to accept whatever was in the box. It was the only decent avenue left for me. Under the tissue was a fancy certificate for free tailoring and under it a dark gray suit. The skirt and jacket were cut finer than I had a right to touch. The fabric was soft, but didn't look it. The thread count was well beyond anything I owned. When I saw the label I choked. It was an 'Arturo Carducci' original. 

It took an internet search and a phone call to realize I had a three thousand dollar, one-of-a-kind suit in my apartment. It was gorgeous. I admit the price may have helped influence my assessment. How could someone who lives in my apartment building afford such a gift? Why would he give it to me and why wasn't he a fireman? I had moved the suit away from the kitchen and boxed it. I was terrified I would spill something on it. I was scared to even hold it. 

I tried Richard's door again. Thinking he may be hiding inside, I spoke to the closed door, insisting I wasn't angry and only wished to talk. Silence was the only answer. I needed to fix this. Richard had gone too far. He should have fought back and named me for the reckless bitch I was. Slowing down, I realized I was blaming him again. It was Richard. I doubted he had been in a confrontation in twenty years. I had to be the one to make it right. 

It was late in the night when I finally broke down and tried the suit on. Strange things happen when you step into something so fine. You feel rich and powerful. It's just a wrapper, but it definitely affects the innards. I really wanted to keep it and regretted ever trying it on. It hardly needed any tailoring at all. The waist had to be taken in a bit, which made me feel good. It took me three trips to the mirror before I finally packed it back up with a sigh. 

I arose the next morning after a fitful night of sleep. I tried Richard's door again and wasn't surprised when no one answered. I called in sick to the office. I had to do something today. Guilt was eating me alive. I dug through the trash and recovered the return address on Richard's package. A little research on the internet and I had the phone number for Themes Publishing. I called a minute after eight. 

"Themes Publishing, this is Clara speaking. How may I help you?" a friendly voice inquired. 

"I would like to speak with Richard Thompson, please." I tried to match the receptionist's friendly tone. 

"I'm sorry, he is not available. Would you like to leave a message?" Clara didn't even hesitate, and I sensed Richard was never available for phone calls. It made sense since he had trouble holding a conversation. I wasn't going to break through on the phone. 

"I have a package I need to return to Richard. Could I drop it off at your offices?" I figured getting the suit out of my apartment would relieve some of my stress. 

"Mr. Thompson is currently out of town. I am not sure when he will return," Clara stated in an obvious maneuver to avoid the package. 

"If I brought it by, could you put in his office or something? I would really like to return it and I can't seem to locate him." There was a bit of a delay before Clara responded. Almost like she wasn't sure what to say. I heard one false start before she responded. 

"Yes, we can hold the package for Mr. Thompson. I just can't promise when he will pick it up," Clara finally said hesitantly. It was good enough for me. That got it out of my apartment and returned to Richard in absentia, but returned nonetheless. I'll just have to write a note so Richard would understand. 




The Muse



"Thank you," I said with obvious relief, "I'll drop it by this morning." We ended the conversation, and, feeling a little better, I went to take a shower. 

It took me five attempts to compose a note to Richard. I had to express my embarrassment for my actions, absolve him of any responsibility and graciously return his thoughtful gift. Not an easy thing to put into words. When I finally had something I didn't want to crumple and throw in the trash, I placed it in the La Casa di Moda box on top of the suit. 

The weather had made a turn toward fall last night. It was a bit cooler so I decided on my favorite navy blue hoodie. It had a great big white C surrounded by yellow with Berkeley above and Bears below. My alma mater. I always felt better when I wrapped myself in my own history. It was starting to look a bit used, but I didn't have the heart to replace it. It was my favorite piece of clothing. 

It was after the morning rush so I made good time downtown. I entered the Brindle Building, now wary of errant coffee carriers, and headed up to the eighth floor. Themes Publishing looked like it took up the entire northeast corner of the building. They had a nice glass entryway with their stylish logo embossed on the glass door. The reception desk was empty. Behind the desk, in a large open meeting area, people were gathered cheering and tapping paper cups together, drinking in celebration. I walked up to the reception desk and waited to be noticed. I smiled at their jubilation. 

"No way!" exclaimed a young man in a yellow shirt with a loosened bronze tie. He was looking directly at me and took me by surprise. The other heads turned with smiles and a few dropped jaws. I felt like I was the butt of some unknown joke. I found myself taking a small step back and losing my smile. 

"Janice, did you do this?" the young man's smile enlarged as he yelled out. Some of the people were moving slowly toward me. I turned my head, hoping to see some other object that could be the center of their attention. I was alone, now holding the La Casa di Moda box with both hands against my chest, almost like a shield. 

"Do what?..." This was from a red-haired woman who entered the main room from an office. She was thumbing through a stack of papers with a concerned look. 

"Hire a 'Melissa,' " the man said, pointing toward me. Janice looked up and studied me. I thought it best to end the confusion. 

"Hi, ah, I'm Mary Higgins." I stumbled a bit with my words. "I am just trying to return a package to Richard Thompson." I held up the La Casa di Moda box to prove my intent. Everyone was staring and my comfort level was decreasing rapidly. Janice looked down at the papers in her hand and back at me and my suit box. Her expression changed to one of concern. 

"You're the girl he spilled the coffee on?" Janice asked with wide eyes. 

"Yes. Well, it was really my fault and I am trying to apologize," I replied innocently, holding up the box, "he sent me this as some kind of apology and it is way too much. I really need to give it back." All the smiles disappeared and confusion seemed to reign. 

"Oh my God! Do you even know who Melissa is?" Janice asked with a panicked expression. 

"I don't know who you are talking about. Look, Richard is just my neighbor." I went into defense mode. I had no idea what was going on, but I didn't want another incident I would regret. "I think I was out of line the other day and I want to make it right." Janice looked back at the papers in her hand. 

"Tom, do you know where Richard is?" Janice inquired of the young man with the bronze tie. 

"One of his houses. He never tells me where he goes," Tom answered with a frustrated tone. The notion Richard owned multiple houses caught me by surprise. 

"Find him quickly. I just got his new chapters and Adam Westlake is practically suicidal. Seems Melissa took a shot at him," Janice exclaimed while staring daggers at me. Tom looked shocked and ran to what I guessed was his desk. Everyone else began to scatter to theirs. 

"Look, I'll just leave this here," I said judiciously while placing the suit box on the receptionist's desk, "it has a note it in it. Just tell him I'm sorry." I wanted out. I had no idea what was going on and I really didn't want to know. I turned and tried to escape. 

"Mary, wait!" Janice called to halt my progress, "there is something you need to know." I turned, but continued my slow escape backward. Janice was walking quickly toward me. I saw nothing but a new problem in her eyes. Coffee was now my least favorite thing in the world. 

"I really don't understand what's going on, and, in truth, I don't want to understand," I shot back almost frantically. Janice stopped in her tracks when she realized how confused and upset I was. 

"You changed your hair about a year ago, didn't you?" Janice asked calmly, "and that hoodie, it's your favorite, isn't it?" Numerous heads popped up from behind desks. Obviously, others were also interested in my answers. I stopped. "Purple is your favorite color, you prefer your meat well done and you love romance novels." I stared dumbfounded at her revelations. 

"What's..going on?" I muttered. 

"It seems Richard has been writing about you. His descriptions are quite vivid," Janice explained with the beginnings of a smile. I didn't think anything was funny. 

"And you all read his stuff?" I asked, looking at all the interested faces waiting for my reaction. Janice laughed, followed by a room full of suppressed smirks and chuckles. My anger was beginning to rise. I felt like I was the butt of some joke again. 

"Half the nation has read his work, Honey," Tom answered from behind his desk, "we were just celebrating him crossing the seventy-five million mark." The way he said 'honey' made me question his manners and his orientation. I never heard of Richard Thompson outside the apartment building and no one can sell that many books and not be known. 

"He writes under a nom de plume," Janice answered my unasked question. I was trying to remember if I ever had a real conversation with Richard. We had some summer building parties, but I don't remember him attending any. I was slowly moving back toward the La Casa di Moda box. 

"Under what name?" I inquired as I slowly tucked the box under my arm. Richard was obviously wealthy and the suit looked really good on me. Maybe returning it wasn't necessary. I resigned myself to try to hand it back personally, once. If he remained chivalrous, I wouldn't give him a second chance. 

"Confidentially?" Janice looked at me and I nodded. "Donald Rickers," she answered. Wealthy was an understatement. I decided to keep the suit. I would justify it in my mind later. 

"THE Donald Rickers?" I queried, "why would he write about me? Better yet, WHAT does he write about me?" 

"Yes, THE Donald Rickers. Maybe you would like to read a bit and we could figure this out," Janice suggested and gestured to her office. I put a death grip on the suit box and determined I might as well figure out how I ended up with the suit. I followed Janice to her office and sat in one of her leather chairs that surrounded a small coffee table. Janice poked her head out of the office and yelled to Tom, "Tell me as soon as you find him." She shut the door and handed me the papers she had been holding. 

"This just arrived. It's rough, but it usually goes through a few rewrites," Janice said and, with a bit of accusation in her tone, continued, "this is quite different from his previous works. It seems God's Flower has some thorns." 

"What's God's flower?" I asked as I looked at the printed pages. There must have been over forty of them. 

"You, if I don't miss my guess." Janice sat next to me and gestured for me to read. "He called Melissa that the first time Adam Westlake saw her at the botanical garden. He kept it running through the last four of his novels. To Richard's readers, you're a mystery. You keep popping up and yanking at Adam's heart strings, then you disappear. You're Adam Westlake's 'kryptonite.' It's the only time he doesn't think straight." 

"Adam Westlake?" I asked, looking up from the pages. 

"The hero of Richard's novels," Janice answered with a puzzled look, "you really haven't heard about any of this before?" 

"No," I replied, "I am a little weirded out about the whole thing. I mean, Richard hasn't said much past hello to me in five years. Why would he pick me?" 

"Just read those pages and tell me what you think," Janice said, then added, "I have to say I am a little concerned. I think the coffee incident hit him harder than I had thought." I cringed at her words. I felt bad enough about it already. That damn shiver of regret came back in full force. Janice headed out of the office to give me some peace. 

I was five pages in when I felt I was looking in a mirror. His descriptions were highly detailed. I blushed at the good parts and cringed at the flaws. To him, they weren't flaws. Even the little indentation high above my left eye, the one I thought my hair hid, he found strangely enticing. I was secretly pleased with the way Adam loved the way my hair cascaded to my shoulders. I nearly choked when he described my favorite navy blue skirt as 'must have been borrowed.' My God! He only saw me for a total of thirty seconds that day and even he saw it was too tight. I swore I would get back on my exercise program and I was definitely keeping the 'Arturo Carducci.' 

The strange reference to God's Flower appeared as he described seeing me from across the room in a dingy coffee house. I had no previous context, but it seemed Adam was shocked Melissa reappeared after a long absence. His joy was quite surprising, sparking memories of dalliances, warm kisses and nights on the town. No one had ever described me, not that Richard knew, in such a titillating way. I felt invaded and not confident I could live up to those descriptions. I was blushing by the time Richard stopped the flashbacks and returned to the book's present. 

Chapter Two took a strange turn. Adam Westlake stood to get Melissa's attention, too quickly it seems, and knocked over his cup of coffee. Melissa seemed surprised to see Adam. She stood, backed away and drew a revolver. Amidst the screams and panic of patrons in the coffee shop, Melissa fired three shots at Adam who stood in shock. Melissa left at a run, never knowing she had missed Adam. The next chapter delved deeply into Adam's psyche - the ensuing depression and the drinking it caused. There was a drunken walk across a bridge when Adam contemplated where his life was going. Melissa had been his one connection to a possible happy future and that was now shattered. The words were so dark, I didn't expect Adam to make it to the other side of the bridge. 

I felt ill as I turned over the last page. Richard had some kind of fixation. I think he saw a relationship where none existed. I handled the coffee accident so poorly that I damaged him. I didn't think I could feel worse. I saw the illusionary relationship in his words. The spilled coffee and the 'You Asshole!' turned into three shots. As a human being, I had failed. 

"Well, what do you think?" Janice was leaning on the door frame with her arms crossed. I looked up and couldn't stop the water in my eyes. 

"I think I hurt him," I stammered, "...I really hurt him." I felt a tear and wiped it away quickly. How could I have been so uncaring as to attack such a fragile man. I no longer wanted the 'Arturo Carducci.' 

"Look, I know all this caught you by surprise," Janice said in a motherly tone, "Richard feels things a little too deeply. It makes him a wonderful writer, but difficult in person. Maybe if you spoke with him. Told him you're not upset." I could tell she was trying to get her cash cow back on track. I wondered how much she cared about Richard personally. Then again, how much feeling could someone really invest in such an uncommunicative person. 

"That's just it," I defended myself, "I have been trying to apologize. It was just an accident. I blew it out of proportion. I've been making myself sick just thinking about it. This just makes it worse." I shook the incomplete manuscript at Janice. 

"If I could get you in touch with Richard, would you apologize?" Janice queried. I sensed she wanted to make sure I wasn't going to make matters worse. 

"Of course. For my well-being and his," I answered. I wasn't sure I liked Janice. If she could get me in touch with Richard, I could tolerate her scheming. 

"Good." Janice smiled with a little too much relief for my taste. "Tom found out he is at his condo in San Antonio. He isn't answering his phone so you will have to fly down there." My jaw dropped to the floor. This woman presumes too much. 

"I have a job," I said incredulously, "do you think I can just drop everything and take a trip?" I was about to mention my nearly empty bank account wouldn't appreciate the purchase of last-minute plane tickets. I decided my finances were none of her concern. 

"For Richard, yes," Janice declared. I saw the determination in her eyes. I also sensed a bit a fear in her tone. "Tomorrow is Friday. Call in sick or something. We'll take care of all the arrangements, plane, hotel and food. You just make sure Richard knows you aren't upset with him and we'll have you back on Sunday." Richard and I were being handled. Richard may be used to it, but I was not. 

"It was only spilled coffee," I insisted, "this orchestrated apology is way over the top and seems disingenuous. I can just wait until he returns." 

"Knowing Richard, he may not be back." Janice didn't seem like she was exaggerating. "He tends to blow things out of proportion inside his mind. I wouldn't be surprised if it takes years for him to come back. Looking at those chapters, it wouldn't shock me if Melissa was written out of Adam's life forever." I had no idea why her last sentence struck me as hard as it did. Thirty minutes ago, I had no idea anyone was writing about me. Now I found it endearing and a little flattering. Damn my ego. I didn't want Melissa to die or something. 

"You'll take care of the expenses?" I asked with trepidation. I hated having to admit I was basically living paycheck to paycheck. 

"Yes." Janice was smiling again. "We'll take care of everything. You can clear your conscience and Richard will get back to his normal writing." I could tell Richard's writing was at the top of her to-do list. My conscience was a non-issue. She will have to excuse me for reversing the priority. We just had to accept we were using each other. 

"Well, okay. I guess I am going to San Antonio," I stated with little confidence. 

It took Clara about thirty minutes to establish my itinerary according to Janice's specifications. I only needed to get myself to the airport the next morning. Janice was going to have a car pick me up, but I ended that, thinking the handling was going too far. Janice would have been happier if she could have borrowed my skin and apologized herself. I had a nagging feeling she was expecting me to screw it all up. 

I was happily surprised to share a ride down the elevator with Beth. I didn't really think I would ever see her again. 

"You ever get that interview?" Beth asked pleasantly. I was happy she left out the coffee spill. 

"No. I tried to reschedule, but they had already offered the position to someone else." I put a fake smile on my loss. "Karma for my lack of decorum." 

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Betty replied, "the timing was just bad. Give it a few weeks and you'll be laughing about it." I really liked how she judged the situation and not me. My friends are a lot harsher and I didn't need harsh right now. I unloaded the string of events, leaving out the best-selling author part. She listened intently. 

"When you finally catch up with him, I hope he appreciates your efforts," Betty stated, "if not, then maybe he is an asshole." I laughed and felt better. I may never see Betty again, we didn't exactly trade numbers, but she was the friend I needed at the time. 

<<<<>>>>> 

I had never flown first class in my life. I think Janice had sensed my apprehension and decided to make sure I was as comfortable as possible. I wasn't used to being pampered, but felt I could get used to it. I spent the flight time learning about Adam Westlake. I didn't start at the beginning. I started on the novel where Adam first met Melissa. Melissa was prettier than I am. I sensed that right away. She was also much more confident. I liked her better than I liked myself. 

Richard's description of Melissa the first time Adam saw her was beautiful. Almost loving in his word usage. If this, in any way, reflected how he saw me, the coffee incident must have ripped him apart. I had to be careful he understood my apology for what it was. I didn't want him thinking it meant anything more. I had to admit that I loved his words. Especially the ones describing me, I mean Melissa. 

There was a limo waiting to pick me up. Ralph, my black-suited driver, carried my luggage and opened doors for me. Janice was truly going all out. You feel pretty special when a livery-capped man is holding up a sign with your name on it at baggage claim. I tried to tip him at the hotel and he refused politely, "Themes Publishing has been more than generous, Ms. Higgins." I was being handled by professionals. 

The hotel was flush against the River Walk. I had never been to San Antonio, but Ralph had filled me in on the way. By his tone, I suspected the hotel was high class and the place to be. The River Walk held an impressive array of restaurants and small shops below street level. "You won't even know you're in the middle of a city," Ralph stated with pride. My room overlooked the River Walk with a balcony that allowed me to lean over and people watch. The room itself was about three stars more than I could ever hope to afford. I felt like a queen the way everyone was scurrying about making sure I was comfortable. My wardrobe suddenly didn't feel up to the standards of my new image. 

Janice called while I was sitting on the balcony, nursing a glass of wine the staff insisted I try. The bottle it came from was probably more expensive than my car payment. I was trying to think about what I was going to tell Richard when I knocked on his door. 

"I'm glad you arrived safely." Janice hurried through the greeting like it was an afterthought. "Do you think you could talk with Richard tonight?" It really didn't sound like a question. I was about to get angry. I looked at the wine, down at the River Walk and thought about the pampering. She may be pushy, but she made sure I felt like I owed her. 

"Yes, I was just trying to get my words straight," I answered, "I don't want him to get the wrong idea. 

"Don't worry about that," Janice continued, ignoring my concerns, "just make sure he knows you don't hate him. It's the rejection that tears him up." Hate him? He couldn't possibly think I hated him. I assumed he was thinking I was only angry. Maybe I was crueler than I thought. My stomach churned a bit. 

"I don't hate him!" I declared forcibly. 

"I know you don't." Janice's tone was calmer, like she was soothing a child. "We just need to make sure he knows that." I decided dealing with Janice was not my favorite thing. Only my mother is allowed to talk down to me like Janice does. I sucked it up since this would all be over soon. My conscience healed and Janice will have her author back. 

"Okay, I'll make sure he knows," I conceded against my better judgment. I promised to leave for his place in a few minutes and cordially ended the call. There was no way I could ever work for someone like Janice. I wondered how everyone at Theme Publishing could stand it. 

It was a pleasant walk, about three blocks, along the River Walk. The buildings I passed all had their own unique architecture. Unique, but each fit well with the comfortable atmosphere the walk engendered. I passed at least three restaurants that teased my nose. I hadn't realized I was hungry until the smell of searing meat and boiled crab watered my mouth. The sun hadn't gone down yet so the crowds were still of the tourist variety. Mostly gawkers like me. I was sure nighttime would bring out more locals. 




The Muse



I crossed a really charming stone footbridge to get to Richard's condo complex. The complex had a rustic, but affluent, look about it. The units were mostly done in shades of brown and tan stone with large windows overlooking the River Walk. It was all very serene. 

I paused at Richard's door. My intent was to just knock and get it over with when my brain decided to interfere. I was at a man's door, eighteen hundred miles from home, to ask for his forgiveness about a spilled cup of coffee. I suddenly felt stupid. I held my finger an inch from the doorbell, trying to will it to push. My mind kept echoing the phrase, 'This is really dumb.' 

Mid-push, the door swung open. I was brought out of my stupor by a jacketed Richard who was obviously on his way out. We just stared at each other, neither with words in our mouths. It was his door so I needed to start. 

"Ah...hi, Richard.." That stupid feeling was increasing. This wasn't one of my wisest decisions. "This might seem a bit weird, but I.." How do you tell someone you hopped on a plane to apologize? I was at a loss for words. 

"Dinner?" Richard asked. It came out of nowhere. He was still looking at me, the longest stare since I had known him. Bless me, he had hazel puppy-dog eyes. Behind them there seethed an intensity I couldn't get a handle on. I realized my hand was still inches away from the doorbell so I dropped it self-consciously. 

"Yes," I answered. He tricked me with his eyes. This was Richard and I just agreed to have dinner with him. I couldn't imagine the silent drudgery I just committed myself to. It would have been better to eat alone. "I mean, I just came to apologize." I moved quickly to salvage myself and maybe end this with a short conversation. Richard moved past me, closing his door. 

"Over dinner," Richard stated, gesturing down the walk,"I haven't eaten all day. I hope you don't mind Italian, I have a taste for pasta." I stayed at his threshold staring as he walked down the path. Coherent sentences from Richard was the last thing I expected. He turned when he realized I wasn't following. "Coming, Melissa?" he asked with all sincerity. 

"My name is Mary, Richard," I stated. Following him now seemed unhealthy. I wasn't sure if I was at the beginning of a murder mystery. He looked up at me and smiled. Almost the same smile he had when he saw me dressed for the interview. 

"Of course, Mary, " he confirmed, "but it would be better for my book if you called me Adam, at least for this evening." He was calm and attentive. Patiently waiting for me to catch up. Those damn eyes made me follow. He had been hiding them for years. I played along, convincing myself Janice would approve. 

"Ah..Italian is perfect, Adam," I said with a shrug. This was going to be one weird evening. He held out his hand, patient and insistent at the same time. I took it like an idiot. He headed off with me in tow, a quarter step behind him. Any ideas of me controlling the evening faded away in that walk. How he had asserted his control was subtle and startling. I began to wonder if Janice set me up. I didn't like how good my hand felt in his. 

The walk was silent. Richard didn't seem as uncomfortable with the silence as I felt. He bypassed the front entrance of an Italian bistro and walked down a small alley to the back door. I thought I may have made a grave error as I followed into the dark, quiet passage. I was relieved by the greeting Richard received when the door opened. 

"Adam, good to see you again." A gray-haired man in a stained white apron smiled his greeting. His accent was Italian, but many years removed from Europe. It looked like we were all playing the name game. I was happy it wasn't just me. It seemed a bit more sane. 

"I brought a surprise guest, Raphael," Richard responded. 

"Mama help me, I would recognize Melissa anywhere." Raphael wiped his hand on a towel and held it out with big smile. I blushed as I shook it. I was beginning to think I was the last person in the world who knew about Melissa. "Your table is ready and I set aside some of the those spicy meatballs you like." He led us to a private room in the back, away from the kitchen and separated from the restaurant proper. The table was laid with fresh bread and a bottle of red wine. Raphael quickly retrieved a place setting for me and headed off to give me time to go over the menu. It seemed Richard's order was already in progress. 

Richard was watching me as I perused the menu. I tried not to smile at his attention, but it was hopeless. I finally looked up at him. "What?" I knew he knew what I meant. 

"I'm glad you came," Richard smiled softly as he spoke, "I was surprised, but very happy." Those hazel eyes were not looking away. They seemed so strange on a man who could barely say hello a week ago. For some reason, I needed to get my apology out. 

"I really came to apologize for the way I acted..." Richard didn't let me finish. He reached out and covered my hand with his. I shocked myself by letting go of the menu and letting him have my hand. 

"You acted perfectly," Richard said with grace, "I couldn't have scripted a better response and I relished every moment of it." I should have pulled back my hand. I am sure my face showed my confusion. I couldn't think of anything to say. Richard chuckled and let go of my hand. I wished he didn't. "You are truly God's Flower." He made it sound endearing. 

"Okay, what is God's flower?" I asked, trying to fill my confused silence. 

"It stems from the first time I saw you." Richard realized his word choice. " 'Stems' I have to remember that." His eyes left mine as he filed the word away in his brain. 

"I haven't been to a botanical garden since grade school," I said, trying to verify that his fantasy world wasn't colliding with reality. Richard's eyes returned to mine and so did his smile. 

"About five years ago I was researching landscaping and botanical care," Richard said as he leaned back in his chair, "in truth, I was stalling with a bad case writer's block. Adam Westlake was getting repetitious and frankly boring. I was at a home and garden show where a florist was showing me a crossbred purple rose he had developed." My eyes went wide with realization. My company frequently attended those shows and I had worked the booth many times. Richard saw me connecting the dots and leaned forward to continue. "The florist told me that if God had a favorite flower, his purple flower would be it." Richard paused for a moment, letting me remember. "It was exactly then that a lovely young woman came by to admire the purple roses. Her exact words to her friend were, 'They're gorgeous, and my favorite color too.' " Richard smiled as my memories flooded back. 

"At that instant, it came to me," Richard continued and leaned back again, "Adam needed a strong love interest, someone mysterious who could pull him apart and paste him back together. The florist's words kind of stuck and you became God's Flower." 

"I remember those roses," I admitted, "I remember that moment." I looked at Richard, trying to remember him standing there by the roses. Sadly, there was nothing but the roses and my friend Cathy still in my brain. "But you moved into my apartment building," I said, leaning away, "you were all anti-social." 

"Sadly, the anti-social part is not far from the truth," Richard said quietly, "ten years ago, this dinner would have been torture." He was looking at the table, folding a bit inward. "My writing helps. That's why I stalked you to your apartment. I needed to keep seeing you without you seeing me." I really wished he didn't use the word stalked. I wished his eyes were still on me. 

Raphael chose that moment to come back in. I hadn't spent enough time with the menu so I took a chance and asked for whatever Richard was having. Raphael smiled and took off to the kitchen. I decided to fish for more information. 

"Janice thinks I ruined you," I stated as I placed my napkin on my lap, "I am supposed to make sure you know I don't hate you." Richard's eyes widened. 

"Oh, God, you hate me for all this?" Richard asked desperately. 

"No," I answered as I took back a bit of control. I realized I had been following Richard's lead since his doorstep. It was awful of me, but it felt nice to see him a bit flustered. "I am not sure what I feel. You kind of trespassed a bit. I read some of things you wrote about me." 

"You didn't like it?" Richard pleaded, "it was never meant to hurt." 

"Oh, no, the words were lovely," I tried to clarify my statements, "it's just that the erotic parts seemed...too erotic." 

"Oh, those parts." Richard was looking back at the table. "My imagination tends to wander and that stuff kind of wrote itself." He was actually blushing. "I guess it seems like an invasion of privacy to you. It was how I saw you at the time." I blushed. Where is dinner when you need it? 

"And how do you see me now?" I had no idea why I let my mouth utter that question. It wasn't the time or the place. This guy had been stalking me with his words for a long time. I still wasn't convinced I was totally safe. Those hazel eyes found mine. 

"I would embarrass you even more if I told you," Richard answered sincerely. My blush wasn't receding and I had trouble controlling my stupid smile. I did the only thing I could think of, distract myself. I grabbed some bread and began buttering it. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Richard smile. I suspected he was happy I didn't just storm out. He caught the hint and grabbed the bottle of wine to refill our glasses. Then he nicely changed the subject. 

"I hope Janice is paying for this trip," Richard said as he placed the bottle back on the table. 

"Yep, and first class all the way," I acknowledged. Something struck me then "She doesn't know you're...kind of...normal?" Richard laughed. I guess my searching for the right words did seem a bit humorous. I liked his laugh. 

"She has no idea that my anxiety disorder," Richard emphasized 'anxiety disorder' for my benefit, "has receded. I am not ready for book tours and TV appearances. I hope you can keep my secret." 

"Of course I can," I conspired with a wide grin. I believed we just had moved into the friends stage. The sharing of secrets. Of course, he didn't know any of mine and that still seemed prudent at this point. 

It was over salad that I reentered the name game. "So, I shot at you, now what?" I asked with curiosity. I sensed he may have written himself into a corner. 

"Melissa, you are forgetting you just flew across the country to apologize for it," Richard said as if it was obvious. What a cop out. I wasn't going to let him get away with that! 

"Adam, I shot and missed you three times for a reason," I said in between bites. They had some kind of house-made wine and vinegar dressing. I couldn't pick out the seasonings they added, but it really was quite good. Richard was smiling as he finished chewing. 

"Melissa, my love, I have been waiting patiently all night for your explanation," Richard stated with his eyes all a twinkle, "I am so ecstatic you came back, I would be willing to pretend it never happened if necessary." There was no way his readers would stand for it. Then I realized he was dumping it on me. 

"You wouldn't?" I grinned, stalling for time. Richard just nodded and went back to his salad. From what little I read, Melissa didn't have a defined past. She was this mysterious woman, much sexier than I, who kept disappearing from Adam's life. She always deftly deflected Adam's questions and he accepted that in trade for her passion. 

"Adam, the people I work for can't know about the true us," I leaned closer and almost whispered my lies, "your love has cost me more than you know. Neither of us would have walked out of the coffee shop alive had I not done what I did." There, I thought, that ought to be cryptic enough. I answered everything with nothing. 

"We can run away, find our own private corner of the planet," Richard leaned closer to me, his whispering deeper than mine, "let's just allow the world to turn without us." Yeah, like I want to go back and explain to Janice why this is Donald Rickers' last book. There is no way we were running away together. 

"If it were only that simple." I leaned a bit closer. "They would never let us go. We would be running for the rest of our lives. We have tonight. Let me be happy tonight." I don't know why I did it. It just happened. I reached up and combed my fingers along the the side of his head, pushing some errant brown hairs softly behind his ear. Adam/Richard kissed me then. His lips weren't as tentative as mine. They were soft, but firmly decisive and very demanding. 

Raphael chose that moment to deliver dinner. Richard snapped back before Melissa/I wanted him to. I was a split-second behind, looking like a schoolgirl leaning in for more. Raphael's grin told me he saw enough to make me blush. I quickly returned to a more upright position and glanced at Richard. He was also a bit red around the cheeks. Raphael moved extra quickly, laying down the dishes and grating some Parmesan to our whims. He was still smiling when he made his exit. 

"Mary, I'm sorry about that kiss," Richard said quietly once the coast was clear. He already copped out once tonight. I wasn't going to let him do it again. 

"Did you like it?" I queried with as neutral an expression as I could muster. He quickly took a bite of his spaghetti, obviously stalling for time. Suddenly he put his fork down and swallowed hard. 

"As a writer, it was wonderful," Richard admitted, "as a man, it was phenomenal." He was staring at me with a hazel intensity. I was so happy he took the risk. My lips curled up involuntarily. I felt like how he wrote me. I stood and moved toward him, following his eyes. I cradled his head in my hands. When our lips touched this time, it was mine that were demanding. He pulled me onto his lap, his hands exploring my back and thigh. We necked like teenagers in that private room. I felt a warmth growing, a need I hadn't answered in a long time. I found a fireman. 

It was the sound of the door opening that broke our kiss. No blushing this time when it closed quickly followed by a muffled chuckle on the other side. I moved back to my seat after I gave his forehead a little peck. I wanted more of him later. I loved that he was hesitant to let me go. 

"Mary, I am no longer sorry about that kiss," Richard teased as he twirled his fork among the noodles. I laughed a bit too loudly and almost snorted it back. God, I hoped it didn't come out like I thought it did. Richard just grinned sweetly, so I forgave myself. 

I am ashamed to say Richard corrupted me into running up a tab for Janice. We decided to go to my hotel's bar and charge a few drinks to the room. He had a strange desire to torture Janice a little. I was complicit and found it devilishly fun. We ordered the expensive house-concocted martinis. I had the Alamo Apple and Richard went for the Crockett Coconut. The conversation was light and airy. I filled in Richard on what had transpired at Themes Publishing and he told me funny stories about how Janice handles him. I loved how he made sure he touched me whenever he made a salient point. I just made sure I touched him whenever I felt like it. 

I could tell Richard loved Janice like a sister. The way he talked about her, but held her at arm's length at the same time, was endearing. He liked the whole idea of Janice thinking he needed her more than he actually did. Secretly, I think he needed her more than he was willing to admit. Richard wrote books and Janice took care of everything else. It was a very symbiotic relationship. I found it poetic she was the one who sent me to Richard. 

"I have to write some tonight, before I forget any of it," Richard said as we were finishing our drinks. He was looking around rather apprehensively. The bar was beginning to fill with its Friday night crowd. "I would love to pick you up and take you to breakfast in the morning." It was wonderful he didn't take me for granted, but I wasn't ready for the night to end. It was time for me to take a risk. 

"I would rather watch you write." I smiled and focused on Richard's eyes so my meaning was clear. I loved the way he looked at me, assessing my thoughts through my eyes. A grin slowly formed as he realized what I was asking. 

"You could make sure I don't leave anything out," Richard said as he covered my hand with his. His eyes were split between mine and the growing crowd. I could feel his anxiety as he tried to make sure I understood he wanted me with him. I smiled to help him relax. 

"Let me grab a few things from my room," I said softly, caressing Richard's hand lightly with my fingers. I knew what he was going to say before he said it. I saw it in his anxiety-filled eyes. 

"I'll go up with you," Richard stated and stood and led me toward the elevators. When the elevator doors closed, he released the breath he had been holding. He looked over at me wearing embarrassment on his face. "I'm sorry, it can come on suddenly." He paused for a moment then added, "I'll understand if it makes you too uncomfortable." I heard the pain in his voice. He was going to let me run if I chose. I chose otherwise. 

I cupped my hand around the back of his neck and pulled his lips down to mine. I felt the tension leave his body as he wrapped his arms around me. There was so much strength in his kiss, I wanted to be devoured right there, in the elevator. The doors opened on my floor, breaking the moment. I knew I was going to have him tonight, I could wait. 

Richard was still a bit flustered about his actions. I saw it in his posture as I gathered a few essentials for the night. I saw how much the crowd affected him. I remembered how ill my 'shiver' regrets could make me. His anxiety had to be something similar, only insuppressible. I had no idea how to help him beat it, but I certainly didn't have to add to it. After I placed my toothbrush in my little travel case, I moved next to him and grabbed his hand. 

"Any time you need to leave a place," I said with as much compassion as I could muster, "tap me like this." I subtly tapped his hand three times with my finger. "We'll leave together, no questions asked." Richard pulled me into his embrace. I was expecting a kiss, but received an intense hug instead. I think his eyes were watering, which made mine water. 

I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. Richard released me, he could feel it too. "It's Janice," I said, looking the screen. 

"Don't answer it," Richard said and smiled conspiratorially, "let's let her sweat a bit." I swatted him playfully on the shoulder. 

"You're just mean," I said, but sent the call to voice mail anyway. Janice was a bit controlling and I hated to admit it, but I found it a little satisfying to make her stew for a while. It was just a bonus I could lay it on Richard. 

Our walk back to Richard's condo was leisurely and very pleasant. Richard led me across a small wooden bridge to the less-traveled side of the river. Except for a few other amorous couples, the walk was very private. We could hear the revelry and see the lights on the other side, but its distance was buffered by the slow-moving, silent river. I liked this Richard, the invulnerable one. Here, without the crowds, he had a commanding presence. It didn't hurt at all that his entire attention was on me. I molded my body into his as we sauntered slowly down the trail. 

Richard's condo was a bachelor pad. Not the invite-the-boys-over kind of pad, but definitely never touched by a woman. The door opened on a great room with no pictures on the walls. The large glass window overlooking the River Walk was covered by thick drapes. There was one couch facing a large flat panel on the wall and a large desk against the other wall. The most comfortable seat looked to be the large leather chair near the desk. The desk held a fairly large flat panel computer screen that was currently flipping through a series of pictures, obviously a screen saver of some type. 




The Muse



The back of the room opened to a kitchen separated from the great room by a counter with three 

stools pushed under it. There was an empty tiled space for a table. Although sparsely furnished, it seemed clean and orderly. There weren't any dishes rotting in the sink like you would find in my apartment. Richard grabbed the remote control and hit a few buttons and mellow music came from the wall-mounted flat panel. 

"Not really used to visitors," Richard said as an excuse for the sparseness. 

"It fits you." I smiled. It was pretty much what I expected. I was surprised by the art that was being displayed on the computer screen. It was an eclectic mix of modern and traditional with a few illustrations mixed in. He saw where my eyes were going. 

"It's what inspires me when I get stuck," Richard explained, "I kind of pace around and one of those works will trigger some thoughts and another couple of pages will jump out." He shrugged his shoulders. "Strange, but it works." I just nodded. A picture of purple roses flashed on the screen, it caught my eye because it was the only landscape type picture I had seen. It also was a picture of me and half of my friend Cathy. I looked at his red face. 

"God's flower," Richard explained and squirmed, "it's the only one I have. That's the limit of my stalking." I tried to hold my stern expression, but gave up and laughed. Richard smiled with relief. "I forgot that was there. I took it with my phone and kept it because the readers liked you so much." 

"I inspire you," I pointed out in a flirtatious way. 

"For many years," Richard added. He nonetheless wiggled the mouse to stop the images. A word processor full of paragraphs appeared instead. "I have some wine. I usually drink a glass while I work," he said as he moved toward the kitchen. He pulled out a half-full bottle of white. "Would you like some?" 

"Please," I answered and moved toward the kitchen to shorten the delivery. "What are you going to write tonight?" I asked as he handed me a half-full wine glass. 

"Well, strangely, Melissa stopped by Adam's apartment to explain the shooting," Richard replied - he seemed pleased with himself, "Adam was so jazzed that she came back, he took her out to dinner before getting the apology. I had left them at the restaurant when you found me leaving for dinner." 

"No way!" I exclaimed. 

"Your timing was perfect," Richard stated, "and the kissing excellent. I am going to kiss-and-tell. I hope you don't mind." 

"No way," I said again and headed toward his computer. The manuscript was on the screen so I scrolled back a few paragraphs and read. I could hear Richard snickering behind me. Sure enough, a modified version of what happened this afternoon was elegantly portrayed in words. Adam's apartment was nicer, the restaurant was French and Melissa was a lot prettier. I felt Richard comb his fingers through my hair as I read. I leaned into it subconsciously. My God, I liked how he described me, Melissa. I got up out of the chair. 

"Write some more," I said giving him a quick kiss. I don't think he knew the kiss was for his magic words, but he smiled and sat down. I have never seen an author at work. His fingers moved so quickly, forming sentences that morphed into paragraphs. His word choices were so natural and fluid. Every once in a while, he would stall for a moment, backspace over a word and use another, then continue as if it wasn't disruptive. At times he was typing as fast as I was reading. 

I refilled my wine, pulled a stool from the kitchen and put it next to the desk. I sat, lightly massaging his neck, as I read the words that poured from him. Our earlier conversation as Adam and Melissa appeared on the page, slightly modified, but essentially the same. I absently sipped my wine as Richard described Adam's infatuation. When he portrayed my breasts, I blushed. I had no idea anyone would consider my breasts so intoxicating. I was heating up inside. I moved my fingers to behind Richard's ear as Adam leaned into Melissa for the kiss. Richard stalled there, thinking. 

I leaned down from the stool, wine on my lips, and passionately kissed Richard. He responded by kissing me back. I, ever so lightly, flicked my tongue across his lips. I felt a shudder travel through him. Our tongues danced to the soft music and my body stirred. I was about to crawl down onto his lap when he pushed me away and attacked the keyboard. My disappointment was short-lived as he recalled our kiss in words. He wrote what he felt and I felt what he wrote. I didn't know it could be put into words. I was breathing heavily as his passion poured out of him. He reached the end of the kiss and Melissa's lips moved across Adam's cheek to his ear. Richard stopped there with a set of quotes - he was waiting for words from Melissa. 

I crawled into Richard's lap. I felt his arousal as he let me take over the keyboard. I typed: 

"Take me," Melissa breathed. 

Richard pushed the chair back, cradled me in his arms and stood almost effortlessly. His strength was surprising, his confidence intoxicating. I wrapped my hands around his neck and leaned my head against his shoulder. He carried me to the bedroom, smothering me with kisses along the way. 

Richard stood me beside the bed. I was flustered he hadn't laid me down. Slowly, he ran his hands down my sides, lightly grasping the hem of my shirt. He was going to undress me, standing. I was shaking in his hazel eyes. I wanted the door closed so full darkness could conceal me. He kissed my neck as his fingers dragged along my skin, lifting my shirt. I lifted my arms, wanting to hide, but wanting to stay. 

I closed my eyes as Richard pulled my shirt over my head. I wished I had worn a sexier bra. Something frilly and not so functional. I was afraid to open my eyes as he reached around for the clasp. I moved in closer, hiding what I could. He was so commanding in his actions, I wanted to please him, but felt worried the reality would never live up to his words. It should be dark the first time. 

My bra dropped off my arms and floated to the floor. Richard could see me now. I could feel my insides cringing. I didn't know where to put my hands. "I got it all wrong," he whispered, "you are so much more beautiful than I imagined." I melted into his words as his hand cupped my breast. I covered his hand with mine, encouraging his exploration as warmth spread between my legs. I gave myself to him that first night and he used me so blissfully. 

An insistent buzzing broke my slumber. I hadn't felt so relaxed in a bed in years. My body just wanted to lie there, enjoying its jellied muscles. The buzz forced my eyes open. A smiling face with lovely hazel eyes and a disorderly mop of brown hair greeted me. "Good morning," Richard said. I smiled, realizing I was half exposed, but comfortable in his eyes. He knew every part of me now. I loved that he kept looking. The buzzing continued and I realized it was my phone. 

I crawled across Richard, naked, following the buzz to locate where my pants had landed. I laughed when a warm hand caressed my ass, sending a tingle to a very exhausted part of my body. The man was insatiable and I loved that I was his target. 

I fished out my phone, just as it quit buzzing. The screen said I had missed four calls from Janice. I showed it to Richard as I curled up into the nook of his shoulder. "Have we made her sweat enough?" I conspired. He kissed me and thought about it. I felt his hand gently roaming my body, caressing my back at the top of my butt. I could have spent the day right there in his arms. 

The phone started buzzing again. Janice must have been frantic. Richard nodded so I answered it. 

"Where have you been?" Janice asked, sounding every bit like an irritated mother. I looked at the clock. It was only six. This was going to be good. 

"Trying to apologize to Richard," I answered innocently. Richard was wearing a wonderful grin. He was really going to enjoy this. "You just woke me up," I added to forestall her questions about her previous attempts. 

"Did he accept? Is he okay?" Janice's questions were a bit frantic. I could hear her concern and it was more than just the paycheck. 

"I tried twice, but he kind of changed the subject." I was smiling now and hoping it didn't translate to my tone. "He is really hard to apologize to." 

"But he's talking to you. That's a good sign," Janice said, obviously calculating my words. I almost burst out laughing. Richard had his hand over his mouth holding back his own outburst. "He won't answer his phone. Do you think you can get him to call me?" She almost sounded like she was begging. I felt sorry for her and didn't want to continue the game any longer. Richard just shrugged his shoulders, leaving it up to me. 

"If you want, you can talk with him right now," I said in my innocent voice. Richard rolled his eyes, but I could tell he was done with the game too. The silence on the other end was deafening. I was sure Janice was checking the time and adding in the fact that she had just woke me up. 

"I'm interrupting..." Janice stumbled out the words. I didn't know what to say so I handed the phone to Richard. 

"Good morning, Janice," Richard announced. He was loving our surprise and it came out in his tone. I decided to make it a bit more difficult for him and even the odds for Janice. I ran my hand up his thigh and between his legs. Memories of last night flooded back. Richard was squirming. 

"Everything...is fine." Richard was having trouble with his words as I brought him back to life. I was his toy last night. I decided he would be mine this morning. I dropped my head under the sheets. 

"No...Janice, I'm fine... the book is fine," Richard stammered. I took him in my mouth, tasting the both of us. I loved how he jerked and the deep sigh I received. He was putty in my hands. "Look, I'll call you back...in an hour... maybe two." I heard the phone being placed on the night stand. Richard tried to sit up, to take control. I pushed his chest back down. My toy - my fireman. It was three hours before we talked with Janice again. 

Richard was washing my back in the shower when I told him I was going to call Janice. I felt badly that I helped tease her. "You really don't owe her anything," Richard said humorously as his hands worked on the small of my back. I loved the feel of hands there, I sensed he loved it just as much. I leaned my head back, and he instinctively leaned forward for a quick kiss. We were in sync. Words weren't as necessary anymore. 

"She sent me to you," I moaned as he nuzzled my neck. I laughed as he pulled back, with a mouth full of soap, sputtering like a five-year-old tasting Brussels sprouts. I cupped my hand under the shower and dowsed his mouth, then kissed him properly to test the cleanliness. 

"Then, maybe, I should call her." Richard smiled. 

"You would just torture her some more," I said and tapped Richard's nose with my finger, "she deserves at least some truth before you give her more gray hairs." He pulled me close. My wet skin to his, warm water caressing us both. 

"Did I tell you how much I loved this morning?" Richard asked for the fourth time. I could feel his excitement growing again. I teasingly ran my hand down his stomach and lightly ran my fingers through his sparse pubic hairs. 

"You promised me breakfast," I teased, "you'll wear me to skin and bones, Lover." In truth, I was famished. My body was begging for a break. Just a short one to replenish its strength. One part of me was willing to let me starve to death. I ignored her out of self preservation. 

"Okay, okay, I'll feed you, but I can't promise I'll be a gentleman for long," Richard joked softly. It was going to be a wonderfully long weekend. He guided me under the water to rinse my back. I watched his eyes drink me in. I loved the way he looked at me. Somewhere, lost in the literary ether, Melissa was green with envy. 

Richard let me talk with Janice alone. I sat on the steps, outside his condo, half way down to the River Walk. It was actually a pretty tranquil spot. 

"What were you thinking?" Janice huffed. I could tell she had been stewing since this morning. I needed to set her straight so we could talk. I hated to sound nasty, but ground rules needed to be established. 

"I guarantee you don't want to interfere with this," I stated firmly. I know she felt like Richard needed her care. She was thinking like a mother. "It just happened and we are very happy it did." There was an extended pause. 

"You're right," Janice conceded softly, "I have a lot invested in Richard and I'm not talking about money. I care about him and this caught me by surprise. I'd hate to see him hurt." I smiled knowing we at least had a partial understanding. I also sensed a bit of jealousy. I think she liked the idea of Richard needing only her. 

"You and me both," I agreed, "I don't think you realize how much he values you. You would think you were his sister. He made me leave you in the dark just to tease you." 

"He didn't!" I could hear the smile in her voice. I didn't tell her about the drinks. I was going to save that one for later. There was no need to tempt fate. 

"He is more devious than you know," I conveyed, "I was more upset about the coffee than he was." I paused for a second as a thought struck me. I wondered if my coming out here was all part of Richard's plan. 

"I guess I just never imagined Richard with a girlfriend," Janice said and then added with a chuckle, "you know I'll end up calling you when he doesn't answer his phone." 

"I can live with that," I said, "of course, I have to be back at work on Monday so I may not be a lot of help." 

"You guys haven't worked out any logistics yet," Janice stated. I hadn't thought much past the weekend. Everything was so new. 

"No, we haven't thought out much past breakfast," I admitted, "it just hasn't come up yet." 

"Then I'll stay out of your hair this weekend," Janice said, "tell Richard I will call him on Monday." The conversation ended with a set of goodbyes and a promise to stay in touch. I was happy we at least understood each other. I liked how she snuck in the need to talk about the future. It was rather motherly-like and necessary. I didn't relish the idea of a long distance romance. 

Richard and I ate breakfast at a small coffee bistro. The temperature was cool, but comfortable, so we chose to sit outside. I think Richard enjoyed the lack of walls hemming him in with other people. I was just pleased with the weather. We traded reading lists that morning. He was an ecliptic reader, dabbling in a bunch of genres. He had a particular like for history and preferred that to most fiction. I thought that was strange for a popular fiction writer. 

I rattled off my last few titles, all romance, and Richard just smiled. Of course, he already documented it in his books. Richard confessed he had never read anything in the romance category. He made the comment, "I only read real books." He said it with a smile and meant it teasingly. I bit, and made a deal. He would read a romance of my choice and he could pick a book for me. He accepted the challenge quickly, making me wonder if I just got sucked into a raw deal. 

A young couple had stopped at the end of the walkway and were pointing in our direction while having some kind of discussion. It seemed the man was adamant and his companion just wanted to keep moving. I thought they were probably pointing at the bistro. I was proved wrong quickly. The smiling man dragged the reluctant woman to the table. I caught Richard's quick grimace. 

"You know you are the spitting image of Melissa," the man was speaking to me. I looked at myself like an idiot. I was wearing my Berkeley hoodie to ward off the cool morning. 'Shit.' 

"Melissa? Who's Melissa?" I feigned ignorance. 

"Come on, Todd. Let these people eat in peace," the woman said, trying to pull her partner along. 

"Melissa. From the Adam Westlake novels," the man persisted. I was about to reiterate my ignorance when a masculine voice from the table behind us chimed in. 

"He's right, you know. I was thinking the same thing." The man's voice was chorused by a few grunts of approval from people sitting with him. Richard just smiled and placed his hand over my shoulder, possessing me. 

"The hair, the shirt and your eyes are perfect," the standing man said. His partner was less than thrilled with his descriptions. I felt Richard's muscles tighten. 

"You're certainly as pretty as in the books," a new voice from the table behind chimed it. I flushed at the compliment. 

"I'm sorry, I really don't know what you're..." Our waiter quickly joined in over my words. 

"You're the spitting image, Ma'am," the waiter agreed, "I just read about that hoodie a few nights ago. I felt three light taps from Richard's finger on my shoulder. I had to agree with him this time. I feigned looking at my watch. 

"Oh, Richard, we're going to be late," I said in exasperation, "I'm sorry guys. I guess I'll have to read those books and find out what you are all talking about." Richard and I stood. He laid a couple of twenties on the table and we left quickly. 

We were half a block away when I heard Richard let out the breath he was holding. I looked up at him and he just stared forward. He didn't like me seeing his weakness. The grip he had on my hand relaxed and we continued walking. I steered us into a secluded offshoot where an open-backed, curved bench sat, surrounded by a set of thick bushes with rubbery leaves. I didn't like him not looking at me. 

Richard sat with a sigh. I straddled his lap, my legs hanging down behind him. He couldn't not look at me now. "What did it feel like?" I asked softly. He didn't answer right away. I could see him calculating, wondering if telling me was the right thing to do. 

"Suffocating...Ambushed...Like I am a child facing my parents after breaking the lamp. No control and a lot of fear," Richard said with his eyes closed. I could see the pain in the tightness of his forehead. At least he could describe it. 

"And now?" I cradled his head in my hands. 

"Ashamed." Richard opened his hazel eyes. I could see the strength hidden behind his anxiety. I pulled his lips to mine. I felt his strength again. I ran my hands to the back of his neck and gave him my passion. He returned it. 

"And now?" I asked when I broke the kiss. 

"Shamefully horny," Richard answered with humor back in his eyes. I smiled. At least my kiss could take away the shame. 

"You write too well," I acknowledged, "I'm going to have to retire this hoodie. Maybe change my hair." Richard reached up and ran his fingers through my hair. 

"No, I really like it this way," he said honestly, "it's you now. I can't imagine it any other way." I sent a private prayer of thanks to the stylist who talked me into it. "It was your beauty they recognized. I can't blame them - I have been mesmerized for years." 

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked stupidly and realized it almost immediately, "No, don't answer that." I kissed him again and moved my lips across his cheek to his ear and whispered, "You can tell me anything you want now." I felt a happy tremor run through his body. I nibbled on his ear and another tremor was followed by a quick intake of breath. I smiled and experimented by sighing audibly at the base of his earlobe. I could feel his erection growing through his pants. I pulled back from his ear, smiling. 

"You have horny ears," I said proudly. I am sure my face was beaming at my erogenous discovery. I reached under my butt and felt his arousal to prove my point. My new power went straight to my head and I felt myself getting wet. I briefly considered trying to get away with a quickie right there behind the bushes. 




The Muse



"Your hotel room is closer than my condo," Richard offered, his need growing like mine. I jumped up and pulled him to his feet. I leaned into his ear, brandishing my advantage. 

"I want you badly," I whispered seductively. I am sure I looked the fool with a smile I couldn't hide. 

"Stop that. It isn't fair," he said, walking just a little funnier than I looked. I skipped ahead like a schoolgirl, pulling him along faster. I wanted him with me, more than anything else right then, I wanted him naked and with me. 

I lost my advantage the moment I closed the hotel room door. I was ravished by the sex-crazed maniac I had created. I decided I liked being ravished by a sex-crazed Richard and his horny ears. 

It was over dinner when I broached the future. We had ordered room service and rented a pay per view movie on Janice's dime. Richard enjoyed it all the more. He really had a thing about torturing her. 

"I have to fly back tomorrow," I said in between bites of a really tasty filet mignon. (Richard had insisted we order the most expensive items on the menu.) He looked away for a second, sucking his lips in deep thought. 

"I'll stay here through Tuesday and drive back on Wednesday and Thursday," he said then added, "I don't do well on planes." 

"If you want to leave tomorrow, I could drive back with you," I offered. It was a long drive alone. Richard smiled. 

"I have half my book swimming around in my head," he responded, "I need to get it down. If you're near, the last thing I want to do is write. You're just too delicious." I loved his word choices. 

"I can make you dinner Thursday night," I suggested, "just you and me." I loved how he was smiling at me. 

"I'd like that a lot," Richard returned, beaming. I liked that we had plans. I had a feeling dates with him were going to be on the private side. Right now I was okay with it. I was hoping I wouldn't resent it over time. I was never a big party person, but a restaurant now and then wouldn't be horrible. I decided, for now, we would move at Richard's speed. 

Torturing Janice had its cost. We had both over ordered and overeaten. We spent the night cuddling with little desire for our previous sexual exploits. To tell the truth, it was just as enjoyable. I just loved touching him and he seemed so comfortable with me in his arms. We talked late into the night. He bounced ideas off me, what-would-Melissa-do questions. I gave him smart ass answers and intelligent ones. I flirted and teased, but stayed away from his ears. I needed and wanted comfortable Richard. I fell asleep in his arms, a most comfortable place to be. 

I woke up to a very amorous Richard. We made love slowly and with purpose. He cherished me and I responded in kind. This was his goodbye, the morning to remember until Thursday night. We simply shared each other. It was lovely, my tender fireman making sure I knew how he felt. 

After, sated and in his arms, he whispered to me, "That's how I feel about you." He was absently caressing my breast as he spoke. "I just had to let you know." I knew then that he had loved me before I even knew he existed. He didn't use words. I wasn't ready for the words. When he finally left me so I could pack, Thursday seemed just on this side of eternity. 

I wasn't anxious to get back to work. Life-changing weekends have a tendency to remold your viewpoint. I disliked my job before and now I was considering hating it. Damn student loans. The one bright spot was that I was one day closer to Thursday. I was measuring time by a man, and, even with all the independence that change had sucked from me, I was giddy. I read some more of Richard's book on the plane and deep into the night. He had written the words four years ago, yet I could feel his passion for Melissa, me. I could almost feel his arms around me as I read. 

I entered the main offices of Wilkerson's Hardware barely on time. Julie, the receptionist, was giving me a knowing smirk as I passed. "Sick, my ass," she commented quietly as I moved beyond her desk toward my cubicle. I looked back to her wide grin and I blushed. Was it that apparent? I tried to relax my face, make it more normal. I never thought of Julie being that perceptive. Others were smiling at me. I felt like I was in one of those nightmares where you show up at the office naked. I was obviously the root of some kind of rumor. 

The cause became apparent when I entered my work area. There, on my desk, was a glass vase filled with two dozen purple roses interspersed with some kind of white lily. It was exceptionally large as bouquets go. I turned four shades of red and felt my heart shudder. It was embarrassingly lovely. 

A small envelope stuck out from among the blooms. I pulled it away quickly and looked around, making sure no one was spying. I opened the envelope slowly and pulled out the small card. I almost cried when I read it. Richard had penned 'God's Flower' then crossed out 'God's' and corrected it with the word 'My.' I shoved the note quickly back in its envelope when Julie entered my cubicle. 

"Someone had a nice weekend," Julie whispered. I was still flushed from the note and I could see it reflected in her eyes. I tried not to smile and maintain some decorum, but it was hopeless. "Someone had a VERY nice weekend," Julie repeated, grinning conspiratorially. 

"Shh," I said, trying to get her to stop. 

"Purple means love at first sight you know," Julie stated, ignoring my reluctance. I wasn't going to tell her there was a deeper meaning. "They were shipped overnight from Texas. Who the hell ships flowers overnight and were you in Texas?" She was nothing if she wasn't persistent. 

"Look, I just met this guy," I tried to make it seem normal. No big deal. Julie wasn't biting. 

"God's flower, my flower. What's up with that?" Julie crossed her arms and assumed a stubborn pose. She had read my note. Of course she did, she was Julie after all. I was about to express some anger and was interrupted. 

"It's because she looks like Melissa," Bob, my purchasing counterpart, said from the cubicle next to mine. He stood and put his arms on the cubicle wall. I now had two people to shut up. 

"Who's Melissa?" Julie asked. Bob was smiling. I was grimacing. 

"The mysterious love of Adam Westlake, from Donald Rickers' novels," Bob imparted his knowledge. I squirmed. 

"Shh," I repeated and was ignored. 

"I've heard of him," Julie said. 

"Adam Westlake calls Melissa God's Flower," Bob continued, "and our Mary is Melissa's spitting image." 

"You got that from a book?" Julie asked incredulously. 

"The descriptions are quite vivid," Bob answered as I cowered in my chair, "purple is Melissa's favorite color." My face was turning purple. 

"Stop it! I have work to do," I pleaded. 

"We're eating lunch together, girlfriend, and you are going to give me all the dirty details," Julie ordered good-naturedly, "if you don't, I am going to start a rumor you're dating Donald Rickers." Her revelation was meant in jest, but it took me by surprise. 

"Please, don't!" I responded, shocked at my adamancy. Julie's eyes went wide. 

"Oh my God, you are Melissa," Bob whispered, "you know Rickers, don't you?" I was never good at keeping secrets. The ramifications of this getting out right now hit home. My eyes were watering. 

"Please, stop," I pleaded once again. Julie saw something in my face and looked at Bob. 

"This conversation never happened, Bob," Julie said sternly. Bob looked at me and then nodded his head. He sank back into his cubicle. "I'm sorry, Mary, I stick my nose where it doesn't belong all the time," Julie apologized, "I was just happy to see you get flowers." 

"Lunch, okay?" I asked. I guess talking with someone who already knew would be liberating. 

"Sure," Julie responded with concern, "and my lips are sealed." She smiled at the bouquet on my desk and then headed back to her desk. 

I spoke with Julie at lunch and the next day's lunch. I told her almost everything, leaving out only Richard's anxiety. She had a voracious appetite for personal information. She became my sounding board. Julie never judged and was more interested in the sex being good. She was enamored with the idea of dating a famous author, whether he was a private man or not. I decided nothing during those lunches, but I felt better because of them. They made the days go faster which was bringing Thursday's dinner quicker. 

Bob, for his part, kept quiet about his discovery. He did whisper a request for an autograph, and I promised I would try. I wasn't sure if Donald Rickers signed anything. I got home late on Tuesday, we had to double check purchase quantities to verify a new inventory system again. The system that was supposed to save us so much time was currently costing us twice the time. I was surprised to see Janice waiting at my apartment door. She was holding a bottle of wine and a pleasant expression. 

"I was in the neighborhood and decided to stop by," Janice stated warmly, "I thought we could talk." The wine told me she may not have seen the room service bill yet. I smiled warmly and let her in. 

"I was going to make a salad for dinner, are you hungry?" I offered. 

"Sure, if you let me help," Janice countered. I emptied the fridge of its vegetables and we sliced cucumber and shredded carrots together. 

"I just received some more pages from Richard," Janice said as she chopped some broccoli, "Adam has reaffirmed his love for Melissa and he vowed to free her from her past. He has gone into action mode, the stuff his readers eat up." 

"That's good, right?" I asked, pulling three types of dressing from the fridge. 

"For Themes and his readers, yes," Janice answered, "you do know he is also talking about you when he writes about Melissa?" 

"I saw it first hand," I said, remembering the first night Richard and I spent together. 

"He loves you," Janice stated. She didn't leave room for debate on the issue. I looked at her, with her motherly concern, and just nodded. She looked down at the broccoli, "Are you going to run the first time he has a panic attack?" Her question was soft and quiet. She was trying to feel me out, to see what I would do to Richard in the long run. 

"He had two when I was out there," I said almost proudly, "I am not afraid of his anxiety, I am just trying to figure out how to work with it." 

"Two? And he still wrote?" Janice raised her head, beaming. "He usually goes dark for days after one. How did you break him out of the funk?" I was blushing bright red, not really knowing how I should answer. 

"Kissing seemed to help," I replied sheepishly. Janice snickered, trying to hold back a laugh without spitting all over the vegetables. 

"I tried everything else," Janice joked with a shrug, "I think I'll leave that remedy in your capable hands." From that moment on, I sensed Janice had fully accepted me. I had her mom 'seal of approval.' "Do you love him?" Janice asked, this time looking straight at me. She was ready to accept any answer I gave, positive or negative. 

"I am not ready to say it yet," I answered truthfully. Janice started laughing and had to turn away from the counter to not spoil the dinner. "What's so funny?" I asked with apprehension. 

"As an editor, may I rephrase your answer?" Janice was grinning from ear to ear. I nodded. "Yes, but I haven't told him yet," she rephrased. I sucked in my bottom lip and I just nodded. She was right. I was afraid of the future and needed more time to adjust. "It's not what I imagined, but I am truly happy for the both of you. Richard is one lucky man," Janice added. I became a Janice fan. 

"You haven't seen the room service bill yet." I warned. Janice just laughed again. We opened the bottle of wine and enjoyed our salads. I had been planning a little workout tonight, but thought talking about Richard with Janice would be more pleasurable. It was. After we cleaned the dishes, we took the rest of the bottle of wine to couch, kicked off our shoes, and talked some more. 

"I want to make you an offer, but I am afraid you might take it the wrong way." Janice was hesitant to broach the subject. I think she just moved from motherly to businesswoman. I told her it was okay to continue. 

"I would like to bring you on at Themes," Janice said, almost as a question. I was floored. How do you answer something like that. I am screwing your best writer so you want to bring me in-house. Janice was quickly losing her appeal and she must have seen it in my face. "I was afraid you might react that way - please, let me explain." I took another sip of wine and held my temper in check. 

"Richard is Themes Publishing," Janice began, "he is eighty percent of our business. He doesn't do appearances and book signings like most authors. He doesn't respond to reader mail and won't let us do it for him. There is a lot of untapped potential in that man, markets he hasn't even tried to penetrate. Did you know only five percent of his readers are female?" Janice paused for a second trying to gauge my reaction. I just nodded and she continued, "If we could double the female readership, it would mean tens of millions." She paused briefly again. "Richard won't pursue these things, but he would let Melissa do it. We are his family, Mary. We would love to have you on board, moving his books to new markets." She was throwing marketing at me. I wanted to leap at the job, but it still felt wrong. 

"You want me to keep Richard in line?" I asked sarcastically. 

"No one keeps him in line and keeping him happy is not in the job description. I'll admit that a large part of your appeal is that he trusts you," Janice responded. 

"Why does the whole idea feel so...whorish?" I asked. 

"Please don't look at that way. You're right that I wouldn't offer this to anyone else, but Richard doesn't trust anyone else." Janice threw up her arms, almost spilling the wine. "I'm taking a risk even asking you. Richard told me he would switch publishers if I pissed you off with the request." 

"You already mentioned this to Richard?" I shouldn't have been surprised. 

"Yesterday." Janice nodded. "He didn't like the idea at first. He thought you would be insulted. I thought he might fire me for the suggestion. You and I are the only two who know him well enough. I know how far I can push in the right direction. I also know you can push farther - before you say anything, that is exactly what I told Richard. It is what convinced him to even let me ask." 

"He wants to be pushed?" I asked surprised. 

"Gently, yes. And only by you," Janice stated, "he knows instinctively that you understand his limits and would never push him over the edge. He gets really upset when he disappoints and goes out of his way to avoid situations where it can happen. For some reason he has no desire to avoid you, the biggest risk he has ever taken." 

"I would be able to decide what paths we take?" I needed to make a few things clear. 

"Yes," Janice answered without a pause. 

"If anything came between Richard and me, I'd quit in an instant." I felt that needed to be made crystal clear. I knew I was inching toward acceptance with Richard's acquiescence. He needed me, and, God help me, I needed him. 

"Of course." Janice smiled. "That's the reason he trusts you. I wouldn't be asking if that wasn't a foregone conclusion." I looked away, trying to think of reasons I shouldn't take the job. I had no desire to work at Wilkerson's Hardware anymore. There were no other opportunities throwing themselves at me. Just those damn student loans. It always ends with the money. I hate talking about money. It just makes me feel greedy. 

"I need thirty-two a year, I can't survive on less," I stated with the firmness of a fish out of water. Janice just smiled. 

"We'll start you at fifty-five, and, after six months, Themes will take over any outstanding student loan payments for as long as you work for us." Janice knew she had me. I was trying not to look stupid after asking for such a low amount. "Richard is a hundred million dollar business, Mary," she added to make sure I understood. 

"You're risking a lot, based on the one weekend Richard and I have spent together." I don't know why I harped on the negative. I guess I just wasn't used to people handing me things like this. 

"Business is a risk. Richard was the biggest risk I ever took and he worked out rather well," Janice responded, "I will never find another person who he will respond to. It may be a very long time before you get another offer like this. We all suffer a little if you turn this down." It wasn't really a choice. Staying at Wilkerson's seemed senseless and Richard needed me. 

"I'll take the job," I agreed, "I'll give Wilkerson my two weeks' notice tomorrow." 

"Wonderful," Janice beamed. She grabbed the bottle of wine and emptied it into our glasses. "To a long and fruitful employment," she toasted. We clinked our glasses and I sipped wine with my new boss. 

I was nervous when Thursday finally rolled around. A lot had changed since the weekend. I had spoken briefly with Richard on the phone - not a good way to talk with him. He was more of a letter person. He agreed to meet me at my place at seven thirty. That would give me time to clean up after work and cook a dinner. I rushed home a little late. Work was in a turmoil due to my two-week notice. They had me documenting all my procedures and training a temporary replacement. They tried to offer me more money to stay. I have to say it felt good to have a business desire you. I declined graciously, secure in my direction. 

When I finally arrived home, Richard was standing at the door holding a single purple rose. "I couldn't wait anymore," he said with a smile. The gulf I thought was created over the last three days disappeared in an instant. He looked so good standing there, his hazel eyes begging for mine. I threw myself into his arms and we kissed deeply. I loved the feel of him, his arms wrapping around me, holding me like he would never let go. I heard a sharp intake of breath from down the hall. 

Debbie Brindlemen, her gray hair askew from the wind, was holding a bag of groceries and staring at us in shock. It wasn't that I was kissing a man. It was that I was kissing Richard, the building's shy guy. 

"Good evening, Debbie," I said warmly. I shouldn't have been enjoying her shock, but I found it enjoyable none the same. 

"Hi, Mary...Hi, Richard." Debbie looked at us both in turn. She had forgotten to close her mouth. I could smell the gossip brewing from where I stood. 

"Debbie, you look absolutely wonderful tonight," Richard said from whatever cloud he was on. I was still in his arms and couldn't help smiling at his words. Words that weren't on paper, that came from his mouth, that didn't try to hide. He was looking straight at Debbie. The woman blushed and I could see the schoolgirl in her wrinkled eyes. She saw the dashing Richard. The same one I saw. 

"Why...thank you, Richard," Debbie stuttered. At least the gossip would be pleasant. "You two look very good together." She smiled honestly. I liked her assessment. 

"Thanks." I smiled back and gave Richard a quick peck on the cheek. Debbie giggled and unlocked her door. She gave us a last, bright look before she disappeared into her apartment. I brought Richard into mine. 

"I missed you," Richard said softly, running his hand through my hair, "I really missed you." My insides melted at his words. 

"Ditto," I said before he kissed me again. This time his hands traveled to places the hallway wouldn't allow. Dinner was really late. 

"I took the job Janice offered," I told Richard over toasted cheese sandwiches. I had planned a nice dinner, but time got away from us - blissfully so. 

"She told me," Richard returned, "she is really excited about it. Thinks you'll take me in new directions." 




The Muse



"I don't want to cause you pain," I professed, "I don't like to see you hurting." 

"I can take a little pain as long as you're there with me," Richard confessed, "you're good for me. Janice knows it, I know it and I sure hope you know it." I smiled at his trust. I wished the world could see Richard as I saw him. Handsome, confident and oh so loving. 

"I will be there, always," I said confidently. 

"And I for you," Richard said absently, "I would run through a burning building to get to you." I knew he meant it. He was my fireman. 

The weeks that followed were some of the best in my life. Richard stayed in town and we enjoyed each other fully. Wilkerson's threw me a going away party that had me in tears, good tears. Themes welcomed me with open arms. I had my own office, it was my first, and what everyone thought was a humorous desk nameplate. On one side it said 'Mary Higgins' and on the other it said 'Melissa.' I kept it on the 'Mary' side unless the day was stressful. Then I would turn it to the 'Melissa' side. Melissa was known to carry a gun. 

Any thoughts of this being some kind of patronage job went out the window the first day. Janice inundated me with marketing information. By the end of the first week, I knew exactly where Richard's books stood in the marketplace. The competition was as fierce as any other product line. The battle for product placement in a store as well as online was bloody. Richard's, or Rickers', new novels were easy to place at the forefront. It was keeping them there that was the difficult job. Targeting that new reader and getting him or her hooked was the challenge. I was in marketing heaven. 

Richard, as Donald Rickers, signed a copy of his newest book for me. I wanted to keep my promise to Bob for his discretion. Richard had signed a few before, but had no desire to try for a full-fledged book signing - way too many people. The inscription was nice 'Thanks for being a friend to Mary. Sincerely, Donald Rickers.' I kissed him in payment and dropped by Wilkerson's to deliver it to Bob. 

"Oh my God!" Bob exclaimed. He was way more excited than I had expected. "Do you have any idea how much this is worth? I mean, I would never sell it, but thank you so much." I thought he would jump out of his pants. 

"It's just a signature, Bob." I smiled, thankful I could return his favor. 

"This is rare, Mary. Really rare," Bob whispered reverently, "he doesn't sign anything. I should know, he's my favorite author. The blogs are always buzzing when anything of his shows up. Which is practically never. Very rare indeed." My marketing brain kicked in. I almost ran back to work. 

I spoke with Janice and watched her face light up. "Do you think he would do it?" she asked. 

"Of course he would," I answered, "it could help the world, get free press and maintain his anonymity. I would need some kind of authenticity document on Themes letterhead - your signature would help." 

Richard and I spent the evening researching our first test. He thought the idea would never bear fruit, but he loved me and played along. It took us about two hours to find something that appealed to Richard. A charity fundraiser for a children's hospital. They were going to have an auction in two weeks. 

I spent the next day on the phone organizing our donation. Janice had a first edition, leather-bound version of Richard's first novel. Richard came in the next day and hand wrote an inscription and added his signature. We developed a gold leaf certificate and had every department head and Janice sign it after witnessing Richard signing. No one was allowed to see the inscription - that was Richard's idea. He used a ribbon to close the book and tie it shut. I liked the mystery. Richard just liked to tease Janice who was in a panic that his inscription might be inappropriate. 

The hospital agreed to accept the donation for the auction. Richard just sneered and said they would be lucky to get a hundred bucks. Janice insisted I wear the Berkeley hoodie when I dropped off the book. It was a black tie affair, and I was planning on wearing a nice dress to make the delivery. We went back and forth until I gave in. Since I was going to drop it off before any of the guests arrived, it made little difference whether Melissa or I dropped it off. 

The afternoon of the event, Janice hired a limousine to deliver the book. I told her it was over the top, but she was insistent. She walked me out to the limo while congratulating me for thinking out of the box. I stepped in while she held the door for me. Suspicions that I was being buttered up for something began to surface. 

"By the way, there may be a few cameras there. So smile," Janice said and quickly closed the door. The driver headed into traffic before I could respond. Anger is the first thing you feel when someone takes you for a ride. The second emotion is revenge. I pulled out my phone and called her. She was waiting. 

"What do you mean there will be cameras?" I grimaced. 

"Now sweetie, it was your idea. I just added a few touches." Janice's voice was all flowery. 

"Janice, I thought we talked about things first." I moved to my commanding voice. The one most people ignore. 

"Four hundred seventy-six dollars and seventeen cents," Janice responded. 

"What?" 

"Your room service bill," Janice laughed, "I'm just having my fun now." The line went dead. Richard teases Janice and Janice teases me. How did I let myself get in the middle of those two? I sat in the stew of my own making and plotted my revenge. I would have to enlist Richard; he had the most devious mind. 

Janice lied when she used the term 'a few.' There were at least ten cameras, maybe more. There was also video being taken. I was going to have to spend some serious thought as to how to get her back. The red carpet had never been in my dreams. I never saw myself on a runway and felt fairly uncomfortable. The chauffeur was moving way too quickly around the car to open my door. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I felt my heart pumping hard. I imagined this as a smaller version of what Richard feels. No wonder he found it hard to breathe. 

The door opened and I stepped out with the small wooden chest we had constructed to contain the book. I smiled as best I could, trying not to trip and fall as I self-consciously walked up the steps to the hall. Cameras were going off left and right. I knew video was being taken. I also knew I hated Janice right then. I dismissed the silly dream of becoming an actress - no way could I put up with the pressure. 

A man in a tuxedo was waiting at the top of the stairs, smiling. Damn, they wanted me to do this outside. I was hoping we could go inside, behind a few doors. I heard someone call "Melissa" from behind the cameras. Oh great, Richard's fans were here. I smiled and waved, trying desperately not to trip on my own feet. It is really difficult to walk when you're thinking about walking. About a year later, I reached the top of the steps. The man in the tux was almost laughing. 

"Janice said you would enjoy this," the man said quietly, out of earshot of the crowd. I gritted my teeth while trying to hold my smile. 

"Janice is dead to me right now," I said sarcastically. He laughed and took the box from my hands. He turned me around and put his arm around my waist. We posed for a few more pictures and he thanked me as Melissa, loudly and clearly. My five minutes of fame seemed like a decade by the time I was finally back in the car. 

The driver must have pushed a button because a small cache opened with a chilled bottle of wine, a couple of wine glass and a note. I opened the note and it simply said 'Thank you, Janice.' I didn't hate her anymore. I did drink her wine, and was still contemplating revenge. 

The book auctioned for just over thirteen thousand dollars. Janice's little show had increased the hype. There was a lot of money at the event and the book was one of the most unique items. The winning bidder, a stock-broker, broke the ribbon and read the inscription. 

Your gift will touch many small hearts and warmly wrap mine. 

Thank you for being so human. Donald Rickers 

I knew all this because we made the late news. The internet went wild as Richard's fans clamored for information. Richard was floored. I was self-critical, looking at my large butt climbing stairs on the news. Someone should have told me those pants didn't look good on me. Richard assured me it was my imagination. I kissed him and decided to toss the pants. 

Janice was ecstatic the next morning. She was waving the morning paper at me. Melissa made the society page and so did the winning bidder. We had also received a mention on a national morning show, 'The Sunrise.' The reclusive Donald Rickers was the angle. We had buzz and a lot of it. Richard, through Themes, matched the winning bid. He tried to do it quietly, but it leaked anyway. 

The following day brought the biggest surprise, 'The Sunrise' wanted to interview Melissa. Their studios were in the city, only a few blocks away from Themes. "Mary, over eighty percent of their viewers are women," Janice championed the go ahead.  

"I was scared to death just delivering the book. What do you think I would like on TV?" I was definitely in the 'no' category. 

"Look, there won't be any surprises on this one. You know what you're getting into and your so-called miserable walk was a resounding success." Janice was, of course, all for it. She was a numbers person. If it raises our sales by one percent, then it must be a good thing. "You would look phenomenal on TV. I can't think of anyone better to represent Richard." She was good. Reminding me this was for Richard was no accident and I knew it. 

"All I had to do before was walk, now you want me to talk," I argued. 

"We'll coach you on what not to say and then hold practice sessions to make you sound fluid," Janice continued the hard sell, "I have all the confidence in the world in you. I wouldn't have agreed otherwise." 

"You already told them yes!" I was a little perturbed. 

"Just a tentative yes, nothing is set in stone," Janice countered, "think of what this could do for us, for Richard." She was using my love against me. 

"Arrggh!" I grunted at Janice. I was running out of useful words and I knew I was going to go. I just wanted to make sure she knew it was on her if this turned into a disaster. She smiled when she recognized my surrender. 

The coaching was brutal. I had two days to prepare and Janice was leaving no stone unturned. The basic rule was to get Richard out of the conversation and I have no idea who Donald Rickers is. By the end of the two days, I was really good at deflecting probing questions. The toughest one was why I looked so much like Melissa. My pat answer was 'It was just a coincidence and one of the reasons I was hired by Themes. I had my hair done to match.' I tried to tell Janice I was really bad liar. She insisted that with practice it wouldn't seem like a lie. I had naively thought marketing was a bit more ethical. I justified it by convincing myself they were harmless lies to protect Richard. 

The absolute worst part was seeing myself all over the TV. They were pushing the spot heavily using the book delivery footage. Every time I saw the commercial, I cringed. I wanted to be the person who hired the spokesperson, not be the spokesperson. It's for Richard, I kept telling myself. Somehow it kept coming back, 'it's for Janice.' 

Of course I had trouble sleeping the night before the show. Stress did that to me. This time I had Richard to hold me which made it more comfortable. He kept nodding off, then wake with a start at my tossing. He would just smile, pull me closer and stroke my hair before he would drift off again. He was utterly satisfied with me in the bed, asleep or not. 

"I'm going with you," Richard said as I finished donning my Melissa uniform. I was really going to have to get a new hoodie if this type of thing was going to continue. 

"That's kind of risky, don't you think?" I asked concerned. 

"Naw, no one will figure it out." Richard seemed confident. "You're stressed and exhausted, I'm not letting you go alone. I am sure they have a room I can wait in." I moved into his arms and kissed his cheek. 

"I would like that," I admitted. Knowing he was going made me feel better. I only had about four hours sleep total. 

We arrived at 'The Sunrise' studios two hours early as the producer had demanded. We were ushered into a room where an assistant producer prepped us on how things would work. She told Richard he could wait in the room during the show, monitoring it from the screen on the wall. He gave me a quick kiss and wished me luck as I was moved on to makeup. 

Fear was growing as my time slot approached. I was in one of those situations where I really wished I said no. I know I would have regretted it, but it had to be better than the butterflies trying to eat their way out of my stomach. I took deep breaths and smiled at the show's celebrities as they were introduced to me. Having non-nervous people tell you that you don't need to be nervous is next to useless. I just kept running through what I was going to say, trying to keep it at the front of my mind. Five minutes before I was supposed to go out, I was introduced to my interviewer, Stacy Phillips. 

"I'm good at what I do," Stacy gave me her TV smile as she spoke, "I'll ask questions and you just have to answer. I'll keep the conversation going, just relax and enjoy it." I only felt slightly better, but I smiled anyway and took more deep breaths. I really wished I had said no. 

I was ushered out on set and took one of the leather seats. I had to shift my ass a bit to accommodate the microphone transmitter they had clipped to my pants. I was as ready as I would ever be as the guy next to the camera began counting down. My own personal doom clock. 

"I am here with Mary Higgins or, as you Donald Rickers' fans would know, Melissa," Stacy said with a smooth delivery. I envied her calm. "She made her first appearance while delivering a rare signed Donald Rickers first edition for the children's hospital charity auction. Tell me Mary, did you ever think it would fetch thirteen thousand?" The morning show spots were quick, we had skipped right to the questions, by-passing the hellos. 

"No, Stacy, we were as surprised as everyone else." 'Smooth,' I thought to myself. "Donald's fans have always been incredibly supportive, but that kind of generosity was more than we ever expected." I didn't stumble over my words. I was inwardly proud of myself. 

"From what I have read, preparing for this interview, you look astonishingly like Melissa, the mysterious love of Adam Westlake in Donald Rickers' novels." I knew the hard questions were coming. I saw it in Stacy's eyes as she spoke. "Did Donald base the character on you?" I smiled, trying to put a little humor in my answer. 

"If it were only true," I lied smoothly, "no, it's only a coincidence. I am sure there are a thousand other women just like me. I was just fortunate enough to be chosen to represent her." It sounded good and I was feeling better. 

"So, have you met the reclusive Donald Rickers? Can you tell us who he is?" Stacy asked with a sly expression. Her eyes went from soft to those of a bird of prey. I was prepared for the question. Janice had made sure of that, but I didn't think how it was asked. I sensed I was being baited. 

"No, that's a secret I'm not privy to," I lied again, "I am told he is a very private man." Stacy's smile turned almost evil. My fear was coming back. 

"We did our own research and I have to tell you, Mary." Stacy seemed exceptionally pleased. I was panicking. "I don't think you're being wholly honest with me." I never was a good liar. I grabbed hold of the arms of the chair to stop my hands from shaking. 

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Stacy," I responded. My stomach was doing flip flops and I felt a bit dizzy. 

"I am sure you remember Betty Simpson. She works in the same building you do." Stacy smiled as Betty walked onto the set and took a seat across from me. All the blood in my body rushed to my face. I was being ambushed. I didn't practice for this. Betty smiled at me with the same smile she used to calm me after the coffee incident. 'Sneaky bitch' was the thought that came to my mind. I hated being me at that moment. Stacy seemed to be in her own personal heaven. 

"Betty seems to think you do know Donald Rickers," Stacy said with confidence, "and that you may be the one and only Melissa." I was suffocating. My heart was beating way too fast. 

I sat in shock, trying to interject as Betty recounted the coffee incident. Things were falling apart in front of me and it was happening on a national broadcast. Stacy kept me out of the conversation and I wasn't strong enough to stop her. Betty had surmised my connection to Richard, she knew he lived in my apartment building because I told her. She knew he was involved in Themes Publishing because she had shared an elevator with him in the past. I watched her ruin me step by step, putting the pieces together on national TV. 

"So I have to assume," Betty continued with pride, "Mary got her job because of the hot coffee, possibly threatening a lawsuit" Stacy looked back to me with her winning smile. 

"Is that true, Mary?" Stacy asked, looking at me with a victor's smile, "is Donald Rickers' real name Richard, and are you blackmailing him?" I stared. I had lost all control of the situation. I felt like a child facing her parents after breaking the lamp. I was in an incredible amount of internal pain. I wanted to run. 

I stumbled for words, I couldn't put together a coherent sentence. The world knew I was lying. "Maybe we can get that answer when we come back." Stacy smiled at the camera as its red light went dark, indicating a commercial break. I couldn't speak, couldn't even yell my hatred at what they had done. My heart was going to explode as tears began to form. I couldn't stay any longer. I had ruined everything. I stood, turned quickly and started to run. 

I was caught by a strong set of arms, only a few feet from my chair. "I've got you," Richard said softly. I folded myself into him and began to cry. "I'll give you five minutes if she leaves," Richard said forcibly to Stacy while pointing at Betty. I could feel his muscles tense, holding my shaking body. He was visibly angry. 

"And who are you?" Stacy asked with indignation. 

"Richard Thompson a.k.a. Donald Rickers," Richard stated, "and I expect an on-air apology." Stacy whispered something to one of the assistants and Betty was shuffled off the set grumbling about still wanting her money. I fed on Richard's anger. "Get me a damn tissue!" he ordered. I had never seen him in king mode. I didn't know he had a king mode. 

"I love you," Richard whispered as he wiped the tears from my eyes, "I couldn't watch them do that to you - I had to come." 

"I think I've ruined everything," I stuttered, trying to drink in his hazel eyes. The strength I needed was in them. 

"You have ruined nothing," Richard said lovingly, "we will fix this and anything else that's thrown our way." I loved the word 'we' more than anything else right then. I kissed him, really kissed him. I heard a gasp from behind me and ignored it.  

Someone yelled "fifteen seconds" and I knew I had to straighten up. Richard was quickly fitted with a microphone and we took our seats next to each other. 

"It seems we owe you an apology, Mary," Stacy said solemnly when the red lights went back on, "we blindsided you with incomplete research and for that we are sorry." I liked the way Richard used 'we' better. Stacy should have used 'I.' I nodded instead of verbally accepting, since I didn't trust my voice. 




The Muse



"On a brighter note." Stacy perked up, the apology forgotten. "Donald Rickers has agreed to come on camera for the first time ever to clear up our errors. The world is very pleased to meet you, Mr. Rickers." 

"Thank you, Stacy," Richard said formally. 

"How did we get it wrong, Mr. Rickers?" I could tell Stacy saw ratings before her eyes. She didn't care about what she had done to me, and now we were rewarding her for it. A true blood-thirsty professional. Richard grabbed my hand and pulled it into his lap so no one would mistake his intentions. I smiled and let him. 

"I fell in love with Mary about five years ago," Richard started, "I was researching botany and the prettiest girl I had ever seen was there admiring some purple roses." I stared like a schoolgirl as he told the world about us. How the term God's flower came about. How he wrote about me as Melissa instead of confronting his fears. Stacy laughed as he explained the coffee incident and my trip to San Antonio to apologize. How his heart leaped to see me at the door. How I lied to protect him from public exposure. 

"I dare say you're rather exposed now," Stacy surmised. 

"I'd run through flames for Mary," Richard said without missing a beat. I just teared up looking at my fireman. He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it while looking into my eyes. The whole world knew he loved me. 

"When did you know, Mary?" Stacy asked. I stared at Richard's strong eyes. I knew exactly to the minute when it happened, but I had never told him. 

"October seventh at eight thirty-six in the evening," I answered. Richard's eyes widened. I stopped there - Stacy deserved some dead air. 

"Um...how can you be so exact?" Stacy stammered. I am not ashamed to admit that I took pleasure in her stammer. 

"Richard, I mean Donald, was writing about a meeting between Melissa and Adam," I said while still looking a Richard, "he was describing our conversation when he came to our first kiss and he stalled. I kissed him again to help him remember. That's the kiss that I didn't want to end. The passion that poured out in the words that followed stole my heart. I was his at eight thirty-six, the time displayed on the computer." I paused and leaned closer to Richard, "I have loved him deeply from that moment on." I saw a tear in Richard's left eye. I told the world as I told him. Not what I had in mind, but it couldn't wait any longer. 

"We'll be back in one moment," Stacy said softly, emphasizing the 'moment' for the audience. I felt Richard's fingers tap my hand three times. There was no strain in his eyes, this had nothing to do with anxiety. He was going to let me inform Stacy and regain some strength. 

"That was your five minutes," I said sternly to Stacy. We stood and walked off the set. Stacy tried to call us back, almost pleading. We ignored her as we entered the hall. Janice was waiting, tears in her eyes. 

"I'm so sorry, Mary." Janice was in real pain. She had obviously missed the second half in her rush to get to me. "I didn't know that bitch would do something like that." 

"Richard saved me," I said softly with a smile and hugged her. Janice looked at Richard who just shrugged with his own silly smile. 

"Secret's out," Richard stated. 

"Oh, and it's my fault," Janice whined, "I'm so sorry, Richard. I pushed everyone too hard." 

"I'm not," Richard grinned, "Mary said she loves me and I have it on video so she can't take it back." 

"Live?" Janice looked at me. I nodded and blushed as I realized what I had done."Well you can't go back to your apartment now." Janice went into bossy mode. "Richard, why don't you and Mary go down to your house in the Keys, away from everyone. Give me your apartment keys, Mary. I'll pack some clothes and have them sent down. You two just need to disappear for a while while we think about what to do about this." 

"She's your boss, you know," Richard said, taking me in his arms again, "you have to spend time alone with me on the beach, whether you like it or not." 

Our two months in Key West were bliss. Janice fielded the press with staunch brilliance. Never saying no and certainly not saying yes. Richard's rescue of me on national TV hit some kind of soft spot in hearts of the viewers. Pre-sales of his new novel skyrocketed, women forcing most of the growth. Even his older novels saw a strong resurgence, people trying to tie Melissa and Adam to the reality of Richard and me. 

Through it all, we hid on the beach. Richard wrote and I gave him motivation - lots of motivation. He learned to write in between the motivation. I motivated while he wrote - that didn't work, but we had fun trying. We spent time in the sand and in the waves. We learned about each other during that time. When we finally returned to reality, we knew, without a doubt, our lives had forever merged. 

My belated revenge on Janice was actually planned by Richard. I thought him cruel since the news was hard to hold in. He just had this evil streak in him when it came to Janice. I caved and allowed him his tease. It was part of him and one of the things that made him so endearing. 

Richard forwarded a new chapter to Janice via his phone, from just outside the Themes offices. As Janice always did, she immediately closed her office door and began reading the draft. We entered the offices and stood waiting for the her reaction. It was ten minutes later when Richard's phone buzzed. It was Janice so he sent the call to voice mail. My phone buzzed almost immediately after. I sent it to voice mail as well. 

Predictably, Janice's door flew open. "Tom! Get me Richard NOW!" she yelled, looking down at a set of printed pages. Her face was livid. Richard grabbed my hand and smiled. "Richard's pushing it, there's no way his readers will accept that Melissa is..." Janice stalled there, seeing us with our silly grins. Mine glowing more than normal. 

"pregnant," Janice finished, a smile growing on her face.



The muse



Quietly Tiger came into his room, the day had been long and arduous. He dropped his cloak on a nearby chair and that's when he sensed her ... maybe it was a sound from her breathing or maybe her scent but all of a sudden there she was. Hello sweetheart he purred softly I didn't expect to find you here. Of course you didn't she replied.. that's why they call it a surprise. I have seen your work my Tiger and I wanted to thank you in person. She walked over to him and gently caressed his ear with her fingertip. Tiger's heart pounded in his chest, desire welling inside him at so intimate a touch.

He purred deeply as he nuzzled her neck, the vibrations of his fur tickling her skin as she drew close to him. She reached up her arms on his shoulders running fingers over both his ears drawing him closer into her. "My love" he rumbled softly as his purrs deepened the vibrations traveling through her body setting off feelings deep inside her as she responded. "Oh tiger" she whispers to him as she pushes him back and slides on top of him. His fur silken soft on her skin his muscles ripping under her body, lightly he traces the tip of his tail up and down her thigh. Her legs begin to quiver at the caress of his tail and she kisses him passionately her breath becoming harder. He kisses her back sucking on her tongue as he gently trails a sprig of mistletoe berries up and down her back. The vibrations building inside her and the caressing of his tail and her back make her body heat and respond.

Kissing him hard she rubs herself into him desire burning in her eyes. Tiger looks deep into those burning embers of love seeing his own passion inflamed therein, his body responding to hers the swelling of his manhood pressing into her heat, as she wraps her legs around him Tiger sits up and leans forward laying her on her back his hands moving up and down her body exploring her fingers swirling around her nipples as they bud hard at his touch, feeling every soft tender inch of her form as his hands slid over her and down tracing the line of her tummy as he seeks lower fingers sliding over her sweetness feeling her harden under his palm as his fingers lightly brush up and down her folds, her hips moving back and forth sliding his fingers inside her. 

Kissing her passionately kissing her neck and her breasts flicking her nipples with his tongue as his fingers moved inside her vibrating back and forth deep inside her, the wetness from her running over his fingers and hand as he kisses lower down her body his fur brushing along her tummy as he sinks lower kissing down her abdomen, sliding between her thighs as he kisses her clit tracing her folds with the tip of his tongue fingers sliding in and out of her carrying her sweetness to his lips as he sucks on her tender folds. Purring as he takes her into his mouth letting the vibrations ripple through her his tongue seeking inside her flicking back and forth deeper and deeper his arms under her thighs wrapping around to her front as his hands caress her body circling her nipples with his finger tips.

Pleasure exploding forth from her she can not contain it, her fingers rake along his arms as her body thrusts him deeper inside her, passion calling out from her "oh yes ... oh Tiger yesss." Tigers tongue flicking inside her, slipping out and swirling around her clit, lapping the sweetness as she cums hard this time her body rippling with the release his tongue licking her glistening bottom as the sweet nectar runs over it. She grips him tightly between her legs and rolls him over. Sliding down his body his fur tickling her as she glides, she comes down to feel his hardness throbbing against her, taking it in her hand she strokes up and down her fingers twining around the shaft as she slides it up and down against her clit. Rising she slips the throbbing rod inside her tight wetness and begins thrusting her hips back and forth moving the pulsing manhood back and forth inside her. Tigers hands glide over her body caressing her and exploring her, his fingers run up her neck and along the back of her ear, his fingers running through her hair brushing down her back.

Squeezing him tight inside her she moves up and down riding him faster and faster, his touch exciting her, the freedom of their bodies moving together in rhythm urging her to greater speed and force as she posts riding him harder and faster. His manhood throbbing and pulsing inside her, his hips moving in time with her, thrusting him deeper and deeper inside her. His breath rasping with hers as the move together, his hand sliding down her back and running a finger up and down her bottom. She rides him harder passion driving them as her body fills tight with pleasure the need to release again filling her. His passion throbbing inside her harder and faster the heat between them as she rides him driving him quickly to the edge. 

His tail twitching rapidly sliding along the crease of her sweet bottom tickling her and rubbing her. In unison their body's tightening, Tiger calls out to her "oh yes my love my sweet" With a surge he cums deep inside of her filling her with his hot seed, the explosion inside her triggering her own release as she cums over his throbbing cock crying softly "oh Tiger". Their bodies still throbbing his inside of hers she lays on top of him and they kiss passionately sucking on each others tongues as they dance together, he wraps his arms around her nuzzling her and kissing her. "Oh my love what pleasure your heart brings to me what divine grace I am blessed with to hold you in my arms.



The Muse



She stood across the busy New York intersection of 51st and Ave, staring at me.

Going through my hectic Friday, I would have never noticed her had she not been so remarkably beautiful. The male instinct made me glance again for a better look. Her long, ruby-golden hair glistened in the spring sunlight and her stylish sunglasses enhanced her stunning features. 

I paused in mid-stride; was she staring back at me? She slid the sunglasses off her face and left me little doubt those penetrating, emerald eyes were returning my gaze. Her playful smile widened as I stared, and she began to cross as the traffic stopped for the light. My memory worked overtime as I searched in vain for some connection. I could not look away as she approached, curves moving sensuously beneath her thin, black silk skirt.

"Haven’t we met before?" Her curious voice was like soft, seductive music to my ears. Her face was close to mine to be heard over the noises of Manhattan, and her sweet breath was on my cheek.

"Uh,” I searched for something clever to say as I drew back just enough to study her face. “I wish we had," I responded with a tentative grin. "I’m Kevin, or Kev."

Her laugh was light, and her eyes twinkled. "Heather...guess we just have to make up for lost time."

"Coffee?" It was the first offer that came to mind, and I hoped it was not too presumptuous. "I know this great lil place down the street that offers at least some shielding from this." I gestured to the noonday bustle that can only come from the manic pace of life in the City. Heather took my arm, accepting my invitation and continued as we walked down the broad sidewalk.

"You seem so familiar, I swear we know each other from somewhere. Tell me about yourself: do you live in the City?" She had such conviction in her voice that I searched again for a connection as I told her briefly about myself.

Heather was attentive and genuine, and over an iced mocha I lost count of the times she amazed me. She listened with interest as I told her about my struggles as a writer. Being near her was simultaneously relaxing and intense; I have never been on such a high. She seemed to share in all my interests and made intriguing suggestions I would have to try. I learned she was an avid painter who was also in a slump, meeting her financial obligations with some modeling so she could spend most of her time laying the images from her mind out on the canvas.

"I am enjoying your company so much. Mind if we continue while we take a walk?" Heather suggested as we finished the coffee. All thoughts of my previous errands and plans were long forgotten. I was completely focused on her and could not have thought of anything more important.

She questioned me about recent writing projects, and fully empathized with my creative struggles. I lost track of the time, as we seemed to stroll aimlessly through the streets, oblivious to the madness of life around us.

"Would you like to see some of my art?" She asked abruptly, and when I paused, thrown off by the sudden change, she added, "My place is actually up in this building."

"Oh. I'd love to." 

Heather seemed suddenly shy, as if she had offered to expose a part of her world that was not ready for scrutiny. But, she led me up with only a moment of hesitation.

Whatever my expectations may have been, they were utterly blown away by my first glance around her place. Her small flat was an artist's dream. The walls were lined with paintings that were both emotionally intense and logically sophisticated.

"This is home." Heather had a hint of nervousness in her voice as she dropped her keys on the nearby bar top and looked around her place as well, as if seeing it for the first time. She brought up the overhead track lighting to more clearly illuminate the decorated walls.

"All these yours?" My tone sounded subdued to my ears as I took in as much as I could.

"Yea, I go to galleries and shows to view others' works, but I surround myself with my own." She explained. "Helps me stay focused."

The polished wood flooring was covered in key places by plush rugs of various warm colors. Slowly walking along the walls, I took a closer look at her displayed art. The wall clock ticked into the silence as I passed her couch and end table, strewn with magazines and a few books. An easel stood by the curtained window on the far side of the flat. Brushes, tubes of paint, half finished canvases, and other oddities were strewn about the padded window seat. Another easel was set up in the corner by her canopied bed. Even her small kitchenette at the front corner had paintings in it.

"What do you think?" She prompted when I had enough time to circle her small place.

"Heather." I turned to look at her for the first time since entering her place. "These are brilliant." A smile lit up her face, actually seemed to make the room brighter.

"I'm glad you think so."

I felt compelled by my wonder to offer more. "Astonishing how much they move me...inspiring." And the second I said that word, the full truth of our meeting ran through me like electric current. "You are inspiring."

Her face was flush from the praise. "I could be your muse," she giggled and crossed to her bed, sitting on the edge facing me. "Your inspiration." Her tone was at once husky and full of desire. She inched up her skirt to expose her creamy thighs, deepest green eyes never leaving my face. Boldness can also be inspiring.

Without hesitating, I closed the distance and knelt in front of her. After staring into her eyes for a long moment, I bent to gently kiss her bare skin. Kissing open her knees, I slowly moved up the inside of her legs. She watched me intently, passion written clearly across her face. The contrast of her white satin panties beneath the midnight black skirt was not lost on me, and my hunger threatened to spiral out of control. Her legs eased apart, granting me access to her inner temple. When I reached the panties, I slowly moved the thin material out and to the side, revealing her moist treasure.

Heather lay back, opening herself completely to me. Her excited breathing turned into a soft moan of ecstasy as I caressed her trail of moisture with my tongue. Sliding her panties off her flawless legs, I followed the liquid desire into the folds that concealed her fire. Her breathing became panting as I gently circled her with my tongue and massaged her clitoris with my lips. 

With two moistened fingers, I touched then entered her. I heard a quiet, erotic sound as they parted her infinitely soft lining. Her moan climbed an octave and I almost came in my pants like some frenzied teenager, my desire was so extreme. I tasted her bittersweet excitement as my tongue dipped to join my fingers, and I increased my efforts with exaggerated ease.

By now, Heather was trembling, whispering for more, for her promised release. As I continued to massage her with my mouth, I applied pressure to the ridges inside her with my buried fingers. The reaction was immediate. Her back arched and she let out a small cry of joy as her inner muscles spasmed around my fingers. I dared not move as her orgasm rushed through her, but almost immediately she tugged at my shoulders.

"Enter me," she begged, and I finally released my tortured penis, sliding into her in one frenzied motion. I squeezed my eyes shut against the intensity that threatened to pull me under. Heather writhed below me, and I went as slow as I could, savoring every second of contact. Grasping my lower back, she urged me in deeper. I increased my tempo. 

After a few strokes, she lowered one leg and rolled me under her without breaking the intimate connection. She sunk deep onto me and threw back her head, showcasing her small, aroused nipples that strained against the material. I reached up to move her dress straps off her shoulders, and she took over. With a shrug, the dress dropped from her chest, and she unhooked her bra, exposing two perfectly formed breasts. Cupping them lovingly in both her hands, she leaned forward, offering them to me while she continued to milk me with her insides.

"Explode inside me," she breathed, panting from the pleasure and exertion. As I let go, she reached back and ran a finger between my legs. The universe condensed into that one moment. I threw back my head and strained up into her as the over-powering surges rushed through me. 

To perfection, Heather slowed her movements to allow me to float down on a cloud before laying forward onto my heaving chest. My senses roared with acute awareness, every nerve ending in my body tingling with the joy of life. I felt her nipples, still hard against my skin, and her breath on my neck. I smelled the light, fresh scent of her hair as my pulse began to slow.

"Your muse," Heather whispered, and I could feel her smile.

-------

We parted with the promise to meet in the morning at her place. Morning jogs had never been my preference; I like exercising at night when my day’s activities were behind me. But my excitement at the thought of spending more time with Heather made all other preferences moot. As I stood in her doorway delaying my exit, I basked in an afterglow that made me feel uniquely lucky; the most fortunate man in all existence. She leaned over and favored me with a sweet, innocent kiss.

“Now go see if I have really inspired you,” she urged, and I bowed over her hand with a mock dignity that made her giggle.

The twenty-three block evening stroll to my apartment did nothing to diminish my euphoria. The feeling I was nurturing felt as if a long-time infatuation fantasy had been fulfilled. In fact, the extent of my infatuation with Heather might have frightened every realistic bone in my body had I not felt so secure with our discovered compatibilities. We were so alike in our attitudes, preferences and hobbies that the future held nothing but promise.

“I know this isn’t true,” I had observed as we lay together and talked, “but I feel as if we already know everything about each other ‘cept our phone numbers.” We had laughed at this, and she reached over the bed, digging in her purse to extract a card. ‘Heather Davis, Struggling Artist.’ And on it was her number.

Smiling a secret smile, I remembered the moment. I had given my mobile number on the back of another card and titled myself, ‘Struggling Writer, Dreamchaser.’ She had vowed to help me remedy that.

I wondered if I would be too distracted with the fresh memories and the inevitable daydreams, but I soon discovered she had the opposite effect on me. As promised, I sat down the minute I got home and began to write. I was quickly immersed in my work with surprisingly clear focus. My imagination was on fire, and the perfect words flew from pen to paper. The more phrases fit smoothly into place, the more I zoned into my created world. It was like a drug. I was high on each literary success, yet I remained focused until my hand cramps forced me to stop.

I had just blown through seventeen pages, pushing past the writing block that had plagued me for weeks. Not to be thwarted, I grabbed my small recorder and continued to lay out my thoughts. Two more chapters had been detailed by the time I set the recorder down with a tired grin. Knowing she’d be up, I grabbed the phone.

“You know,” I mused when Heather answered, “I keep pinching myself.” She laughed at my playful tone. “I am not waking yet, so I had to call and make sure this was real.”

“Had a good session, I take it?”

“Oh yea! Your influence was magical. How about you?”

“Hmm, not much better than my past month’s efforts combined,” she teased.

“Good for us,” I cheered, and then in a more serious tone, I asked if we could possibly maintain this level of inspiration.

“I don’t know, Kev, we’ll have to check your stamina tomorrow… The jogging, I mean.”

“Ha! I better get some sleep then.”

“Yes, yes you better. See you bright and early.”

“Night, Heather.” I hung up the phone, realizing I must have a goofy grin pasted on my face.

-------

That ‘bright and early’ came way too soon, but the instant I remembered why the annoying alarm was waking me, I stopped frowning. Dressing quickly in a gray sweatshirt and black shorts, I jogged most of the way to Heather’s.

“Hey, no fair starting without me!” She pretended to be hurt when she saw my sweaty neckline, and I could only grin. She leaned into me to steal a quick but promising kiss before turning to lock her door. She tasted faintly of vanilla, and I appraised her from behind. She was wearing slick blue jogging shorts with a matching windbreaker and gray elastic cyclist shorts underneath to highlight her toned legs. All in all, with her golden hair tied back in a ponytail and her shiny white running shoes, she looked far more serious about her exercise than I did.

We talked companionably during the workout, mostly discussing the success of last night and our current ideas. I savored every moment, every step, as I turned to watch her exquisite profile and bobbing ponytail.

Before long, we were back outside her building, and she was doing cool-down stretches on her steps, to the delight of passing males.

“That was the two mile loop that I try to do at least four times a week.”

“Very nice,” I commented as I watched her stretch. “It was definitely the shortest two miles I have ever ran.”

“I’ve measured it in a taxi,” she replied, misunderstanding my intent.

“Oh, I’m sure it was two miles; just didn’t feel that long in your company.”

Heather turned to gaze at me with a sly half-grin. “Don’t think our workout is over, Mr. Two-miles-is-too-short.”

Back in her flat, she turned on the water in the shower of her small bathroom and peeled off her clothes as she walked to where I stood. Her creamy skin glistened in the morning light. She stood before me, proud and fantastically naked.

“You like what you see,” Heather purred as she watched my eyes devour her. “Care to help me wash?” I could only nod, and she slowly turned to walk into the bathroom, giving me the most amazing view of her body.

We kissed deeply and passionately for the first time as the water poured over our bodies. Pert nipples pressing into my chest as urgently as my erection pressed into her belly. Rather than allowing the tide of passion to bring us any closer together, she reached to the side and handed me the soap. Her eyes told me what she wanted.

Heather then turned her back to me and placed her hands against the shower walls as if bracing for a search. With dream-like motions, a search is exactly what I performed. Beginning with the nape of her neck, my soap-slicked hands searched for every pleasure spot on her body. I gently caressed and massaged every curve and crevice, urged on by her frequent sighs of bliss.

As the water carried away the soap, I leaned in and brushed my lips across the skin of her shoulder and up to the back of her neck. She bent her head to surrender her neck to me, guiding one of my hands back to her chest. I rubbed the muscles beneath her breasts in light, circular movements before focusing on the hard pebble at the tips.

My other hand traveled like a feather down her side and across her waist. Stomach muscles fluttered as I found ticklish spots; her pelvis moved toward my teasing fingertips, as they played in tiny circles in the soft curls. Her stance widened further in a silent plea to be touched.

I resisted. My lower hand continued its slow descent down the front of her thigh and back up the inside. With a moan, Heather arched her back into me and found me rigid, pressing me into her perfect roundness. I pulled away in an instant, fearing I’d lose control.

Instead, I kissed my way down her back as I knelt behind her. She leaned against the front wall, letting the water bounce down her back and off my face. Showering her flesh with kisses, I moved sluggishly to her up-thrust privates. She went to her tiptoes in an attempt to move my mouth onto her. I felt the heat of her urgency, but artfully avoided all but the very back of her entrance.

“You devil,” Heather expelled her breath, “kiss me before you make me insane!” Who was I to deny her any longer? I set her free with one long swipe of my tongue, and she nearly growled with the release of tension as she pressed hard against my face. My tongue darted and twirled along her entire depth. I ground my face into her, feasting on her desire, which formed an intoxicating oil-water texture in my mouth.

To my surprise, Heather pushed me back against the wall while she whirled and attacked me like a woman possessed. She knelt over me, engulfing my penis in a frenzy. While one hand held me down, her other rubbed over my legs and straining stomach urgently before going between my legs to cup me.

With a gasp, I leaned my head back against the shower wall and arched toward her, squeezing my eyes shut. If it was possible, she increased her wondrous pace. I strained against her hands, and I knew beyond a doubt that I was being rushed toward the edge. I could not last long unless I drew her away, but her restraining hands told me to stay where I was, that she wanted complete control.

As she hurled me over the cliff of ecstasy I clenched my teeth with a high-pitched groan, throbbing into her hungry mouth with every ounce of power in me.

Heather finished the last gentle strokes as I shivered through the completion of my orgasm. She helped me to my feet, but put up a staying hand as I moved to embrace her.

“We must hurry,” she explained with an urgent look. “You must finish what you started.”

I had recovered enough by then to give her a devious grin and a questioning raise of my eyebrow. Almost roughly, she grabbed the soap, and I let myself be hurriedly scrubbed. Then she nudged me toward the water while she stepped out to get towels. Even at gunpoint, I could not have erased my grin, and I quickly rinsed.

Heather already had her hair wrapped in a towel and another wrapped around her body under her arms. She pulled me from the shower, ran a towel over me, and led me by the hand to her bed. Flopping onto the bed, she parted her slim legs and urgently pulled me down to her.

“Oh no you don’t,” she laughed as I kissed her stomach, and she forced my head down between her legs. I would have laughed at her unwillingness to let me tease her again, but I was too busy. As I lovingly caressed her sex, I marveled at this woman’s ability to give and take in equal, confident parts.

I slipped a finger inside her as I rolled her clitoris around with my tongue and was rewarded with a satisfied sigh. I slid my remaining hand under her for support as she arched up to meet my mouth, coming out of her towels. She moved so much now that I merely had to hold my lips and tongue rigid as she danced against my face.

Needing more leverage to answer the explosion building in her, she rolled me onto my back and set her knees to each side of my shoulder. She leaned back to expose herself once again, and I just had time to dip my tongue into her before she pressed down. I felt a few quick shudders as my mouth encompassed her, then she was off to the races again.

The pressure on my face was firm as her movements quickened. I wrapped my hands around her upper thighs and caressed her waist as her pace became frantic. Suddenly, she arched her back, tossing her head and emitting the sexiest, most satisfied moan I have ever heard.

Heather collapsed on the bed beside me and panted, “thank you thank you thank you!” Smiling, I leaned over to place a gentle kiss on her small triangle of hair and another on her heaving belly. She hugged me to her, and I was infatuated in some deep way I could not fathom. At that moment, I know my heart had left my chest. It was now hers.

-------

Over sandwiches, we agreed to part and continue our creative rush of the previous night. Then, we would reward ourselves with a nice dinner on the town if we were successful.




The Muse



When I reached my apartment, I confidently resumed my writing. Never before had I felt so completely alive and focused. Again, words flew onto the paper at the speed of thought. I never paused for a moment as I completed complex scenarios that would have given me trouble before yesterday. My previous research fell into place among the smoothly transitioning pages, and scraps I had written in past months lined up to fold into the story with ease.

This was supreme magic. This was creativity at its most blissful. This was…too good to be true. 

At last, my train of writing was halted, and I leaned back in my chair to stare at the ceiling. This all seemed so ridiculous to my cynical mind; how could I be living in a fantasy? Were my impressions of success altered by an emotional high? When was the inevitable crash back to reality?

I winced at the painful thoughts and tossed down my pen. Sighing, I made a metal note to call my old college friend; she would be a welcomed opinion, even if it was the pinch that finally woke me. Then I realized this was the first time since meeting Heather that I had thought of another human being, and I let out a self-depreciating chuckle.

The euphoric memories of the past two days began to seep back into my thoughts like medicine, calming my anxieties. I vowed not to dwell on what could happen, but to savor every good thing like a small sip of the finest wine.

Before I knew it, the phone was in my hand; it seemed more important than ever to get outside feedback on my writing and on my experiences.

“James!” I greeted her warmly when she answered, using the college nickname.

“Heyyy, great to hear from you,” she replied. “How’s it going?” Jamie and I had been next-door neighbors for several years. It would be impossible to count the times we went grocery shopping at 2am or laughed at the worn-out copy of a Monty Python comedy. We had been a sounding board for each other many times in the years since then, and I trusted her opinion above that of anyone else.

“Well, it’s complicated,” I began, “but in a nutshell, I am doing un-f’n-believably well.”

“Ohhhkay,” she laughed.

“I’ll fill you in if you have the time, but how are you doing?”

“Oh, pretty good. Not much different since we last spoke,” she replied flippantly. “You know; same ol’ job with it’s same bullshit; same house with an endlessly shedding cat; new boyfriend. Same ol’. But enough about me; don’t keep me in suspense any longer.”

“Well…” I drew the word out, “her name is Heather.”

Jamie laughed. “Ah, so you got some.”

“Man, did I ever!” I paraphrased my past two days and the effect it had on my writing.

“Sweet!” came her enthusiastic comment, and I asked her if she would do me the huge favor of being my reality check. “You know I will,” Jamie said without any hesitation, “as long as I do not have to edit.” We laughed at this. Years ago in an attempt to combine her superior education with my writing enthusiasm, we had tried partnering on a writing project with nearly disastrous results. In the end, we had to back away before it damaged our friendship – turned out I was a stubborn ass about my writing when it came to editing it.

I promised to fax over my latest chapters, and she agreed to go easy on my grammar.

-------

The sun was setting against the building outside my window by the time I ran the fax, so I gave Heather a quick call to confirm we were still going out tonight. Then after a hasty shower, I went to the back of my closet to find the right clothes for the occasion.

I had the taxi wait on the curb while I buzzed Heather’s room number.

“Be right there,” Heather answered after the second time I rang.

The vision that stepped from the door toward me will forever burn in my memory. Heather was the supreme image of elegance in her deep blue dress, which flowed along her curves as she stepped down to the street. Even though the color was dark, the intriguing material of her dress subtly reflected the light from the surrounding lamps, making it seem as if the reflective surface was hidden beneath the dress.

A plunging neckline seemed to balance on the swells of her breasts, exposing a curled necklace of gold and silver that matched the band around her upper arm and small wavy earrings. Her shiny golden hair was drawn up to the top of her head, leaving one curling strand to hang forward in an artful fashion.

The effect was pure and potent feminine magic.

With my blood boiling, I bowed to her as if worshipping a goddess.

She smiled, saving me from my speechlessness. “Might I get some help with my coat, gentle man?” Until then, I had not noticed the coat that was draped over her arm, and I held it out so she could roll gracefully into it. She leaned into me and I caught the faint, heady wisp of vanilla and musk.

“Heather,” I whispered, encompassing her in an embrace, “you look and smell divine.”

She twisted in my arms just enough to be able to look up into my eyes. “And how do I feel?”

“Too good to be real,” I replied with feeling, instantly regretting the vocalizing of my lingering doubts, but Heather only laughed lightly.

“What is real?” She asked with a grin in her eyes, and then she stretched up to kiss me with a light but lingering touch. “That feel real?”

“Oh yes,” I breathed, determined to move past my doubts. “Let’s eat, or go back upstairs.” I ushered her into the night and the waiting cab. “Gambolli’s, please,” I told the driver.

My favorite restaurant had an amazing environment. Beside the fantastic food and first-rate wait staff, the dimmed lighting and hushed environment in a city where noise ruled made it worth the high prices. Even when it was packed, sound died quickly. And because of the intelligent layout, you never saw more than a fifth of the patrons.

“Nice,” Heather commented when we were seated. “I am surprised I have never been here before, it’s so close to my place.”

“The Italian gem of the City,” I assured her, leaning closer. We settled into a content silence for the few minutes it took for our waiter to arrive.

“Good evening,” came the cultured voice. “May I get you something to drink?”

Glancing at Heather, I knew she wanted me to order for us. “House water for both, please.”

“Very good.” The waiter talked briefly about the specials and then nodded to me before leaving.

“It’s imported,” I explained to her, “and it’s tart, clean taste is a perfect compliment to complex tastes.” It struck me then how lovesick I was and how I must sound like a fool. “Unless,” I finished lamely, “you want something else.”

She shook her head with a quirk in her lip. “You are my guide tonight. I’m along for the experience and pleasure of the moment.”

“As you wish.” I covered her hand with mine and flushed with desire.

We sat in silence again until our waiter approached, poured the first glass and set the bottle within our reach. Heather laughed in amusement when he asked if we were ready to order.

“I’m afraid we have not looked yet.”

“This is no problem. Enjoy the fine company and let me know when you are ready.” He was smooth.

“Give us five more minutes, please,” I instructed, and the waiter receded.

Heather leaned toward me. “So what do you recommend, my guide?”

I glanced around in a conspiratorial gesture. “If it weren’t so inappropriate, I’d suggest we skip the meal and move straight to the dessert.”

“Hmm,” she murmured in agreement, emerald eyes sparkling with mirth, “inappropriate, yes, but I know how you feel.”

“However,” I continued, letting my gaze drop suggestively, “I suppose enjoying this now will make later that much sweeter.”

“Stop before it gets too hard,” she whispered.

I sat back and cleared my throat. “I recommend the cannelloni; every ingredient is hand-made and perfect. So perfect, in fact, that I will have the same.”

Heather grinned at my antics before looking around her again. I watched her take in her environment, soaking it up with an almost child-like interest.

“So how did you learn of this place?” I knew she would enjoy the tranquil murmuring, so different from the everyday noises of life in the City.

“A client brought me here once, back in another lifetime, it seems. I felt this was the most perfect eating environment, not even spoiled by talk of business.”

“I can see how business talk could seem almost irreverent. So, tell me about this past life.”

I hesitated a long moment. “I’d hate to ruin the mood with frustrating memories.”

“You won’t,” she promised, squeezing my hand gently. I waited a moment longer, being coerced by her attentive look. She was right. Surprisingly, it did not bother me to tell her about my life in the corporate world, my immersion into its intense challenges, fleeting triumphs, and unavoidable roadblocks.

“I do not think most humans are meant to live in such a high-strung state of efficiency,” I explained, “but through a clever series of prods and rewards, I was driven hard until I burned out. It was long after I left that I began to realize the stress kept me from being who I wanted to be. As if I sacrificed personal growth for money.” I grinned at this irony. “I guess I am trying to make up for lost time now.”

I realized I had only paused once to order for us and again when the food was presented. Feeling like an attention hog, I motioned with my fork. “Your turn. You make me talk too much.”

“Not at all,” she shook her head earnestly, “it’s fascinating to hear of experiences so foreign to my own.”

“Well, just my own,” I admitted, “but I guess you can infer a bit from that single experience.”

Heather nodded and then shrugged dismissively. “Not much to my background.”

“Oh no you don’t,” I wagged my finger in a friendly reprimand. “You owe me.”

“Ok, ok,” she grinned, easing back in her seat. “I was a spoiled Daddy’s girl.”

“Aha!” I exclaimed as if unveiling her greatest secret. She laughed and continued.

“But I knew there was more to life than being a spoiled brat, unlike my little circle of friends. I was very pensive for my age, maybe more moody, but I spend a lot of time thinking about my future. By my sophomore year at a local college, I realized I was getting it all wrong, preparing for a future I did not want. Can you guess what my major was?”

“Rocket scientist?” I guessed with a goofy grin that earned me a swat on the hand.

“Nooo,” Heather made a face, and I swear she would have stuck her tongue out at me had we not been in such a fine restaurant. “I was going to be a teacher. You know, make a difference, change the world. I was confused, trying to live someone else’s plan.

“So, I moved here from Upstate to change my view of life.” She smiled at the distant memories. “I almost got more than I bargained for. By then I had figured out my life was a quest, an adventure. A friend got me into art school to put training behind my doodles.”

She leaned to me. “Here’s where it gets a little embarrassing. To pay for my artist habit and lifestyle, I promised a friend of a friend that I would try modeling. We had a few sessions as the dirty old man tried to get me into increasingly risqué poses. For my portfolio, he said. Ha!” She leaned even closer and hissed, “he wanted me to do nude modeling.

“I called him on it and stormed out. Then I abused my friend about the sad mess until he promised to make it up to me.” She laughed again at the memory. I was struck by how unconsciously charming she was, as effortless to her as breathing. I knew from very close and personal experience how phenomenal her body was, and knew it must have taken great strength of character to resist the temptations – having little money made justifying something like that all too easy.

“So you resisted the temptations…” I prompted when her musing thoughts kept her silent.

“You could say that,” she giggled, and leaned close again with a glint in her eyes. “But I ended up worse off…now don’t laugh.” She paused for effect as I held my breath. “Pantyhose modeling.” I almost laughed at the anticlimatic revelation.

“Seems the ol’ geezer had a few legitimate connections. So the highlight of my day was standing for hours in hot hose while old women fussed over my positions. And for all that, I got to show off my legs to America’s women as they browsed through catalogs.”

“Not bad,” I teased, “but they missed the best parts of you.”

“Oh, eventually I moved up to modeling padded B-cup bras.”

“No, no, I meant your wit and charm.” This time we both laughed.

I ordered strong coffee at the end of the meal and continued to bask in her companionship. Some part of me knew I could never feel contentment like this at any other moment in my life.

“Thanks for the wonderful dinner, Kev,” she said warmly as I handled the tab. She kissed me affectionately, and seeing the look in my eyes, whispered, “Behave for only a little while longer.”

“You ask the impossible,” I murmured.

She stood with a grin and asked, “Where’s the ladies room?”

“Good idea. Let me show you.”

-------

When we had gathered our coats from the friendly old maitre d’ and stepped into the mild night, Heather suggested we walk back to her flat. Though it meant waiting longer for dessert, I readily agreed, savoring ever glance, every small contact.

Almost to her place, we passed a dark alley. Something made me turn my head at that precise moment. I saw a glint of steel.

I cried in surprised, jumping back a step as a grizzled bum partly emerged from the shadows like a striking snake. My warm bubble was instantly burst, and my nerves felt as if I had fallen into ice water. No, no, no, I thought as I slowly raised my hands.

“Stop,” he rasped harshly, jabbing at my hand to make sure I got his point.

“Look, man,” I said in a surprisingly steady voice. With my reality suddenly tipped, I certainly did not feel steady. “Careful with that thing. Want money?” He nodded, never taking his rabid eyes off my hands.

Ever so slowly, I reached for my wallet, pulling out the thin wad of cash. My heart was racing wildly. Lunging quickly, he snatched the money from my hand and pocketed in one motion.

His eyes went to Heather and lingered.

“Her jewelry.” I glanced at her. With widened eyes, she was staring at the bum. Had the wind not blown a curl of her hair, she could have been a statue.

“Leave the lady out of this, please.” I turned back to him. “We are not rich, fake gold.” I realized how stupid this must sound to the sub-human before us who was desperate enough to risk open confrontation. I glanced at Heather again; she had not moved a muscle, but I could see no fear on her face.

“Here,” I told him, “take my watch instead. Might get another hundred from it.”

“All of it,” he grunted with a sneer, looking back at Heather.

I lost my hearing then, or rather, it sounded like an ocean in my head. My fingertips went numb and I stopped breathing.

I was moving, pushing the knife hand away. In an instant, I curled my other arm and launched my elbow into his face. With a crack, I felt bright pain fill my entire arm. The vagrant crumpled to the ground.

I bent over, cradling my injured arm and breathing heavy between clenched teeth. Pain brought intense waves of hatred for this thing that threatened to ruin my life and my night. I felt flush and hot, and I was shaking. Images rode unbidden through the pain, and I saw my shoe crushing the neck and the face, over and over. Ever fiber screamed for revenge, and I struggled for control even as the pain began to subside in my arm.

Then I felt a touch on my back, and my rage vanished.

“You okay?” Heather asked softly, and I straightened and worked my arm back and forth before nodding. Moist eyes were filled with concern.

“Nothing broken, but probably going to be one hell of a bone bruise,” I informed her. “You?”

“Maybe a bad dream or two,” she answered quietly, and I hugged her to me. My pulse and breathing slowed. I felt better holding her, almost normal again.

“Let’s go home,” I suggested quietly, refusing to look at the fallen tramp. I felt her nod against my chest before pulling away and taking my hand.

We walked the remaining blocks in a brooding silence. Once in her place, I flopped onto the couch with a heavy sigh.

“Be right back,” was all she said and went into her closet. I leaned back and shut my eyes against the pain in my elbow, but they popped open instantly as images and residual desires of violence returned. I settled for staring at the ceiling to keep the images at bay.

I felt the couch give as Heather sat next to me. I lowered my eyes to look at her, and she smiled. She had changed into a large, paint-smudged shirt, which hid all but her bare legs. She curled a leg under her.

“Tell me how you feel,” she said gently.

“I feel wrung-out.”

“No, tell me how you feel.” And then she nodded at a notebook and pen on the coffee table. I squinted at her, waiting for some tasteless punch line.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Na-uh. Now is the time to write what you feel, channel those emotions; maybe even make progress on your book.”

I stared at this scantily clad beauty and felt confusion.

“Surely you jest.” I tried to sound light.

“I felt your emotions shake you to the core tonight, very powerful emotions; the essence of creativity. Most guys would use apathy to shield them and be flippant about the whole thing. But, Kev, you don’t hide from your feelings, you wrestle with them. The added bravery is wasted if you don’t channel that into your writing.”

I almost choked at her words, which were both flattering and offensive. I had to stand.

“Do not misunderstand your emotions,” she cautioned, following me to the bar top. “Complex emotions make us human.”

“Wrong!” I turned on her. “Control over those emotions makes us human.”

“Actually,” she countered smoothly, taking the wind out of my sails, “control makes us more than human. And channeling those feelings into our art makes us artists.”

“I’ve got to go,” I told her, putting my coat back on. She said nothing, making no attempt to stop me. On some immature level, this fueled me, and I left without saying goodbye.

-------

It was difficult not to get angry at this turn of events. On some level I understood what she was saying, but it just made no sense to me in its current context. I figured I had resisted the raging urges, but I did not feel very controlled. I felt confusion and anger and bone-deep disappointment in a complex, pulsing web of emotions.

When I got home, I could not settle down. After throwing off my coat, I paced my small apartment like a caged tiger. My eye caught sight of paper on my fax output tray. Stalking to the desk, I snatched the fax and sat down heavily in my chair. It was from Jamie, a simple, handwritten note:

Kev,

My technical and professional opinion of this: Umm, WOW!

Nurture whatever energies you have found and keep it 

coming. You may make a believer of me yet!

James

So, my pen was on fire. Jamie has seen much of my previous writing and would not mislead me. Staring at the fax, I could not stop the feelings of excitement that crept back into me. In the past two days, I had made more progress on my novel than the past six months or more. Unbelievable progress…I could not doubt I was inspired.

But was Heather right? I looked at her logic from the tranquility of my familiar surroundings; I always feel more lucid when I am not pressured. No doubt I had funneled the emotional energies from my meeting Heather, turning her inspirations into…

And then it clicked into place emotionally. That’s exactly what inspiration is: the moment when emotions, raw energies, are transformed into creativity. Although far more frightening, tonight’s incident should be no less instrumental in my writing.




The Muse



I thought about calling Heather, admitting I was an idiot. Of course, she was right; it simply had not been something I could accept due to the smokescreen of my red-hot emotions.

Instead of calling her, I reached for my ragged notepad. She would be disappointed if I wasted this time. I leaned back in my chair for a minute, reliving the night’s events and feeling how they affected me. Then, ignoring the discomfort in my elbow, I dived into my writing.

Breaking as little as possible, I nailed the emotional climax of my novel and carried the momentum into the ending. It was such satisfying progress that I was almost distracted.

I knew there was plenty of work to finish before the rough draft would be complete, but I had never felt this sense of closure before. It was as if the book would complete itself now; all the tricky work was behind me, and it read beautifully, smooth and powerful.

It was 5am.

Fuck it, I thought and phoned Heather. It did not surprise me that she was awake. I guess I had already accepted the fact we shared some mystical creative bond. And now I accepted the reality of my creativity. I told her as much.

“I’m so happy you are understanding your talent; understanding how life feeds us. I used tonight to finish my masterpiece.” She sounded as satisfied as I felt.

“Wow, really?”

“Oh, Kev, I felt so vulnerable tonight.”

“You did not act scared.”

“Do I need to act scared to feel it? I absorbed the horrible emotions, and they fueled me; even the hurt when you did not understand.”

“Heather, I am so sorry. It still feels bizarre even though I accept it.”

“It is strange, but it’s a part of us and what we can do. Oh please, come see my finished masterpiece. Help me celebrate.”

“I would not want to miss the celebration for anything.”

-------

At the door, she gave me a hug that seemed to stretch the minutes in comfortable silence. I felt the press of her warm body through the soft white nightgown. Her hair was gathered in a pile on top of her head, and I breathed in its fresh scent. I felt a strong contentment even as I was aroused. Then at last she led me by the hand to the far wall.

Her finished painting still sat in the easel. It was a commanding work of art, with a stark blend of bright colors on a dark, brooding background. As I stared, I began to see patterns in the riot of colors, anguished faces hid behind or among the patterns, as if assaulted by the brighter colors. All the faces I could see looked like Heather.

“Intense,” I murmured, and I heard some humor come back into Heather’s tone.

“Is that all you can say? I thought writers had big vocabularies.”

“You’d think so,” I mused, “but this painting is fascinating yet disturbing; I may have to invent words to describe it.”

“So it accomplishes what I wanted if makes you uneasy even though you like it. You do like it, don’t you?”

“Oh, I love it.”

“No,” she laughed lightly, “you love me.”

“How can I not? You are everything.”

“Tell me more,” she prompted.

“You are, all at once, shy yet bold, intense and witty, potent yet somehow fragile. You are, by far, the most exciting, intelligent and sexy person I know.”

“Yes?” she purred, eyes lidded with satisfaction at my praise. She shrugged off the shoulder straps to her nightgown, cupping her pert breasts to stop the soft material from sliding any further.

“You are a goddess; power wrapped in all the grace and luxury of the feminine body.”

Heather slid her hands to her belly, letting the cloth drop to expose the tops of her hips. Her breasts were silken perfection, with nipples hardened from the attention. She said nothing, but gazed at me with her emerald eyes. I could see her breasts rise and fall with her shallow breathing.

I felt lightheaded from the strength of my feelings for her.

Then she let the gown fall over her hips and drop to the floor. “Come, touch me.”

As I took a step toward her, she held up her hands to hold me off. “But, you must tell me about it, as if writing for me.”

I understood what she needed, and I began to focus as I leaned in to brush her neck with my lips.

“Your skin is so smooth to my touch,” I whispered against her skin. “I feel you respond in subtle ways; feel your pulse race; smell your sweet scent. It fans my desire like strong wind on flame, and I ache with the need to touch you, to taste you.” I placed my hands lightly on her waist, and she shivered with pleasure. Her eyes closed now as she listened to my voice, focusing on my touch.

“I long to caress every intimate curve, searching for places that give you pleasure.” Heather raised her arms above her head in a gesture of submission, and I slowly drew my hands up her sides, under her breasts, then under her arms.

“My eyes feast on each exquisite detail that makes up the vision before me.” I trailed my fingertips up the undersides of her raised arms and was rewarded with raised flesh and another shiver. I slowly walked behind her, my gaze lingering on the curve of her back and the swells of her hips.

“Your luxurious curves have been neglected for too long.” I massaged my fingertips into the soft, fine hair at the top of her neck, and she lowered her arms to her side, sighing with pleasure. I traced the length of her slender neck, up and down, before settling my hands onto the tops of her shoulders. 

I struggled to remain focused; every fiber of my male being screamed. I bought myself more time by gently kissing the back of her neck and kneading the tops of her shoulders. I let my fingers trail along the front of her shoulders, almost touching the tops of her breasts, before focusing on her back.

“By touching you, I celebrate my very life, all that it means to be alive,” I whispered as I gained enough breath. My thumbs trailed down each side of her backbone, while my fingers grasped her sides. My hands came to rest on her hips.

“I am enthralled by the very essence of this pleasure. Words become inadequate, for they cannot express this torrent of love and glowing desire.” Then I felt her begin to tremble. I went to one knee and caressed her perfect bottom, massaging in the most erotic way I could; touching the area around her tailbone before traveling down the outside of her crevice.

“I have to lie down before I fall,” she said in a shaky voice, and I caught a glint of moisture as Heather bent forward and fell onto her bed.

“Heather, you show me a moment’s glimpse of the deepest part of heaven. Show me more,” I pleaded as I touched the backs of her legs, but she rolled onto her back and propped herself up enough to make eye contact. Her lips were parted slightly, breasts rising and falling faster now. But, her gaze was steady and enchanting, filled with desire and satisfaction.

Then, slowly, suggestively, Heather lowered her eyes, and I followed until I was looking at her small mound of golden curls. Blood pounding in my head, I felt unsteady, and was glad I had not stood. She finally parted her legs for me, drawing her knees up to expose her entire womanhood to my hungry stare. Her inner thighs were completed coated with her arousal, and the moisture glistened in the lamplight.

“Nectar,” I breathed. And I watched her slide a finger though her curls, across her glistening lips. The finger dipped into the depths and came away shiny.

“My gift to you.” Heather held her finger out for me, and I closed my mouth over it, licking and sucking it clean. 

“Drink.” Heather widened her legs, and I greedily licked my way toward the source. I did not want to miss a drop. I licked each fold to her moans of delight, yet the nectar seemed to replace itself instantly. 

I covered her sex completely with my mouth, and sucked gently as my tongue collected as much of her liquid as I could find. Heather cupped my head in both hands, pressing me urgently to her as she shook from the passion and effort.

Using the grip on my head, she moved me away from her blessed fire, making me stand. She released the ache from my pants with deft movements.

“Be gentle,” she breathed, lying back, “even a goddess is fragile.”

It was my turn to tremble as I supported myself above her. I closed my eyes and felt the heat of her closeness. With deliberate care, I entered her, feeling each layer unfold to allow me inside. 

I slid deeper and deeper as Heather wrapped her legs around my waist, lifting her hips to meet me. When I was pressed against her, she pulled me tighter and began to slowly move. I was mesmerized by this massage, by the motion of her lithe body. Panting, I struggled to delay my orgasm, the pleasure as sharp as any pain.

“Yes,” she coaxed, and with a straining noise, I exploded into her, penis twitching against her clenched inner muscles. I tried to maintain the pressure and the wondrous feeling, but I felt my emotions and my strength drain out of me with every pulse of my being.

I collapsed onto my elbows and breathed heavily against Heather’s neck as she played with my hair. After a moment, my breathing slowed enough for me to plant kisses against her flawless skin.

“I love the way you worship me,” Heather said with soft sincerity. I kissed the tip of her chin before looking into her eyes.

“I feel like I cannot give you enough.”

“Maybe that is what makes what you give so special,” she smiled. “What I need now is your warm body to sleep against.”

“Nothing would make me more content.” I lifted myself unsteadily, and I felt her insides clutch at me as I gently slid out, as if they were trying to keep me inside. I undressed while she went to the bathroom, and then she curled up next to me under the covers, with one hand lightly cupping me. I had barely closed my eyes in exhaustion before sinking into a deep sleep, but I thought I heard her murmur, “your goddess.”

-------

I know it was only a dream, but I awoke with an uneasy feeling.

In the random way of dreams, I had been accepting awards for my novel, basking in the praise. Heather was a face in the crowd, beaming with pride; the conscious part of me knew this. Yet as I was up on stage, I did not see her; my moment of glory saddened by loss, and I remember missing her fiercely. As the crowd cheered for me, I cried as if Heather was absent from the room. 

The statue in my hand felt warm. Even knowing it should be made of gold, I glanced down and almost dropped it in my surprise. It was a miniature version of Heather, arms raised above her head, naked, and staring at me with sightless eyes of emerald.

-------

I took comfort in staying close to Heather all morning, touching her as often as I dared. At last, she shooed me out the door, laughing and accusing me of putting off my work.

At the door, she gave me another long and warm hug, and I clung to her like a drowning man clinging to his last chance of salvation.

“It was an amazing weekend.” I had a habit of stating the obvious.

“More excitement than we could hope for in a lifetime,” she agreed, “and the inspiration worked wonders on our art. Go, make more progress. I know I will.” She gave me a gentle push and grinned. “Now stop stalling.”

I turned and jogged down the stairwell before I made myself look any more stricken than I already had. My feelings for Heather had me baffled, for they grew in strength every time I saw her, not progressively, but exponentially. I would not know how to handle myself if things got any more intense than they did last night. I grinned at myself, imagining a heart attack or even my head exploding.

-------

Even as I finished writing a love scene, I mused at how it paled in comparison to my time with Heather. Nothing I could imagine came close.

When I took a break for a late lunch, I could wait no longer. I grabbed the phone and dialed Heather. I got a system busy.

Odd. I checked to make sure I had not gotten any numbers wrong and dialed again.

System busy.

“What the hell…” I thought about it a moment, and then dialed the operator. I gave her the number and asked her if there were any problems.

“That’s not a working number,” she informed me in a bored voice. I repeated the number, telling her that it had worked earlier this morning.

“Sorry, sir, my system does not show that number as active.”

“Could there be a mistake?” I asked in disbelief. “I promise I talked to a lady just this morning at that number.”

“I don’t know what to say, sir, other than repeat what my system shows. Mistakes can happen, I guess,” she said, doubt clear in her voice. “Let me double check another screen.” I held my breath until she came back online.

“No, sir, the systems match. My system does not show when the status was changed,” she added, trying to be helpful now that she heard the distress in my voice, “but not likely this morning.”

“Okay,” I said mechanically, and hung up. I stared at the phone numbly. What just happened? My thoughts began to race beneath the fog of my disbelief. Even phone companies were made up of people, and hell, everyone knows how odd mistakes can happen when people are involved.

I was almost out the door before I noticed I had no shoes on. Those might help, I thought. 

Outside, I hailed a cab before realizing that I could not sit calmly in the backseat, even if some logical part of me stated I would get there faster than on foot. The cab driver probably cussed me, but I waved him off and sprinted around the corner. Dodging through the typical crowds, I hurried along my recently memorized path to Heather’s flat.

I made a choking noise, as I ran up to her building. Her name was no longer listed on the buzzers. I sat down to catch my breath and noticed I was sweating badly. Some part of me said I would not want her to see me in this sorry state.

I buzzed her number, anyway. Nothing.

Waiting until someone opened the door, I hurried inside and up the stairs. Heathers door was slightly opened, and I held my breath as I pushed it.

The door opened wider. I stared in disbelief, and I felt a chill, the cold rush of my soul leaving me. The entire place was empty. As if Heather had never graced this apartment, the walls were bare of her paintings; there was no poster bed, no plush rugs or sexy clothes lying around. I don’t know how long I stood there, not daring to step inside, until a gruff voice sounded behind me.

“You mind?” The squat man brought me from my shock.

“Heather lived here.”

“Yes,” he squinted at me, “you know where she is?”

“I wish I did.” He then shrugged at me, as if to shrug me off and moved past me into the apartment.

“She left it clean but…you here to pay her reletting fee?”

“Oh. You are the landlord.” He must have thought I was a real Einstein. “Did she say anything? Leave any clue?”

This made him turn back to me with his squinty-eyed gaze. “Who are you? She left me a note, but no notice. She running from you or something?”

“Of course not,” I replied indignantly. “We were supposed to meet today.” It was a lame answer, but I realized that was simply my assumption. I had to get away.

My head hurt, my chest hurt. As I wandered toward my place, I saw things I rarely noticed. The clouds racing past the small patches of sky. The fast pace of the people around me. The filth.

It was hard not to lie down on the pavement and cry, or to scream in rage at those uncaring clouds. I…don’t…understand!

-------

The following days were pure hell. I did not leave my apartment; I did not stop staring at the wall when I wasn’t crying; I did not stop questioning myself.

When I shut my eyes, visions of Heather would force their way into my view, of her laughing or grinning, or worse, of her purring my name with that satisfied expression.

Eventually, I stared at my wrists, envisioning what they would look like with blood coming out of them. The whirlwind of emotions made it impossible to gain any perspective. I had no anchor; I had no focus.

Friend’s and family called, but I put them off. It was madness, and I wallowed in it. There was nothing to save me.

Except time.

Self-preservation systems always seem to kick in, regardless of how far gone a person feels. Soon, I could not mourn any more, as if my tears were shut off at the source. The sharp pain receded behind the desire to end the suffering. Recriminations were buried by the need to feel useful. I went out to get food, and thankfully, my sleep was deep and dreamless.

I resigned to the fact that I would never understand what happened. And I struggled to remember the precious short times without renewing the maelstrom of painful emotions. I remembered Heather telling me to struggle with my emotions, to harness them, and finally, I picked up my pen.

I tried to write out my emotions of loss in a farewell letter to her, but found I could not bring myself to tell her goodbye. Instead, I knew that I would never get over her, never let her go.

Even as my novel was finished, I never stopped thinking about Heather. When a publisher picked me up on a contract, I thought of how pleased she would be. Even in the frustration of working with my editor, I never once forgot about Heather’s laugh or her sexy mannerisms.

And one day, I stared down at the completed manuscript, in all its polish and potency. Something was still missing. 

I suddenly smelled Heather’s hair and felt her breathing on my chest as she touched me. The memory grabbed me with an undeniable force, and I felt her small, satisfied movements against my body. I remember what she whispered to me through her smile.

I was suddenly crying, but it felt different. I missed Heather no less, yet there was acceptance and understanding in the way I mourned that loss in my heart. Strangely, there was an undercurrent of joy at having met her, a gratitude that defied all logic. I grabbed a blank sheet of paper to stick behind the title page and wrote:

To Heather, My Mysterious Love, My Muse.

-------

(c) Copywrited 2005. All Rights Reserved. You may not copy or share this work without my written permission. Please respect creative ownership.



The Muse



She sipped her champagne as she stared at the painting. She couldn't really say what fascinated her about it. The colours, of course; she was always attracted to the colours in art. This reminded her of the fauvist movement: bright and bold, but with tempered lines -- not quite real. Except that she couldn't actually make out what it was. She peered at the title beside the canvas: 'Woman', it said. Perhaps she didn't have enough perspective.

She began to walk slowly backwards, trying to find the optimal distance at which to appreciate the artist's expression. Her head tipped slowly from side to side, trying to see if a different angle would help. In the back of her mind, she knew also that it could be extremely abstract and that she might never figure it out on her own. But suddenly, her eyes widened as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. She took a couple more steps to the side and backwards, just to be sure she was viewing from the best angle, and bumped into someone, champagne sloshing onto her wrist.

"I'm so sorry!" she blurted, whipping her head around, "I should have..." She stopped short as she found herself looking into the most amazing dark eyes; rimmed with lashes so long a girl could weep.

"Please don't apologize," he replied graciously. "It could happen to anyone." She realized she was staring and smiled slightly to acknowledge his comment, hoping she didn't appear too inane. "What do you think of the painting?" he asked indicating the canvas with a flick of his head. She became aware that his hand was on her hip where he had steadied her as she had backed into him, and that her buttocks were brushing his body. She felt that decency required her to move away, but those eyes had latched onto something inside her and she found herself unable to.

She turned her head away so he wouldn't see her blush. "Err... I've only just realized what the subject is..." she tailed off, but swiftly recovered, "I really admire the artist's style, though. His use of colour is quite astonishing." She wanted to keep the conversation going, to prolong the contact, "What do you think of it?" She was surprised when his comments on the technical details proclaimed him the artist.

Abruptly, she felt uncomfortable. Here she was, almost intimately close to a complete stranger; a stranger who had painted the most intimate details of a woman, and who had just explained to her that though he was happy with how he had rendered the subject, he felt that the painting was emotionally lacking. She could feel her mind boggling at the implications of that statement.

She took another sip of her champagne. The alcohol was beginning to work on her inhibitions, and she dared to look into his mesmerizing eyes again and ask, "Are you exhibiting other works here? Some that, perhaps, you feel, capture that emotional element better?"

He smiled warmly at her, his eyes twinkling. "Yes, I am. Would you like to see them?"

She wondered at that sparkle, felt some trepidation at what subjects she might see in his other paintings, but she allowed him to place his hand on the small of her back and guide her to another part of the gallery. They stopped some ten feet in front of another portrait, this time of a nude. Yes, she thought she could feel the emotion in this one; how the brush had stroked the contours of her body as his hands might have previously. The warmer colours seemed to be concentrated around the erogenous zones, the brightest ones not necessarily where you might expect. Even from so far away, she could tell the texture on this work was quite simply amazing.

"Did you know the model well?" she asked, unsure of why that should matter to her.

"We were lovers for a while," he replied almost off-handedly, contemplating his canvas. "I painted many pictures of her, but this one is an amalgam of those previous works, a sort of tribute to her."

She studied the painting again, moving forwards and backwards, trying to imagine the woman portrayed. It crossed her mind that here was a man who appreciated women, who loved sex. When she stood beside him again and felt his hand once more on her lower back, she became conscious of the waves of warmth his touch generated throughout her pelvic area. As if under some compulsion, she told him, "I was an artist's model once, but I never inspired such soulful works."

His left eyebrow raised and his head cocked slightly to one side, "Really? Would you like to model for me?"

She felt her face reddening. It had not been her intention to suggest that she should model for him. She would never have been so pretentious. "I...err...didn't m-mean to imply..." she stammered.

His hand began to move up and down just above her buttocks and she felt his breath hot on her neck and ear. "You inspire me, my dear," he whispered. "I want to paint you. I want to discover you." She closed her eyes, her breathing quickening. "Please say you will. Please be my muse."

Her heart beat faster still as he took her hand, set her champagne glass on a passing tray, and led her out of the gallery.

****** Undressing behind the Japanese screen, she could hear him shifting things around, perhaps moving canvases, selecting materials. Naked now, she put on the silk robe and came out from behind the screen, mounting the dais covered in brightly-coloured scatter cushions and surrounded by electric heaters. He smiled at her as he looked up from his preparations.

Dressed now in his working clothes, he approached her, pulled the tie from the robe and the robe from her shoulders, allowing it to pool around her feet. He stepped back to take in her body. As always, she found herself surprised at how unerotic this was. His gaze took in parts of her: her right breast, her left hip, the roundness of her belly, the hue of her skin, the curve of her calf; but not the whole of her. She was a subject, not an object, and felt no self-consciousness at his stare.

He asked her to sit, to fold one leg beneath her, raise the other knee, then lean back on one hand -- no -- elbow. He paused, his finger on his chin, his brow furrowed as he surveyed the effect. He changed his viewing angle, standing slightly behind her, his eyes tracing her back, the curve of her buttock, the space between her open legs. He knelt on the dais just behind her, his hand grasping the underside of her thigh, just behind the knee, repositioning her with her foot on her other knee. He pulled a cushion over and placed it under the breast nearest the floor, and another under her upper arm, then stood back again.

Apparently satisfied, he returned to his canvas and began to sketch her outline in charcoal. It took no more than 20 minutes, but she was glad when he seemed to have finished, as her muscles were already beginning to strain. He stood back again and regarded his work, his eyes flicking from the piece to her and back again. When he smiled, she started to push up to sitting.

"No," he all but commanded. "Don't move yet."

She was unsure why; it was usual for the model to rest every 30 minutes or so, and especially if the artist had reached the end of a stage. He walked towards her and knelt on the dais just behind her, placing his hand on her hip and reclining so his lips were level with her ear.

His breath sent shivers through her shoulders as he whispered, "I haven't told you how I work yet. Do you trust me?"

The warm touch of his hand on her skin, his breath and words tantalizing her, made her throw caution to the wind. "Yes," she whispered back. "Yes, I trust you."

She felt him draw away from her and return to his table. She allowed herself to turn her head slightly and could see that he appeared to be gathering materials. As he returned with his tubes of paint and a selection of brushes, he told her, "Close your eyes."

She obeyed. Deprived of sight, her hearing was intensified, and she realized that he had not stopped at his easel but was now kneeling back on the dais, just behind her.

She drew in breath sharply, and her abdominal muscles clenched as she felt the soft, silky hairs of a clean, wide paintbrush trace slowly over each vertebra of her spine. Her back arched as the bristles ran between her buttocks, over her anus, and then dug in to her perineum ever so slightly as the brush flipped over and began its journey back up again, retracing the whole of her backbone up to her neck. This time, when the bristles turned again, they leisurely traced her upper arm, raising goosebumps, down to the elbow that rested at her waist; over the hipbone that was turned upwards, to the crease where her thigh met her pelvis, before beginning a languid ascent of the outside of her raised thigh to her knee. Then, teasingly slowly, the silken hairs moved down, down the inside of the same thigh, brushed her own silken hairs as they travelled over her pubic mound, and slothfully sketched the line of the inside of her other thigh.

Her breathing was deep and she could feel herself getting wetter with each inch that the brush stroked along her skin, moving back up her thigh again now, creeping across her belly, around and then over her breast, electrifying her as it swept over her nipple, before caressing her collarbone and over her shoulder to begin, again, its descent of her spine.

She let herself be enveloped by the sensuousness of the touch of the brush against her skin, and so was surprised when she felt something cool and gelatinous drop onto and start to slide down her buttock. Paint! He had squeezed paint onto her ass and now she felt his fingers begin to circle around over her skin. His feathery touch made her insides clench as he spread the cool pigment over her cheek and down to the valley where the paintbrush had just passed. Her concentration was now on the latter as it travelled once again over anus, lingering ever so slightly, then descended again, further this time. Her splayed legs and the swelling of her pussy caused by the sensations of the brush gave him easy access to her opening and the juices that had gathered there. The bristles dipped into this new medium, causing her to gasp, twisted around to coat properly, and then trailed up again, to mix with the paint he had spread on her buttock.

The stress in her muscles caused by remaining in the same unnatural position for a prolonged period of time, and exacerbated by the tension provoked by his titillation of her senses, was becoming unbearable. She tentatively extended the leg that was raised and felt his hand support her beneath the knee and raise it higher than she would have done. His soft voice apologized for not having let her rest until now and encouraged her to stretch and relax her muscles. She opened her eyes and rolled on to her back, reaching up with her arms and straightening her legs with relief. He was still kneeling to one side of her, and now he looked down on her outstretched body. His eyes were no longer those of the artist.

He reached for more paints, selecting the tubes quickly, and began to squeeze thick, short ropes of the different neutral colours on to her abdomen and chest. The strangeness of it excited her, making her forget the ache in her muscles that was, in any case, slowly ebbing away. He stood up then, pulling his t-shirt over his head, kicking off his shoes, and beginning to unfasten his pants. She was transfixed, not knowing exactly what would happen next, rapt with anticipation.

Divested now of his clothes, he stood at the foot of the dais, his erection not yet full, contemplating her as if deciding how to proceed. She realized she had begun to breathe more quickly. Finally, he reached forward with both hands, gently pushing her knees apart so he could kneel between her legs. His hands moved up her thighs and his thumbs traced the V at the top, before he slipped one finger inside her glistening pussy. She moaned loudly and raised her hips, sliding over its length, inviting him to push in further. He pressed up as he slid his finger out again, and on his second inward stroke, an additional finger joined it.

As his fingers stroked her to a steadily-building climax, she heard his sultry voice again. "Back at the gallery, you wondered about the emotional element in my paintings. This is it. This is the secret ingredient that brings out the best in my work." In other circumstances, she would have been surprised, perhaps even shocked, but now her consciousness registered his explanation from a distance. He continued, "It baffles the experts. They can't quite work out what gives my paintings that texture. They all ask me what my process is, how I apply the paint. But I'll never tell.

"You and your body won't only be my subject, my dear, you'll also be my palette and my paint." The idea of her being an integral part of his painting pushed her closer to the edge. "I'll make you cum again and again, as many times as I need for my work. Cum for me, my dear. Give yourself to me. Give yourself to my art."

Her moans were closer together and louder now as he increased his pace, his hand curved so the knuckle of his thumb rubbed her clitoris and his textured ring teased up and down her inner labia. All the muscles from her pelvis to her neck tensed as her body was literally wracked with orgasm, shooting enough juices for several paintings into his cupped palm and along his arm.

He wasted no time in using it to thin and mix the pigments he had placed upon her body. She lay panting, blinking away the white lights behind her eyes, savouring the sensations of her climax and of his fingers moving in circles on her skin. She watched him get up and fetch the canvas from his easel, position himself once more at her side before asking her to assume the same position as before, adjusting her body according to his sketch, and dipping a brush into the colours blended on her front and beginning to paint.

He worked quickly, as if possessed. Watching the paintbrushes dip into the pigments on her stomach and breasts, she was aware that he started with the paints that he had thinned out almost completely using her cum, then added other colours and consistencies that he had carefully mixed with the aid of her juices. She recalled from her fine-art classes that oil painting was produced in this way: 'Lean' layers followed by 'fat' layers.

It was not long before he seemed to come to the end of another stage. He told her that he had finished his underpainting and now he would have to leave it to dry. She stretched out again as he returned the canvas to its easel, still amazed at the surreal experience she was having. As he approached her again, she realized that he was not quite finished with her: His cock was now fully erect.

He knelt before her again on the dais, his eyes taking in the paints blended onto her skin. She saw they were filled with passion, but was unsure whether it was she that stirred such feelings in him or the narcissism of the artist contemplating the results of his work, even unfinished.

His paint-covered hands parted her legs again, leaving beige, peach and ochre streaks on her knees and thighs as they caressed upwards. He lay between them, his shaft pushing against her pubic bone and his balls resting against her still-wet pussy. His palms mixed the pigments on her skin once again as he fondled her breasts, squeezing her nipples gently between his fingers, causing her to try to raise her pelvis.

His large dark eyes looked deep into hers, "Thank you, my dear," he murmured. "Thank you for being my muse, for inspiring me today. You have given me a gift, allowed me to create -- the greatest gift of all." His words moved her emotionally and sensually and, when he kissed her, his tongue as sweet as his words, she was already close to a new peak.

He continued to whisper to her that she was an essential part of his creation as he lifted his hips and slid easily into her now-aching pussy. His hand caressed her back, buttock and thigh, pulling her leg over his waist, and then pushed against the underside of her thigh as he plunged deeply into her. She gasped, her eyes closing and her walls contracting. He felt so good inside her, circling slowly, layering sensations as he had layered paint. She felt him adjust her position, moving her higher where she knew he would be stroking her g-spot as he moved in and out of her. 

Slowly, he began, almost all the way out and tantalizingly all the way in, his thrusts sure and steady. With each stroke she moaned, the volume progressively increasing as he pushed her gradually closer to orgasm. She was nearing the brink now, her insides contracting and then expanding around his thickness. His pace and depth increased as he saw and felt it, and he continued to tell her how she sparked his creative flame, how she kindled his artistic fire, and how most of all he had wanted to fuck her so hard since she had backed her delicious ass into his groin at the gallery. The mixture of romantic imagery and pure sexual vulgarity sent her over the edge, and she screamed loud and long as her body shook inside and out, bringing him with her in four long spurts deep into her hot pussy.

Her calves lay across his thighs as they kissed and allowed their breathing to slow. Still tingling from her climax, she heard him speak again, "Next time, I'll cum on your belly, and then I'll have final ingredient I need to detail my painting."



The Muse



Author's Note:

I just wanted to give a sincere thank you to everyone who has shown appreciation for my work thus far! The comments and criticisms really keep me going. You've all been wonderful! Enjoy!

- your city bird

----------------------------

The photographs are exquisite. A portrait of a young man, his tattooed shoulders bared and soft brows furrowed as he takes a drag from a cigarette. The same man crouching, doubled over, a black sock-clad foot pressing into his back. Every single black and white blown up print showed this pale, inked-up young model in a different light - with glitter trailing from his chest and neck up to his forehead, with his fingers squelching in thick clumping mud, with his head tilted back, hair tousled as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. Umberto had clearly found his muse. 

I wandered off into the belly of the gallery in search of Umberto and came face to face with the muse himself. He was sitting, literally, on a pedestal, one long leg dangling off the marbled edge, the other bent and hugged tightly to his chest. Tattoos covered both pale thin arms and one rather large piece wrapped from near his shoulder blades around the front and dipped over his hip and into the waistband of his dark jeans. He rested his chin on his bent knee, as his intense gaze, darkened with generous amounts of shadow and liner, floated above the milling heads of the gallery's patrons. I stared in awe of the mystifying beauty in front of me until I was shaken from my trance by a firm hand on my shoulder.

"His name's Zepar. Even his name suits him. Like the fallen angel," Umberto said, his gaze lingering over the young man as well.

I settled back into my friend's grip on my shoulder, my eyes continuing to rake over the statuesque model as my conversation with Umberto carried on. He had a name. Zepar. 

I was able to free myself from the mystique of the young man and milled around, making small talk with the gathering of Umberto's friends and other art world bigwigs. I was beginning to get bored in the sea of pretension and apathy and started to work my way toward the large glass doors of the gallery.

"Owen! I was just looking for you!" Umberto shouted from behind me. He always had a way of popping up when you least anticipate or wish for it. "What's up, Bert?" I said, turning my head, but not bothering to do an about-face from the exit. 

"I was just wondering if you had any plans for later. I was hoping to have a sort of low-key afterparty kind of thing. My apartment's still sort of a wreck from last night, and I thought, maybe you'd want to host tonight. Your place is always squeaky clean."

I rolled my eyes, letting out a sigh, "I don't know, Bert. My place is sort of small..."

"Whose isn't in Manhattan?" Umberto chuckled, shaking one of my shoulders, "But really, it won't be more than maybe ten people. You, me, Zepar, a couple of fashion editors, Sarah, and her friends. That's it. And I'll reimburse you for any liquor we may put to use."

I rubbed my eyes with the palm of my hand as I thought it over. I loved Umberto to death, but he could be a complete dick at times. And all his art and fashion friends drove me up a wall. If I had to hear another pompous art director tell me how Bert was 'the next Steven Klein,' I was going to become physically ill. But as soon as I heard Umberto say that Zepar would be there, in my apartment, I knew I had no choice but to say yes. For whatever reason, I didn't want to be the one to put a wrinkle in the young man's plans; I didn't want to be the reason for his disappointment. 

"Okay," was all I said, not wanting to sound too reluctant or too enlivened. 

Umberto beamed, "You're the best, man! You can head back to your apartment if you want. I'll corral everyone and be there in a few!"

I just nodded and continued out the door, a glacial blast of air stung my eyes as I opened the glass door and quickly ducked into my silver compact car. Tonight was going to be interesting.

---------------------------------------

Umberto kept to his word. Only a handful of people accompanied him when he arrived. They consumed copious amounts of alcohol and chattered away about so-and-so's summer collection or what's-her-face's performance art. I would have been absolutely mad if I hadn't had that one sweet distraction.

Umberto sat back comfortably in the corner of my sectional sofa and sitting on his knee, his back against Bert's chest was Zepar. 

He didn't speak a word the entire night, just sat back against Umberto, occasionally sipping from the bottle of vodka he clutched loosely in his graceful fingers. I wondered how he felt in this moment, with Umberto clutching at him like he was his own property. I wondered if he felt the same way I did about this room full of overinflated ego.

His heavy-lidded eyes wandered over the room with a listless ennui, looking at no one or nothing in particular. Until he looked at me.

I froze, quickly averting what I immediately realized was an intense stare. After a moment, I dared a glance back in his direction and found that he was still looking at me. His eyes held a different sort of expression now. They were still hooded and dark, but they had a soft look, almost like curiosity. It certainly wasn't the boredom that had filled the depths of his gaze moments before. 

I turned away once again. From the way that Umberto possessively wrapped his arm around the younger man's waist I decided that I should probably find myself a pastime other than ogling someone he seemed so quick to declare. 

I walked into my kitchen and grabbed a bottle of rum, seating myself at the small round cafe table to wait out the storm. I was on the verge of sleep when I heard my front door open and close again. "Hey, Owen!" I heard Umberto shout from across the living room. I roused myself and rounded the corner, seeing Umberto hand in hand with a glum Zepar. 

"Hey, Owen, we're going to take off. Thanks for everything! See you, bud!"

He walked across the room, practically dragging the younger man behind him, who seemed reluctant to even touch Umberto at this point. When Bert had opened the door and stepped outside, Zepar looked back over his shoulder with - what was that? - longing? "Bye, Owen."

He spoke. To me. 

I froze up, not able to force any words out before the door shut behind them. Shit.

That voice was almost as beautiful as the creature who produced it. Smooth and alluring, shimmering with a just a hint of playfulness. So sensual and comforting, yet decidedly masculine. And that might be the last time I ever heard that voice. 

That's exactly what I was thinking when I crawled under the covers that night. I thought of that voice, that face, that body. I thought about the sadness in his eyes, the ache, and how it was gone forever. 

Then someone buzzed the intercom. Umberto must have forgotten something again. He never left my apartment with everything he brought in. I jumped out of bed, dressed only in my boxer briefs and adjusted myself as I ran into the living room, depressing the button and opening the front door for Bert. I sat down on the couch and waited for him to come back up to my floor as I wondered what he had left behind this time. Maybe his wallet or something. 

When I heard knocking, I stood and crossed the room, undoing my locks. I opened the door and was taken aback by what I saw. 

Zepar stood in front of me, leaning against the door frame. A large bruise was starting to form on his cheek and his eyes were red from tears. The dark kohl that rimmed his eyes was smudged and trailed down in the corners. His gaze drifted from down the hall and up to my face. 

He didn't say a word as he leaned forward and kissed me. I was shocked, to say the least, but not shocked enough to stop me from responding. He cupped his cool hands on either side of my face, insistently pressing his lips to mine, his tongue flicking against my lips. I opened my mouth to him and allowed the determined younger man what he yearned for as I looped my arms loosely around his lissome waist. 

The kiss ended just a suddenly as it began. Zepar leaned his forehead against mine, his bare, heaving chest rising and falling between us as his warm breath fell across my cheek. "Can I come in?" he whispered, his chilly grey eyes looking up into mine. I didn't reply, I just pulled him in over the threshold by the waist, shutting the door behind him. 

Zepar spun away from me, out of the circle of my arms and walked in the direction of my bedroom. I had no idea what to do. I had never experienced any variation on this situation. How am I supposed to react? I just decided to let Zepar do what he wanted, let him set the tone. So I followed.

I entered the bedroom and watched as Zepar wiggled his black jeans down his hips, his smooth hairless body and fully engorged cock revealing themselves to me before he slipped beneath my sheets. He rolled over onto his side and, propping himself up on his elbow, looked at me as if he was expecting something. He nodded his head in invitation.

I crossed the room slowly and pulled back the covers on my side of the bed and was about to slide in next to Zepar when I was interrupted by that enigmatic voice. "Aren't you going to take those off?" he questioned, extending a long tattooed limb and motioning lazily with his hand in the direction of my still intact boxer briefs. I blushed slightly, but hooked my thumbs in the elastic waist of my underwear nonetheless, and quickly tugged them down to my ankles, my erection springing up toward my belly. Zepar smiled at me, the first smile I had ever seen from him, as I nestled in next to him in bed. 

Zepar snuggled up close to me, his arms wrapping around my chest as his legs entwined in mine. He nuzzled his cheek against my chest, his messy soft brown hair tickling my torso. I could feel his hard length against mine as I ran my hands up and down the smooth pale skin of his back, dropping kisses along the top of his head. I pulled Zepar closer, cradling his body with mine. He needed to be comforted and I wanted nothing more than to be that comfort for him. 

The young man's breathing slowed as he began emitting soft whimpers against my chest. I glanced down and noticed him deeply enveloped in sleep, a dreamy look masking the hurt for the time being. That look made my heart swell as I fell asleep with the fallen angel in my arms.

---------------------------------------

I awoke to the feeling of a weight on my chest and I smiled at the sensation of a hot wet tongue tracing the curve of my ear.

As I slowly pried open my eyelids, my eyes met those of beautiful Zepar. He hovered above me, one hand trying its best to tangle into my hair, the other stroking lightly at my waist as he pressed his hips into mine. The chill had left his body overnight and the sadness had faded from his eyes. The bruise under his eye, however, had darkened into an angry purple, surrounded by a soft halo of green. I smiled a slightly concerned smile as I reached up to cup his face in my hand, tracing the contusion gently with my thumb. "Morning," I whispered up into that beautiful face.

He leaned forward and kissed me in reply. The kiss was exquisitely gentle, with his lips closed against mine. He began to trail a series of those same soft kisses down my neck and over my chest, forging a path downward, arriving at the crease between my hip and thigh. He lazily dragged his tongue up and over my hip bone, those steely eyes burning as he looked up at me through his messy hair. His attention was shifted to my achingly hard cock as he licked his lips, eyeing it with interest. 

Without much warning, Zepar wrapped his thin hand around my shaft and engulfed it in the searing heat of his mouth. My mind was reeling at this point. I had no idea how I had ended up with this gorgeous young man in my bed, and at this point, I didn't care. His hands drifted up my flanks his fingertips fanning out as he dragged them back down underneath me, coming to rest on my ass and pulling me further into his mouth until his lips suctioned to the base of my cock. I groaned deep in the back of my throat, as I twined my fingers into his hair. He moaned around me, his fingers digging into my hips, nearly drawing blood as his throat vibrated, drawing a guttural sob from deep inside me. He continued slowly bobbing his head as orgasm racked my body, my cum coating the back of his throat as he drained me. He kept me in his mouth, slowly moving his tongue over my spent cock, devouring my cum to the very last drop. 

Satisfied, he finally released me, crawling back up to my chest that surged beneath him. 

"What happened to you?" I whispered, softly stroking his face and wiping some of the still thickly smudged liner away from his eyes. 

He leaned into my hand, nuzzling it like an attention starved kitten. "Your friend Umberto is an asshole," he spoke, narrowing his eyes slightly. I didn't have time to hate Umberto. I didn't have time to think at all as he began his slow and fluent undulation against my body. I felt like I was drowning in the feeling - like I was smothered in something warm and sweet and viscous filling my lungs. And I kept breathing. I kept breathing in Zepar. 

I could feel his flesh hard and insistent on my stomach. He wrapped his long fingers around my wrist, guiding me to his enfleshed scalding carnality. He hissed a sharp breath as I firmly stroked him, my fingers delighting in the velvet feel of his body.  

I was hard again myself and could feel my erection sliding ever so lightly against the cleft of Zepar's ass as he continued his wanton writhing in my lap. 

He smiled, the corner of his mouth turning upward as he reached back and began lightly running his fingers along my shaft, guiding it closer and closer to his heaving lithe form. Suddenly, he raised himself up, removing himself from my grip and positioned himself above my straining erection. 

My eyes widened as I watched him, and placed my hand on his thigh. "C... Condom?" I managed, breathing becoming a difficult task in his tight grip. 

He simply shook his head 'no' as he looked into my eyes and began to sink down over me. I saw the pain wrack his boyish yet powerful features, his brows furrowing as he buried my entire length and girth in his burning, taut body. I stroked my hands up and down his sides, trying to calm him as he continued his way down into my lap. My head rolled from side to side, as I lost myself in the sensations. I only realized he had me completely inside him when he braced his darkly decorated arms against my chest and began to gyrate his hips around me, as if moving to some unheard music. I stroked one hand around his back to his hip, tracing the large tattoo that transformed the look of his pale flesh - a large black angel wing stretching over his hip. What a name - Zepar. 

I attempted studying him as a method for staving off my orgasm. It didn't really help. His soft tousled hair, his full parted lips, those grey eyes gone wild and dark from lust, his alabaster and almost translucent skin moving over his lean muscles - I had never seen anything like him before. 

Zepar began to lift up, only to slowly wiggle back down on top of me. My breathing was growing shallow and uncontrollable. I placed my hands on his hips to help guide him and he nodded at me, forming a smile around a deep moan. I began to help his movements, lifting him up then thrusting upward into his hot depths, building in speed until we were crashing into each other, like breakers in a storm. Zepar tilted his head back, his arms now braced behind him against my thighs as he rolled his hips toward me, my body plowing into his. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed a sob, and his cock coated both our restless bodies with his release. His entire body tightened, as he trembled above me. 

I continued my relentless thrusting, so close to the edge. Zepar leaned forward and raked his fingernails down my ribs, leaving behind ten angry red marks. I lost it.

I grasped Zepar's hips and pulled him down to a halt on my lap as I came deep inside him with a loud groan of his name. Zepar smiled, a fully content smile as he collapsed on top of me, a dead weight against my chest. I wrapped my arms around his agile body, pulling him into an embrace I never wanted to leave. Our heavy breathing slowed and matched in tempo as we gently stroked one another, occasionally decorating the other with a soft kiss or a tender nip. 

I rolled us over on our sides and Zepar wrapped his arms and legs around me, clinging to me like a koala bear to a tree. I smiled and kissed him on the cheek, "What did I do to deserve you?" I whispered against his ear.

He glanced up at me, his expression almost unreadable. "You hate those people almost as much as I do. And you saw me. I know it. You didn't see my face, you saw me. And Umberto. He really is an asshole. Tried to make me fuck him because he 'made me.' Fuck him," Zepar spoke, his tone even as if this was something he said everyday. That was the longest I had ever heard him speak. 

I smiled a little sadly as I cradled him closer, not saying anything in return. I didn't have to. 

"Will you remember me?" Zepar said softly, barely audible against my chest.

I wasn't thinking clearly about what he could possibly mean by that. And I was too tired to try. In hindsight, I should have said something, but I didn't. I just hummed softly and pulled him closer. 

His body shuddered against mine, and as I succumbed to the warm serenity of sleep, I swear I felt Zepar's tears fall on my chest.

---------------------------------------

I awoke later that morning to an empty bed and an empty apartment. Gone. It was as if he'd vanished without a trace. I couldn't explain it, but my heart felt as if it were being slowly crushed in a vice. I walked lethargically into the bathroom, desperate for a hot shower and saw what he'd left behind: a note, scrawled on my bathroom mirror with a bar of soap. "I'm sorry. Remember me."

How could I forget? 

It has been nearly a year since my night with Zepar, and I still think about him every day. After that night, I couldn't be bothered with taking another lover. Every touch, every caress was Zepar. 

He had vanished completely from my life almost as quickly as he entered it. Umberto called me many times, asking if I had seen him. He explained to me that they'd had a 'disagreement' that night, as he so vaguely phrased it. He swore their argument to be the cause of Zepar's departure, and all I could think of as he spoke was Zepar's tears, falling, burning into my flesh. It crushed me.

I didn't really have much to do with Umberto after that. We had been friends for years, but every time I saw his face, I saw Zepar's face, tearstained and bruised. 

To keep myself from going completely mental, I let my office job become my focus. I immersed myself in my work, trying to convince myself that advertising was much more interesting than any other activities with which I could possibly occupy my time. 

It was a Fall Tuesday morning when I finally saw him again. His face, still smooth and pale, was covered in an assortment of semiprecious and precious stones. A broken string of pearls wrapped around his neck like a noose and wound up into his short brown hair. Large, opalescent stones rested over his closed eyelids and a gaudy necklace set with onyx and white diamonds draped across his forehead and tucked behind his ear. The jewels and glimmering platinum decorated his neck and shoulders as if they weighed him down with their decadence as he lay reclined on a pale shag carpet. 

I stared transfixed at the image as if I had just seen a ghost. The photograph stretched the entire length of the back of a covered bus stop - an advertisement for some New York jeweler. 




The Muse



I made a quick note of the name of the jeweler, my heart skipping beats left and right as I hurried into the building and up to my office. 

That day was not very productive for the firm. I spent the entire morning and afternoon calling any contact I had in the industry. I really despised the idea of networking, but I got the results I needed and that was all that mattered. An acquaintance I had made a few floors above mine informed me that it was actually our firm that handled the advertising for the jeweler, also giving me the name of the modeling agency Zepar was with. 

I phoned the agency, and with just a little schmoozing and sweet talk, I was able to get Zepar's working schedule for the week. He would be at a studio on the Lower East Side until six tomorrow. Perfect.

I barely slept a wink that night. I was wide awake, and dreaming of Zepar.

---------------------------------------

I stood, leaning back against my car outside the studio, waiting for my chance to see him again. I squinted into the sunset, ignoring the glaring hipsters who were clearly scrutinizing my not-tight-enough jeans. 

I glanced up as I heard the sound of the large metal studio doors squeal open. Zepar. 

He strode elegantly out of the studio, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. He was just as beautiful as I remembered. A loose-fitting sleeveless shirt hung away from his body, the neck cut low on his chest. A cool autumn breeze chilled his skin as he slipped a heavy cardigan sweater over his thin ink-covered arms. 

"Zepar," I said, trying to mask the longing in my voice and failing.

He stopped mid-stride, stunned. He cast his gaze down at the ground, then slowly lifted his eyes to mine. I could still see the hurt in those eyes.

He dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it underneath his black leather boot, slowly shaking his head as if it were a dream. "I never thought I would see you again," he said softly, "I hoped...but I never dared to think you'd come..."

I walked toward him, standing close, but not daring to touch him right now. He looked so fragile. "Can I talk to you?" I asked, staring into his sharp grey eyes.

"Can it be at your place?" Zepar asked in a soft voice that I wouldn't dare call shy.

---------------------------------------

"Do you want something to drink? A glass of wine maybe?" I asked as Zepar sat back on the sofa and I wandered into the kitchen. "Wait, how old are you anyway?" I asked, pausing in the kitchen doorway.

"Nineteen," Zepar said, smiling.

I laughed, "Would you like some juice, then?"

He put on a false pout, still smiling with his eyes, "You couldn't be that much older. And wine would be wonderful, thank you."

"Twenty-three," I called out from the kitchen as I went to fetch the wine and glasses. When I returned, I reclined next to Zepar on my couch, handing him his glass and taking a long sip from mine. 

"So, you wanted to talk to me?" Zepar asked, his lips moving against the rim of his wine glass.

I nodded slowly then looked directly at him, "Why did you leave?"

He sighed, his eyes avoiding mine as he drained his glass in one long draught. A long pause passed before he spoke again. "I'm sorry if it hurt you," he said, his eyes looking flatly into mine, "but I thought that was what you wanted: a one-night stand." 

"You have no idea how much more I want," I said placing my hand atop his. 

His eyes gleamed as they welled up with tears. He looked down at his hand then back up into my eyes, swinging his leg over me so he straddled my lap. He locked his arms in a circle around my neck, smiling as he leaned in and lightly bit at my lip, pulling it with his teeth. His tongue immediately traced over the spot he had just abused as he kissed me gently on the mouth. "I'm glad you found me," he whispered against my lips, "I'm glad you remembered me."

I cupped his face in my hand, "What could possibly make me forget you?"

He looked down between us as he rolled off me, seating himself at my side once again. "It, I mean, I wasn't your first. I just wanted that night to be special. I didn't want to be just another night to you," he lowered his voice to a whisper as he looked down at his hands in his lap, "I wanted it to be as special for you as it was for me."

My heart swelled in my chest as some indescribable feeling coiled its way around my ribcage. I had taken Zepar's virginity? I felt as if I'd done him some great injustice. I felt overjoyed that this young man had chosen me and wanted me. I felt as if I was the one to strike down the fallen angel Zepar. I felt like a bastard for not knowing. I felt loved.

Zepar let out a tiny squeak of a gasp as I scooped him up in my arms, standing him up before me, as I wrapped him in my arms. "I'm so sorry," I whispered into his hair, "I shouldn't have let you go. I should have tried to make it better for you..."

"It couldn't have been better. I wouldn't change it for the world. And you're here now," he said, snuggling his face into my neck and kissing me there, "that's all that matters."

I could feel his erection against my thigh through his jeans as I guided him backward. He stepped blindly, one foot behind the other and gasped, surprised when his back reached the wall. I loomed over him, kissing his forehead. "I'm not going anywhere," I said as I leaned down, taking his mouth with mine. 

His lips parted immediately, pliant and tenacious as he ran his tongue alongside mine, sucking the very breath from my lungs. I pulled back, my body desperate for oxygen. Zepar sighed as I buried my face in the crook of his neck, lipping lightly at his ear lobe and licking down into the hollow of his clavicle. I slid the sweater off his fair shoulders as he moaned softly. I noticed his hands move between us as he undid the buttons on his jeans and promptly began work on mine. I took a full step backward, not eager to leave the safe warmth of his body, but eager to get rid of this clothing that kept us apart. We bathed each other with our stares as we disrobed, his silver eyes scrutinizing every move of my hands and fingers, inelegantly pulling at buttons and snaps. I stared in awe of his grace as he removed his shirt of loose, sleeveless cotton in one fluid motion and swiveled his hips from the tight grip of his jeans. We stood, completely nude before each other, the tension building between us until I snapped. 

I pushed him back against the wall and covered his body with mine. My mouth on his neck, my hand in his hair, my arm tight around his waist - I wanted to be touching all of him, to melt to him, I wanted to enfold him into me. He slowly wrapped a long leg around the back of my thigh, sliding it up and down again, his smooth serpentine flesh driving me mad. His body thrust against mine. His hips rolled against mine. His slick engorged cock slipped against mine. He assaulted my senses with his body as I wrapped my hands around his slender thighs, pulling him up from the ground, his long legs around my waist. He pressed his shoulders into the wall behind him and wound his svelte, tattooed arms around my neck. 

I moved one of my hands around and began circling his entrance with a long finger. I hadn't prepared him the first time, and I didn't want to hurt him again. I was taken aback, to say the least, when I felt him slap my hand away. "I like the way it hurts," he said softly, tilting his head back on the wall, looking at me through his heavy lids. He raised his hand to his mouth, licking his palm, then spitting. He reached between us, stroking me lightly, slicking me with himself. My hips jumped forward at the contact. Zepar giggled - yes, giggled - above me as he increased the firmness of his grip, guiding me. 

Still smiling, Zepar looked down at me and nodded with two sharp moves of his head. I thrust forward precipitously and was met with a piercing cry from Zepar as he dug his fingernails into my back and shoulder. "You okay?" I panted, unsure if the cry was from pain or pleasure, perhaps both. In response, he wiggled his hips around me, gasping for air as he pushed himself down, his body consuming more and more of my length. He continued his dance, never stilling, never quieting - just movement and the sound of my name as it was forced from his throat. 

I began to move with him, meeting his thrashing body halfway with my own powerful thrusts. Zepar began looking increasingly savage, wild, frenzied as I fucked him harder and harder. He wrapped his fingers in my hair and, clenching his fists, began deliberately throwing his head back with every thrust, his skull colliding with the plaster as he gritted his teeth behind his softly parted lips. There was definitely going to be a dent in the drywall. 

His heels dug into my ass as we moved faster and faster around each other. My hips were moving in small forceful jerks when I came inside him. I didn't see it coming, but I fucking felt it. Stream after stream of my cum coated him from the inside out, filling him completely. "Oh, fuck, Owen...." Zepar shouted, gripping my shoulders tightly, pulling me in for a kiss as he came between us. I opened my mouth to him as we kissed his tongue invading my mouth as I felt his cum coat my chin and our chests. 

Our lips parted, as we gasped for air. Still buried inside Zepar, I carried him around the corner to my bedroom and fell back on my sheets, sweet Zepar snuggled close to my chest. I pulled the covers up over us as Zepar began cleaning up the mess he had made on my neck and chest. His tongue cleaned every last drop from my skin as he trailed up treating me to a kiss long and lingering, giving me a double dose of the taste of Zepar. 

He rolled off of me, snuggling up to my side underneath my arm. 

"Would you be mad if I said I loved you?" he said, his breath cooling my sweat-slicked flesh. 

I looked down at him, into his big grey eyes and smiled, "Furious."

"I love you."

"Love you too," I whispered, kissing him on the cheek.

"I've never said that to anyone before," he leaned down, licking around my nipple then kissed it softly, "Nobody."

"Really, what did I do to deserve you?"

"You found me. You didn't forget." He paused, moving to nuzzle at my neck, "Thank you."

I stroked his head and curled up around him, knowing he would be there when I woke up. I felt Zepar's warm tears falling on my neck - tears of joy. 

"Thank you," I whispered.



The Muse



I marvel about many strange things that would normally not cross the minds of others. I am fascinated with thoughts such as what would happen if you put a big red button in the middle of a crowded shopping mall with a sign that read, "Do Not Press". I wonder how long it would take someone to walk by and not be able to resist pressing that big red button, gleaming curious temptation. Then, what would that person do if an innocent bystander seemed to drop dead the very second that the red button was pressed... hmmm, how I wonder.

However, my moments of wonder, fascination, or perhaps it is intrigue, never cease. I wonder what the overtired and overworked passengers of the Friday morning peek hour train would do if a ninety-year-old couple suddenly felt the urge to lock their naked bodies to each other whilst on the vinyl seats. What would the onlookers do? Then a somewhat satisfied thought flashes across my mind; maybe if I never get to witness this, perhaps one day I could be that elderly woman on the train.

My mind drifts to such thoughts far too often, probably more than the average person who honestly does not have that much time to procrastinate. Nevertheless, tonight my mind is overloaded with wonderment, entrenched in a fantasy of desire. Rather than sit here lost in my thoughts, I figured that I would attempt to clarify this state of mind, as strange and alien as it may seem to whom ever should read it.

* * * * *

Tonight I sat at my laptop, in my usual spot reading another agonisingly long theoretical text. As tired as I am of reading theories I still plug along, knowing that at the end of this journey I will sit by a fire, one that consumes every excruciating textbook that will never be used as a resource; Oh, what a blissful day that shall be! 

Secretly, I would rather be working on my book. The holidays had only seemed to stall its progression with the frustration of that sometimes-inevitable 'writer's block'. Despite my overactive imagination and my uncanny ability to visualise details, I have been lost within the direction of my tale. My mind drained from over analysing every detail. Adding to this strain is the awareness that my thoughts need to be with the theoretical texts that enslave me. 

My tired, weary eyes begin to blur the words on the screen. As they swim into a mass of incomprehensible blubber, my laptop chimes at me, informing me that I have a message. The unexpected musical interruption is enough to break my mind ache. Pressing alt tab, I investigate the source of the tidings. Excitement pounds every sense in my body as I promptly realise the identity of my correspondent. This creature is not only the source of messages, but also the source of intrigue, and a damn fine way to procrastinate.

His words travel through to my screen and seize my interest. His deviate demeanour and tendency to be exceedingly enticing only draws me in further. I inspect his lips. My minds insistence at being imaginative entices me to feel their softness and taste the mint toothpaste against his saliva. It is always mint, fresh and new, reminding me that he is fresh and novel to me. 

A fancy of touch compels my mind. A sense that his warm skin is under my finger tips, gliding across his pelvic bone and tensed muscles. I begin to lose my inhabitancy within reality. He materialises on my bed, lying back staring at the rotating ceiling fan. My hands run through the trail of hair on his stomach, trying not to rush downwards, but rather appreciate the textures that he consists of. 

Pressed against his side I can feel the increasing temperature of his body urging me to explore him in more detail. It beckons me and obediently, as if bewitched by his presence, I lower my lips to his stomach to savour him. A slight salty taste amplifies my thirst. His hand rests on the back of my head, fingers tangled in my hair, encouraging me to drink until I am completely intoxicated. Who am I not to comply with my own imagination?

My lips travel over his chest, briefly stopping at the closest nipple long enough for me to extort it, enticing it to become firm. Nevertheless, I can't stop here for too long; I have a destination that I need to explore, and this will only distract me from my journey. 

Onwards I travel, over the rising hillside of his chest and down to the valley that rests between his shoulder and neck. Here is the scent that my imagination craves. A musky combination of sweat and deodorant that when mixed with my saliva forms an incredible aroma that forces my senses to that of a woman who has not tasted nor smelt such wonders; a woman driven mad by this demanding and exhilarating fragrance. 

Just when I thought that I would lose myself to this particular vision, you reach for my arm and pull me over so that I rest above you; my legs straddling your pelvis, stiffened cock pressed against my mound. Your hand reaches around to the nape of my neck, pulling me down to your lips. Our tongues slowly dance around each other, passionately moving in unison to the tempo of our pulses. Mint, once again it coerces me deeper into my apparition. I force myself to pull away before you completely entrance me.

"I'm hungry," you whisper.

How could I not want to feed my illusion? Troubled by the thought that you will fade if I deny you the nourishment you require, I lift my body from you and position myself above your face. Your hands fasten around my thighs and pull me towards your lips. That minty breath once again, it enthrals me as it drifts around my vulva. This inescapable air warms my whole. Your tongue sashays my labia, pushing deeper inside me and then glides up to my clitoris. I arch back delighted, allowing you to bury your face harder against me, to flip your tongue over my button until I scream out for more. My legs shake as you persistently thrash at me with your tongue, inner muscles contracting as I embrace myself to explode in your mouth. 

My legs tighten around you as your hands clasp my ass, spreading it wide. The cold air from the ceiling fan caresses the hole and tips me into the oblivion of orgasm. I scream your name out to the world whilst marinating your tongue with my flow. Gripping your hair, I attempt to both push you away but draw you nearer at the same time. 

Sensitive from the swelling that has formed around my mound and the pulsating nerves throughout, you continue lapping at me, encouraging every drop to fill your throat. Eventually, when you have considered me somewhat empty, you release your grip and pull me down your body so that once again we lay face to face. Kissing me, you fill my mouth with a cocktail of orgasm, saliva and that damn mint.

In reality, sitting on the other side of my screen, you have done nothing more than run your tongue over your bottom lip, but that was enough to initiate my sense of wonderment. The camera moves down to show me your rigid cock, and once again, I am destined to have desire take over my psyche.

As we lay entwined, tasting each other, your leg raises so that I rest against it. Instinctually my body craves the friction and I gyre my saturated pussy against your thigh. Understanding the craving for my senses to be satisfied, you push your leg further towards me, allowing me to bear down into a world of need enhanced by the taste of your tongue. However, my hallucination only proves to amplify my impatience. I want more, and I have lost all will to restrain myself. In this very moment, I have enslaved myself to you.

"I need you now," I whisper, and immediately, just as any good master would, you tend to my needs. Effortlessly, you pick me up and guide your staff inwards. Holding me just off your body, slow and gentle, you pierce me. In a grasp that infers mastery, your hands cradle my derriere. Your grasp signifies that I am to remain statuesque as your buttock rises off the bed in a repetitive diving motion. Just an inch or two enters, holding for a moment, you tease me. My body burns with hunger as you repeat this motion, slowly directing my mind into a state of frenzy. Despite my body insisting on moving against yours, I wrestle the urges. It screams out to me, "make him cum", but my mind is careful not to break your control in this position. Even in an imaginary moment of passion, I find myself searching for a reasonable level of self-control.

Beyond the delusion of control, you are motioning your hips back and forth on the screen emulating my fantasy. My toy is now descending into me, attempting to equal your motion. The mint has faded and all that my mind wants is the touch, the smell and the taste. It constantly flips through the scenes like the chapters turning in a good book; reality, fantasy, reality, fantasy. Unable to continue with the constant change it decides, as any fiction writers would, to stay firm within your grip of fantasy. 

Unexpectedly, you have thrown me onto the bed, flipped my body over and dragged me towards your shaft, my legs bracing me upright from the floor. That's when the delusion of control evaporated. My animal instincts have taken over both of our bodies. There are no thoughts of who we are or why we are, just ravenous instincts craving each other as the hungry lions of the African plains crave their next meal. 

Your fingers dig into the cheeks of my ass; becoming the hilt that enables you to slam me rapidly harder. As you impale me, I reach down to caress my clitoris. I am greedy for the sensations, I want it all, and fuck it, I want it all now. The fantasy of you recognises this need as your hands dig deeper into my skin, stabbing at me, threatening to make me explode repeatedly. My flower closes around your cock ensuring that you do not evaporate. The room fills with the noises of screaming and moaning. Sweat drips of our skins as our bodies reach boiling point. You slam at the doorway of my cervix as I reach out for anything that will hold me up against the orgasm, hands grasping onto the blanket, just as I grasp at your shaft with my internal muscles, begging you to coerce me over that point of eruption. I watch your image on the screen intently; my screams fill the night, not daring to move my gaze. 

Then I see it. You too have moved from reality and the head of your cock has turned that delightful purpled colour that says that you are ready to explode. My vision snaps from the orgasmic delight, and returns to the desire for taste. 

My hands seize at your cock, motioning your body to fill me with the creamy centre of your being. The erectile tissues hold you firm as the blood flows into your tip and your testicles surge with fire. Your hand grabs at my scalp as my lips glide down on you. Once I have returned to the surface my jaws tense at the need to revisit the depth of taste. A chef may require spices to delight his tastebuds, but I only crave the raw taste of your skin soaked in my body's sauce. 

I can feel your creamy centre begin its journey as your body tenses in anticipation. Your walls have crashed around you and all that remains is the vulnerability that will allow you to take hold of the natural process of succumbing to my lips. The summit explodes and your white chocolate sauce erupts into my mouth. I devour it as though your cock is contains the sustenance that I have been craving for far too long. Surely, such a delectable taste should be bottled and sold in the finest restaurants.  

Your weary but satisfied eyes grace my screen, and I understand the lateness of our encounter. Reluctantly, it is time that I must allow the reality to end. However, deep in my mind I conjure the realms of pleasure that most people would shudder at publicly, but would secretly desire if they had any notion that such pleasures could arise. Thankfully, my imagination has never been one to cast me into the shadows of shame, or perhaps for some I shall call it trepidation. 

When the messages stop flowing I scroll through the conversation. Literally, I am disgusted at the strange imposter who has dared to write my words. The bumbling idiot who was not able to interpret what has been playing in my mind. She has tripped and fumbled with words that would naturally flow from my fingers onto the screen. Perhaps, and understandably so, the visual representation that has just played out has distracted her, causing her to disgrace my fingertips. 

For now though, and might I add thankfully, she is gone. I am once again able to sit in front of a blank screen and let it consume my wonder. I let it drag me to a world where I can feel the sword slicing through the jugular of a sick and twisted soul, all in the name of protecting my evil heroes love. My story is back in its visually impressive prime, finalised by a face to which my hero can carry. The expressions are clear, and his desire apparent. My imagination locked into fifth gear, is ready to churn out my story. My fingertips are primed to enhance the tale. Thousands of words spill from my mind, all thanks to my messenger, my rescuer from theoretical texts...

my muse.



The Muse



Rebecca adjusted her blouse, straightened her skirt and tied her small white apron around her waist. She checked her pocket for her order pad and pen, scraped her long red curls up and twisted them into a knot at the back of her head. With one last look in the mirror she made sure everything was in place and pushed her way into the hotel bar where she worked.

At 18 years old Rebecca, or Becks as she was known, wasn't entirely sure what she wanted to do with her life, she just knew it wasn't waitressing. But this job would do until she could find something or until she got herself into university. She scanned the room to see which guests were present and which of the locals were in. She smiled as she scanned the room, there were only half a dozen people in and with luck the night would continue that way.

She wandered around tidying up and straightening out. She did a circuit of the bar and took a deep breath as she approached Henry Portman.

Henry Portman was a local man and knew Becks parents. He was 56 years old, owned his own business and had been divorced for many years. He had a full head of deep black glossy hair and was lightly tanned. His dress was casual but he wore jeans and t-shirts well. His smile was broad as Becks approached.

"Good evening young lady." Henry said as Becks drew up to him.

"Good evening Henry, I hope you are well." Becks answered with her usual courtesy. She looked at Henry's glass and raised an eyebrow. Henry lifted it between his thumb and second finger as Becks placed her tray underneath it.

She walked across to the bar and refilled the whisky glass with his usual tipple of Laphrohaig breathing in the rich aroma as she did and then added it to his nightly tally. It currently stood at 4 which meant he had been in the bar for about 2 hours. He must have shut up the office early for a change. Putting the glass on her tray she carried it over to him.

"Thank you my dear." He said as she put the glass down.

"You're welcome, quiet day?" She replied.

"Yes, pretty quiet, I'm waiting for new work from my regulars." Henry replied by way of explanation.

"Ah, I see. Well I shall leave you to it. Let me know if you want anything." Becks said as she turned away.

"You know what I want young lady," Henry retorted. "I want you to pose for me. Let me paint you."

"I know you do, but I meant food." Becks said, a twinkle in her eye.

Henry had been chasing her to pose for months, flirting with her and getting the same in return. Nothing had ever come of it thought, for a start, Henry was simply too old, the same age as her parents! She wasn't against being painted, it was simply that it was Henry, a man she had known since she was a child.

Henry shrugged and picked up his drink. He didn't normally chase women, particularly ones as young as Becks but for some reason he couldn't stop himself. He knew that her long red curls would look stunning against her alabaster skin and his mind whirled with the possible poses he could paint her in. He sat and watched her, his muse.

An hour later Henry said his goodbyes and wandered back to his chapel conversion home. Opening the door, he flicked the light-switch and breathed in the faint smell of paints from his studio. He closed the door, hung his jacket and made his way to the living room. Pouring himself another drink he sat on the large leather couch and pondered his next move. After an hour, he moved from the couch and made his way up the wide wooden staircase up to bed. He fell asleep thinking of paints, canvas and Becks.

The pair continued their dance of words over the next 5 months. The weather turned warmer, the skirts shorter and the tops skimpier. Henrys small gallery continued to pick up and Becks continued to work at the hotel, still unsure of her next move. She was now approaching her 19th birthday and she had still not fully made her mind up about what she was going to do. Part of her just wanted to find an everyday job and join the rat race but a larger part of her wanted to go to Vetinary College. She had a love of animals, an unwavering interest in them and all the right qualifications. On the back the of all that she had decided to apply and was waiting for the results of the applications she had submitted.

She scraped her hair up, straightened herself up and walked into the bar. As she did she walked straight into Henry, literally.

"Ooof." Henry expelled air as Becks barrelled into him.

"Eeek." Becks said at the same time, her head banging against Henrys chest.

She looked up, one hand on her forehead, the force of the collision had shaken free one long curl which now fell down the side of her face. Henry frowned down at her, concerned.

"Are you ok?" He said, bending down to her level.

"Yes, I am fine thank you." Becks replied a little too curtly. She immediately blushed. "Sorry."

"It's ok," Henry replied. "Are you sure you are ok though?" as he said it, he put one finger under her chin and lifted her face towards his.

"Yes I am fine Henry, honestly." Becks said as she looked at him. She let him turn her face from side to side, his concern turning to appraisal.

Becks stood quietly and watched him silently, quizzically as he assessed her. His brown eyes moving over her face, taking in her features.

Henry suddenly realised what he was doing and let his hand fall.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Can I have a drink?" He finished with a grin.

Becks laughed. "Yes, I'll get it, go and sit down."

Henry turned and made his way to his usual window seat. Sitting down, he appraised what he had just seen. He had always known that Becks was pretty but on closer inspection, her skin was flawless, no marks, no blemishes, not even freckles on the creamiest alabaster skin. No make up to speak of, the most perfect rose bud lips and eyes of ice blue. All finished off with deep copper red curls which he suspected flowed almost all the way down her back. He watched as she approached.

"Let me paint you. Please." Henry said as she drew close. Becks looked at him and grinned.

"I'll tell you what. IF I get into Vet College I'll let you paint me as a birthday present." She said and turned on her heel and grinned over her shoulder at him.

Henry picked up his glass and raised it to his lips. That meant if she was going away in September he had just over 2 months. He sat back and started thinking about how he wanted to position her and where, never thinking for one moment that he wouldn't paint her.

Two weeks later Becks found him sitting in the lounge. It was a busy night, the holiday season was in full swing and the hotel was bursting at the seams. She hurriedly dropped his drink on the table.

"I got into Glasgow and Bristol." She said as she hurried off.

It took a moment for Henry to register what she meant and as it did he looked up to find her gone again into the melee of people. He waited for her to come past again.

"Does this mean I get to paint you then?" He said as she rushed past.

"Yes." She said briefly over one shoulder.

"When?" He called to her retreating back.

Becks soon came around again and cleared the empty table next to his, giving it a wipe clean with her free hand. As she did she thought about when she was off again.

"I'll write the dates I am free down while I am on my break." She said to him.

"Ok, no problem." Henry answered and leant back in his chair.

45 minutes later, he sat with his glass refreshed and a short list of dates in his hand. He perused them, mostly weekdays, a couple of weekends. He thought a weekday would be best, a young girl like Becks would want to be with her friends at the weekends. He borrowed a pen from the next table and circled a date a fortnight away.

Getting up, he made his way out of the busy bar passing Becks as he went.

"Stop!" He said grinning.

Becks came to an abrupt halt, her tray full of drinks. Henry tucked the piece of paper in her apron pocket.

"I've circled the date, 10am, my place." He said and got out of her way.

"Ok." She said as she scooted off.

Henry walked back to his home with a satisfied grin on his face. Time to get ready.

Two weeks later, Henry got up to glorious blue skies and a day that promised high temperatures. He got himself a coffee and walked into his studio. Opening the windows a breeze floated through. The sun shone through the window and across the wooden floor. Henry immediately knew where he wanted Becks to be. The only thing he didn't know was if she would allow herself to be painted nude. He hoped she would.

At 10am there was a knock on the door and Henry opened it to find Becks standing there. She had denim shorts on, a dark green strappy t-shirt, flip flops and a massive floppy hat with a deep red gerbera on it.

"Allo." She said a little nervously as she grinned at him.

"Hello young lady." Henry replied standing to one side. Becks walked past him and he closed the door behind her.

"This way," He said and directed her into the studio. "Coffee?" he asked.

"Yes please," Becks replied quietly as she wandered around looking at Henrys work. "You're good." she said with a little surprise.

Henry laughed his thanks as he went into the kitchen and came back with a coffee mug in each hand to find Becks sitting on the floor cross legged, combing the curls out of her hair with her fingers. He caught his breath as he watched her from the doorway she was oblivious to his presence as she gently drew her fingers through her luxurious waist length curls. His mind began to wander and he shook himself and walked over to her, offering her the coffee.

"Thanks." She smiled, reaching up for it.

"You're welcome," he replied and sat down on the floor opposite her. "Now, I have a number of ideas for poses but most of them include you being nude. If that's not acceptable then I need to know and we can have a rethink."

"No," Becks said, "I think I can do nude, what did you have in mind?"

Becks and Henry sat and discussed the ideas they had. Henry had thought about using the hat as soon as he saw it, but he dismissed it as he wanted to make the most of Becks skin. As he talked he became more animated and they both slipped into an easy and comfortable dialogue together.

Henry paused in his aerial windmilling and looked up at Becks. She was sitting easily, leaning forward with one knee up and her hands resting on it. Her chin was resting on them and she was completely engrossed in Henry's conversation. There was fluidity to her, everything joined in all the right places, the curves of her chin, fingers, knees, hips and calves, not one straight line anywhere. The sun shone in through the full length window at her side and cast shadows down one side of her and elongated itself across the floor. He held his breath.

"THATS how I want you," he breathed. "Can you do this again naked?" A note of hope in his voice.

Becks smiled and looked at him.

"Yes, I think I can." She answered standing easily.

She walked over to the couch and kicked off her flip flops. Crossing her arms in front of her she lifted the hem of her t-shirt and lifted it over her head. Her pert breasts bobbed slightly as she moved about, turning her t-shirt the right way out and laying it across the back of the couch. Unbuttoning her shorts, she let them fall to the floor, bending, she picked them up and put them with her top. Turning she clasped her hands in front of her and looked at Henry.

"Ok, I'm ready," she said with a deep breath. "Be kind."

Henry laughed and indicated the floor again as he grabbed a sketch pad and pencil. Turning back towards her, he watched as she folded herself onto the floor again. He watched in mild amusement as she tried to regain her posture to no avail. Henry crossed the floor again and sat down opposite Becks once more.

"So....tell me about Vet School." He said, trying to put her at her ease once more.

Becks happily complied and soon relaxed once more, half regaining the posture she had been in previously but, like Henry, her arms became animated as she talked. As she reached the end of her conversation she searched for something more to say.

"How long have you been painting for?" she asked him, looking around the studio once more.

"Oh a long, long time now." Henry started. He continued his conversation and watched Becks slowly relax as she listened to him. Finally she was back in the position he first wanted to capture her in. Picking up his sketch pad slowly, he continued to talk while his hand moved over the pad capturing the essence of the young women opposite him. He sketched in cursory shadows so that he did not lose them completely before the light moved again and as he finished his conversation, he finished his sketch. He looked up at Becks and stopped talking. Becks was sat once more with her head on her chin but she now had her eyes closed. The gallons of curls spilled all down her body and he just drank her in, suddenly aware of her beauty once more, the artist in him taking a back seat.

"My god you are gorgeous." He breathed quietly, not wanting to disturb her.

A small smile graced Becks lips and she opened one eye blushing.

"Thank you." she said quietly and humbly.

"You are very welcome," Henry replied easily. "Would you like to see the first sketch?"

"Yes please." Becks replied and unfolded herself. Without thinking she crawled on her hands and knees towards Henry, taking his breath away. 

He watched as she moved lithely, like a young lioness towards him, her small breasts moving against the flow of the rest of her body, swinging very slightly. She moved to the side of Henry and sat down cross legged once more, looking at him expectantly. Henry grinned at the childlike expression on her face.

He turned the pad towards her and waited for her reaction.

"Oh god, that's not really me.....is it?" she asked in a whisper.

"Well it's the way I see you." Henry answered.

"It's beautiful." Becks breathed. Overcome with emotion at the light sketch in her hand, she felt her eyes filling up with tears and blinked them away furiously. She looked up at Henry, her eyes bright and smiled at him.

"Thank you." she said.

"You are VERY welcome," he replied. "But this is only the sketch. I've got to put it on there next." and he nodded at the large canvas on the easel.

"Well its very beautiful as it is, I look forward to seeing it." Becks said. She leaned forward and kissed Henry softly on the cheek.

Henry looked at Becks and smiled. Without thinking, he leaned forward and kissed Becks full on the lips. He pulled back and had the good grace to look abashed.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have done that."

Becks leaned forward and kissed him again, curiosity winning out over the knowledge of who Henry was. She pulled back.

"No, you shouldn't have." she said.

Henry put his hands on Becks arms and pulled her towards him. Becks smoothly moved onto her knees and leant towards him. Henry wrapped his arms around her and gathered her in. Becks arm came around Henrys neck and she pulled herself into him, pressing herself against him, her breasts against his chest. Henry swung his arm around Becks knees and lifted her easily onto his lap. Becks curled into him and wriggled to get herself comfortable, making Henry moan. Their lips never parting.

Henry wound his hands into Becks hair, curling around the copper mass, holding her head as his tongue danced with hers, twisting around, exploring each other. Becks ran her tongue over Henrys teeth, her mind telling her to be quiet as she mentally squeaked and giggled at the fact that Henrys teeth were his own. Unable to contain it any longer she started giggling in the kiss. Henry broke away.

"What?" he said expecting the worst.

"Oh, nothing." Becks replied immediately, blushing.

"WHAT?" Henry asked again.

"It doesn't matter." Becks affirmed and kissed him gently on the lips.

"Yes, it does." Henry said and pushed her back, holding her arms.

Becks sighed and blushed again.

"It really doesn't matter. Honestly." Becks sat and flushed bright red. "I had a silly thought and it doesn't matter."

"Tell me now or I will make you tell me." Henry demanded.

Becks sighed. 

"I had a silly thought and it surprised me that you had your own teeth." She dissolved into a fit of the giggles.

"Oh you will pay for that young lady." Henry grinned at her as Becks clamped her hand over her mouth and tried to recover herself.

Henry gently brushed his fingers over Becks skin. Becks almost immediately stopped giggling and drew in a shuddering breath. She looked up at him as she let it out and he kissed her once more, drawing his fingers over her small breast and nipple.

Becks moaned softly and squirmed again. Henry lightly passed his fingers over her body, drinking her in as his lips, teeth and tongue toyed with her lips. Becks reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck once again, pulling him close.

Henry broke their kiss and looked at her wordlessly, raising an eyebrow. Becks nodded and Henry ran his fingers through her hair.

"Are you sure?" He asked softly to the unanswered question.

"Yes." Becks whispered and uncurled herself from his lap.

Becks stood and waited, watching as Henry stood up. He took her hand and led her from the studio, sketch pad and pencil discarded and forgotten. Henry led Becks to the wide staircase and started climbing it, pulling Becks in his wake.

He turned the corner into the bedroom and led Becks to the bed. She climbed on and curled up, suddenly self conscious. Henry watched her as he got undressed and joined her on the bed. Becks immediately curled into him.

Henry lifted himself on one elbow and leaned forward, kissing Becks shoulder. Slowly placing kisses all down her shoulder and collar bone, feeling Becks relax under his touch and move towards him. Henry raised his leg and wound it around Becks own as they pressed into each other, his semi erect cock pushing into her thigh as Becks looked up at him.

Becks smiled shyly and Henry smiled back.

"Hello." he said, Becks giggled slightly.

Bending forward he kissed her and becks immediately responded, pressing herself against him once more. Henry slid his hand across her skin and grabbed a handful of her backside, pulling her into him, skin touching skin from chest to toes. Henry could tell that whilst Becks wasn't a virgin, she certainly wasn't overly experienced. He didn't want to take advantage but he also didn't want to hold back. He found himself needing her and craving to show her what experience could bring.

Taking charge of the moment, he rolled Becks onto her back. Her hair tumbled as she moved and he brushed it away from her face. Kissing her softly he ran his hands over her skin once more, hearing her sigh and feeling a slight shiver from her as he did. He kissed his way around her face, her eyes, her forehead and the tip of her nose. Moving his way down her jaw line, he kissed her neck and went across her shoulders, first one way and then the other. Becks squirmed under him and sighed softly as he moved down towards her breasts.

Becks pulled her breath in sharply as Henry gently pulled his teeth across one of her nipples. Henry smiled, he knew he had not hurt her, just simply made her jump at the sudden shock of something less gentle than lips on her skin. He bit softly on her nipple before pulling it into his mouth and sucking on it. His hand busied itself with her other nipple, rolling it gently under his thumb before taking it between his thumb and forefinger to pinch it, pulling it softly, making Becks moan. 

Henry swapped sides and paid attention to her other nipple with his mouth, his finger gently circling the erect nipple he had just left behind. Becks moaned gently and arched her back towards him, her hand coming down on Henry head as he continued to toy with her. Henry moved down Becks body, her pale skin going into goosebumps as he moved over her, his breath warm on her skin, his lips burning into her as he moved down her slowly, kissing his way towards her mons.




The Muse



As he reached it, Henry stopped to take it in. Dark copper curls sat delicately on the alabaster skin, an almost perfect triangle running under the crease of her stomach and down the folds of her hips. Henry placed one long, lingering kiss in the centre of it as he traced his fingertips over her hips.

Looking up at Becks he found she was looking down on him, studying him, her fingers gently playing with her nipples.

"Open your legs." Henry said as he moved.

Becks opened her legs as she blushed furiously and watched as Henry placed himself between them. She took him in, his body was lean but showed signs of his age, a sprinkle of grey hairs on his chest, his stomach, while not flabby was not the taut one of a fit 20 year old, his cock was erect now and there was also a sprinkle of grey there too, but somehow it suddenly didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

Becks parted her legs wider and raised them, allowing him entry to her. Instead Henry got down until he was laying flat and his face was between Becks thighs. Becks was torn between curiosity and acute embarrassment. She had only been with two men in her life and both had simply fucked her. They were both one night stands with friends she had been attracted to which had not worked out.

She knew about oral sex but had never experienced it. Now as she lay on the bed, she watched in almost horrified fascination and dread as Henry bent his head to her. 

Henry used one hand to part the copper curls and very slowly and gently ran his tongue down one side of the inner folds of her labia.

"OH!" Becks exclaimed.

Henry never said a word and never looked up, he simply ran his tongue down the other side. Becks exclaimed again, her knees coming up but her thighs remaining apart, making no move to close them or to stop Henry doing what he was doing.

Becks put her hand on Henrys head as he slid his own hands under hare backside and pulled her into him. He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue and ran it down the centre of her cunt sliding it deeply into her. Becks moaned deeply and held Henrys head in place, her hips moving up towards him as the sensations rippled through her, his tongue lapping her, tasting her, following the inner lines of her cunt, the folds, his tongue going places she had only ever explored with her fingers. Henry travelled downwards even further and flicked lightly over her tight puckered asshole. Becks suddenly froze.

Henry looked up and watched Becks as he gently laid soft kisses on her thighs, gauging her reaction. As he watched, he moved one of his hands from under her and brushed his fingers softly over her outer lips. Becks whimpered slightly and relaxed once more as Henry softly and slowly slid two fingers deep into her, Becks whimper turned to a deep moan as Henry started to work his fingers in and out of her, his thumb moving to her clit to be joined by his tongue, flickering over her now swollen nub, moving around in circles, pressing down softly but firmly, Becks hips moving in time with Henry.

Becks moans became increasingly louder and more constant. She felt her orgasm building, hovering on the edge of her consciousness until finally, just at the point that Henry sucked her clit into his mouth and bit it gently, she came. Wave after wave washed through her as her thighs came together, enclosing Henrys head between them as his fingers were gripped by her contracting cunt.

As Becks sighs and moans subsided, Henry once again laid gentle kisses over her. His tongue still working now and again, dipping between her lips to capture her taste. Henry took his fingers from Becks and sucked on them, savouring the taste of the woman beneath him.

Moving up slowly, he kissed his way back up Becks body, covering it with his own as he kissed his way up the entire length of her body, until he reached her face once more, kissing her lips as he moved to one side, gathering her in as she curled into him, her breathing recovering slowly as his fingers ran across her skin, gentling her.

Becks could feel his hardness against her thigh as she curled up into Henry. Her body reacted once more to his touch and she turned to him. He smiled as she looked at him.

"Hello." He smiled.

"Hiya." Becks replied with a small giggle.

She moved against him and kissed him, her tongue moving between his lips shyly until he captured it with his teeth and sucked it into his mouth, fucking it with his lips, his hand coming up to wind into Becks curls again, half combing them with his fingers, half pulling her head back.

Henry held Becks tongue between his teeth once more, biting hard and pulling it away from her and making her moan. Quickly he let it go and before she had a chance to react he caught her bottom lip. She pulled away as he bit down and he tugged on it and let go again with a snap of the teeth.

As he worked on her mouth, his fingers travelled down her body and he slid them into her wet cunt, the warmth of it making him moan as he started to rub her clit once more. Becks hips began to move automatically against him and she lifted one leg and wrapped it around his hip, turning sideways towards him fully.

Henrys cock nestled in the cleft between her thighs, hard, twitching slightly as it looked for a home. He moved from her face and kissed her neck as he rolled her onto her back and moved his body between her thighs once more. 

Raising himself slightly he took his hand away and positioned himself. Becks wrapped her legs around him, her hips raising slightly, her lips parting. Henry slid into her with a growl as her tight cunt opened up for him and she gasped at the intrusion. Whilst he wasn't the largest at just over 7 inches, his cock was thick and he filled her fully. She wrapped her legs around his hips tightly as his entire length filled her and she felt his balls push against her.

Henry raised himself onto his knees and reached behind him. Taking one leg in each hand he took Becks legs from behind him and held them out wide. Looking down, he watched as he rocked his hips into Becks, his cock sliding in and out of Becks wet cunt, leaving him glistening in the light. He moaned as he watched it, her wetness was audible as she raised her hips to meet each stroke from him.

Becks moaned as Henry filled her cunt, his strokes long, slow and deep, each one stretching the walls of her cunt. Each one hitting rock bottom, making her move into him further. Henry increased the tempo, starting to thrust into her further, holding her legs as wide as they would go as he alternated between watching her face and watching himself thrust in and out of her.

He stopped and pulled out of Becks. She looked at him quizzically.

"Turn over." He said softly but firmly.

Becks did as she was asked and Henry took hold of her hips and lifted her. In one swift move he entered her again, deep and hard. Becks gasped as his sudden thrust took her breath away. She drew in a ragged breath and moaned as Henry continued to thrust into her, her hips moving back against his as he felt his balls slap gently against her clit.

Encouraged further, Henry increased the speed once more and looked down as his hips pistoned into her. Her round, firm backside moving towards him rhythmically. His dark tanned hands gripping her hips as he pulled her into them, each time she pushed back harder, encouraged by Henry.

Becks moans were almost constant now, mirrored by animal growls from Henry as he pistoned into her repeatedly. As Becks slammed back against him, the momentum swung his ball sac onto her, slapping against her clit, increasing her need, her elbows locked and her arms straight. Her breasts swung slightly and the cascades of curls swung in time with the rest of her body.

Henry let go of her hips and placed one hand in the small of her back. The other reached forward and grabbed a handful of curls, pulling her towards him, his hips slamming into her over and over as he listened to her moans reach a crescendo.

Becks entire body was on fire, Henrys cock filled her cunt fully and his balls against her clit was pushing her even further. She slammed back against him, her buttocks slapping against his pelvis as she took him deeply over and over. Her orgasm started in the pit of her stomach like a small fire as its warmth spread over her entire body. She trembled and her body bucked as her cunt contracted then exploded to clamp Henrys cock, milking it as the walls of her cunt rippled around him.

Henry never missed a stroke as Becks orgasm filled her, an animal growl left him and he felt his balls tighten. With one last massive thrust he came, throwing his head back and roaring towards the ceiling. Becks continued to roll her hips against him as he filled her cunt with hot, creamy, white cum. With a final shudder, he leaned against Becks, his legs trembling, breathing heavily.

Becks slowly slid down onto her stomach, Henry sliding out of her, a last moan leaving her as she did. Moving to one side, he lay the length of Becks and gathered her into him, her back to him as she whimpered softly. He kissed her neck and shoulders, moving her hair to do it. His hand sliding around to cup her breast lightly, his thumb stroking her skin. She murmured softly, took a deep ragged breath and curled into him.

They lay entwined for a while, each quiet and in their own thoughts. Eventually Becks turned and faced Henry. Henry looked at her and kissed her softly smiling to himself.

"What?" Becks said.

"Oh I was wondering earlier how I could possibly remember your colouring to make it right," he said grinning. "Now I'm not entirely sure I will ever forget."

Becks laughed and blushed all at the same time. Henry kissed the end of her nose.

"Shall I go and start on the canvas? You can come and watch if you want, I shouldn't need you to pose again." Henry asked Becks.

"That would be good." she answered.

They both got up off the bed and Becks padded off to the bathroom. Henry walked past the closed door.

"Get a shower, I'll see you downstairs." He called.

20 minutes later, Becks appeared and wandered naked into the studio. Crossing to the couch, she picked up her clothes and put them back on. Turning, she watched Henry who was now engrossed in the canvas. She picked up her coffee cup that Henry had left and sat down on the floor. Watching, she saw herself come to life.

The day passed and Henry hardly said a word. Becks brought coffee in and replenished his cup and occasionally Henry would look up at her, study her and look back at his canvas again. As the sun started to set, her stomach growled loudly and Henry looked up with a scowl.

"Oh my lord, Becks I am SO sorry. I've ignored you all day." Henry looked ashamed.

"It's ok, I've loved watching you work." Becks replied looking at the canvas.

"It's nowhere near finished." Henry said, eyeing it self critically.

"I know, but it's already beautiful." she replied wistfully.

Henry smiled and walked over to her. Wrapping his arms around Becks, he gave her a soft kiss.

"You're the beautiful one." He said quietly.

Becks blushed and looked at him. Suddenly overcome, she hugged him close.

"Thank you." She whispered.

Henry smiled and kissed her again.

"Can I offer you some dinner?" he said hopefully.

"No, thank you," she answered with a regretful sigh. "I had better go, mum and dad are expecting me."

She turned away from him and picked up her hat. Putting it on, she turned back to him and gave him a brilliant smile.

"I'll see you soon?" she asked,.

"Of course," he replied. "I'll see you in the bar."

They walked to the door and Becks kissed him. Turning, she walked down the road without looking back.

Becks didn't see Henry for almost a fortnight, until her leaving party at the hotel. As she stood talking to her friends, she felt a hand at the small of her back. She turned to find Henry standing behind her and broke into a wide smile.

"Hello young lady." Henry said with a smile.

Becks embraced him warmly and kissed him on the cheek.

"Hello Henry, where have you been?" Becks said as she smiled at him.

"Finishing your present of course," he replied. "I've got it with me but it's quite large so I need somewhere to leave it."

"Ummmmmm oh!" Becks said thinking furiously. "I know, bring it into the staff room and I'll take it home from there."

Henry acknowledged Becks and left the bar. He went to reception and picked up the large canvas he had left propped against the front desk. Carrying the brown wrapped canvas, he went into the staff room. He propped it up on two chairs and made his way back into the bar. He crossed over to Becks.

"It's in there, I'm not stopping." He said to her.

Becks was suddenly disappointed and turned to her friends. She excused herself and walked out of the front of the hotel with Henry. Walking to the end of the drive in companionable silence. At the end of the drive Henry turned to Becks.

"I hope you like it," he said quietly. "Come and see me during the holidays when you come home?"

"Of course I will," Becks answered. "and I'm sure it's beautiful."

Becks wrapped her arms around Henrys neck and kissed him gently. Henry responded and turned it into a long lingering kiss. When they finally broke, Becks was breathless and craving more.

Henry smiled, kissed the end of Becks nose and turned towards home. Becks watched until he was out of sight and returned to the party.

The next morning, she got up and saw the canvas sitting against the wall. Walking over, she saw that Henry had stuck an envelope to one corner. She removed it and then holding her breath, the wrapping around the painting was slowly peeled off. Moving back to her bed, she sat down and stared at the painting.

Staring back at her were her eyes. Henry had captured the colours of her skin and hair perfectly and memories of the day came flooding back to her. She remembered the envelope in her hand and opened it.

A smile spread across her face as she read the card. 'My muse. With love H'. Her eyes sparkled as she looked once more at the painting, trying to decide where she could hang it. 

A mile away, Henry sat in his studio, coffee in his hand, lost in thought as he looked up at the pair of the one Becks was looking at, a smile on his face as he remembered the day. Too old, he thought with a rueful smile and shake of his head.