Hello, fellow Lit Fans! I know it's been a while since I submitted anything, and here is why: As a noob to Literotica, I started having doubts about my erotica writing, and that started me wondering about what I could be doing better. To help me answer these questions, I turned to my muses. The following story is what they had to say about it. If you agree with them or have your own ideas, please let me know! I appreciate any feedback that will help me write stories you'll love to read! Also, thank you for taking the time to read it, vote, or comment!
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"You're doing it all wrong," she says.
Well, that'll kill a mood. She could be talking about a great many things, and by telling me at this particular moment, she isn't exactly stroking my ego.
You see, I'm naked between her legs. I have my head buried between her silky-smooth, muscular thighs. Only a moment ago, she was boxing my ears, flexing those tight, creamy dark appendages around my head, but, now, she has sort of butterflied herself open, relaxing them with her knees open, on the bed. Normally, this would accentuate her beautifully landscaped mound, her wet, pink lips, and her engorged clit. Now, it's more like the fight has gone out of those legs, and they hang listless, like sails with no wind. The fact that her exciting pink meat is so exposed is sort of a depressing side-note.
I had been working her slit with my tongue, tantalizing each fold with the very tip, teasing myself by building her impending orgasm. I had been purposely staying just near but not quite at her shiny little bead of pleasure for the last few minutes, because I knew it was how she liked it. The last time I had glanced up at her face, her dark brown, almond-shaped eyes had been fluttering closed then flashing open, unfocused. Now, suddenly and disconcertingly, those eyes are boring into mine with laser-like clarity. And just what the hell did she mean I'm doing it all wrong?
"Nobody cares about other people's dreams, even if they do contain my own tight little twat. Nobody cares, because they aren't interesting, and they especially don't care if they have no plot, character development, or even theme. What were you thinking, publishing that piece of garbage?"
Well, if the mood was killed before, it's beaten to a pulp, now. My bruised ego has taken a few shots as well.
"Well," I pull myself up a few inches, fold my hands over her flat little tummy, and rest my chin on them. I continue to lazily rub my thumb in circles over her clit hood. If there is a way to salvage this moment, I don't want to be too far off task. "I guess I was only thinking about you. I wanted the world to know that I had found my sexy, little muse." I smile my most winning smile.
Amy Lee, my Asian dream girl, rolls her eyes at me.
"What? I finally found something worth writing about!"
"Well, if you're going to write about me, at least write something good. Otherwise, forget it!"
Ouch.
"Well, I liked it," a voice with a heavy French accent floats from a spot vaguely at the back of the room, slightly over my left shoulder.
"Of course, you did, you encouraged her to post it!" Amy sighs, projecting her voice nowhere in particular.
"Well, it was kind of meant to be a teaser..." the disembodied voice continues. "It's supposed to start out a dream, then, in subsequent chapters, everything starts to make more sense."
"It does?" Amy raises an eyebrow.
"It does?" I sit upright and turn around, looking for the owner of the voice. When was I supposed to find out about this? I'm the writer!
Here, all this time, I'd thought I'd just let my first muse, Juliette, talk me into writing and submitting a piece of schlock. She'd never led me wrong before. That twist between Christy Ann and Cephas had been her idea, after all. So, when she told me to publish the snippet about Amy, I believed she really thought it was good writing. When it hadn't gotten the response I'd hoped for, I thought maybe she had told me to submit it out of spite. It's no secret between us that Juliette is jealous of Amy being my new muse. I'd been spending a lot of time with her, lately. Mostly between her amazing legs.
Speaking of those legs... I'm momentarily distracted as they slither up my arms to rest on to my shoulders. Amy's knees flex, pulling me back down to her hot little box.... What were we talking about again? I give my head a little shake.
"I think you made that up just now as a way to get back in Jillian's good graces," Amy's eyes narrow.
"I'm a muse. I can think of things whenever I want," Juliette pouts. She sounds closer; I can almost see her plump, red lips pooching out. That's odd. I've never thought much about Juliette as anything but a stern voice in my head that keeps me on track. She's always had a French accent, because she's always had a French name, but that's really been the extent of her existence.
Now, she's right in the room. Well, not all of her but her voice, for sure. And her lips, and her creamy, pale skin? Heavy-lidded, Bette Davis eyes? Blonde, curly hair? What the hell, man! In the twenty-something-ish years I've been writing with her, she's never had a body, and she gets one today?! While I'm eating out my new muse?!
And what a fucking body! She's tall, taller than me (which isn't saying much. I'm 5'4" when my spine is at its straightest), with long, pale limbs. Her breasts are ample, well over a mouthful, and her neck is like a swan's. She has a dancer's body with hard, muscles and long, long legs. As if to accentuate her legs, she's wearing a French maid's outfit—
