Muse

One thousand four hundred forty-three words. That was all he needed to reach the lofty goal of fifty thousand words written in the month of November. It was his first attempt at this NaNoWriMo contest, and while he was twelve days ahead of pace and had thirteen days in which to complete what would for him be a very unprecedented feat in his "career" of writing erotica, he needed those final few words. He was less than three percent away from reaching the goal.

...but the muse had fled him.

He had twenty stories already completed for his NaNoWriMo anthology. He had plenty of ideas for other stories listed in an Excel file, but for some reason, none of those ideas truly appealed to him. He had had an idea for a story earlier in the evening, but that story would have required such a change of tone from what he would typically write that he had abandoned that concept after barely three hundred words, recognizing that to write any more on that particular story would be a wasted effort.

Earlier in the day, he had joked in his blog that the muse had finally returned following a day in which he had written only a single paragraph, and that with the return of the muse he had collared her and leashed her to a bedpost with her ankles and her wrists each in sturdy leather cuffs, and a large plug in her ass.

If only that had been the case, then she would still be there, ready to inspire him with story ideas that practically wrote themselves and simply borrowed his laptops and his fingertips for a few hours per day.

He fretted. He paced. He worried. He groaned. He was almost certain that his sore throat had somehow been caused by the muse's sudden departure.

He looked around his apartment for inspiration in the muse's absence. The anime collection, including a small number of hentai DVDs, did not provide any new ideas, not even any ideas for erotic fan fiction. The numerous figurines and statuettes of anime and anime-style women in a variety of poses and situations also failed to provide him with the required inspiration. Looking through the many images on his external hard drive also did not bring to mind any new compelling ideas for one final story to help him reach that fifty thousand word threshold.

A dog barked outside, yet that would not trigger a story idea. The refrigerator hum reached his ears, but without the presence of the muse, that background noise was purely background noise. Printed pictures of a few very close friends were on the walls, but those pictures also failed to inspire any story ideas. A helicopter flew very low overhead, which for the time of night indicated a police helicopter searching for a person or a group, yet thoughts of searching also failed to produce an idea for a final story for the NaNoWriMo anthology.

Smacking himself in the forehead for not thinking of this any sooner, he went to the bedroom closet and rummaged through the two boxes of floggers, restraints, lubes, plugs, vibrators, and beads, yet still, none of them inspired any stories.

Exasperated, he sat at the main laptop once again, staring at a blank Word document, hoping against hope that he might be able to cross the fifty thousand word threshold in the final ninety minutes before today was suddenly transformed into tomorrow.

And then he heard it: a soft feminine whimper coming from the bedroom.

Curiously, cautiously, he rose from the ottoman and peered around the corner, looking into the bedroom, believing that he had simply imagined that soft feminine sound.

...and instead, he saw a soft feminine form.

She was fairly short of height, with skin so pale that he wondered if she had ever been bathed in daylight. Her lengthy auburn mane had been pulled back into a ponytail held in place by a large pink ribbon tied into a bow. She was fully nude, each of her smallish breasts dotted with a prominent nipple being painfully tortured by a silver Japanese clover clamp. A large pink ball gag filled her mouth, stretching her painted lips and causing her to drool down her cheek and onto the carpet. Resting on her side on the floor with her wrists cuffed behind her and her ankles tied together with a sturdy thick black rope, he did not know how she came to be there, but he knew exactly who she was.

She was collared and leashed, with the guiding end of the leash having been tied into a secure knot around a sturdy bedpost. She was his muse, personified.

While they conveyed the pain throbbing in her nipples, her large brown eyes were bright and full of hope.

The eyes gave him hope. She gave him hope.

She gave him inspiration.

His muse had returned, taking the form his strange mind had jokingly concocted earlier in the day, and she inspired him.

She inspired him to use her, and not just for a story.

She watched, fascinated as he began to undress. He had not been wearing much: flannel shirt, sweatpants, underwear. It did not take long to render himself bare before her, and while her eyes spoke of the throbbing pain in her nipples and the general discomfort from her awkward position, her large brown orbs pleaded silently as she watched him slowly stroke myself while leaning back against a wall.

She watched him, and he watched her. Her presence inspired his arousal, and soon it was time.

He moved between her and the bed, and that was the first time he was in the proper position to see it:

There was a baby blue plug in her ass.

Without a doubt, she was the embodiment of his muse.

He had to push her forward, away from the bed, so that he had enough room to take his place behind her. It was a fitting place to be, for the muse inspires the idea, the muse comes before the writer.

He bent her legs, forcing her knees toward her clamped breasts, and for the first time he saw her barren sex glistening in the light of the lamp atop the dresser. He had barely touched her, and he had not even kissed her, yet she was somehow already rather wet.

She was indeed his muse.

He positioned himself, ready to enter her, but instead he teased her, brushing the tip of his manhood along and between the folds of her sex. The muse whimpered again, but not so softly. Her hands fidgeted in the cuffs, her fingers stroking his stomach.

Swiftly, he embedded myself within his muse, and he was thankful for the gag so as not to unduly surprise the neighbors in the surrounding apartments. The dual penetration must have triggered something deep within her, because even when he stilled himself fully within her, she moaned around the ball gag for quite some time as her wet body clutched at him.

He took his time, enjoying his muse, attempting with each slow thrust to reach the core of inspiration inside her. With one hand he pulled on her ponytail, adding more pain to her experience to satisfy the sadist lurking within him, while his free hand roamed the front of her body. His ears reveled in the sounds leaking around the pink ball gag while his mind reveled in the ideas seeping from her pores.

Somehow, it did not seem fitting to end this most unexpected coupling inside her. His muse did not seem amused that he had not brought her to climax, but even that inspired yet another story while he straddled her as she reposed on her side, bound and gagged, the pain in her nipples mirrored in her eyes. She had offered herself to him to inspire him, and it had worked, and it seemed only fair to thank the muse by giving himself to her, streaking her face and her hair with his great appreciation. For the briefest of moments, he closed his eyes to savor the orgasm she had inspired with her body.

...and when he opened his eyes again, she was gone.

The only sign she had been on the floor of the bedroom was the damp carpet from where they had joined.

The muse had once again left him alone, but this time, she had left him a gift: ideas. The first of the ideas was to write about having met her in person, so that perhaps she might return to him again one day.