A sweet voice sang, "I'm your biggest fan!" The voice sounded so innocent with a tad hint of naughty flirt.
His lips curved a slanted grin as he refused to lift his head or eyes to peer at the face that went with the voice. He asked, "And what is my biggest fan's name?" There was little flattery in his tone.
That sweet voice replied, "Sally."
His slanted grin somewhat faded, the name was so dull and average. His fingers gripped the pen then wisp the tip across the inside of his hard cover book, gave a simple written sentiment.
To my Biggest Fan Sally, thank you for reading, Sincerely Victor Hardway.
Victor Hardway, author and artist, slammed the book closed as he spread his lips into a fake smile.
He returned the book to a young woman's hands then took a quick glance up at her innocent face. He watched her blush as she gleamed with pride that his signature was in her hands. He noted, she had to be at least thirty-five years younger than him.
He gave no real notice to her giddy departure then continued signing book after book. Each book signed the same as the one before and as those that followed.
Most artists or authors enjoyed the presence of their devoted fans. Yet, for him every single signing had a significant mission. He was an artist, he sought that inspiration which typically started with a name followed by the name holder's appearance.
He was in need to begin another book, his publisher begged the continuance of his series. But with every signing throughout those months his desired inspiration never showed herself. So many bookstores in so many cities and not one individual gave inspiration. He was nearly starved for inspiration, desired the perfect inspirational name with the body to go with it.
Now his signing tour had come to an end within the metropolis he called home. And he had tired staring at the cover of his recent published works over and over.
The last signed book of that evening was slammed closed then handed to the purchaser. He leaned back, frustrated and disappointed from lack of true inspiration.
His eyes looked to the few remaining books to his right. His large dark eyes, expressive with intricate but subtle lines, studied the cover. The cover was his own design, created by his own hand and it was of the last inspirational beauty, she intricately bound with her unique name titling the book; Aurora.
He sighed.
Aurora was such an inspiration for his creative process. She remained poised in that intricate bound position as he sketched her image capturing every desired expression of her face and bound distortion of her body, the entire time a camera took hundreds of photos for further inspiration for the written context which filled three hundred plus pages with undoubted erotica.
Yes, he was a true artist who needed specific inspiration. The inspiration always came at random which he preferred but yet it hadn't come, walked his direction and gave a unique name.
He rose up from his chair, grabbed his gray leather trench and draped it over his arm. He snatched up his fedora and rested it properly atop his dark ebony hair subtly dashed at the temples with gray.
His eyes took a quick scan of the bookstore and noted, one more day and the tour was over.
He slightly huffed then left the table where he would again sit for a last time the following day.
His third night back at the loft apartment, in most circumstances it would be a pleasure to be home but the framed images of each of his several novels reminded him the lack of inspiration. Each image different. Each an interpretation of each lovely inspirational creature. Each one with a unique name.
On bare feet he paced the floor before the row of images as one hand held a glass of wine and right had a cigar tucked between its fingers. His mind continuously pleaded for that needed inspiration. He needed to create but without the proper specimen to bring forth the creativity, he felt flustered.
His dark eyes studied each piece of art.
Beautifully painted images of heavenly female bodies contorted in different bound positions. And to each of those women, he created a unique story to express the image. That was his process.
First the inspirational woman. Next the choice of how she would be intricately bound which included attire, if any, and type of bindings. Then he would sketch their image on a canvas as they would remain in that bound position until he saw fit that his sketch was perfect.
When they were released, he used the hundreds of snapped photos to finish the creation on canvas. Lastly he would sit before a traditional cloth ribbon typewriter and give more depth and meaning to the image.
He paused his pace, stood before Aurora, his last creation and took a long smooth drag from the cigar. To his semi full lips he brought the rim of a wine glass then took a slow sip while exhaling the fragrant cigar smoke through his nostrils.
His eyes studied the portrait. How he desired another beauty to again ignite his creative process. He had nowhere to begin until that muse was found or found him. There was no beginning until the inspiration came from nowhere.
He turned his back to that last creation, his dark eyes scanned the vast loft. The silence heightened his frustration for he hungered to hear the vocal responses to a lengthy stint in bondage. The thought provoked his naturally slanted mouth to perk a grin. Yes, he loved the sounds those past inspirations made and the longer they remained in bondage the sweeter their sounds.
His tilted his head back and finished the remaining wine in one swallow. His head lowered forward, eyes again scanned the vacancy of his apartment as he took another lengthy drag from the cigar.
He could have easily taken home one of his 'biggest fans' but he was never one for droll and plain and simple minded little girls.
He took a deep breath then slowly exhaled with the smoke billowing outward.
Yes, it seemed the younger female masses developed a taste for his fetish erotica tales. He chucked it up to educating the youths in ways of kinks. Yet, he knew likely not a one would experience such kinks for they allowed his words and images to take them there instead of acting them out in reality. They weren't like him, embraced his kinks and expressed them freely on canvas and typing paper. Nearly sixty years of experience shared with the literary world, well about forty of that was the right form of experience which were displayed in his books.
He left the wall of artful achievements, snuffed out the half smoked cigar then retired to the singular bedroom located atop the open loft. How he wished that room was set up with his camera equipment snapping those hundreds of photos of a new muse.
His eyes glanced at the empty canvas, hoped soon he would again create with paint the perfect image of his love for the erotic fetishes in the expressed form of a beautiful woman.
Enough being frustrated for the evening, he decided and turned out the table lamp.
She nearly stumbled into the bookstore being in a hurry to start her shift.
Rosangela, one of the few clerks at the bookstore, entered the bookstore which sent the door chime announcing her presence. She hurried towards the counter where her usual partner in store clerk crime stood preparing the register for the day.
