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.