I awoke at 2am with images and text nagging me. It was a new story, new characters. The entire plot wasn't clear to me yet, and I knew it wouldn't be until I'd spent several days at my keyboard. That's how my muses usually delivered stories to me, in bits and pieces until suddenly it becomes clear. I'm their vessel of expression, a mere mortal slave to their captive creativity.
At least that's how my fantastical mind saw it. In reality, it was nothing more than electrical impulses traveling along neurotransmitters in my brain, at times causing me to wake up when I should be sleeping.
I pulled myself up to a sitting position. There was no use fighting it. I'd learned that much after seven novels and fifty short stories. I was a slave to my writing muses.
By the time I was finishing my cup of coffee, the general tone of the story was gripping me. It was to be a non-consent story. Judging from the intense scenes flashing in my mind, it was going to be fairly violent.
Great, there goes any chance of publishing it.
My muses were often unconcerned with publishing guidelines. They merely supplied the creative inspiration. Making it fit for general audience consumption was up to me.
I opened my word processor and began thinking about the characters. The protagonist was female this time. My most recent novel had been about a male protagonist, so this was a nice change. Starting with hair color, I mentally flipped through the options. Bleach blonde, dirty blonde, red, auburn, light brown, dark brown, black. It occurred to me that maybe I should make her ethnicity different than my own, but my impatient muse shot down that idea on the premise that it would take an inordinate amount of time to research other cultures enough to do the character justice.
Okay, scratch that.
Brown hair with auburn highlights came to mind. It was the color of my hair, and quite frankly, very common. I decided to go with that.
I started picturing her as a tall, willowy young woman of about 25 with perky little breasts. That image got swept away very quickly and replaced with a rather short, 5'2" woman of closer to 35. 36C breasts and curvy hips to match. Most of that description was again dangerously close to my real physical appearance but no one would know that. I wrote under an assumed ID, and besides, this wasn't going to be fit for publishing if I wrote it the way it was coming to me, anyway.
Strong personality, I decided. Confident, but fallible, too. Somewhat of a loner, an introvert; caught up in her own fantasies at times. Occupation ...
I can't make her a writer. That is so overdone. Some job that allows her to be alone a lot...
I decided on Computer Programmer. A freelancer or consultant, something like that. I didn't have to be exact at this point, and none of what I'd come up with so far would likely be described outwardly. I just had to have a clear picture of this person for the story.
In this case, that wasn't a difficult task, because aside from a few minor differences, she sounded a lot like me.
Onto the male antagonist...an image popped into my head instantly. Tall, maybe 6'2". Wide chest and bulging biceps, but not cut like a workout junkie. Nice amount of belly fat and thick, strong, hairy legs. His face was not overly handsome. He resembled Gerard Butler, but only mildly. Scruffy facial hair, not quite filled in. His eyes were a hazel color but it was hard to tell from the way they squinted. They were piercing, though. Looked right through you.
I felt chills beginning to form on my arms as I pictured him stalking the protagonist. Watching her patiently, tirelessly, with pinpoint focus. He was obsessed with her to a point that nothing else mattered to him.
My nipples tightened at the thought of being desired to the point of obsession. It was a heady fantasy of most women I knew, but most definitely one of my favorites. I could already feel the sexual tension coiling within me.
Sitting back in my chair, I took a deep breath.
Okay, Dee, don't get carried away. Use this tension to drive your fingers to build this story.
I didn't usually get this aroused from just the character building process. Ordinarily, it took me hours of writing to get me warmed up.
Patience. Just relax.
I stared out into the darkness of early morning through the window next to my desk. A scene unfolded in my mind. Early morning, just like it was at the moment. The protagonist is at her desk, unable to keep her own creative code writing muse from waking her. He's out there. Watching her. My point of view shifts to his. Her face through the dimly lit window. She gazes into the darkness right at him but can't see him standing there.
A growl emits from his throat. His cock instantly hardens but he is too mesmerized by her angelic face to do anything about it. Soon the pressure of his tight jeans will be too painful to ignore. Soon he'll have to take matters into his own hands, wasting his seed on her lawn, like he'd done so many times before. He thinks to himself,
Soon, little one, I'll fill you with my seed, gifting you with my child.
His motivations are clear. It's about possession. Owning her, breeding her, inhabiting her very soul.
My point of view changes back, and I'm once again sitting at my desk. I've begun writing. The story begins there, no clear understanding of the characters yet, just an ominous tone. The dark side of his obsession.
***
"A rather strange request has come from a Heracleidae."
"One of Hyllus', I presume?"
"No, your supreme highness. In the broader term. An illegitimate son of one of Thespius' daughters, I believe."
"Mortal, then."
"Surprisingly, no, unless you grant his request."
"He wishes to become mortal? Who is this fool?"
"Nephus."
***
I decided on the name "Nick" for the antagonist. It was a simple name, easy to type, and it began with "N", which was, for some reason, important to me at the time.
Five thousand words into the story and the antagonist's subtle redeeming qualities were beginning to take light. No one was perfectly evil or perfectly good. It was important that Nick not be perceived as a monster, even though what he was doing to Deanna was completely unacceptable. He would become, after all, her most cherished lover. That much was clear, although just exactly how that was going to happen was still a complete mystery. There were definite holes in the plot structure.
My aching bladder and rumbling stomach reminded me that it was time to step away from my desk. It was still morning, oddly enough, although the sun had been rising for several hours. It's just that when you start writing at around 3am, 10am feels more like afternoon.
I could clearly see a nap in my near future. I was going to need one if I expected to stay awake past 7 o'clock. I actually had a date that evening.
It was my third date with Perry. I met him at the offices of the magazine for which I sometimes wrote articles. He was an editor there. He was a nice guy. Meticulous. Clean. He didn't talk too much or have strong opinions about anything. There was nothing about him to dislike.
Our last date ended with a make-out session in his front seat of his car while sitting in my driveway. I couldn't seem to make myself invite him inside. I just knew where that would lead, and I wasn't ready. I was barely into the make-out session with him, although I was pretty sure that was due to my mind being on the migratory habits of barn swallows, the subject of a recent article I wrote on commission for the Audubon Society. That was the only reasonable explanation for my indifference. I am usually pretty willing to engage in sex. I write erotic novels, after all.
So, I was pretty certain that our date was going to lead to some sexual encounter. While I wasn't particularly excited about that with Perry, I hadn't actually had sex with another person in over a year, so I was due.
I plucked some leftover pizza from the refrigerator and popped it in the microwave. My mind drifted back to my geeky protagonist, Deanna. She was a smart cookie, and too rational to get easily spooked. It was how she was going to get taken by surprise. Nick, being a brute of a man, wasn't particularly quiet. Nor did he think he had to be, since in his mind, she already belonged to him.
As I stared at the pizza spinning round and round on the rotating plate, I imagined how easy it might be for Nick to approach. The buzzing microwave was quite loud. Deanna might vaguely recognize the sounds of footsteps but she wouldn't react, thinking it was her imagination.
The microwave timer went off and I immediately retrieved the slice.
Yeah, but do I really want him to take her in the kitchen in broad daylight? It seems so limiting. And too many knives around for her to stab him.
It didn't feel right. It was plausible to a point, but not necessarily a conducive environment for their first encounter. Besides, all those clothes to deal with. When staging a ravaging, you want the girl to have on as few clothes as possible.
I burnt the roof of my mouth with the first bite of pizza. "Ow! Fuck!" I hadn't been that stupid in quite a long time. "God, where has my patience gone today?"
I managed to pound out a few more paragraphs to end the first chapter and then started on the second. The two main characters hadn't met, yet. I was determined to make it a slow burn, despite the fact that I felt this inner nagging to get to the good parts.
Another thousand words later, I couldn't stop yawning. I'd hit my wall. Lack of sleep had finally caught up with me. I saved my file and ambled to the living room. Then I plopped down on the sofa and pulled the nearby throw blanket over me.
"I'm here, my lovely."
His hot, humid breath blanketed my ear. I tried to move but he had me thoroughly pinned beneath him.
