My Muse

Good morning, My Muse.

I'm writing this to you while you sleep. I will be gone when you wake up, but I promise you this: You won't be alone for long. When I return, it'll be with flowers in my hands -- the kind of flowers you like.

You gave yourself to me again last night. I can't really understand my luck, and although you have been with me for two weeks now, I know I'll have to let you go eventually. Are you really mine? I can't figure out what it takes to be your one and only man?

I am watching you while you sleep next to me. You are lying almost naked on the couch where our adventure ended last night. Your body, soft and warm, is covered only by a thin blanket. We didn't need much else to keep each other warm through the night. I watch as your chest rises and falls according to your breath. I do not have to touch you to understand what you feel like. I can still feel the softness of your skin in the palm of my hand, on my fingertips -- yes, even against my lips.

I look at the features of your face. The round cheeks. The pointy nose. The rosy lips of your mouth. You don't need make-up to fuel my desire. A breath, a simple wink, is more than enough. My eyes follow the edge of your chin, down across your throat and neck. To others, they are just ordinary parts of you. But in my eyes, they are utter temptation. If it was possible, I would surely eat you up in the same manner that you devour me.

I force my attention further down your body. My eyes wanders over your chest and falls upon the two adorable hills that you so cheekily call mine. The appearance and shape of your bust screams perfection at anyone you meet. If only people could sense them in the same was as I can. Then they would understand how perfect they are. It feels strange to think that I would fall victim to such a common desire of the male population.

Your belly is beautiful. Doesn't show any sign of the excessive ways of life. It's just like it is supposed to be. From my position, it almost looks like a barren landscape where not a single string of hair grows. But underneath it's surface, it's so fertile it's almost sinful. Yes, you know what I am talking about. I dare not look any further, so I turn my attention back to writing.

Weak as I am, however, I find myself playing with the thought of touching you. I am struck by a sudden urge to disregard my appointment in town and stay here with you. The scenario tickles my mind, dares me to move forward. I do my best to resist, knowing I should be content by the very sight of you. I hope it lasts, or else I might do something rash that will wake you up -- and surely tempt me once again to stay a while longer.

I am often in doubt. Am I worthy of the kind of bliss you give me? Do I even deserve it? Do I deserve you and your magnificence? There is so many men in your life. So many bad men. I know you don't like how I look upon your other... acquaintances. But it's true. Why do you refuse my help, but still consume me? The confusion crushes my hopes and beliefs, fills me with doubt.

It only makes my salvation so much more sweet. To open the door and realize that you have come to see me. You just stand there in the doorway, watching me in a playful battle between your own lust and your curiosity. You always do that before you enter my domain. But when you finally end your struggle, your approach is equally aggressive and enchanting. You are always extremely prepared.

You undress in front of me in your usual slow pace, and I realize you would have no other. At least not for the night. I have seen this dance of yours before. I have it all memorized. The way your hands reach down to the edge of your blouse. The black fabric caresses your skin gently as you pull it all the way over your head and throw it casually on the bed. Your hands run over your bra-covered breasts, all the way up to your shoulders. Fingers dig into your skin for a while, until you finally run your hands down again and onto your back, ready to undo the clasp of your bra. I have witnessed it multiple times in the past, but my body reacts like I have never experienced it before. It's an almost perverse feeling of returning innocence, like I am suddenly a young school boy all over again, eavesdropping on the girls in my class.

The graceful movement of your body can't be described to full justice in simple words. The touch of my hands can prove my admiration for you, but never in a complete way. So I write about it. All the time. Although it does not suppress my longing for you, I have come to realize it softens my physical desire. I imagine you find it amusing. If only you were awake to fill my ears with your innocent laughter. Then I could truly laugh with you.

My thoughts go back to a few hours ago. I woke up next to you in my bed, unable to find rest in your seductive company. I sneaked out of bed and sat down on the couch in this room. The very same couch where you are now sleeping softly, blissfully ignorant of my intention to leave before you wake up. Back then, I only wanted to clear my mind and get some sleep. Can you imagine how surprised I was when I suddenly saw you standing in the doorway?

You were not meant to wake up. Not meant to follow me in here. Yet, there you stand, resting your chin against the door frame. What can a man do against such temptation? The power you possess seems to be unlimited. It is confirmed once more, when you softly step forward and into the dim light that pours through the window from the street outside. The nightgown hangs loosely around your shoulders, and your hair has a charming touch of untidy sleepiness -- a rare crack in your otherwise perfect surface. But your eyes clearly reveal it matters little to you. There is only one thing on your mind.

As you slowly approach me, your nightgown starts to slip off your smooth figure. Whether or not it is provoked by yourself, remains a mystery to me. Fact remains, however, that the sight has it's desired effect. I am completely ensnared when it falls to the ground and you are left standing completely naked before me. You show no sign of restrain, make no attempt to cover your bare self. My eyes are fixed at you in a hopeless attempt to memorize the natural beauty of your skin. I feel weak and helpless, can only watch as you move closer. The menacing quality of your personality become more apparent when you finally stand mighty and tall in front of me.

I lean forward, try to put my arms around you and kiss your belly. I want to taste you. But I am rejected and you push my hands away with determination and force. Gentle fingers run through my hair, and I hear you whisper soothing promises into my ear. I feel your lips caress my forehead. If anyone is in control of the situation, it certainly is you. I greedily accept the attention you show me, in all it's innocent brutality.

Then comes the attack.

You push me backwards with sudden and unforeseen hostility. As the back of my head make contact with the pillows on the couch, I am struck by an undeniable fear that I have lost something precious. As though your warm lust have suddenly turned into cold contempt. But the feeling of your hands resting on my thighs brings me out of the unbearable illusion. True to your nature, your earlier assault had only served to hide your real intention. The revelation must be clearly visible in my eyes, because all you do is flash me a wicked, playful smile, something you always do when you manage to trick me. Your eyes penetrate me and pierce the desire that pumps through me and into my crotch.

"Close your eyes."

Your request is soft and simple, formed as a seductive plea. But I am not a complete fool. We both know you don't have to beg for me to do anything. Rather, I submit to your demands in the same way that you fall to your knees to provide me sweet relief. So, I force myself to relax and close my eyes. You leave me guessing for a while. Nothing happens in my vision-less world of silence.

My heart starts racing when I feel your fingers tap on the back of my left hand. I swallow hard and try to ignore the sensation of your warm breath against my belly. My body reacts instinctively to you being so close to me. I feel it in my blood. Feel how it runs to the designated spot, fills me up and prepares me for yet another thrill. A tiny sound of approval escapes your lips. You grasp the wrist of my left hand and guide it toward an unknown destination. My mind races through the various interpretations of the situation, but you draw me in before I reach any conclusion.

I feel hair brushing against my fingertips. I extend my fingers, claw them back and forth to get a feeling of you. Your beautiful, long hair is now under my control. I do the only reasonable thing and massage your scalp with my fingers, slowly pushing your head down.... down... down.

I can feel your breath just inches from my weak spot. A soft promise of undeniable pleasure, but almost unbearable on it's own. My flesh demands action. I dig my fingers deep into your hair and move my hips forward at the same time. The reward for my bold approach is the sensation of your soft lips opening up and allowing my member inside your mouth. I ease my hold on your head, only to let my fingers run gently through your hair, back and forth in slow movements, effectively pushing your head in the same direction. Even if I wanted to keep my joy hidden from you, the sounds I make quickly betray me.

You pick up every signal I emit. Soon, I leave you in charge of events. You now dictates what happens, what kind of sensations I am allowed to feel. Your tongue moves inside your mouth, pressing my member playfully against your palate. I suddenly feel how you move your head up and almost spit me out, only for your lips and mouth to engulf me once more. Then it starts. The continuous movement of your head, up and down on my tool in all it's length. Taking me in completely, letting me go again, sucking loudly on my flesh as though it is everything to you. Meanwhile, I keep my fingers wrapped up in your hair as your head bounces up and down. Your pace keeps changing in a dysfunctional pattern.

We lie like that for a while. We share vocal expressions of delight; me in utter pleasure, you in dirty delight over your conquest. When the act finally finds a steady pace, it intensifies our mutual joy. Yet, I eventually ask you to stop. I open my eyes and look at you as you straighten up. You look so enchanting with your hair left in a complete mess after your recent assault on my phallus. Loose strands of hair hangs down in front of your eyes, some of them even stuck to your sweat-glistening forehead. The way you sit gives me a perfect view of your firm, round breasts and their small nipples. I sit up on the couch and reach out toward your face. But I am frightened when you turn your face away, as though my glare makes you feel uncomfortable.

That what when it first struck me. This idea that has been haunting me. The fear that has lead me to write this. Maybe you already knew about my betrayal at that point? Is that the reason why you felt so distant when I asked you to lay down on the couch? I simply wanted to work my magic on you, but the glimpse in your eye suggested something else. Did you feel contempt when we made love? Did you feel cheated or abused? Did you know my secret?

It certainly didn't feel like it, when you pulled yourself closer to me and buried your face against my shoulder. I know you did it to silence the scream that had been building inside you during the act. In your eagerness to prevent yourself from filling the room with your shameless roar of delight, you let the tension vibrate against my skin. I could hear the faint proof of your loud proclamation of satisfaction as it hit my shoulder. I felt your body shake against mine.

In response, I framed your face with my hands, and pushed your mouth gently away from me. I did it just in time to hear the echo of your scream die in your throat. Your lips were wet; saliva from your mouth remained on my shoulder and clearly ran down your chin in a thin drop. That was when you looked at me with doubt in your eyes, as though I had suddenly raised my hand against you in violent vengeance. But we both know that I could never hurt you. You didn't even resist when I brought your face close to mine and our lips melted together for another, long kiss...

I have a confession to make, My Muse.

I thought I saw your face in the crowd a few days ago, when we were both out on different errands. The idea forced me to move forward, to attack you right there in the street. I walked up behind you, wrapped my arms around your hips and pressed your form against mine. You mistook me for someone of dishonest intentions, so of course you struggled against my touch. But it only strengthened my effort in keeping you in check. I pressed my lips against yours. For a moment, I disappeared into your green eyes.

Imagine how embarrassed I was, when it turned out, it wasn't you at all. It wasn't your lips or your eyes. She was not you.

She was your sister, the one they call Lust.

I somehow understand her name now, My Muse.

Do not feel disheartened when I confess my soulless crime. You knew it was going to happen eventually. Maybe you even planned for it to happen? You pushed me so close to the edge by keeping your distance. So close that I couldn't resist the touch of one so similar to you -- was that the idea you spoke about? Was that the Gift you wanted to give me? Your own sister, Lust?

Know that I loved her, but only briefly. I took her, but only for my own pleasure. When I reached my limit and couldn't hold back anymore, I wrapped her hair around my fingers and heard her whisper the truth into my ear. She is your servant. She willingly obeys your every command. Even if it means hurting you by seducing me. I admit she was good entertainment, but not at all a suitable replacement for you. I was aching to hold you in my arms. I know I can admit it freely. Just like I admit doing to Lust, what I haven't done to you yet. She was a willing tool in my hands. She guided me to a place I had yet to visit. But she wasn't you.

Does my repetition soothe your hurt pride? I can repeat the truth as many times as I want to, but you probably already knew that you can't be replaced - Didn't you, My Muse?

The sensation of your skin lingers on my fingertips. I can't get it off. My hands smell of you. That haunting smell, so beautiful and terrible. I doubt I can make it go away. Even if I tried to wash it off with bleach. Not even my own blood could release me from this curse. I'm not even sure I want to escape at all.

I have to stop writing now. My blood is boiling. That lock of your hair that you gave me... I keep it by my side. All the time. It arouses me, makes it easier not to forget. It stirs my desire for you.

I will resist.

I will not touch you.

I bid you farewell with one, single question haunting my mind:

How can a Muse conquer her Master with such ease?