writing
Call me an erotic muse if you like.
I’m no more or less real than you are. A little more transient, perhaps, but not by much. And more whimsical in my commitment to physical substance, certainly.
You probably think I’m just a partition of your own mind. As though you had the power to dream up a character and to remain its master, able to bend it to your will. You are conceited, and you are wrong.
I watch you, unformed. Your fingers tap, hidden behind the screen — pause — then tap again. What shape will you give me today? I sense a hesitancy in you, as though the world you are building today is somehow different. I’m intrigued. I wonder what you are writing, if I am not yet imagined, not even in outline.
But I am content to wait. You will give me beauty, and you will give me ecstasy; that is your way. I flicker, taking one aspect after another, my body ghostly, indistinct. Characters from your stories: gripped-back blonde follows sun-streaked mahogany, follows mousey forest-tussled ponytail. You are frowning. Are you even undecided which tale this is, yet already telling it just the same?
Then a smile tickles the corners of your mouth. A dusty mirror descends, and my face takes bashful form. Short brown hair, that nevertheless flops near one eye; and eye-liner the only concession to make-up on girlish features. You are amused, and a little embarrassed, but sure now.
I take in my newly-coalesced body. You have not wholly abandoned your imagination: I wear a dark blue cotton dress, while you are working in baggy sweat pants and T-shirt as usual. My legs are tucked to one side around me on the floor, ever-so-slightly too bulky to be elegant; and bare arms and narrow hands rest in my lap, with short, unpainted fingernails.
I stand, wondering what you will do with this choice. We are the same age, so this will not be a visit to the past. Do you intend to join one of your fantasies, in person? There are certainly plenty to choose from. But I sense you have something else in mind. Your smile is wider now, your tapping more urgent. But I am still here! — not away among exotic creatures, or on a road to erotic adventure. What are you writing?
I move closer, on tip-toes, the folds of my skirt brushing my knees. You pause to look askance, thinking. With my eyes I follow the smooth line of your jaw back from your slightly open mouth: just behind where it kinks up toward your ear, that’s where you like to be touched. A wicked thought comes to me; I hop forward to act on it.
You’re typing again before I reach you; nevertheless I lean down, and breathe on your neck, and kiss that spot gently, just so. That will teach you to keep me waiting.
You adjust slightly in your chair, and lean your head away from me a fraction. I stare at you in surprise. Did you feel me? No: I am as ephemeral as the flow of your words. My only power is to inspire, and I wonder whether I have succeeded.
But you have paused again, and I am at a loss. I lift a leg between you and the laptop to straddle you, my dress stretching smooth over my thighs; then cup my jaw with my thumb and index finger to watch you. The fingers of my other hand brush your cheek, then slide under your chin.
Again you respond, and lean your head back against the white leather of your writing chair. Your eyes are still on the screen, your hands moving between my legs. But I cannot now resist the urge, and I lean forward to kiss you on the forehead, on the nose. I find that I have no underwear on at all, and I wonder if you can see the darkness between my breasts.
My head turns fully on its side to reach your lips, but by now the position is not comfortable for you and your head drops again to continue typing. I straighten and toy a little with your hair, idly.
Perhaps I can bridge this impasse with a little less subtlety. I fumble with the bow of my dress, finding that it is only loosely tied, and when the cords fall aside I yank upwards on the cloth at my hips. If I tear it, so be it. You imagined it anyway.
I have to writhe to lift the dress over my head. I feel one breast, then the other, bounce comically back into place against my chest. You gifted me this body; now I will show you that it is mine to use. I stand, hip cocked, for a moment. Your eyes are lifted, but unfocused, as though contemplating an image. They stare through the curves where my navel nestles; that unusually long, sinuous abdomen of which you are so absurdly proud, bridging the long span between high rounded breasts and narrow hips.
Then, unexpectedly, you move, lifting forward, your head almost leaning into me. You hoist yourself up on one elbow, so that your leg presses against the inside of my knee, and begin to tug at your trousers. Getting the waistband out from under you and past the laptop requires more erratic shuffling, but you succeed eventually, kicking the jumbled remains from your feet.
I notice that I am becoming a little indistinct, my form wavering uncertainly, as you move quickly on to your T-shirt. It flies from your fingers with much less ado. Now for a moment you hesitate and glance at the room’s door. But you want to return to your story, and I am glad because I am fading away. With a nervous smile to yourself, you unclasp your bra and let it drop to the ground beside your chair.
Your body lurches as you forcefully adjust the chair to lean further back, and you push hard against the ground until your bottom is pressed under the arched shape of the backrest. Now your fingers return to the keys, and I am fully here once more: we are naked together, identical but for position and the knickers that you still wear.
You look at the screen, expectant. My hands, which had been hanging loose, lay flat onto my thighs; then brush upward onto the front of my hips. They rise a little more, then turn and press inward to mold a shallow bulge of flesh beneath my navel; you grin with distracted satisfaction.
But you are becoming impatient. One hand rises, the other falls, both to cup the shapes they find. Oho, I think; this is clearer; if a little brutish. You adjust in your chair again, your fingers working the keys slowly, erratically; your shape fractionally expanding against the backrest with each inhalation. You bite your lip, uncertain. Something is not right.
I, too, am frustrated. Ready to turn away I pour my weight into one knee, lifting the other, and lean forward a little. I stop instantly when I hear your sharp intake of breath. I know that sound: it comes when you realise how the story is going to end. Sometimes I hear it when I am yet unformed; sometimes it comes just before you are finished. But to me, it is always ecstatic, because it is the culmination of my purpose. I look upon you with love; and, this time, something else.
You have leaned forward too, and your cheek brushes against my breast; your breast. Soft against soft; we both close our eyes to bask in the feeling of dry silken skin. You turn your head a little and drag your cheek back around to the smallish aureole of your nipple. It feels supple at first, just a variation of texture; but it responds quickly, pushing at you.
You cannot resist turning your mouth to it; and your tongue darts out to impart a stab of pleasure. But the next moment your focus returns to the screen. I smile at the delicious irony. You have to keep typing to prevent me from fading. Only I can give you what you seek, even more so than normal; and the power is intoxicating. I want to do things to you. Do everything that you cannot do by yourself: just as you realised only a moment ago.
I see the chance to indulge one of your favourite fantasies, and lean forward until your breasts hang about your face. I can see one of your hands move to the breasts on your corporeal body, pressing one inward. It seems churlish to deny you: I gaily oblige, and press the mirror-image breast onto the side of your face. You laugh out loud, then lick at it playfully.
I lift one knee onto the arm of your chair. You place kisses where you have never been able to kiss: around the base of your breasts, under them, and onto your ribs beneath. When you must return your gaze to the screen, I reach my arms upward and arch my back to show off your long torso, one hip lifted sexily.
You murmur involuntarily. I can see that your hands are torn between their duty at the keys and their desire to roam. One touches your stomach; I mirror it, and pointedly, playfully, I angle the fingers downward. Your fingertips glide tantalisingly under the elastic of your knickers. I laugh at the way your other hand awkwardly tries to keep on typing, and you grin too.
But we both know that your fingers are always available for that. I put both of my hands on the back of your chair and lift my other knee onto the arm, pushing my hips forward and up. Now there is hair tickling your nose. I lean back, precariously swapping my hands to my heels. You have stopped typing to watch. You reach one hand upward as I start to fade, curse, and return it to the keyboard. But once the writing is on the wall, there is no stopping your mouth.
You kiss, just there on your thigh, where you know it will tease. I sigh my approval and use one hand to lovingly brush your wayward hair from your eyes. You swap to the other side, and then, without warning, you lick your vulva hard, from bottom to top. I know that you are filled with the musky smell of yourself, the salty taste of sweat; your tongue taking in the prickle of hair roots and the looseness between. You slow as you reach the top, and your throat makes the beginning of a moan.
I try to hold your head there, but you want to explore. Your tongue returns low again, your nose touching as you strain to reach. I push my hips forward and your tongue slips inside, over the ragged stretch of your hymen and into bitter emptiness.
You retreat to breathe and to type; but then you’re back, tasting, feeling, not caring that you cannot reach far enough to be felt, but finding your way around yourself delightedly. I wrap my hand around the short hair at the back of your head and gently pull upward, trying to encourage you higher.
Perhaps I should be careful what I wish for. After another breath you are suddenly there, lips locked, tongue pushing hard. I actually shout out, my head falling backward, my muscles spasming to keep me from falling. After that, I no longer know what you are doing: something rhythmic, but the pleasure is continuous.
It rises, then falls away as you desperately try to keep up with the story. I see your pained expression as you return to me, and I realise that even though I would give anything to have you continue, I know my duty now. I pull away wetly, lifting one leg around over your laptop. You watch, confused, as I stand, reach down, and lift it from your lap.
As I begin to fade, I gently prise apart your legs, suggesting. Perhaps another day you will bring me back in this form, and you can explore again. But for now, you need to finish this story yourself.
