Muse

Muse
Daemon Messiah

         The room was small, in the attic, a place to hide where the only witness to the madness that be was the light slanting through the small window at the peek of the slanted ceiling. The air was still, the air warm; the smell of dust had long since settled into the cracks, and despite his best efforts, it would always linger, and he knew it. The only sounds were the creaking of the house, the sounds of the squirrels on the roof, the quiet whir of the computer’s hard drive, sitting on the only furniture in the room, a writing desk of deep-brown wood and a comfortably desk chair.
         In the chair sat a man in his early thirties. Blond haired, blue eyed, his name was Caleb Domine. He wore a black t-shirt without insignia and a pair of black jeans, his bare feet resting on the wooden floor. He rarely wore shoes; they got in his way, they stifle his feeling. He liked the feeling of things beneath his feet; it made him feel more real.
         His fingers rested on his keyboard, a word processor painting the screen white. There were no letters on the screen yet; he simply sat there, his eyes half closed, and waited.
         And then his fingers started moving rapidly across the keyboard, flying through word after word. A voice whispered in his ear rapidly; he could see her in the back of his mind, but did not turn to look. He had never seen her before, but he felt her breathe on his ear, hear the clicking of the teeth, the scent of her makeup.
He had an image in the back of his mind; a librarian in thick-rimmed reading glasses, her brown hair in a tight bun, her business suit tan, the skirt falling just below the knees. Everything about her was calculatedly business-like; but the skirt was form-fitting, the jacket left open over the swell of two perfect breast beneath a button-up shirt that was transparent enough to show the outline of her bra. A pair of stockings led their way down to a pair of black stilettos. Her lips were painted red, her eyes done up in violet, and just enough blush to emphasize high cheek-bones; a single mole on the left side of her face, just above those lips, moved as she smiled. A book was constantly clutched beneath her arm.
         She constantly clucked at him, telling him when his wording was good, when the scene was aptly described, reading over his shoulder. She was his muse; and, he was almost sure, the product of his imagination, his perfect woman in her own strange right.
         But today was different. He didn’t notice the difference; only the words flashing before his eyes, pixilated in black and white. He only noticed when the arm that had been snaking around his torso the entire time began to rub the crotch of his pants.
         “What are you doing?” he said, simply. His fingers had stopped moving; but he knew that they would be back in due time.
         “What I’ve always wanted.” whispers the voice in his ear in a deep, throaty voice, still massaging his steadily growing organ. “Providing inspiration.”
         “You’ve never touched me before.” he replies, swallowing as his throat dried out, looking down.
         The hand that rubbed him was pale, as though made of porcelain, with long, red nails. Thin cotton clad it from the wrist up.
         “I’ve known you for years.” she whispers as he feels her teeth nibbling on his earlobe.
         A strange sort of calm had enveloped him. He was afraid to turn around, afraid that she would disappear again. He closes his eyes, leaning back against the softness of what he believed were her breasts, his head resting on her shoulder.
         The voice whispers in his ear, covered in honey.
         “I’m going to unlock the side of you you keep hidden.”
         “What do you…” and then he gasps, feeling teeth on his neck.
         He had made love before; it had been a simple affair then. However, this was something different; he had never been truly open with any woman, but his muse knew everything about him, from his hidden dreams to his secret desires.
         She was taunting him, and he knew it; tempting him with her hand unzipping his pants slowly, every click building the tensions in his stomach. He could feel his face contorting into a snarl as her hand wrapped around his member, as it slid up and down skillfully.
         The snarl came without warning, and he felt her stroking faster, harder.
         “Do it.” gasped the voice behind him. “Please do it. Make me yours. I’m not sure how much longer I will last.”
         It was a whimper, a plea, and it had him standing up in seconds, pinning her against one of the many wooden support posts. He looked into her deep brown eyes a moment before he thrust his tongue into her mouth. They waged a war with their lips, his erection stroking against her skirt as one hand got tangled in her hair, pulling it as he kissed her, the other running up her stalkinged thigh, pushing up her skirt aggressively, her hands wrapped around his waist, squeezing digging her nails into his posterior as she whimpered, tears running down her eyes.
         Suddenly he pulls away, his mouth bent in a snarl as his fingers dug into the crotch of her panties, feeling her fluids pumping onto his fingers. Without warning, he grabs here shoulders, flipping her around and pinning her against the walls. Holding her wrists behind her back, he pushes up her skirt with the other, sliding himself against her.
         “Please…you’re hurting my wrists...” she whimpered, as squirming as his organ slid against her slit.
         “Isn’t this what you want?” he growled. “You said it yourself. Make you mine.”
         “It hurts.” She mutters, her shoulder braced against the pole. “Please stop.”
         “Says you as your nasty little cunt drips all over my cock.” He replies. “Do you know how wet you are right now? I can see your juice running down your thighs.”
         “No!”
         “Yes!” is his only answer, as he thrusts into her, completely in one stroke.
         She had never felt so completely fulfilled. A loud moan escaped her lips as she shuddered in orgasm, her cunt clutching at his tool as her stilettos clicked on the floor. She had had many clients before this, but none quite like him. She had just released something inside, some pent-up desire.
         He pulled her hair as he fucked her hard, as every thrust slammed her against the support, making the whole house shudder. She braced herself with her hands as he grunted, and she could sense him coming closer to peak, closer and closer, while her body shuddered with climax after climax.
         “O god…” he shudders. “I’m…going to…”
         “Do it!” she gasps, shuddering. “Fill me! Please!”
         With one final grunt, he thrusts back into her, and she feels his warm sperm filling her up. She feels him shuddering, pulling out, collapsing onto the floor.
She follows, looking at him. He is covered in sweat, gasping, his breathe short. His shirt is stuck to his chest, his limp organ still free.
With a smile, her hand goes down to the source of her interest, stroking.
         “Ready for round two?”