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A Muse, Ed - Part II
By: Doxy Wringer

Author's Note: This story may not be duplicated or re-posted on another website or in any medium without the written consent of the author. 


Back To Part I


"Tell me you're a virgin," I growled in her ear, as my thick meat swelled against the teeny opening of her honeypot. I was no John Holmes, but she felt so tiny against me, my cock might have been the biggest on earth. No one had ever accused my modest, hippy-dippy wank knob of being a Johnny Wadd look-alike, but he was poised and ready for action for this self-directed porno shoot into her hot, tight little snatch.

"You know I am, you sonofabitch! You made me one!" she spat back, struggling again against my digging fingers. I held her in place and pushed the head of my cock hard into her cunnie. I growled in primal lust as she howled through clenched teeth. Just that quicksilver inch had stretched her pussy wide. Tight, she was. Brutally clenched. Wet, clutching heat triggered a heady debauchery through me, and I shoved her down against the desk, so that I could pull her hips up higher.

Her pale, straining fingers gripped the edge of the desk, her soft cries cursing me through tears. But I could feel her trembling with vulgar excitement as well. I had always chosen the form in which she came to me, but never had she been like this. This primal wet dream of male lust. 

Keeping the bulge of my mushrooming cockhead inside her, I enjoyed the pulsating constriction of her pussy walls while I rolled my dick around, stimulating her against her will; causing more of her tangy juices to flow from her feminine depths and betray just how eager she was for this domination. 

My hands molested her without restraint. Mauling her tits, I clutched to them for leverage, feeling the nipples pinch between my knuckles as I worked my fingers roughly. Full, ripe, and firm, her deceptively young breasts filled my depraved hands, the meaty fruit of their softness crushed in my fingers. Her little body gave a series of jolts and shudders as I twisted and tugged upon the large, sensitive pink of her nipples. But she still had her teeth clenched and her lips drawn tight. She wasn't going to give me the satisfaction of a scream.

I grinned lasciviously and thought: Well, let's just see about that.

Without so much as a whisper of warning, I rammed my cock through her unpopped cherry, ripping into her unbearable tightness of being like a jackhammer through wet asphalt. I hissed in brutal satisfaction, and sank myself, balls deep, into the taut cavity of her torn pussy, her cleft flesh clutching at the weapon, which had wounded it. And she did scream then. A long, unintelligible screech and sob of virgin pain while her teenaged lips betrayed their ancient years - calling me by names as primeval and primordial as the act we now engaged in.

Holding her firm, pert body to my girth, I ignored her pleas and sobs and cursing and began to pump forward. Withdrawal. Pump forward again. Her raw pussy stretched and contracted with each invasion and retreat of my cock. The cheeks of her ass molded to my belly while my fingers bruised her thighs as I thrust forward and yanked her back. Stabbing into her with an almost blood-thirsty vengeance.

She wailed as I roared, pleasured ache blinding the both of us. Her tight, sopping, surrendered agony fusing us together. And I fucked her…pumped her…slammed her…branded her…marked her…consumed her. My cock searing her little pussy and ripping it to fit me and me alone. 

I felt myself cumming, and wanted to prolong the moment. Pulling out with a wet thump, I let my meat slap her glowing ass and turned her over roughly. Her eyes, wise beyond her false years shone wide, betraying the antiquated soul housed in the baby doll body. But there was a trace of something else there - a thrill I'd never seen before. Rage had her fuming and boiling from the inside out, but she couldn't contain her wicked excitement, either. I kissed her with the licentious violence of a jealous man and reveled in the familiar enchantment of that oddly feline mouth. My sex thundered while hers throbbed, but I continued to kiss her until her lips were swollen from it. 

When I could no longer stand it, I shoved her down again onto the desk, only this time on her back, while yanking her supple legs around me. Once more, I plundered her depths, scoring my cock into her like a hot poker into hissing water. She stretched her arms up over her head and I watched her whole body jolt from the force of each of my hard thrusts. Her firm tits bounced; her flat belly shook, her slim hips bucked. And around my meat, that impossibly tight little cunnie, punished and red from my assaulting cock. Her screams had turned to sharp, panting gasps, and I watched her arch and bow upwards, fighting her own orgasm all the way, as if she was somehow losing to me by cumming first. 

In truth, I was not far behind. My own detonation came ferociously soon after, cum tearing out of my balls like liquid lust. I came so hard, it hurt, and I had to pull back out of the strangle hold of her tight pussy - my cock swelling beyond the limits of her flesh. Sublime pain knifed through the bliss as my milk jetted over her thighs, shooting across her belly, and even bursting up onto her hard-nippled tits. I screamed like a madman, nearly passing out from the rush of that blinding orgasm. 

Stumbling, grunting, groaning, I faltered blindly, and when the backs of my legs smacked into my office chair, I collapsed into it thankfully. My cock stung and pulsed as it softened, and I began to shake against the cold air of the room against my raw, naked meat.

"It'll be okay, now, Lover," I heard her resonant cooing like the kiss of an angel in a dream. "You can sleep, Ed."

That sweet, familiar lilt drew my lazy eyes open. 

She sat there, dripping with my jizz, her legs parted to expose her lightly muffed, violated pussy. Lipstick was smeared across her face, and her tits bore bruises from the force by which I'd mauled their sweet peach nectar. She looked violated… abused… thoroughly fucked. 

With a smile that was no longer sardonic, she lifted up what remained of my sixty-dollar bottle of Glenfiddich, and downed it like water. Her lust-misted eyes bore into me. Those eyes. The eyes of my daughters, my mother, my wife - of every woman I'd ever fucked or ever wanted to fuck. Every woman. Every fantasy. Every muse that had passed through my life then evaporated like a whisper of rain over a char-broiled dune. Every muse that had ever inspired this divine creature before me: my one true muse.

"Erato," I murmured in my haze, "don't ever go away again."

"You've got all you need now, Lover," her now ghost-like form whispered huskily. The mocking whore now replaced by charming, supportive reassurance. "Close your eyes and sleep and dream, Baby. I got your back."

I slumped back in my chair, exhausted beyond endurance. I imagine a fraternity jock would have been spent after that kind of ordeal. I was fifty, for Christ's sake. Lucky I wasn't dead. 

Then, there was only the decent; wafting into the place between dreaming and sleep. Where you can smell color and taste sound. That place where a writer's playground opens forth: The Dreamery. 

And in that place where everything was something improved upon nothing, I knew two things. When I awoke, I'd be able to write again…and my musewhore would be gone. 


"George Washington's balls, Ed! Will you stop brooding about a stupid deadline extension?"

My agent, Bing Jordan, sat across from me grinning like a weasel in a henhouse. Agents really only have two expressions - that henhouse grin, and the shit-out-of-luck frown. I had gotten the shit-out-of-luck face when I'd told him I needed an extension, and I'd had to endure a sermon of my dwindling sales, my floundering reputation for professionalism, and a laundry list of all the hot, rising stars who hovered in the wings to unseat me from my fan base. 

Now, however, only two weeks after delivering the first treatment of my latest novel into my agent's grubby hands, I was getting the henhouse grin. Bing was so drunk with smiles, he looked almost human.

"The fucking editor was ready to suck my dick! I'm not kidding you, Ed. He was on his knees barking like a dog and pawing at my crotch. That's how bad he wants this book. He said it's Lolita meets Dracula. He said it would outsell Interview With a Vampire, Ed! I shit you not! Personally, I think the hot little bitch in our book beats the hell out of all those homo vampires Rice whines on and on about."

Now it was our book. When I had asked for the extension all I'd heard about was the concerns over my book. Agents.

"I've already got feelers coming after me for movie rights," Bing rambled on while I munched away at my risotto and veal. "Say, who do you see playing this…uh, what's her name again?"

I had to take a sip of vino to keep from laughing. It was our book, but he couldn't remember the title character.

"Erato," I answered simply. "One of the nine Greek goddesses who presided over the arts and sciences. They were the daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory. They were credited with the gift of divine inspiration…"

"Christ, Ed, I don't want a fucking mythology lesson," Bing injected, stretching his neck to see if he could recognize anyone amid the latest group of businessmen who'd entered the swank restaurant. "Promise me you're not going to spout all that intellectual crap when you go the circuit. No one wants to hear about the hallucinations you have when you're on your writer's block stupors. All these people are going to want to hear about is this nymphomaniacal demon babe…"

"Succubus," I sighed in irritation. "She's a succubus, Bing."


"Mr. Duce?" A sweet girlish voice floated behind me, and I turned just as a young creature with doe-brown eyes sidled up beside our table, her blushing face dipped in shyness. "I'm sorry," she stammered softly. "I never do this, but I can't believe you're here. You're my favorite author. I was wondering if I might…"

"Sure," I smiled back at her, my eyes on level with her flat belly. I forced myself to focus elsewhere, although Bing made no such effort. The henhouse grin was back. "Do you have a pen?"

She rummaged through her purse - one of those tiny things young women carry about that seems too small to hold more than a stick of gum, but she withdrew a cheap Bic, medium point and blue, with a cap that was perforated from bite marks.

"I…I don't have anything to write on," she flustered. "Hang on, I'll go get…"

"Stay where you are, Vassar," I chucked, motioning to the college logo that monogrammed her tight sweater. "We'll just get a little creative." I was mooning like a schoolboy (or leering like a dirty old man, it was hard to tell), while she gazed at me in fanatical adoration. It didn't matter how many times I got asked for an autograph, they never seemed to have both paper and a pen at the same time. Still, for a delicious young fox like the one trembling beside me, I had no problem with a little ingenuity. 

I grabbed up a napkin from the table. It had been set for four, leaving an empty place on either side of Bing and myself. The crisp, white linen slid from it's holder begrudgingly as I pushed it flat and scratched out my name beside the gold-thread embroidered name of the establishment. 

"What's your name, Vassar?" I smiled with what I hoped was charm and not stark-toothed lust.

"Thalia," she smiled sweetly, and I dropped the pen in surprise. Even though it had been my clumsiness, she apologized. "I'm sorry, I know, it couldn't just be Jane, right?" She giggled nervously, hurrying to bend over and retrieve the pen. Every other man in the restaurant got a glimpse of the back of her tanned co-ed thighs and firm bottom as her plaid skirt hiked up in the back. Gratitude was directed at me in masculine waves of silent thanks. "My parents were big into the sixties. Thalia was…"

"One of the nine muses," I interrupted, taking the pen from her shaking little hand. She was the goddess of comedy to be exact."

"That's right!" she beamed as I continued writing out the autograph. "Of course, you'd know that. It explains why I'm such a klutz, I guess."

"I doubt any of the boys mind that you're a klutz," I ventured as I handed her back her pen and the napkin; a young flush spread from her cheeks down her throat. It was refreshing to see such flustered modesty. 

"You're really too much, Mr. Duce," she held the napkin like a sacred relic, regarding it as a pilgrim who'd had the Shroud Of Turin bestowed upon them, and gave me a radiating smile of adoration. "Can I bother you with one last question?"

Bing was still drooling openly, and I was afraid that, at any minute, he was going to recover himself and put the moves on this sweet young thing. I hesitated, but nodded in the end. How does a fifty-year-old man resist the doting attentions of a twenty-year-old nymphet? I certainly hadn't figured it out yet.

"I want so much to be a writer," she confessed in one embarrassed gush. "Where do you channel your inspiration from?" 

I had rarely in my life been able to answer that question so honestly as I had at that moment. "From you and your sisters little Thalia of Vassar. Now run along."

She blushed so red, her face nearly burst into flame, and I gave her a gentle wink to send her on her way. Without another sound, she rushed out of the restaurant in a sweet flurry to join the older couple who stood patiently beside the matre'd station. Too old to be the hippies from the sixties who'd named her after a Greek Muse, I figured it was her grandfather's arm that circled her slim shoulders and nodded while she bubbled and showed him the napkin. 

"I think I need a cold shower," Bing pouted with all the regret of a disappointed lecher. "Damn that was one hot little slip of tail. And what in the hell were the odds of her being named after one of your little succubabes?" 

"Muses," I corrected with a tired sigh. Closing my eyes and rubbing my temples. "They're all muses. Every last one of them."

From behind me in the restaurant, I heard Thalia's girlish laughter waft across the room and then fade away as she passed through the doors that would take her onto the streets of Manhattan. And in that sweet sound was Erato's transcendental echo.

Yes, they were all my muses. All of them. Every woman, every girl. Every arch of feminine grace that had ever trilled its sweet cadence across the sonata of my life. Each of them an aria in the opera of my inspiration.

My saving providence.

My cursed pestilence.

But whatever else they were, they remained -

Muses, all.

And, yet…just variations on the one true muse…my muse…



Back To Part I


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