Wednesday, June 2, 2010

The Jealous Muse

by Riccardo Berra © 6-1-2010

She perched on the arm of his chair. When she'd first arrived, he'd been amazed that she could, but she'd stay like that for hours and he never minded. Except for her constant whisper in his head, he almost forgot she was there. She, so light, so delicate, could insinuate herself into the tiniest of spaces. She'd be what, all of 4'11", all of a hundred pounds wet? She had the final printout of his newest novel. She was wearing a diaphanous orange and ochre sundress. No bra or panties. What need has a Muse for undergarments?

She read incredibly fast and each page she finished, she flipped contemptuously to the floor. He'd not let her read the final draft until after he proofed it. He never let anybody read his work until he finalized it. He'd assumed at first that that's what she was being so pissy about, but something else was bothering her. The pages accumulating on the floor were numbered, thank God, but this was getting pretty fucking irritating. He made to swat her butt, but she became, well, it was like swatting cigarette smoke.

"This is your ideal woman?"

She was furious, rattling the remaining pages she held.

"Ideal in what way?"

"Ideal in the way of her perfect physique. Her perfect submission to you. Your perfect lover. I could be this for you."

And she was Naomi, in a tight leather mini, dark of eye and soul, wearing a bandanna tied about her head and man’s workshirt half unbuttoned. The Muse finished the job.

"See my big beautiful breasts, darling. Oh look. My other lover whipped them last night. He was so cruel. Do you see the marks he left on my poor, gorgeous breasts? He bit this one. Hard. See the ring around my nipple. It still hurts."

The writer was becoming agitated.

"I'm sorry sweetie. I forgot. She was … what? A thinly disguised knockoff of the real deal? And how did it end?"

"Badly. You know it did. You were here when I wrote it. I held nothing back."

"I was here. I was there. I was everywhere. I remember you cried."

She could be such a cunt.

"Can you focus for crissakes? If there's something wrong with the text, tell me so I can fix it. My agent's expecting it tomorrow."

"The problem is, I can never live up to this. I can only be the brief illusion of her. But I can't be her. And I can never be what she was to you. "

"Which was?"

"Your ideal lover, lover."

"You keep saying that, but there was nothing ideal about her."

"Oh c'mon. Those gorgeous breasts, twenty-six, submissive. I bet if you'd have been the one whipping her tits she'd have stayed with you."

"I'm glad she didn't. That's the only thing I'm glad of."

"What more does a man want? Have a bad day, come home, hit her. Bite her. Choke her. Take it all out on her and still she'd come crawling to you. She liked it."

"I was always afraid of that."

"But you shouldn't have been."

"What do you mean? I lost myself with her."

"That's what love is sugar. Self sacrifice. Something your type is ill-equipped for. However much you profess to love me, if she came waltzing back into your life and you had to choose, you'd take her in a heartbeat. And that makes me want to kill myself."

"You can do that?"

"That's not the point. The point is I feel I could. I'm depressed. I already know how you'd choose. You make me want to … You never finished with her. So she is your forever twenty-six year old perfect lover."

"She was anything but perfect. I admit, I loved her. Maybe still some residual feelings. Okay? But that love destroyed four friendships. And please. Please stop this talk of killing yourself. It scares me. Do you have any idea how empty my life would be? If you want to destroy me, that's the way to do it. You'd have my blood on your hands too."

"Darling. Don't be absurd. Girls like that don't age very well. And I, I have far too much going on to be dead again. I could be this for you."

And his heart did skip a beat as she became Sofi and wriggled into his lap, mimicking everything from the throaty burr in Sofi's voice to her smirking smile.

"Hi bosscat."

"Hi yourself."

It chilled him how accurately she conjured everything in his head. That this Sofi was exactly his Sofi, down to the tiniest details, exactly as written, twenty-three, strikingly tall, honey-flaxen hair, her expressive, porcelain features offset by ice-blue eyes, piriform, ample breasts, (though not as big as Naomi’s), their proud berry nipples upturned in youth's transient defiance of gravity.

"Exhibit B. Your heroine in the flesh. Another busty perfect woman I can't live up to."

"She is our creation. Crissakes, she was your idea."

He stroked her naked "Sofi" thigh, but did so warily, studying her reaction. The Muse sighed and resumed her original state. That of a Brazilian woman of about 50 perched on his chair's arm, a pretty oval face, cocoa eyes, coal black hair, still-taut café au lait skin, a wide, generous bunda offset by champagne cup breasts.

"She's a fiction, but you're real aren't you?"

"You bet I am. Before all this, (she gestured floridly in the air), I was a mother. Bore five children from these hips. Pushed them through here."

She parted her legs to show him the lush dark whorls that covered the wine-stained cunt lips. She rubbed herself and dark flesh parted to reveal its coral interior.

"But my hips stayed like this."

Her hands smoothed her slim hips with evident pride, and then got busy in his lap, unzipping, fishing him out.

"And inside … I stayed … just … like … this."

She extended one leg straight in the air; a dancer's move of a dancer's leg, then straddled him, bearing down hard and fast. He gasped as her pubococcygei spoke to his cock in the peristaltic language of muscles.

"I did the yoga. I did the kegels. My former lover made me take Ben Wa balls. I could take three and hold them forever.  I could hold you forever."

She lifted herself until only the head of his cock remained buried inside her. Three powerful contractions illustrated her point. His eyes fluttered and rolled back in his head.

"I could. See my tits? I nursed all my babies. Endless milk flowed through these. Ah, but they stayed … like this."

She cupped her tiny breasts, pinching her nipples through the web of her fingers. Her face was inexpressibly sad and accusing but the nipples popped through like angry pencil nubs. He pushed her hands away and pressed his lips to each areola. He nipped at them. Her hand pushed the back of his head, indicating that he should continue, but slower and harder. She gasped in satisfaction when he bit down as hard as she liked, much harder than he thought he should.

"There were plastic surgeons on every street corner in Rio. I could've made them bigger. There were plenty of times I thought to. But I didn't because my lovers didn't need that. You apparently do."

As he mauled her breasts, the writer swore she had had "them done" and by no street corner surgeon. She'd been sculpted by an artist. There were no visible scars, except perhaps the psychic ones.  She alternated her up-down pumping with wide hip rolls that toyed with his cock like her words toyed with his head. The writer sighed to himself. It was his fortune to have a muse with a tit fetish. A muse who'd come to him seven years ago, at his lowest moment and pulled him from the brink. The muse who'd loved his body like she was doing now and inspired seven years of hard work, his best work, after a long dry spell.

Incomprehensibly, she still considered their time together incomplete because she wanted nothing more than to titty fuck him. In her natural state she'd lacked the equipment. In her supernatural state, she lacked the equipment. Now if she'd consent to play Sofi or Naomi, she'd be more than adequate in that department. He'd thought of asking her to do so, then thought again. He didn't want to piss her off any more than she was at that point. Titty fucking held far more interest for her than for him. The holes God made a cock to go in were quite enough to satisfy him, but not her. For a thunderous handful of seconds his mind went blessedly blank. Three times his breath caught as he exploded up into her.

A half hour later, he lay on his bed. The manuscript was retrieved from the floor, re-ordered by page and sealed in the FedEx envelope with a backup disk. The FedEx envelope was addressed and sat in his outbox. It was all done.  The years of work, the endless revisions, the queries, rejections, meetings and contracts—all done. His limp cock, dry but sugar crusted, felt like the face of a kid who'd stuffed himself with cotton candy and a soda at the fairgrounds but wanted more.

The times when she is real, she is so very real. She is everything. Did she really not understand how loyal he was to her? How much he owed her? How much he wanted her in his arms? Sex with their muses is something writers rarely elaborate on. They'll show you the results of it, sure, but never the act itself. It's too private.

He'd prayed that the diatribe had concluded, but she started pacing back and forth, going on again, the same tiresome rant he'd heard for the past seven years, how incredibly superficial she found it here in this culture where men wouldn't even look at her, (which was patently untrue—he'd seen how they looked at her.). How women with 'large thrusty breasts used their thrustiness to belittle their flat-chested sisters.' He'd long since grown impatient with this discussion. He didn't want talk. He made a grab for her tiny manicured hand with its pink perfectly painted nails and placed it on his cock. She let it rest there, gave him a half-hearted squeeze, but seemed no closer to ending her soliloquy. Since she wouldn't do what he needed, softly, rhythmically, he began to stroke himself. At first it worked, her voice receding, even as she stood over his bed, but then something in her tone, her coo, like that of a mourning dove, hypnotic, sweet, soft and sad, wound into his head and caught.

"I will read your future."

He paused in midstroke, as cynical a gesture as a masturbator can make.

"Oh, so you're a Fate now? I thought you …"

"Don't push it. Do you want to hear?"

"Of course."

He resumed stroking himself and his self pleasure took on the hypnotic rhythm of her voice.

"I know what happens. You will become famous. Your work will be famous. You will move to Hollywood. You will leave me behind."


"Bah! You can and you will. You will leave me behind. And when you do, the young beautiful things will flock to you. Throw themselves at you. You will have films and success. You will collaborate with your cinema heroes and the most beautiful of all actresses. You will have many loves. Everything you've ever wanted. You are so beautiful, so talented. And you keep improving. Barely fifty and more handsome by the day. Alas not the fate of woman. Ours the reverse. When I've outlived my usefulness, I will fly back to Brasil, Italy, or perhaps Greece. Or..."


"If you decide you still want me in your life, I will move to Maui where the film community parties. If I want, I could have plenty of clients. All more grateful than you."

"There is nobody more grateful than me."

"Then maybe I won't go back to the old world. I'll buy myself a hip party pad on the beach. I'll entertain stars and starlets. My door will always be open to you. And I will even permit the young thing that worships you and satisfies you in ways I cannot. I will let you have her and me too. How about that?"

He was breathing deeply, rising, hardening, but as compelling as her word spell was, it wasn't quite enough. She finally relented, ended the torture and climbed on top of him to finish him off. After all, it was her world. He only transcribed it.

6/1/2010 2022 wc, rbb © all rights reserved.


  1. Few people write about their muses. I was fascinated by the mingling of reality and fantasy in this touching tale.Surfing the net for good literary erotica I found your blog. I was a muse once for an author I adored. I found it a great privilege. He wrote about our sex life in a very coded fashion. I wonder how much of this was reality for you and whether you are still in touch with your muse? I lost touch with my author for reasons too painful to describe at present but I feel that somewhere in the back of his mind I am still his 'muse' Thank you for this post. I feel empowered by it.

  2. Erika, a gentleman never kisses and tells. Especially a writer, who considers himself a gentleman. Thanks for your read and your compelling comment.

  3. I am glad you appreciated my comment. I will re-read this piece when the need to mentally relive those 'heady' days when my author and I were in regular contact overwhelms me! Look forward to following your blog on a regular basis.

  4. Since you posted my second comment I was wondering whether we could develop a dialogue on the sexual tensions that develop between the writer's muse and the writer? This topic fascinates me and I would like to develop it for my own creative writings.

  5. I wouldn't mind that Erika, but first I must check with my muse. She is (at times) a jealous one, so I'm not sure how magnanimously she'd accept a "muse in training." Still the idea has much allure and by her leave, perhaps we can explore this further. Mille grazia. rbb

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